A Fatal Romance

by June Shaw

  “She looked happy with him,” I added, pleased with my info’s importance.

  “He might have been someone who expressed condolences and asked about the funeral. She could have just smiled and said it was nice.”

  “But it wasn’t. It was awful. She dumped him. I know it was on purpose.”

  His cop face said he didn’t look convinced. “We checked with clerks in the grocery store. Nobody remembers her with a man that day. It is a small store.”

  “But she left without any groceries.”

  He spread his hands. “The woman had just lost her husband. She was distracted and could have forgotten why she’d gone in there.”

  “A woman doesn’t often grocery shop the day after she buries a person she loves.”

  “Maybe not.” He focused his stare on me. “Now. Can you tell me anything you know for certain?”

  “Like?”

  He waited to respond. Appeared to want to nod. “Like exactly who murdered Daria Snelling?” The detective rolled big shoulders forward, his lips pursed. “It would give that person a lot of relief to admit what happened.”

  I straightened. Stared at him, indignation racing with fear through my body, making my back shake. He was waiting for me to confess.

  “I didn’t kill her. I only saw that woman twice, first in the church and then at her house. And she was already dead.”

  “So you went to her house why?”

  “I went there to have her take her husband’s ashes out of my pocket, but she didn’t because she was dead.” I was wearing that jacket and pressed gently against the pocket. “They flew inside here when Daria tripped in the church.”

  “I’ll need that jacket.”

  “What?” Damn. I hadn’t meant to let him know about the ashes. “It’s my favorite one.”

  “You can probably have it later.” He held out his hand.

  I shrugged out of my best cover-up. “It’s silk. It’ll need to be dry cleaned if it’s messed up.”

  “We’ll try to be careful with it.” With a smirk, he took the item I gave him and looked in the pocket. “Have you been working with cement?”

  “Not since y’all have everybody in town believing my sister and I messed up with a job. And I surely wouldn’t wear silk for that kind of work.”

  He laid my jacket across the rear of a chair beside him. “When we found you and your sister at the Snelling house, you told us a different reason for being there. You didn’t mention ashes or a coat.”

  “I probably forgot.”

  He pressed his thick upper body toward me. “Maybe you forgot to tell us something else. Remember what I said about confession making a person feel better?”

  “I need to go.” I barely got the words out before I stamped out of his office.

  “Think about it,” he called.

  I flipped around and poked my head back in the room. “What did you learn about the man with a hat snooping around my sister’s house?”

  He spoke without looking up at me. “Have you ever seen a meter reader without a cap?”

  I drove away, fuming. I was also humming, which made me realize how concerned I was. Was his entire investigation aimed toward me? I took deep breaths. Maybe Wilet only seemed to be unconcerned about the information I brought him. He was a trained detective. He probably already knew everything I said. Except for Zane’s ashes in my jacket. So now he also thought I’d withheld information, which was true. He probably didn’t even check on the man with a hat at Eve’s house, only figuring it was someone checking a meter. And he could be right.

  Calming down, I recalled past rumors that Detective Wilet had also had affairs. Wait, it was women from my mom’s Chat and Nap Group who’d once told me that. They lived such limited lives. Few of them ever left Sugar Ledge Manor. Possibly they invented some of those stories to tell each other to add interest to their days.

  What if they’d done that with what they’d said about Lillian and Daria’s sister?

  I tapped my brakes. If those ladies fabricated events only to have fresh things to say to each other, had I just fueled those stories by bringing their imaginings to police?

  I dug my phone out of my purse. I’d call Wilet and apologize. Tell him I wasn’t certain about anything I’d expressed about the women.

  Wait, I did know about Lillian and Daria’s sister. I’d seen them arguing. Had I heard them mention Zane Snelling’s name? I didn’t think so, but he must have been the man they were arguing about. One of those two said she’d expected to get something from him. Could that item be what a burglar broke into my twin’s house to find? How was that possible? She didn’t have anyone’s fortune.

  I reached the corner of Second and Canal. I’d call Eve and tell her what happened.

  My cell rang before I could press her number. “What’re you doing?” she asked when I answered.

  “Getting ready to call you. What’s new over there?” Maybe hers would be better than mine. I could use some cheering up.

  “Guess what? Dave’s coming for supper tomorrow.”

  My spirits lowered. “That’s nice.”

  “I can’t wait. I’m using your recipes for shrimp gumbo and potato salad. You don’t mind, I’m sure.”

  “Of course not.” I struggled to gain enthusiasm in my tone. “It’s good that he’s going over. I guess. I mean, you really think he’s safe, right?”

  “Definitely. You assured me of that. Okay, gotta go. I’ll let you know how things turn out.”

  “Thanks,” I said dully and clicked off. I imagined her painting filled with vibrant colors that represented her anticipation of a relationship about to start with that man.

  What was wrong with me?

  Driving down my street, I passed Miss Hawthorne working in her front flowerbed and didn’t feel like waving back when she lifted her trowel to acknowledge me. The brim of her hat shielded her eyes, but I could make out her wide smile. I gave my horn a light tap to return her greeting.

  Inside my house, I moved around, unable to sit still with jumbled feelings. I wanted my sister happy. I wanted her to find one man she could stay with forever.

  I just didn’t want him to be Dave Price.

  What is wrong with you? I asked myself, circling the kitchen table. I didn’t want a man. I didn’t want him.

  I probably still feared he could harm my sister. I stopped and stood in place, anticipating my song.

  Nothing came.

  My experience with Detective Wilet must have caused my confusion. He hadn’t believed me. He caught me off-guard so that I told him about the ashes, then he took the ashes and jacket. Nothing I could do about that. But maybe I’d learn something from Daria’s obituary. I strode outside and grabbed the local newspaper from its white tube attached to my mailbox.

  A couple of yards over, Miss Hawthorne’s movement grabbed my attention. She knelt, head down, digging. The flat of pink petunias near her knees waited for her to set those flowers in the ground. Her shirt was open at the top, and darn if that didn’t look like the avocado green of the bra I’d sold her.

  Probably the sun and its angle inside her shirt made it appear to be her old bra. Maybe since her step-grandson mentioned it at the funeral home, I imagined I saw that thing.

  At least the remembrance of that dreadful bra made me smile. A real smile, I realized, pleased to find my mood lifted. On my front stoop, I flipped through the paper, looking for mention of Daria’s death since I hadn’t seen it yet. The obituary showed four people’s faces with long write-ups. And then came the name Daria Snelling. No picture or other information displayed except the date she died. No relatives or funeral arrangements were mentioned.

  What should I do now?

  Eve, in one of her rare appearances in her fine stainless-steel kitchen, came to mind. She would be grocery shopping today and cooking tomorrow. And after a while, in would walk that charming man. They would eat two of my best recipes and then—
/>   I needed to go somewhere. Since Detective Wilet seemed focused on me being a killer, I had to find out who really did it. St. Gertrude’s Church might be helpful. There I’d found the nail file that could have pried the urn open. Maybe I could locate other clues if people weren’t around.

  I grabbed a phonebook and flipped to listings of churches in the yellow pages. St. Gertrude’s little square listed its mass schedule. They held one on Saturday afternoons. Tomorrow was Sunday. They held three masses in the morning but none in the evening.

  Sunday afternoon arrived, and I found it the perfect time to be driving up to a church. Getting into a different place would make my mind leave my sister and her guest. At the moment, I preferred to think of murder. I hummed and parked. Trotted to the porch and pulled on a door. To my surprise, it opened. My peripheral vision let me see both priests strolling over from their house. Maybe they wanted to talk to me, perhaps with new information. I watched them and waited.

  The younger one trotted up the steps. “Hi. Nice to see you again. Are you coming for confession?”

  “Yes.” The word popped out of my mouth before my mind could work.

  He held the door open for me to walk inside first.

  Oh no, what nasty sins was I going to admit to this man?

  Chapter 13

  “It’s hot in here,” I said, entering steamy St. Gertrude’s and dipping my hand in holy water. I made the sign of the cross. A priest was following right behind. The old floor croaked when I took another step. Possibly the church felt extra hot this time because I was about to enter a confessional, something I hadn’t done in decades.

  “We’ve had some trouble with the air conditioner. I’ll go check on it,” the young priest told me.

  “Thanks, Father.”

  “Oh, I’m not a priest. I’m a seminarian, Jessie Landers.”

  Since I didn’t want him to know my name, I gave him a brief nod and withheld introducing myself. He went off toward a thermostat, and relief relaxed my breaths. If he wasn’t a priest, I wouldn’t need to confess anything. The pastor hadn’t heard me say I was here for confession.

  The door behind me creaked open. I rushed to a side aisle to get away from the entrance before Father Prejean came inside. Three older women walked in. Two of them glanced at me, gave me small smiles, and moved to a pew near the confessional in the rear. I suspected they were regulars—those Catholics brought up to believe they needed to go to confession once a month, or more if needed, like once a week if they’d entertained a really bad thought.

  I scurried farther away from that small box, wanting to search for items like the nail file that might become evidence to prove Daria killed her husband. We didn’t do it, and I still figured she did, although hearing her sister and Lillian argue, I wasn’t so sure any longer. What I needed to find to prove our innocence was beyond me. Searching here might let me discover something, anything. At least I was contributing toward the investigation. I wasn’t sitting at home wondering what my twin might be doing with Dave.

  Father Prejean shoved in through the front door and headed toward the confessional.

  I scanned pews in the center of church. A crumpled pink tissue lay on a seat. An open songbook on another. Two small pencils without erasers. A brown umbrella near a kneeler. But no sign of any of Zane’s ashes.

  “Oh, Father, that woman was first.”

  My body froze. I could not believe someone said that.

  The seminarian walked across the center aisle toward the priest, pointing at me. “She came in before those other ladies.”

  Heat flooded my face. “No, that’s okay. She can go in now. I’m not in a hurry.” I thrust my finger toward the tall woman standing at the end of her pew. Beyond her, Father Prejean waited in front of the confessional, eyeing both of us.

  “Oh, no, honey, I know what it’s like to wait. You came first. You just go on in,” the woman said.

  I recognized her as my mother’s friend, Ruth Ellen Molaison.

  “How nice,” Father told her. He nodded at me. “You can come right in, little lady.”

  Surely he hadn’t noticed my height when he called me little. I considered protesting, but Father opened his slim door and swept inside, the door clicking shut.

  I swallowed. Could I knock on it and tell him I changed my mind? Say I’d never done anything wrong?

  Others in church stared at me, making me feel as toasty as if I’d been placed in a broiler in my wool scarf and coat. Taking a breath, I shoved my short sleeves up over my shoulders to let more air reach my skin and slid between the navy curtains.

  On the kneeler inside, I sucked more air into my lungs. Inhaled the strong odor of antique oak and burnt incense that sank down my throat. Dark-paneled walls swallowed me. They didn’t match the painted white walls of the church. There were dark corners above. Bits of light angled in from under the curtain, reminding me my mother’s friend out there might be able to hear. I’d need to speak quietly—if I could get my voice to project past my mouth. My heart slammed against my chest wall.

  “Why are you singing?” Father Prejean’s face drew close to the square screen between us.

  “Sorry. Habit. I hadn’t realized I was doing it.”

  “That’s fine.” His eyes widened. Pupils expanding, he stared at me. Then leaned back and with an exhale, faced his entrance door, waiting.

  “Father, I haven’t done this in such a long time. I might forget some things I’m supposed to say.”

  “Take your time. We’re not in a hurry. Just say whatever comes to you.”

  Bits of recalled childhood actions and words returned. I crossed myself. “It’s been so long since I went to confession that I actually can’t remember the last time.” Now he might kick me out, saying I didn’t belong.

  “That’s fine. Good.” His voice soothed, putting me more at ease.

  I needed to come up with something. “I probably fibbed a few times. Especially to my mom. About why I didn’t visit her often enough.”

  Father nodded without looking at me. This was going well.

  “And I fibbed to this man.” I didn’t plan to tell him about Dave. But maybe telling him was a good thing. I couldn’t tell anyone else, not even Eve. “My identical twin thinks she’s in love with him, but she was kind of scared of him and wanted me to take her place when he came over, so I did. I made him think I was her.”

  A small grin played on the priest’s lips. “Go on.”

  “Everything came out okay.”

  He gripped his chin while staying quiet.

  I sucked a deep inhale through my nose. The slightest relief relaxed my chest. “And I’ve been jealous of my sister.”

  Father nodded. “Sibling rivalry. Very common.”

  “Exactly. And do you know what kind of person she is?” Whoa, what was I going to tell him? I checked my intentions and realized I’d been ready to blurt that she’d had various lovers over the years. But who was I to judge? And this was my confession, not hers.

  “Sometimes I’m resentful because Eve doesn’t have as many flaws as I do. She always seems happy.”

  Was I jealous because she took such pleasure in romantic relationships? Had I complained about sex with Kevin because I had no idea how to enjoy having relations with a man? What would that feel like?

  I probably shouldn’t be thinking of such things in a confessional.

  A small knocking sounded. Inside Father’s tiny room, he was tapping his foot. Oh, sure, he didn’t want to hear about all of our bickering.

  Footsteps sounded past the confessional. A floorboard creaked. People out there waited for me to finish so they could come in. I should wrap things up now and leave.

  “Father, I also lied to a priest.” That got his attention. His face snapped toward me. “Actually, your seminarian. Just now he asked if I was coming to confession, and I told him yes. That had not been my intention.”

  “Oh? Well, Mr. Landers is a forgivi
ng man.”

  “What I really wanted to do was look for clues to what happened to a man you buried here a few days ago. Or tried to. His ashes fell all over.”

  He nodded. “Mr. Snelling.”

  “Correct. And I believe he was murdered.”

  The priest’s head pulled back.

  “Yes,” I said. “You know his wife was killed soon after he died. My sister and I found her, so the police think we did it. We didn’t, Father, I promise.”

  He stared at me, face closer to the screen, eyes narrowing. Did he believe he was eye to eye with a murderer?

  “Father, have you seen anything or do you know of anything unusual about either of the Snellings’ deaths?”

  He pushed himself away from me and seemed to think a minute before he replied. “I can’t say that I do. But this is your confession.”

  The tiny room squeezed into an even smaller space. “I really didn’t do it.” I watched him, hoping he wouldn’t say if I told him the truth about the death, God would forgive me.

  Sweat broke out across my brow. “So, Father, if you think of anything concerning the newly-deceased couple, please let the police know.” I sucked in a breath, released it. “That’s about it. People are waiting to see you, and I’m not ready to think back to everything I’ve done wrong.”

  “Someone mightier than I am knows and forgives. He forgives you.” Father used a soothing tone.

  I felt suddenly secure—warm behind the eyes. “Thank you.”

  He gave me a penance of five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys, made the sign of the cross toward me, and said a prayer that God would guide me. “Good luck,” he said as I ducked out past the curtain.

  I kept my eyes diverted from people waiting near the confessional. Had I stayed longer than most people so now they believed I did terrible things? If my mother’s friend overheard that I’d fibbed to Mom, I did not want to see shame in her gaze. Instead, I would try to make up time spent with my mother.

  Walking toward rear pews, I glanced at seats, searching for ashes but not knowing what I would do if I found some. The police confiscated my jacket with what I’d captured of Zane Snelling. If I found more of him, would I return to the confessional and ask Father for a small brush and container? Probably I’d need to knock on his door but first wait for a person telling him her sins to come out.