by June Shaw
Were his pants and shoes black? I tried to recall but could not.
“Anything else?” I asked, my breath speeding.
The clerk shook his head, eyes locating the person pushing the buggy that tapped my behind.
I thanked him, hurried out, and swerved off in my truck, envisioning the implications of what might have happened. But could a man studying to become a priest carry out all of the recent violence?
Absolutely. Countless childhoods were lost to people of all occupations, including priests and surely those trying to become one. Had that happened with this person? Had the man taken two people’s adulthoods—and almost a third—my sister’s?
My first instinct was to call the police. Second thoughts made me wonder what I would tell him.
I learned the man who was probably a seminarian went through this store behind Daria Snelling the day after her husband’s funeral and bought a loaf of bread with a twenty. He told the salesclerk to keep the change and then hurried outside. Oh, and look, he sort of grinned in this picture taken right after Zane’s ashes flew. Yes, I saw a couple of other people do the same, like an automatic response to an antic. Me? My reaction was to sing “Jingle Bells.”
Okay, so I didn’t contact the police.
I wanted to bounce my ideas against my sister’s mind and discover what she thought. Trying her cell again, I received no response except that her inbox was full, probably from all my messages.
Did I really think a man of the cloth was killing everyone? Shoulders sinking, I knew I had to tone down my detecting urge. Probably I just wanted to protect Eve so badly I was ready to believe any suggestion of who might hurt her so he’d be locked up.
Maybe a conversation with the seminarian would appease me. I might ask why he smiled after Zane’s ashes flew and then surely hear that was his sudden reaction to what was an unexpected turn of events, a reaction he regretted afterward. Maybe that’s what he did in the store, showed Daria how he’d grinned and then apologized. I could also check him out closer to see if I could distinguish his features and know for certain he was the man I’d seen with Daria in the store that day.
Feeling almost like a regular churchgoer, I returned to St. Gertrude’s. This time I pulled up on the driveway beside the priest’s house. Two cars were there, a small and a large sedan. I didn’t know what kind of car either man drove.
Nobody was in the yard, so I trotted up the wooden steps to the porch and rang the doorbell. A woman wearing casual slacks and dark gray hair pulled into a knot greeted me. “No, I don’t think Mr. Landers is in, but Father Prejean is. Would you like to speak with him?”
Not sure what I would tell the priest, I said, “Yes.” I sat to wait only a moment before he stepped from a rear room, gave me a pleasant smile and a handshake, and invited me into his office.
Soft black leather chairs and shelves of books with worn looks and old smells filled the room. I sat with legs tense in the chair he offered, and instead of going behind his large desk, he pulled up a chair right in front of mine.
“What is it you’d like to talk to me about?” he asked with a solemn face, hands clasped.
“Oh, I didn’t want you to hear my confession again or anything,” I said with a shudder and sudden realization that was why he thought I’d shown up. “Actually, I’m just here to speak to your seminarian. Is he around?”
Father scooted back in his chair. “He isn’t at the moment, but he should get back soon. He was supposed to be here a couple of hours ago for our confirmation class, but he probably forgot it was today. I took over for him.”
“Do you know where he went?” Maybe I could go find him, surprise him out of this natural habitat.
The priest nodded. “Probably to get a haircut. Or no, he got one three days ago. Maybe he went shopping for one item or another, or to visit a parishioner. Yes, that’s probably it. Did you want to wait for him or have me tell him what you want?”
“No, that’s okay, Father. Thank you.” I rushed out the building before he could press me for my purpose. I wouldn’t tell him I wanted to see if his understudy looked like a killer.
Next, I needed to relay my information to where people with lots more resources than I did might trace an individual and hoped Detective Wilet didn’t just laugh at my ideas.
Chapter 26
The detective didn’t want my information. I’d called the office, learned he wasn’t there, and left a message, saying it was urgent that he return my call soon.
“Do you remember that story about crying wolf?” he asked when he called ten minutes later. “And I am working on other cases.”
“I know, but I’m so scared for my sister,” I said in a sorrowful tone.
“I realize that.” His voice revealed compassion. “But you can’t jump around looking for any bit of evidence you think might point to a guilty party. You could wind up in a slander case. Or at the end of a gun barrel.”
“Hmm.” Those concepts were uncomfortable.
“You need to stop searching for a killer yourself.” He paused as though letting that idea sink in. “You know that a killer is dangerous. He kills. If he doesn’t succeed the first time, he’ll often try again. And if you’re in his line of sight, he won’t think twice.”
“But my sister—”
“This person won’t hesitate to kill both of you.”
I shoved out a sigh. “Okay. But you’ll stay on her case, all right? See if you can find that seminarian. I could bring a phone by with his picture on it if you’d like.”
“That’s okay. I think we can find everything we need.”
Withholding the urge to tell him to check with the priest to find out what kind of car the seminarian drove, I thanked him and hung up. He could discover that, too.
What was I thinking? I’d just stupidly told a man accustomed to detecting that a person soon to become a priest had carried out horrible things just because he smiled and then spoke to Daria and forgot to show up for a confirmation class? Eek, why did I think I could figure this all out alone?
I recalled the years I’d grown up feeling poorly about myself. But I was an adult now and shrugged away self-doubt. I had learned from reading mysteries that a murderer needed to have means, motive, and an opportunity. Zane died first. I’d known from the start that his wife had the means and opportunity. What I’d learned since then was her motive. He had been having affairs and had a large amount of money stashed. He’d planned to take it and one of his women away, Daria discovered, so she killed him. Perfect. Case solved.
Except soon afterward somebody murdered her.
I sucked in a breath. Now, her killer could have been… Who? And why? The means and opportunity were easy for someone getting to her, too. The killer went to her backdoor and right inside, smashed her head. That person could have used almost any hard object, I guessed, but did she open the door to that person, or had the killer broken in? The police surely checked that and wouldn’t tell me, but I could go back there and check closely myself. So the person who killed her did it because…
Maybe it was one of Zane’s lovers? Yes, that was it. Either Lillian or Daria’s older sister knew Daria had killed him and then killed her for revenge.
Could it have been Lillian? She’d seemed a vengeful person. I recalled Daria’s sister arguing with Lillian in her front yard but could never believe a woman would kill her own sister. So did that mean Lillian did it? I had no idea.
Putting that case aside, I moved on to the one most important to me. Who would want to hurt Eve? I couldn’t imagine any of her three exes trying to hurt her. But then there were their wives or girlfriends or even a fiancé’s brother—Eve’s pseudo-boyfriend Dave Price—or possibly a neighbor or person from her line-dance class, and maybe it was a person I didn’t even know.
Not figuring where else to go, I returned to her house. I hoped against hope that I might find her inside. Together we might determine what to do with new information I’
d gathered.
Glancing at windows next door, I saw no sign of anyone watching me in Eve’s driveway. I unlocked her door and stood in the foyer, scanning the area, listening intensified, body alert. Nothing moved. The air conditioner purred. The steady pa-bump pa-bump was blood pulsing in my head.
Then it happened. As I’d hoped, the burglar alarm wailed. Without checking, I knew it still hadn’t been set for someone to be in the house. I didn’t need to look around every room for her or someone who might want to kill her. Dave’s company would call Eve to ask for the word that would let them know she’d accidentally set it off. Would she answer her phone now? Had she cleared out some messages so that their call would go through to her?
I stood in place, letting the shrill blast slam through my body. It assaulted my eardrums. Squeezed my nerves till I felt like a twisted rubber band.
The call came. I was gripping my phone in expectation. Eve calling to tell me somebody broke into her house again? Then I could talk to her about other concerns.
“This is Downtown Alarm Systems,” a woman said, to my dismay since I was Eve’s first backup number. She asked if I could tell her the code word for this address.
I said, “Painting,” and she thanked me. Total silence fell like a dropped curtain.
Unless I set the alarm to show someone was inside now, it would probably be counting down again and in less than two minutes, release another nerve-shattering squeal.
Was the gun still here? I dashed to the end table near the sofa and yanked open the drawer. Eve hadn’t taken it. Someone could get into her house again and try to use it on her when she returned. That thought made me grab the thing and shove it in the pocket of my slacks. I rushed to the door and made it out seconds before the alarm sounded. At least I knew Dave’s product still worked.
Dave, I thought, driving off. That enticing man had even attracted me. The mental image of him made me want to see him again. No, he couldn’t have tried to harm Eve.
Once again, I wondered if it could it have been two separate people. One going after a certain item and painting that note on her wall and later another person going after her?
I refused to believe that option. Some man wanted something he believed she possessed.
Having a cold lethal weapon on my body frightened me. The thought of a person breaking into Eve’s home and using this weapon on her scared me much more. I skimmed the area outside her house. Walking around it with heightened awareness that a gun was in my pocket made me concerned that I might need to use it. Just point and fire, she’d said. I could do that if need be, I told myself, looking for neighbors outside or peeking from their windows.
I saw no one. If Miss Hawthorne was correct, a man had run between the fences behind Eve’s house to reach my street and then rushed down it as though he were a jogger. That man wore black dress shoes and black cuffed slacks. Maybe I could ask Father Prejean if the seminarian wore cuffed pants if he didn’t return to their house soon. But what kind of proof could that answer provide?
Considering when Miss Hawthorne first mentioned black slacks to me, I seemed to recall she said a small green thing hanging from one cuff was what drew her attention to those cuffs above the dress shoes. I had discovered small green balls on the tips of a cypress tree near the Snelling pond. The seminarian and priest had been planting a cypress tree when I first met them.
So what did that mean? The green item my neighbor noticed may have been a blade of grass or piece of thread.
Discouraged, I sat on one of my sister’s patio chairs to think. Yes, Eve had come walking from her neighbor’s house on the left that day, and a man wearing a knit hat pulled down over his face had stood there on the right and shot at her. I sang a little about roasting chestnuts, reliving those moments, and thought about Crystal dying in front of me years ago. My song grew in intensity while shivers vibrated inside, and I pulled the image back, making my insight return to today. Here and now was where a threat to my living sister existed. But why? What did that person want?
As if being pulled by a string, my eyes turned to Eve’s fountain and the splashing where an angel poured chlorinated water. No live angel in the current scene and not in events happening around us.
This angel was pure white, newly painted by Eve after she’d drained her pond and attacked the whole thing with her paintbrush. The angel kept dumping water that sounded like a fast waterfall. It splashed when it hit the surface of the water in the base and some of it bounced off the large molded goldfish. When one of them swayed under where the angel poured, the fish’s nose tipped down and then lifted. Splashes made another one fall over on its side. Immediately, it righted itself.
I picked up two of the plastic fish. Closer inspection let me see what I’d believed. On each one, the seam ran down the center of its back. The seams continued all around, both sides the manufacturer had glued together to make them look uniform. All of the fish looked the same.
I scrambled to my truck. Forcing myself to stay within range of the speed limits, I left my neighborhood and raced along Felicity Bayou to the Snelling home.
If I was correct, I would find answers that would prevent another murder.
Chapter 27
As I expected, no vehicle was at the quiet Snelling house when I pulled in. Shoulders tight, I stepped around the left of the building to the backyard, where I was met by a setting so serene it could have been on the cover of Cajun holiday cards.
The swamp with scrub bushes and vines made a perfect backdrop for the serene area stretched before it. A musky odor from the swamp pinched my nostrils. Yes, what I imagined could have occurred here. Daria could have followed Zane right after overhearing his phone call with Lillian and shoved him so that he tripped on the cypress knees and hit his head on the tree, which knocked him out so he fell in.
I sat on the bench Zane had sat on. It topped the pavers Eve laid over the space we both had dug. I didn’t know why Daria died but would inspect the doorframe for signs of forced entry.
Except how would that help me know why anyone would want to harm Eve?
Grass in the yard was growing tall. Clovers and weeds with small yellow flowers could use a cutting. Nothing besides this seating area with a couple of cypress trees would be in the way of a grass cutter since the yard was otherwise empty. That small stack of extra pavers sat beside the backdoor.
My gaze focused on the pond. The water looked peaceful. How could such a peaceful place pose a threat to anyone? Unless a person in it were knocked out or couldn’t swim.
Some sections were probably deep. The water appeared murky, undoubtedly because recent strong winds stirred it up, pulling in more of the surrounding dirt. Strings of brown-green algae stretched out from the side. I concentrated on the pair of geese floating out there. A breeze pushed on my back while I eyed those decoys, watching them shift. Zane wasn’t a hunter. He hadn’t set them out there to attract geese. Neither had he done it for decoration. Nothing else decorated their yard. Except for these pavers and this bench. The bench he’d wanted to sit on alone so he could drink beer?
No—to view his treasure! Those floating birds.
Excitement made a painful grab at my throat. Watching the molded geese turn, I slid on my glasses and stepped to the edge of the pond to see them better. The two were a few feet from shore. Like the goldfish, a central seam glued both of their sides together. Individual feathers appeared to jut out a little from their bodies.
I walked to the right of the pond, watching them. They turned even more with the stronger gust that fluttered the bottom of my shirt. A square appeared to have been cut and glued on the side of one bird. I couldn’t tell whether the same thing had been done to the other one. Those geese might provide a large piece of the puzzle of why two people were murdered and almost another one. I needed to keep that third murder from taking place.
I had no idea how deep the water was, but I could swim. With this pond not as clear as a swimming pool, I preferre
d not to. I moved even more to the right, closer to the house, where the dirt sloped.
Removing my shoes, I stepped out into the water. The coolness surprised me. Dirt under my feet gave way a little and felt pleasant, almost like sand. Not wanting to let my feet sink farther, I stepped quicker. And stubbed my toe.
The water wasn’t clear enough to see through, so I reached down and lifted a paver. Why was one here?
My sight swerved toward the stack near the door. Just inside that door, had this been the weapon that smashed Daria’s head?
Tossing it to shore, I felt around with my feet for more pavers but discovered only mushy dirt. Those white floating objects had brought me here. I stepped farther out to them. The ground under my feet gave way, and the water deepened.
Taking a minute to adjust, I swam a modified breaststroke, striving to keep my anticipation in check. A retriever must feel like this while it swam for a shot bird, I thought, keeping the geese in view.
I reached the first one. Grabbing the bulky decoy, I lifted it from the water, surprised that it weighed more than I’d expected. Using a modified scissor kick to keep me afloat, I inspected the bird. Yes, some type of adhesive that didn’t look altered held both sides together. A connected rope hung below it. I pulled the rope higher and found a small anchor at its end. Of course that was what held the bird in place, yet let it shift on the water’s surface.
This decoy might answer a pressing question, yet I thought not.
I let its anchor sink down and let the bird go so it floated again. Kicking my feet under water, I moved to the one farthest from shore.
The second decoy resembled the first one—almost. It bore the same shape and molded feathers and eyes and central seam, but one thing was different. Instead of all the feathers on both sides running from the central seam to the bottom, a section about two inches square had been cut and separately glued.
