by Tracy Clark
I was stunned. “He didn’t tell me it was so recent.”
“It was. Happened while Mass was going on. Well, they only took one thing—the Bible his mother left him.”
“And you think that was Maisie?”
“I know it was her. She called for days afterward. She kept asking him, ‘What’s it say in the good book?’ She knew he wouldn’t call the police. It wasn’t his way, even for Maisie. She’s a nasty piece of business, that one.” Thea sighed. “He didn’t take it half as bad as I did. All he said was he hoped she’d get good use out of it.”
The revelation hit me like a boulder to the chest. He didn’t tell me he’d lost his Bible. It seemed now he didn’t tell me a lot of things. Pop’s Bible. Now Maisie had it. He might not have wanted it back, but I sure did.
“I got the feeling there was something going on between him and Father Pascoe . . .” Thea added. “I could feel the tension. That’s it. That’s all I know.”
It was a start. “Thanks, Thea.” She nodded, her arms folded across her chest. “I didn’t mean to push. I’m sorry.”
“Yes, you did.”
I thought for a moment before coming to terms with the truth of it. She was right. I would have pushed her to Gary and back if I had to. I was just sorry I had to. “I’m sorry just the same.”
Thea’s glare turned slowly into a smile. She shook her head. The smile grew. Just like that, she’d forgiven me. I breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re just like him when you get all het up about something. God help you in getting along with that Detective Farraday.”
“That’ll never happen.” I grinned sheepishly. “Bright side. You’re inside the house.”
Thea looked around. “I am at that.” She faced me again, her arms down, a solemn look on her face. “I think, maybe he just panicked? That a horrible thing happened that went against everything he believed in, and he couldn’t handle it.”
I zipped up my jacket and felt for my keys, resolution straightening my spine. “He didn’t. He knew I was coming. He had his faith, he had me. Someone did this, and I’m going to prove it.” On my way out, I passed the church door and stopped to stare at the crime scene tape, shocked even now to see it there. Even through the heavy oak door, I could feel Pop’s absence, and the loss of him cut right through me. I flipped up my collar and walked away.
Chapter 8
The parish school was closed in deference to Pop’s passing, so I couldn’t start with Anton Bolek. Thea knew where George Cummings lived and that he owned his own business in Englewood. I wasn’t surprised that she knew that address, too. There was little that went on, in, or around St. Brendan’s that Thea didn’t know about, so whatever Pop had stumbled into, whatever trouble he’d kicked up, he scored big points for keeping it to himself, though it went without saying that I wished he hadn’t.
I sat in my car, hands tight on the wheel, and stared blindly ahead. Farraday had been on the case just over twenty-four hours, and already he’d set about tying it up in a neat little bow. As far as he was concerned, Pop stumbled in on a burglary, and what happened after that was an inevitable end. Cue the press conference. But it wasn’t that easy or that clean, nothing ever was. I knew that as surely as I knew the earth was round and oceans ran deep. There was someone out there who had met the dawn thinking they were free and clear of murder. I started the car and pulled out into the street headed south. Whoever it was, they were dead wrong. George Cummings’s modest bungalow sat in the middle of a quiet block where all the houses looked the same, except for the color of the curtains. The yards were neat, lawns cut and edged, and the houses well maintained. No one answered the bell when I rang it. The curtains were drawn, the driveway empty. I pressed my ear to the door, but heard nothing from inside. The garage had room inside for two cars, but when I peered through the garage windows, I saw only one brown Cutlass Supreme inside, and it looked like it’d been there a while.
“Looking for something?”
I whirled around to face an old black woman, thin, bird-like, her arms crossed over a scrawny bosom. She stood at the foot of the driveway, staring me down, her fingers poised over the keypad of a cellphone. “I know you don’t live there, so you got no reason to be peeking in the windows. We got neighborhood watch, just so you know.”
“I’m looking for George Cummings. He doesn’t answer.”
“So you thought you’d trample all over his grass and press your nose to his windows?”
I smiled. “Occupational hazard, I guess.” I pulled my business card from my bag and handed it to her. “I’d like to ask him a few questions about the trouble over at the church two nights ago.”
The woman slid the phone into her pocket. I guess I no longer looked like someone she’d need to call the cops on. “Those sirens woke me out of a sound sleep. What’s the world coming to when you can’t be safe in church? But what’s that got to do with them?”
“They’re parishioners.”
“I didn’t know that, but I wouldn’t. They’re new, and they keep to themselves. I know, because I live right next door and they won’t give me the time of day.”
“Did you hear them go out that night?”
“He didn’t, as far as I can tell. You can hear that old van from a mile away. Bad muffler. Don’t think they’ve moved the car in days. Besides, she’s gone. I saw the three of them leaving early one morning, luggage and all. They got into a car, drove off. Family vacation, I thought, but he was back that night, same as always. Guess he didn’t go.”
“When was this?”
The woman thought about it. “A week maybe, little over; it was a Thursday, I know that. From the number of bags, it looked like the trip was going to be a long one. I’m not nosey, mind you, but I am curious, so I asked him about it. He said Janice, that’s the wife, decided to take Skeeter down to see her folks in Tuscaloosa. That’s what they nicknamed their daughter, ‘Skeeter.’ Wouldn’t have been something I’d do, but folks do what suits them, not you.”
“Tuscaloosa?”
The woman shrugged. “And it doesn’t seem like he’s making plans to join them either. He comes in, goes out, just as always. Don’t know why the house stays so dark, though. Maybe he doesn’t see the point in turning on the lights for just him.”
“About what time did you see them leave?”
The old woman beamed. “Know that for a fact. Four-thirty. That’s when I get up to let the dog out, and I drink my morning coffee. Four-thirty every day, no earlier, no later. Howard’s got a bladder that runs like clockwork. He’s my Pekinese.”
I pointed to the house next door, “That’s your house?”
“For near on thirty years,” she said.
“Living so close,” I said, “you’d hear if they weren’t getting along?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m no eavesdropper, Missy, and to tell you the truth, I don’t know if I feel all that comfortable telling a lady detective somebody else’s business. What do you want with them anyway?”
“They knew the priest who was killed. Maybe they know something that could be important to the case.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, you’ll have to get whatever you need directly from them. Besides, if you don’t mind me saying, you don’t much look like a PI.” She gave me a good, long once over. “You could be George’s side piece, for all I know. Might explain why his wife up and left him.”
“Is that what you think happened?”
“Not my business to think about it at all, but he wouldn’t escort her to the airport or wherever if she was leaving him, would he? At least that’s not how we did it in my day.”
“You’re sure it was them leaving?”
“Came out of their house, didn’t they? Saw her and Skeeter plain as day, didn’t I? He had on a black coat and hat, so I couldn’t see his face, but who else would it be? He was holding little Skeeter’s hand just as sweet. Kind of surprised me, though; he never struck me as being the mushy type. Real strict with the rules, it seemed. And
you never did answer about the side piece.”
I frowned. “I didn’t think I needed to.”
The woman’s lips twisted into a contemptuous smirk, studying me from tip to toe. “Guess you look too smart for it, anyway. Still, I wouldn’t put it past a man to have one, married or not.”
“I’ll slip my card in their mailbox. If you see him, tell him I stopped by.”
“I’ll do that. Name’s Lillian Gibson, by the way. And I’ll keep you in mind if I ever need someone to peek into a window for me, as long as your rates are reasonable. That Rockford on TV charges $200 a day, plus expenses. I’m on a fixed income.”
I thanked her for her time, then backed away, hoping she never called me. I didn’t like peeking through windows. What consenting adults did in the privacy of their bedrooms was none of my business, and that’s the way I liked to keep it.
I smiled. “I’m in the book.” And I screen my calls. That last part I kept to myself.
* * *
The sign on the fence in front of the repurposed gas station on West Sixty-Third Street read CUMMINGS CONTRACTING CO. Two vehicle bays fronted by rolling metal doors with grimy glass faced the busy street; splotches of old motor oil on the cracked concrete resembled a Pollock painting. A six-foot chain fence marked off the perimeter, a shiny padlock dangling at the open gate. There was a white van parked inside, its hood up, a man leaning over working on the engine.
“George Cummings?”
The man’s head popped up. He was a husky black man, dressed for manual labor in jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt, his large hands covered in motor oil and grease. He looked terrible, as though he’d slept in his clothes, or worse yet, tried to sleep in them, and couldn’t. His eyes held mine for a time, suspicion in his steady gaze. “That’s me, pretty lady.” He adjusted the bill on his cap, pulling it farther down over his eyes, and shot me an evaluative look. “Who’s asking?” He had an easy drawl, one that rolled off his lips like honey off a warm biscuit.
“Cass Raines. I’m a private detective.” I held out a hand to shake his, then thought better of it and pulled it back. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Father Ray Heaton.”
His eyes widened, and his smile lost some wattage. “I heard the news this morning, but I just can’t get my thick head around it. That poor man. Is there anything new? Do they know what happened?”
“Nothing yet. It’s early.”
“You said private detective, not police detective.”
“That’s right. I’m also a friend of his.”
He nodded slowly, his expression souring, as though the mention of Pop’s name caused him physical pain. “He had a lot of friends. I was pleased to count myself among ’em. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you around, though.”
I shrugged, my eyes on his. “Different schedules, I guess.” I didn’t recall Pop ever mentioning Cummings, but he wouldn’t have. When we got together, we didn’t talk about church business. “Did he mention having trouble with anyone recently?”
“Trouble? No, don’t think so, but, to be honest, it’s likely any trouble he had is trouble he started himself. He was like a bantam rooster always itching for a good fight. If it wasn’t him up against the city or the drug dealers, it was him up against somebody else. He was an equal opportunity rabble-rouser.”
He was right, of course. That was Pop. “Just as many fans as enemies?”
“I hate to say it, but it’s true. Still, I can’t recall anyone in particular giving him the business.”
“You two had a disagreement. Mind telling me what that was about?”
His smile faded some, but Cummings kept it on his face. “Where’d you get that?”
“It isn’t true?”
He stared back at me. “Look, I may be an old country boy, but I catch on pretty quick. Someone told you me and him had it out, so now you’re thinking maybe I had something to do with what happened to him?”
“I’m just asking questions.”
“Well, nothing personal, little lady, but shouldn’t it be the police asking them?”
I angled my head, studied him for a time. “Would you rather it be the police asking?”
His full smile returned. “I’m not saying I haven’t committed a sin or two in my lifetime, but killing folks? Well, that there’s going way too far, especially killing Father Ray.”
“So what did you argue about?”
Cummings took a moment before he spoke. “I really got to get this van squared away. I need it for a job. You mind if I work while we talk?” I didn’t and moved around to the opposite side of the truck as he went back under the hood with some kind of silver tool. “It was a simple difference in the way we saw things, I guess,” Cummings said as he tinkered. “I wasn’t the only one on the lay committee who saw it my way, but I guess I was the only one who blew it way out of proportion.”
I stared down into the van’s engine compartment. I didn’t know a lot about cars. I picked out the engine and the fan belt, and the tank where the washer fluid went, but everything else was a mystery. I stood well back to keep from getting grease all over me. “Blew what out of proportion?”
The tool stopped turning. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m as civic minded as the next Christian. I tithe like I’m supposed to, I go to Mass on Sunday, I even pay it forward, like they say, mentoring at-risk kids in summer camp and working with folks who need a leg up. I’m all for helping out, but I just felt he was trying to do too much, putting the whole church at risk, so I said something.”
“Putting the church at risk how?”
“He practically opened up the place to the homeless. There were meals for them in the school hall, clothes drives, food giveaways. He even let them sleep in the pews when it’s cold out. I didn’t think it was safe, is all. We have to worry about the kids at the school. A lot of these homeless people are mentally ill. It just isn’t a good mix, and I told him so straight out. Mind handing me that torque wrench?”
I stared at him, stymied by the request.
“That one,” he said, pointing at a long silver thing sitting on the ground near my foot. I bent down and handed it to him. “What’d he say?”
“He said, basically, to mind my own damn business, is what he said.”
“That doesn’t sound like him.”
Cummings banged the wrench against a fan-looking thing. “Maybe he didn’t say it quite like that, but that’s what he meant. I’m pretty new to the parish, so I don’t have the right to say how things go, but I figured I’d feel a lot better if I said what I felt instead of waiting for something bad to happen, then wishing I had, you know? Now this.” He shook his head. “I just hate being right, but I was right.”
“We don’t know that the boy found with him was homeless,” I said.
“Thief, homeless, what difference does it make now? It’s all the same in the end. Bad mix.” Cummings paused, took me in again. “You’re his friend, so you’re taking a personal interest. Good. That means you’ll work hard to find out what happened.”
“You stopped coming to church. Was that about the disagreement?”
He grinned. “Somebody sure has been wagging their chin, haven’t they? It’s true what they say about church people.” He stepped back, took off his cap and ran his forearm across his sweaty scalp. “My Mama always said I was as ornery as a mule. I like things my own way. Long story short, I got my feelings hurt about us not seeing eye to eye. I got it in my head I wasn’t being appreciated and went home to sulk about it.” He grinned. “I came around eventually. Father Ray agreed we could work on a plan that’d work for everybody, and I was looking forward to it.... I’m sure gonna miss those fights. He always gave you a good battle.”
“Maybe you went to confession to put it to rest?”
Cummings laughed. “Probably should have, but I’m way behind on my atonement. Haven’t been inside the sweat box in years. You?”
“I’m sure I’ve got you beat. I like your accent. Where yo
u from, if you don’t mind my asking?”
He chuckled softly, his face brightening. “Durham, North Carolina, but I’ve been here long enough now to consider this home. Came up here, found myself a nice woman, and started raising a family. Fell in love with that church the minute I saw it. The people were nice, too. A lot of that had to do with Father Ray.”
“So you married a northerner?”
“You’d think so, but no. My wife hails from Tuscaloosa, Alabama.” He chuckled. “It’s true what they say, you know, it’s a small world.”
“How does she like the church?”
He looked up, smiled. “Janice? Oh, she likes it just fine.”
I watched him work, not the least bit interested in what was going on under the hood. “How do you get along with Father Pascoe?” Cummings straightened up, then buried his hands in his pants pockets. I took a step back, braced. It was a learned response. Hands in pockets were a cop’s worst nightmare. I no longer wore a star, but I couldn’t imagine a day when my heart wouldn’t seize when someone’s hands were hidden. Cummings’s hand came out clutching a black rosary; only then did I breathe again. I watched, waiting for my pulse to slow, as his thick fingers slowly worked their way along the decades.
“I’ll just say, I’m really gonna miss Father Ray. I regret that I wasted all that time not speaking to him. It didn’t help my temper any that I was stressed out about this place. Business isn’t good; money’s tight. It looked like I might go under, but this place and me seem to have more lives than a cat’s got whiskers. Matter of fact, a job came in just a couple days ago. I guess God really does come through in his time, not yours. Maybe Father Pascoe will grow on me.”
“Father Ray thought someone was following him. Any idea who that could have been?”
Cummings frowned, slammed the van hood closed. “He never mentioned anything like that to me. Who’d want to follow a priest? What’d he have that anyone would want?”
“He asked me the same thing the night he died.”
