“Your room’s over there.” Fitzgerald gestured to the same door Molly had. “And the office has your keys.”
Zach collected his suitcase and backpack, but before he could start for his room, Fitzgerald placed a hand on his arm. “Did they tell you what happened to Colin?”
“Only that he died.”
“Then you should probably know he was murdered.”
Zach schooled his features into an appropriate portrayal of shock. “Who’d kill a priest?”
Fitzgerald shrugged dismally.
“Any idea why?”
He stared at the rickety coffee table. “Apparently he interrupted a break-in. The office door was open when Molly and Kathleen found him.”
“Did they catch the guy?”
“No.” Fitzgerald sighed. “Just . . . be careful.”
Zach waited a beat. “I’m sorry.” When the older man said nothing, Zach carried his bags to his new quarters.
Then Fitzgerald hadn’t connected the murder to the mob, either. With the parish and even Chicago PD buying the break-in story, Zach could appear just blissfully ignorant as the other priest.
A memory in the corner of his mind clicked into place — that was why Fitzgerald seemed familiar. He reminded Zach of his neighbor when he lived in Cork. Owen, that was his name. Like Fitzgerald, Owen was in his sixties and had even been a Catholic priest, until he gave it up to marry Fionnuala.
The former parish secretary.
Zach smiled. Fionnuala herself said they’d fallen victim to that old Catholic cliché. And if it helped him look like he was more susceptible to the mob’s influence, even better.
Right now, his job was getting close to Molly.
Molly locked the office door, turning her back on the spot where she’d found Father Patrick. The only other place to look was the parish house. Was Father O’Rourke settling in all right?
No, she didn’t need another opportunity to gawk at a handsome priest. Molly shook her head to clear her mind. As soon as she left the shade of the arched portal, a movement to her right drew her attention: Father O’Rourke leaving the brick cottage. He waved to her, and she waved back.
“Father Fitzgerald said you have my keys?” he called as he approached.
“Of course.” She took him back into the office, retrieved Father Patrick’s keys from her desk drawer — and hesitated.
Somehow, handing over these keys carried more finality than the funeral. Now Father Patrick would truly be gone. Molly lifted her gaze to the new priest’s blue eyes. She wasn’t ready for this, not at all. She squeezed the keys one last time, the metal biting into her palm like the guilt still needling her conscience, then opened her fingers and deposited the keys in his hand.
“Thanks.” Oblivious to what the gesture meant to her, Father O’Rourke pocketed the keys. Time to move on. She ushered him out of the office, but he stopped in the door. “So what does a parish secretary do all day?” His smile seemed almost canny, as if he already knew the answer.
She caught herself smiling back a second too long. She laughed nervously, then ticked off her responsibilities on her fingers. “Direct people to resources, collect announcements and put the bulletin together, keep the records and the books — whatever needs done.”
“You’re the bookkeeper, too?” His grin dimmed a watt. “And stuck here by yourself all day?”
“There’s the office manager, Kathleen Carver.”
“Ah.” Father O’Rourke started for the car park with her, but he soon slowed to a stop. Molly followed suit, watching him. Did he need anything more?
He squinted up at the belfry, an uncertain wrinkle in his brow. “You know, when I came to Chicago, I expected to end up in the inner city, not a place like this.”
He scanned the whole scene, surveying the squat brick school, the parish house and the Gothic chapel’s stone façade flanked by blazing red maples in a carpet of lawn. The dismay in his expression dissolved with his satisfied nod. St. Adelaide must seem like a suburban oasis to him.
Three weeks ago, Molly had been disabused of that notion. Now the idyllic scene carried a sinister undertone so strong she couldn’t bear to look at it. She hadn’t even noticed when the maples turned red.
Father O’Rourke sighed and looked to her. How could she tell him the truth and shatter his illusion? “It’ll get to feelin’ like home soon enough,” she murmured.
“Hope so. I guess none of this is what I expected.”
He couldn’t already know the truth about his parishioners, could he? “I can imagine.”
“It’s very . . . different. From this perspective.” He hooked a finger over the white insert at his collar and adjusted it.
Was that all he meant? Molly reached up and removed his hand from his collar. “Give us a chance. You’ll get used to it — to us.”
A secretive smile danced in his eyes. “I dunno. Having a secretary will definitely take some getting used to.”
“You’ll take some gettin’ used to as well.” She realized what she’d said and shifted, the gravel crunching beneath her feet. “I mean, it’s an adjustment for all of us.”
“I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose a priest like this.”
She pulled her jacket tighter, as if to soften the chill at the thought of Father Patrick. If she’d done her duty, he’d still be here, and she wouldn’t have to worry over Father O’Rourke.
“G’night,” he bid her after a long silence.
“You too.” Molly watched him return to the parish house.
Perhaps she couldn’t help Father Patrick now, but there was one priest she could protect from the truth about their parish — one man who could keep his illusions as long as possible.
At the sound of chair wheels on linoleum the next day, Molly glanced up from a donation receipt for the school trust. Apparently, Kathleen was done primping her short, frosted hair for the fourth time. Rolling her chair over meant she had juicy gossip to foist upon Molly, something Kathleen hadn’t done since Father Patrick died.
Father O’Rourke’s arrival yesterday wasn’t the only way things were returning to a semblance of normal around St. Adelaide.
“What’s the new priest like?” Kathleen leaned over Molly’s desk, the older woman’s musky perfume invading the air.
Molly squinted at her computer to appear busy and give herself time to think of the appropriate response. Her coworker wasn’t wondering how handsome he was. “Em, he’s nice. Tall.”
“Do you like him?”
Molly felt her neck flush and tugged the cowl neck of her cobalt sweater higher. Kathleen couldn’t guess that. “He’s grand.”
“Grand? What are you, eighty?” She shook her head and rolled back to her desk. Kathleen’s efforts at reforming Molly’s Irish habits and vocabulary were well-intentioned, sure, but the constant corrections had mostly helped Molly cultivate a reservoir of patience deeper than Lake Michigan.
Before Molly could find another subject to occupy Kathleen, Father O’Rourke walked in and saved her the trouble. “Hello, Molly.”
“Hi, Father.” She tried to tamp down the nerves attacking her stomach. She didn’t need to act like this over a handsome man; she wasn’t a teenager. “Have you met Kathleen?”
He introduced himself and shook Kathleen’s hand. His smile seemed less disarming aimed at her. Kathleen directed him to the cardboard box in the corner by her desk. “Could you carry these books over to the school for us? Usually they’re all okay, but you might want to check them first.”
“Donation?” He knelt to rummage through the box.
“The Gallahers bring in their building’s charity box every few weeks.”
Molly held her breath. The Gallahers — and the other “heroes who cleared the punks out of the neighborhood,” as Kathleen called them — were among her favorite gossip topics.
“Don’t know how they go through so many books.” Kathleen settled at her desk as Father
O’Rourke rolled up the sleeves of his clerical shirt.
Molly watched her coworker. Kathleen rolled her chair closer to Father O’Rourke. “Funny thing about the Gallahers —”
Molly spotted the perfect change of topic. “Have you read that?” She nodded at the pulp spy novel Father O’Rourke was holding, Catch Me in Zanzibar, grateful for any distraction from Kathleen’s gossip.
“No, have you?”
“I have. A bit of a James Bond knockoff, but it has its fans.” She laughed sheepishly and pointed to herself.
He glanced at the cover. “I’ll let you know what I think. If it’s all right if I borrow this?”
“Sure now.” Molly waved her permission.
He tucked the book into his back pocket and stood. “What were you saying, Kathleen?”
“Well, the Gallahers aren’t just —”
“Sorry,” Molly tried again, “but those books need delivered before the librarian leaves.”
“Oh, sure.” Father O’Rourke hoisted the box under one arm. “Afternoon, sisters!” He shot an all-too-charming smile at Molly on his way out. She settled back in her chair with a sigh. Crisis averted.
“‘Sisters’? He does know we’re not actually nuns, right?” Kathleen asked as soon as the door shut.
“I’m sure he does.”
The wrinkles around Kathleen’s lips twitched as if fighting her judgmental pucker. “He is pretty handsome.”
“I suppose so.” Molly turned back to the donation receipt to avoid the gaze of Kathleen the blond-tipped gossip hawk, ready to swoop down on her prey.
Molly replayed the last few minutes from Kathleen’s perspective. Molly had monopolized Father O’Rourke’s full attention. She could almost see the wheels of the gossip mill spinning in Kathleen’s mind. But she’d take whatever rumor Kathleen might dream up if it meant Father Tim could keep his illusions about their peaceful parish.
Zach shook his head at himself as he carried the box through the school doors with a pack of students. He’d hoped to find Molly alone in the office. But Kathleen was the one who’d brought up the Gallahers — the mobsters. And the second she did, Molly changed the subject.
He didn’t expect Molly to send him an engraved invitation to join the mob, but if she didn’t even want their names mentioned, this would take longer than he’d hoped. Longer than he had. He’d have to step up his flirting game.
“Hey, Father Tim.” Speaking of bringing his “A” game . . . Zach nodded at the familiar face — one of the basketball players who’d beaten him in a pickup game before school. DeWayne grinned. “Back for more?”
He held up the box. “Dropping these off.”
“Thought so.” The teenager stopped in the cafeteria door.
“Next time, I’m not going to go so easy on you.” Zach rested the box of books on a table in the hall.
“Might as well give me the deed now, padre. I own that court.”
Zach scoffed. “We’ll see about that next week.” He turned to the blond man standing between the table and the cafeteria doors. Paul, according to his name tag, was almost as tall as Zach — and definitely too old to be a student. A teacher or volunteer, then? “You play ball?”
Paul shrugged. “Some.”
“Free next Tuesday?”
DeWayne clapped a hand on Zach’s shoulder. “Who’s this white boy? Your contractor?”
Zach aimed an uncomprehending squint at DeWayne. “You’re building a house with all those bricks you put up today, right?”
“After school?” Paul sized DeWayne up. “I’ll bring some friends.”
“Perfect. See you then.” Zach patted the box. “Where’s the library?”
“Oh, I can take that, Father.” Paul accepted the books.
“Thanks.” Zach took DeWayne by the shoulders. “In the meantime, you need to get schooled for real.” He gave the teenager a friendly push toward the tutoring tables and hurried back to the parish house to grab his bus pass. He had to go downtown to report and get the full profile on Molly in a few minutes — enough time to stop by the office to test her again. A new priest familiarizing himself with his parish’s financial status was normal, and he could see if she blinked. Or Kathleen. Shake up the office and see what tumbled out.
Molly was on the phone taking a message when he reached the office. The other two desks were empty. She finished her call and turned to him. “What can I do for you, Father?”
He took a moment to revel in the familiar accent, but stopped himself before he jumped into flirting. He should show at least a passing concern for his ministry first. Zach sighed. “How long did it take you to learn everyone’s name around here?”
“Ah, you’ll get it soon enough.”
He frowned. “Hope so. It’s a little overwhelming, you know?”
“The parish?”
“Everything.” He gave a half-smile and studied her beautiful face — deep blue eyes, the slightest hint of freckles across her nose, all framed by her dark curls.
She squinted quizzically, then quickly turned away. Like she was hiding something. “I’m sure it’ll all turn out fine.”
“You’re probably right.” Zach glanced around the office for something to draw out the conversation. “Is Kathleen full time?”
“Well, she’s supposed to be. She left early — holiday with her family.”
“Does she work with the finances, too, or do you have to do that all yourself?”
Molly looked at Kathleen’s desk. “Simpler to have one person handle it all.”
“How’re we doing in that department?”
“Grand. Why?” Molly’s voice carried a teasing lilt. “Worried about your retirement?”
Zach laughed. “Who isn’t?”
“We’re all right. No need to worry yourself — that’s my job.” She fixed her gaze on her screensaver. Avoiding eye contact didn’t help her case. Was she lying?
He tried to catch her eye again, but clearly that was all he’d get from her today, and he was late anyway. With a quick goodbye, he left for his bus.
Forty-five minutes later, Zach found Assistant Special Agent in Charge Sellars squinting up at the Water Tower downtown. The squat yellow castle seemed about as out of place among the skyscrapers as Zach felt in the collar.
“Father,” Sellars greeted him. “Anyone grab your attention?” They started around the block, but a group of teenage girls in school uniforms cut across the sidewalk in front of them.
“I’ll let you know Saturday after confession.”
The teenagers covered giggles with their hands, staring at Zach. He nodded to them, but walked a little slower.
“We don’t want you doing anything . . . inappropriate.” They turned into the park to part ways with the schoolgirls.
“Don’t worry, I appreciate the gravity of the priesthood.” Better than most of the Bureau knew. “I won’t do anything to keep them from asking us back.”
Sellars shot him a cynical smirk and glanced back the way they’d come. The girls were gone. He gave Zach a folder. “Mary Margaret Malone,” Sellars supplied. “You met her yet?”
“Parish secretary. Goes by Molly. Keeps the books.” Zach flipped to a photograph of a beautiful woman with dark, curly hair and deep blue eyes smiling back. She even looked good in a driver’s license photo.
“Parents were IRA.” He said it like that should be enough probable cause for an arrest.
“So she’s automatically involved.” Zach snapped the folder shut.
The ASAC leveled him with a silencing glare suitable for a lion tamer and — once again — reminded Zach of stuff he already knew. “Generally, the bookkeeper’s involved in money laundering. It didn’t start until after she did. But I can always go back to my guy if this isn’t your cup of tea.”
Empty though it probably was, the threat was enough. “I’ll get a keylogger on her computer.”
“Warrant’s in the file.”
Zach shoved his personal qualms aside and the folder into Sellars’s hands as they passed under a yellow-leafed tree.
“No sign of anyone else?” Sellars asked.
He shook his head.
“Wish we could get someone else in the school.”
“No other covert agents in your division?”
Sellars barked a laugh. “Nobody we could spare full time.”
“You could always recruit my little sister,” Zach joked.
“She a teacher?”
Okay, that was taking the joke a little far. “Yeah, math. Or I could always sub at the school.”
“I want you gunning for Doyle Murphy.”
Zach suppressed a sigh. Sure. He only had to nab the highest-ranking mobster in the parish, the new second-in-command of the whole South Side mob. “That all?”
“If you have to, go through one of his captains.”
Right. Murphy held a tight rein on his underlings, even living in the same building as his top soldiers to keep tabs on them. Gaining entry to that innermost circle wouldn’t be easy — unless Molly could let down her guard enough to make the introductions.
If he could trust her that far.
Zach hoped three days’ wait was enough time not to seem suspicious prying into the parish finances — or plying Molly — again. Now, armed with a suitable excuse, he could take this chance to catch her in the office alone.
When he walked in, Molly was poring over a computer spreadsheet. A ledger? Before he could get close enough to check, Molly killed the window. She smiled. “Can I help you, Father?”
“Actually, I had an idea I wanted to discuss — about the parish.”
“What’s that, so?”
It’d been a long time since he’d heard the familiar Irish version of the tag word “then.” Zach launched into his readied excuse — a priestly duty he was comfortable administering. “We should have more social activities. I mean, we have a great youth ministry, but we could do more with the whole congregation.”
Saints & Spies Page 2
