by Lynn Bohart
“Si,” she said, nodding yes.
She grabbed my wrist. “I am scared,” she said, the fear reflected in her eyes.
“I know,” I said, putting my hand over hers. “But you need to go now. To your doctor’s appointment. You need to take care of your baby.”
I wanted to get her mind off the dangers she might face and onto the one lifeline she had—her baby.
She smiled. “Yes, thank you.”
“Be strong, Rosa. I’m going to help you. Let me go out first. I’ll go out the back to my car, while you go out the front.”
She nodded, and I opened the door and slipped into the hallway. A mother and her six-year old daughter passed me going to their room, the girl chattering loudly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Emma in the courtyard talking to Dana. She glanced my way just as one of the boys hit another boy over the head with a toy truck, grabbing her attention. I took the opportunity to leave.
I made it safely to the parking lot without further detection. It had begun to rain, so I used my key fob and unlocked the car from twenty feet away. I jumped in as quickly as I could and threw my purse onto the passenger seat before starting the car.
I’d only been on the road a few minutes when I made a snap decision. The shelter was only about ten minutes from St. Martin’s Church, which sat at the north side of Queen Anne Hill in Seattle. If I was lucky, I could catch Father Bentley on his lunch break. I wanted to ask him about showing a video at Martha’s service.
I pulled off 15th Ave. onto Dravus Street and wound my way up towards Mt. Pleasant Cemetery. About halfway up, I made a sharp left turn onto a winding road that would eventually climb to a steep hill that ended at the back of the cemetery. St. Martin’s church was nestled at a bend in the road about half way up, on a shelf of land that overlooked Ballard Bridge and Salmon Bay to the west. The property had once been a small high school. While the main building had been razed when the church was built, the old gymnasium remained on the north side of the parking lot, with the remaining road extending up the hill directly in front of it. The church included a chapel on the south side, a large meeting room, a community room and kitchen, the teen center, the children’s room, and several offices. The main floor of the gym had been turned into a daycare center, while the basement at the back was used for storage and a small food bank.
I parked and entered the church through a door on the north end of the building, which took me to Father Bentley’s office. I passed bulletin boards with notices for the Santa’s breakfast and Christmas Eve service, and then a glass case that listed church classes and services. Several people waited in the assistant pastor’s office, while two women were just coming out from meeting with the youth minister.
I turned into Father Bentley’s outer office and greeted Cora, his administrative assistant, a woman who never failed to irritate me, because she never failed to pry for information on other parishioners.
“Oh, Julia, how are you?” she gushed. “I’m so sorry to hear about poor Mrs. Denton. You must be devastated.”
Twiggy and Kate Moss had nothing on Cora. She was thin as a rail, her bony cheeks sticking out like something from a Halloween mask.
“I’m okay, Cora. I was wondering if Father Bentley might be free.”
The tight skin over her face contorted into a look of disappointment.
“Oh, he’s on the phone right now,” she said, her long fingers curling around her pencil. “But he shouldn’t be long. Why don’t you have a seat? I want to hear all about what happened with Mrs. Denton. We’re all just devastated around here.”
Talking about Martha’s demise was the last thing I wanted to do.
“By the way, I was surprised to run into one of the Mercer Island City Council members at the shelter,” I said, purposely changing the subject. “She just joined the board over there. Her name is Dana Finkle.”
Cora’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, yes, she met Father Bentley last year at the auction for the Pacific Northwest Ballet. Father Bentley was a guest at Faye Kramer’s table and so were the Finkles. I think she and Mrs. Kramer are good friends. Anyway, when Martha died, Father Bentley thought immediately of Mrs. Finkle for the board.”
I couldn’t imagine why anyone would immediately think of Dana Finkle for anything, unless they were staging the Wizard of Oz and needed someone to play a fat Wicked Witch of the West.
“Well, if the community room is free, maybe I’ll wander down there to see how we’ll set up after Martha’s service.”
“Oh, sure,” Cora said. “I’ll let Father Bentley know where you are.”
As I turned to go I glanced down to her desk, which was piled high with stacks of loose papers, folders, and binders. A blue paisley ledger sitting on top of a stack of papers caught my eye and made me search for air, because my lungs seemed to deflate.
“Where did you get that?” I asked, pointing to the book.
She looked over at the notebook. “My brother has a stationery supply company in San Diego. He gets them for us. I’m sure I could get you one if you’d like. They come in several different colors.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t need one. I…it’s just very pretty…”
“Hello, Julia.”
It was Father Bentley’s soft New Orleans drawl. I looked up with a smile.
“Hello, Father,” I said, turning. “I needed to check on a couple of things for Martha’s service.”
“Of course. Cora could help you, you know. She’s very good at events.”
“No! I mean, that won’t be necessary,” I said, nodding to Cora, whose eyes had lit up like candles at the suggestion. “The girls from our book club will help. And Martha’s daughter will be here.”
Father Bentley was in his late forties, medium height with a broad chest, square jaw and a pepper gray beard trimmed close. He was nice enough looking, if you liked dark eyes that seemed to sink into his head.
“I was wondering if we could show a video during the service. The girls want to put some family photos together. Martha’s daughter suggested it.”
“What a nice idea,” he said. “If you’d like to create a soundtrack, I can ask Jeremy to help you.”
“Jeremy?”
“He’s a volunteer in the teen center downstairs. We’ve created a small recording studio down there for the after-school program. It gives the kids a place to come and hang out in the afternoon…keeps them off the streets.”
“I had no idea. I bet they love it.”
He grinned. “Yes, weekday afternoons around here are a bit noisy. Once a quarter, we even have a battle of the bands. This has become quite the place for young people to come and hang out. Anyway, Jeremy could help you pick out some music and record a background tape. He’s very good. I’d offer to do it, but I don’t really know how to use the equipment.”
“I think a soundtrack would be nice,” I said, a tear forming. “Maybe I can come over tomorrow afternoon.”
We started out of the office and he put a hand on my shoulder.
“How are you doing, Julia? This must be a very difficult time for you.”
I reached for a smile, but came up short. “I’m okay. I keep busy with the inn,” I said, not wanting to say anything about the breakins or my attacker. “I want to make this service all about Martha. She deserves it.”
“Yes, she does. I want you to let me know if I can help,” he said, smiling and showing a set of perfectly straight teeth. “She was a good woman and she’ll be missed.”
I nodded, feeling it difficult to speak.
“Why don’t you come around one o’clock tomorrow,” he said. “The kids won’t be out of school yet, and that way you and Jeremy will have the studio to yourselves.”
As we strolled back down the hallway, I thought of Martha’s last question to me.
“Father Bentley, I was just wondering…did Martha come to confession shortly before she died?”
He stopped and gave me a curious look. “No,” he shrugged. “I can’t remember
the last time she came to confession. The police stopped by and asked me the same question, though. Why?”
“She sold me a table a couple of weeks before she died. And before she left, she asked me if I had been to confession lately.”
He tilted his head at me and smiled.
“Yes, yes, I know,” I said, blushing. “I haven’t been to confession in years. That’s what I told her. But I thought that maybe she was asking because she felt the need to confess something.”
“Well, you know, Julia,” he said with his hands behind his back. “Even if she had come to me, I couldn’t tell you what she said.”
“Oh, I know that, Father. It just seemed so curious. I was just wondering.” I said with a sigh. “You know she was poisoned, don’t you?”
He seemed to inwardly cringe. “Yes. I heard about it.” He shook his head. “She was one of the nicest women I know. For the life of me, I can’t understand why anyone would do something like that.”
“Well, the police don’t know yet if she was the target. They think Senator Pesante may have been the target. He was supposed to be at the inn for a reception the day before.” Tears pooled in my eyes again and he reached out a hand.
“It wasn’t your fault, Julia. There is evil in this world, sometimes hidden right before our eyes. You were a good friend to Martha. She knows that, even now.”
He started ambling down the hallway towards the entrance, drawing me with him.
“I really do wonder what our society is coming to sometimes, though,” he continued.” Every day there’s another burglary, a shooting, or a murder. I wonder what happened to ‘love thy neighbor’?”
“That’s what I’d like to know, too,” I said. “I did love my neighbor, and then someone killed her.”
A young man came through the front door and Father Bentley stopped.
“Oh, there’s Jeremy now. Jeremy!” he called.
The young man ambled toward us. He was medium height, thin, with a funny goatee.
“Yes, Father,” he said.
“This is Mrs. Applegate. She’d like to have you help her make a soundtrack tomorrow for a video honoring a friend of hers that died. Can you do that?”
He glanced at me and smiled.
“Sure. I’d be happy to.”
“Fine. I told her to stop by about one o’clock.”
“That should work.” He nodded to me. “I’ll see you then.”
He continued past us, strolling along as if the world functioned on a slow clock.
“He seems like a nice young man,” I said.
“He is,” Father Bentley said. “He’s had a tough life, but I think he’s finally getting it together.”
“Father,” Cora called from the office doorway, “Mrs. Moore is on the phone. She says she needs to speak to you immediately.”
“Sybil?” I asked, surprised. “Is she a member of the congregation now?”
Father Bentley took a deep sigh and smiled with forced patience.
“You haven’t been around much, lately, Julia. Lots of things have changed around here. Mrs. Moore is not only a member of the church, she’s a Deacon. God help me,” he said, giving the sign of the cross. “Now you know why I know so much about Martha’s death. We don’t even need a newspaper around here.” He winked at me and then patted my arm. “I’m sorry. I’ll have to take the call. Please phone me if you need anything. I’m always here for you. We loved Martha very much.”
And with that, he walked away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The heavens had split open by the time I left the church, flooding the sidewalks and parking lot with a torrential rain. I practically ran to the car, jumping in and shaking water off like a dog. I pulled out of the parking lot and carefully wound my way down to 15th Ave. again and pulled out onto Elliot Ave., which runs along Puget Sound just west of downtown Seattle. There wasn’t much traffic, but I flipped on my headlights for good measure and got over into the right lane. I was heading for Interstate 5, which would take me home. I cursed myself for not bringing the van, though. The Miata didn’t do well in heavy rain. It was so low to the ground that when other cars passed, they threw buckets of water onto my windshield, making it hard to see.
I crept along at thirty miles an hour, passing Elliot Bay Park on my right. It suddenly began to hail, and I swore softly and slowed down even more. I was so focused on the road that I didn’t notice when a large, black SUV pulled up behind me, until its headlights glared into my rearview mirror.
“Shit! Just go around me,” I said to the car.
But the car didn’t move. It loomed over my rear bumper like some hulking monster. I refused to be intimidated and shifted my focus back to the road, murmuring, “Asshole!”
A few moments later, the monstrosity of a car pulled out from behind and came up next to me, dwarfing the Miata. It was like having a military tank driving next to me as it blocked what little visibility I had out that window. But within a block, it began to pull away, and I relaxed.
Traffic was unusually light all over that day. As I neared the turnoff to Western, the SUV put on its right directional and then veered directly into my lane.
“What?” I shouted.
I slammed on my brakes, but not in time.
The SUV slammed into my left front fender, sending the Miata skidding to the right. I heard a horrible ripping noise as I flew over the curb and into a small parking lot, coming to a stop by slamming into the corner of a building. The airbag released, hitting my face with the force of a baseball bat.
I sat for a moment, having trouble catching my breath. Tears filled my eyes, and my hands shook uncontrollably. Finally, I pushed the airbag aside to glance out the window, trying valiantly not to fall apart. The SUV was gone.
I reached for my purse and struggled to find my cell phone with shaking fingers, just as someone startled me by pounding loudly on my window. A woman wearing a hooded coat stood outside. The hail had stopped, but it was still wet and dark out there. I gave up on the phone and just grabbed my umbrella and purse, and stumbled out of the car.
“You okay? We’re calling 911,” she said.
I nodded and she took my elbow and helped me around the back of the car and up the steps. I glanced over to my car and cringed. The Miata’s front end was wrapped around the cement column at the corner of the building. We hurried inside, where a young man and woman waited anxiously.
My good Samaritan introduced herself. Apparently I had demolished the front column of her insurance company. She put me in a chair and handed me a tissue to wipe my nose where a small trickle of blood had appeared. The young man brought me a glass of water, and I took a drink as I touched my eye with my fingers. It was going to swell, I just knew it.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, nearly weeping.
My left eye was closed and watering, a result of the airbag, and my head was throbbing. My chest felt like someone had dropped a cement block on it, making it a little difficult to breathe.
“That car…that car just ran me off the road. Did you see it?”
“Yes,” the woman said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I was just coming out to my own car when I heard it hit you. I looked up as you came off the road and headed for…well…me,” she said awkwardly. “It scared the hell out of me. I jumped back onto the steps. But I’m glad you’re okay. Actually, I’m glad we’re all okay.”
“It was a Hummer,” the younger woman said.
I glanced up. She had short, dyed black hair and was perched on the edge of a desk, popping Peanut M&Ms into her mouth.
“It pretty much pushed you off the road,” she said with a crunch. “And then just drove on. Do you have insurance? Cuz, if not, we could help you with that.” Crunch.
The wail of a siren announced the arrival of a police car. As it pulled into the small parking lot and the door opened, I wondered briefly if I would know the officer. After all, men in uniform were beginning to feel like family.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
> An hour later, I was sitting on a gurney in the emergency room at Swedish Hospital. Angela was there, along with Detective Abrams. I had called Doe and Rudy, who were on their way. Blair wasn’t answering her phone, and April was taking care of the inn since Libby had left to go shopping. The doctors had given me a clean bill of health, other than some bumps and bruises. My Miata, though, not so much. Angela kept touching me, as if to make sure I was still there and okay.
“So, there’s no way you could ID the car,” Detective Abrams asked, his blue eyes searching my face.
He had perched his lanky frame on a windowsill, his broad shoulders blocking most of the light coming through the window.
I shook my head. “No. It was hailing at the time, so I was concentrating on the road. The other car just plowed right into me. I never saw a license plate. I just know it was a big black SUV. But the young woman at the insurance office said it was a Hummer.”
“And you never saw the driver?” he asked.
“No. The car was too big. All I could see was its bumper and the door.”
“Do you think it was on purpose, Mom?” Angela asked quietly. “Hitting you, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” I said, touching the swelling around my eye. “He put on his right directional, so maybe it was just an accident. I think that’s what the police thought. The weather made it hard to see. Maybe he couldn’t tell how close he was to me.”
“Your car is pretty small,” Detective Abrams said.
I looked up at him with my good eye. “Was,” I said.
He shrugged. “Sorry.”
“But then why didn’t he stop?” Angela asked.
“Maybe he didn’t even notice,” Abrams said. “Those rigs are so big that hitting a little Miata was probably like swatting a fly.”
“José said there was a Hummer parked outside of Martha’s home the night we picked up her table,” I said. “The night the intruder pushed me into the study. When José chased him down the driveway, the Hummer was gone.”
