Danger Returns in Pairs (Shawn Danger Mysteries Book 2)

by Nina Post

  "Not as far as I know." Funny how she thought of that first. Why, too many BBC mysteries?

  "Are you just telling me that because I asked you not to tell me?" she asked.

  "No. I just need to talk to someone about the garden."

  "The minister is here…" she looked around and pointed out the window. "Right there."

  He thanked her and went back out the door then into a center courtyard, where a man in a suit and tie was pulling out some weeds. Shawn considered inquiring about his dry cleaner.

  "Excuse me, are you the minister here?" Shawn asked as he approached.

  "To my daily delight," the man said, genuinely enough.

  "I'm looking for any gardens that grow a particular geranium. Geranium bicknellii, aka the Northern Cranesbill."

  "Oh! Well." He looked around the garden as though expecting one of the plants to speak up. "I'm sorry to say, we don't have any here."

  "Do you know anything about it, this plant?" Shawn asked.

  "It's not familiar to me. I just know we don't have it." The minister furrowed his brow. "If you're looking for the real experts, you need to go to the monastery. It's not far."

  ***

  Shawn parked on a gravel driveway that led to a locked garage, and as he stepped out with his files, he noticed a large garden area in the back.

  As he headed toward tall wood double door slabs with elaborate iron work, Shawn hoped these monks wouldn't be some semblance of the Oprichniki. The man who answered the door had receding brown hair, calm eyes, and an air of authority, and was dressed in a wool cowl with slits at the arms, a robe, and a large cross on a long chain. Shawn looked closely for the insignia of a severed dog's head, and was relieved to not find one. It would be just his luck to stumble across the remnant of Ivan the Terrible's secret police in Erie, Pennsylvania.

  Shawn showed his badge. "Lieutenant Danger with the Erie Police Department. I'd like to talk with someone about a plant."

  "Abbot Thomas. A plant, hmm? Why don't you come inside? Do you have time for supper, Lieutenant? Come join us at the abbot's table with a few of the brothers."

  Shawn's first thought was from Grimm's fairy tales, but he said, "I don't want to be a disturbance."

  "Hospitality is one of our basic principles," the abbot said, then led him to a long, rustic wood table Shawn would pay good money for. "The table of the abbot is for the use of guests." The monks sitting at the table gave him a kind welcome.

  "I was a stranger and ye took me in," one of the brothers said.

  Shawn's conscious mind was telling him he could still leave, but he didn't have a gut feeling this was a terrible idea, and besides, he was hungry. These monks didn't know what they had wrought, letting him at their food. The table was laden with bread and butter, a pot roast, serving bowls of vegetables and salad and potatoes and pasta, a crock of soup, and two big carafes of beer, as well as a bottle of a wine. His stomach growled.

  "Ah, it does suit your appetite, or so I hear." The abbot smiled and gestured to an end of the bench where one of the monks was making a table setting for him.

  Shawn took a seat and placed a white cloth napkin on his lap. The abbot introduced his prior, Father Nicolaus, and the subprior, Brother Thomas. There was also Friar Peter, the Director of Formation, who was in charge of new recruits at the monastery, and Brother Pachomius, the chamberlain, who was in charge of supplying and maintaining the community's beds, clothing, and tools. Brother Mark, the cellarer, was in charge of all temporal affairs. Shawn wondered if that meant Brother Mark was also in charge of wormholes and string theory, and considered asking him if the current measurement of dark energy indicated they were part of a multiverse.

  They bowed their heads for prayer, and Shawn did the same, to be polite, and refrained from asking Brother Mark any of these questions, to be polite.

  They passed the plates. Brother Pachomius served him soup, which turned out to be sausage and kale, and then the bread. Shawn took some of whatever was passed him until his plate was loaded up with pot roast, salad, herb-mashed potatoes, lasagna, and green beans. He hadn't eaten even close to this in days. Sarah would bring him leftovers from her dad's dinners, but it wasn't on this scale. The other monks took some nervous glances at him, as though second-guessing the decision to invite the ravenously hungry six-foot-four man to share their meal.

  "You favor us, Lieutenant Danger!" the abbot said, smiling at Shawn's plate, which looked like it belonged to a competitive eater. "We make the beer and wine ourselves. We live by our own labor and much of our food is made or sourced on the premises."

  "Everything was excellent, Abbott. One of the best suppers I've had in quite some time."

  After two brothers he hadn't seen before stealthily entered and carried the dinner plates to the kitchen, Shawn took out his file and removed the artist's drawing, updated with Dee Albert's input. "I'm here to talk about your garden, but have any of you seen this man?"

  The drawing was passed around the table. Shawn watched each of them closely.

  "I'm afraid not," the abbot said.

  Shawn knew the abbot was lying, and sensed a suppressed turmoil in the monks around the table. They knew who this was, he was certain of it.

  "And we don't tend to leave the grounds here," the abbot said. "But we do know a few things about gardening. We sell our herbs and vegetables in our shop on the grounds."

  Dessert was placed on the table. Shawn took some rhubarb cobbler. "That's rhubarb from our garden, with ice cream Brother Claudius made today." Brother Claudius, a stocky blond, nodded once.

  "It's very good. Do you have any geraniums growing in your garden, Abbot Thomas?" Shawn asked between bites of cobbler. The monks looked at one another.

  "What kind of geranium are you referring to?" the abbot asked.

  Shawn pulled out a sheet of paper that had a description and photo of the geranium found in the autopsy. "This one in particular."

  The monks passed it around. "We don't have any growing here, unfortunately. But we have used them in a line of our soaps that sell very well. I recognize the petals."

  "Soaps?"

  "It's one of the ways we make money, to pay for necessities. Along with honey, we make soap. I'll show you one." The abbot excused himself from the table and came back a couple of minutes later, handing the bar to Shawn. It was a creamy white oval with lavender petals mixed in.

  "And where did you get the plant you used?"

  The abbot hesitated only slightly. "One of the brothers brought it back for us."

  "Really? Which brother would that be?"

  The abbot exchanged a look with the prior, then seemed to make a decision. "Brother Benedict, who is unfortunately not here right now."

  Shawn felt like a lion who caught the scent of grazing wildebeest.

  "Brother -- " He nearly said wildebeest -- "Benedict, does he drive a white van?" Shawn asked before taking a sip of the cold, crisp beer. He tried to give back the soap.

  "For you," the abbot said.

  Shawn felt about five minutes from taking his vows, but restrained himself.

  "No. We do have a vehicle that Brother Claudius brought to us when he first arrived, but it's a red Subaru."

  "Are you sure Brother Benedict isn't here?"

  "Yes. He often leaves to gather plants and moss."

  "Moss?"

  "He's our gardening and moss specialist."

  Chapter 17

  Abbot Thomas led him to what he called the abbacy, a small office, to drop off some paperwork. Shawn noticed a framed photo of a Welsh corgi. "Is this your dog?" Shawn asked. The abbot shut a drawer of his filing cabinet and turned. Shawn could tell by the abbot's eyes that the dog was gone. "Yes. That was my Beatrice." The abbot took a moment, then led the way out of the office and walked through the grounds out to a grassy enclosure.

  "Our garden provides the monks with both nourishment, healing, and mental clarity, as well as a place for prayer and meditation. This is our locus amoenus. One of t
hem, at least." He paused a beat, then turned to Shawn. "And more than 90% of our herbs and produce are sourced from our garden."

  The abbot bypassed the main garden and showed Shawn the moss garden, which had narrow paths around the perimeter and through the center. They passed a small water clock then walked toward a semi-circle at one end of the garden, where there were large statues made of different-colored plant material.

  The abbot clasped his hands behind him. "Brother Benedict calls this mosaiculture."

  "Mosaiculture," Shawn repeated.

  "Yes, it's a horticultural art that incorporates annuals and, to a lesser extent, perennials, into a living work of art. As you can see, they are quite colorful." The abbot beamed.

  "He works on this himself? Brother Benedict?"

  "Oh, yes. He may set a few brothers to work from time to time with maintenance, but that's all."

  "Do you mind if I take a small sample from the moss garden?" Shawn asked, studying the meticulously-pruned foliage sculptures.

  "No, of course not." The monk extended his arm toward the moss.

  "Brother Benedict wouldn't mind?"

  "I don't think he would."

  Shawn took a sample bag and pen from his inside jacket pocket and dug up a small amount of soil and moss with the pen. He put the sample in the bag then rubbed his hands together to knock the dirt off. As he stood he noticed something that didn't belong -- a plant growing in the far corner, set apart from some other plants. In a catcher's crouch, Shawn put his fingertips under one of the five-petal flowers. "Isn't this a Bicknell's geranium?" Shawn said.

  The abbot crouched down and examined the flower, eyes widening. "Yes it is. I didn't know we had any cuttings. But then, only Brother Benedict tends to the moss garden -- the rest of us do different tasks in the main garden: pruning, weed-pulling, seed-saving. We select seeds from the most healthy specimens to promote vigor in subsequent generations. I suppose he forgot to mention it."

  The abbot walked over to a long section at the edge. "In our herb garden, for example, we save seeds from the plants that are more difficult to find, like our Delphinium staphisagria, or stavesacre." The abbot pointed out a tall plant with closed bulbs and some purple flowers near the bottom. "It's a poisonous member of the buttercup family."

  Shawn laughed, thinking of the Sylvain case.

  The abbot smiled. "What did I say, Detective?"

  "The stavesacre just made me think of a case I worked on a while back that involved something similar."

  "Ah. Well, yes, it is toxic, but for centuries, it has also been used medicinally for scabies and lice."

  "I hope you don't have much cause for that now."

  The abbot chuckled. "No, thankfully."

  "So you don't have this particular geranium in your main garden."

  "Not the one all of us tend," the abbot replied. "I work extensively in that garden -- I would know."

  "May I take a petal from this?"

  "Yes, I don't mind." The abbot gestured toward the plant, palm up. Shawn carefully removed one of the five-petal flowers and put it into a second sample bag. "When do you expect Brother Benedict back?"

  "He's usually back by vespers, or completorium, at the latest. We are silent after 10:30 until breakfast, and Brother Benedict likes to tell me what he's found."

  "I'll admit that I don't know much about your way of life here, Abbot, but isn't it unusual for one of your monks to leave the premises?"

  The abbot nodded once. "Yes, it is highly unusual. But our monks occasionally do leave on short errands. When a brother is not here to observe a service, he still observes the regular hours."

  "Meaning what?"

  "He would kneel down and worship God in the place where he is working. In addition, we ask the brothers to pray for him while he's away."

  "Why's that?"

  "Oh, for the sins he might have committed while he was out," the abbot said lightly.

  "What kind of sins?" Shawn asked.

  "Of seeing, of hearing, of speech. But really, it's to keep our brother safe."

  Shawn knew that if John Brower were Brother Benedict, he was committing far more serious sins than that. "Does Brother Benedict tell you what he does while he's out?"

  "Oh no," the abbot said, surprised. "He would never tell the others anything he saw or heard while out in the world. There's the danger of worldly contamination, you see." The abbot quirked his thin lips into a wry smile. A polite and self-aware acknowledgment to the worldly outsider, Shawn supposed. "But I am always available for counsel, if he wanted to confess his sins. I would hope that Brother Benedict, or any other monk under my care, would know that they can talk to me about anything that troubles them."

  "Is Brother Benedict ever away overnight or for multiple days?"

  "Detective, we are what is known as cenobites. We are quite unlike the gyrovagi, or wanderers, who are governed by their own worldly desires, or the sarabites, who also have worldly desires and dwell apart. We do not accept that type here. Brother Benedict is a cenobite."

  It looked like the abbot was trying to reassure himself of that fact. But Brower, a sarabite for sure, would have had to have been away overnight. Maybe he came back then left again without them knowing.

  "How long has Brother Benedict been at your monastery?"

  The abbot's brow creased with worry. "Forgive me, Detective, but why the questions about Brother Benedict?"

  "He's the only one of your monks who regularly leaves the premises, isn't that correct?"

  "Yes, that's correct, though most of the brothers attend the annual retreat and occasionally leave on errands. The monks strive to maintain a balance between work and prayer, and our work beings us into the world on occasion."

  "And he's the only monk who planted that geranium," Shawn added.

  "Well, yes. As to your question regarding how long he has been at our monastery, about two years now."

  "And what has he done in that time?" Shawn asked.

  "Tuning away from worldly concerns to God's love is a gradual process. Brother Benedict first completed his Postulancy, which takes approximately ten months and serves as a gradual transition from secular life; then completed his novitiate year, which is typically a time of profound spiritual growth. During this period, he received his monastic name after St. Benedictus. Brother Benedict had ample time to gave serious deliberation to his decision, and he received many opportunities to refuse the yoke of the service."

  The abbot looked pointedly at him, as though Shawn had suggested Brother Benedict lacked genuine intention or was there against his will. It was a leap to comprehend that Brower and Brother Benedict could possibly be the same person. 'Profound spiritual growth' wasn't a phrase he would associate with Brower.

  "In his novitiate year," the abbot continued, "he was instructed in the religious life and the Benedictine rule. He chose to stay and take the simple vows, a period of three years, and renounce all he owns. Then, if Brother Benedict wishes to consecrate his life to God, he takes the solemn vows in four, perhaps five years."

  "He renounced all he owns?" Shawn asked, thinking of the van.

  "Yes, he renounced his family, his friends -- "

  "No kidding," Shawn muttered.

  " -- all possessions and property, and the pleasures of this world."

  Shawn happened to be a fan of the pleasures of this world, to an extent. "Brother Benedict is currently in a period during which the community decides whether his manner of life is in accord with our objectives," the abbot said.

  Well, that was unlikely, Shawn thought.

  "So he is still under the care of our Director of Formation, Father Peter. It usually takes at least six years from the time of entrance to the final vows. Brother Benedict is almost halfway through that process." Shawn considered this for a moment. Would Brower actually go through that process, if he actually was Brother Benedict, as he suspected? Or was he just using this place as a cover? For what, hiding something? Or someone? Brower had foole
d his closest friends. It would be easy to fool the monks, too, but it was a lot of work for a cover. There had to be easier ones.

  "Do you have email, Abbot?"

  "Yes, I do."

  Shawn gave Abbot Thomas his card. "I'll need an account of every errand Brother Benedict left the grounds for and why. I would also like a general schedule for the monastery."

  The abbot blinked in surprise, then composed himself. "The horarium."

  "That's what your schedule is called?"

  The abbot nodded, brow furrowed. "That's right."

  "If you could get those to me by tomorrow morning, I'd appreciate it. And I'm very grateful for the dinner, though I doubt you'll have much leftovers."

  The abbot shook Shawn's hand and smiled pleasantly, lines forking out at the corners of his eyes. "I'm so pleased you were sent to join us, Detective."

  Shawn was pretty sure it was good police work that sent him. He was about to turn and go, then asked, "Why would someone want to take the monastic vows, Abbot Thomas?"

  The abbot considered this. "That is a complicated question, Lieutenant. Every man has his own reasons, but I find that a common reason is that they don't wish to hitch their harness to their own will and desires, preferring instead to accept the guidance and control of another -- of an abbot, and of a community of brothers. We consider ourselves a family, and I strongly believe this is one of the most significant attractions to our way of life. The brother joins a family that he, or she, will belong to and remain in for the rest of their life."

  Shawn could see the attraction. This family had clearly laid out rules. You know exactly what was expected of you, and could be confident that others in your family would treat you with consideration and respect. No one would leave unless they died, and you had something stable you could depend on.

  But he would also expect Brower to hate guidance and control. If Brower had also killed those veterans Sergeant Wodarski brought to his attention, it would have been to assert his control over them.

  "One more thing, Abbot. Does a shaved head mean anything to you?

  The abbot considered this. "Do you mean tonsure?"