As Father Phillip watched, he opened the will. He unfolded and scanned the two-page document. He said, “This is boilerplate. It just says that I am to dispose of his estate as I see fit including using some for taking care of his sister in Baltimore. The other letter is my appointment as executor and the third envelope holds the key to his box at the bank. All that is in the box is his bank book with a little bit of money in it.”
The priest looked even more confused. “Did he say to leave anything specifically to the church?”
“No. It’s been left completely to my discretion as executor.”
Father Phillip had the look on his face of a child who had not received what he wanted, an adult petulance of sorts. This rapidly changed to one of more priestly concern.
John looked at his face and said, “You think his death was not an accident?”
Father Phillip put his hands over his cheeks.
“An autopsy will be done,” said John. “From the looks of his condition it was a heart attack, plain and simple. Anyway, an autopsy will confirm that his death was a natural one. If this money did exist, and we’ll have to find out if that is true, then I’m sure we’ll find it. River Sunday is not that big a place.”
The priest nodded. The thoughts rushed through John’s mind. This was why he was a lawyer. He could not believe that Father Tom Sweeney was any kind of criminal. He knew he would find a reasonable explanation for this mystery. He had to make sure this old priest, his trusting client, came through this all right, that the money, which by definition was part of the old man’s property until proven otherwise, was found and, as well, any more that might be stashed, and that it was given to the people the old priest wanted it given to. That was John’s job, the meaning of his friendship, and it was why he had come to River Sunday to help people. This would be his last case in River Sunday and he was going to do this right.
“Let’s do first things first,” John said, firmly reaching for his phone directory. John thumbed through the pages, stopped as he found what he was looking for and then dialed, his fingers making little tapping noises on the keypad, his eyes intent.
Chapter 2
Sunday July 7, 1PM
Brother Timothy had to know something more than he had let on to Father Phillip. John’s call was therefore to the monastery. After a few rings that went unanswered, John put the phone back in its cradle.
“No answer at the monastery,” he said. “I’ve got to go up there and talk with Brother Timothy.”
“I’ll drive there with you,” said the priest.
“I should go by myself,” said John and he stood up. Father Phillip’s face flashed a moment of anger. John was aware that Phillip was very intelligent and could be short tempered. He obviously thought he was being left out of the investigation, or worse, that John would not tell him what was going on.
John said, “It’s not because I don’t trust you with Father Tom’s affairs, Father. As a lawyer though, I’m bound to respect the old man’s privacy. I just want to see what I can find out for my client before the whole world knows of this problem and you and I are on the hot spot for answers. You can understand that.”
John understood that he was an outsider to the world of these religious men. Father Phillip, more than anything, was being protective of his priest community, of all the members of that fraternity. John made another footnote in his mind that if this mystery continued, he might be forced to work with other churchmen similar to Phillip, people who would be more concerned about church matters than his executor’s duty to the old man. He had sensed for some time that Father Sweeney had ideas different than his parish, and perhaps his executor responsibilities would be tested to the fullest extent of his talents and experience.
“Timothy’s a priest, like me,” said Father Phillip, abruptly. “He won’t tell you anything he wouldn’t tell me.”
John tried to compromise. He knew this might be a complicated case and felt no need to set up adversaries this early. “You may be right. Anyway, Father Sweeney’s my client, dead or alive. This is the legal way to do it,” said John, firmly. Then he added warmly, “If I find anything that is relevant, I can assure you I’ll fill you in right away.”
The priest nodded. He grudgingly gave him directions to the monastery. Father Phillip’s tone since he had come into the office had completely changed and he was almost unfriendly as he spoke. John took notes on the descriptions of the back roads, keeping quiet and trying to avoid any more confrontation with the excitable priest.
When John was only a few feet out the door, he looked back. Father Phillip had calmed down. He was standing in the office door, seeming to overcome his sense of hurt and become once again a soft-spoken preacher.
He offered, “In my opinion, John, I think the money came from a secret donor, who gave it to Father Tom to further the Lord’s work.”
John nodded, and said, mindful of the young priest’s ego, “I’ll let you know first thing if I find out some information.”
John traveled for almost an hour to get to the monastery located in the midst of rural fields beyond Chestertown. He needed a fair amount of arm effort to keep his well-worn truck on course over the sidewise pull of the high crowned roads. Father Tom had said to John that he was built like an Irishman, John didn’t know if he was Irish or what he was. The old priest had told John that “I want you for my lawyer because you, Johnny, you’ve got something the others don’t have. You, my boy, got the will to fight.”
John smiled to himself as he remembered. Fortunately, Father Tom didn’t know how depressed John had become over his office finances. On the other hand, the priest had been right about John’s ability to handle himself in a physical fight. Growing up on a farm he learned early to handle himself and even had extensive tutoring from one of his foster father’s buddies who had been in Special Forces. Later, one of his college roommates had helped him refine his boxing skills until he had done ring time as a welterweight with some success in the Baltimore amateur circuit. He made a little money to help with law school bills.
“Learn to handle yourself. Nothing worse than a lawyer on his knees,” his roommate had said. Even now, he’d go to the River Sunday gym as much as he could and keep up the heavy bag workouts.
The old priest had added, “You came to River Sunday to help these small farmers. It’s God’s work and you won’t make much money, Johnny. I know about doing God’s work and it’s the work of a poor but happy man. I know you want to do this because your own family had such hard times on their farm. You’ve told me about your father and your respect for him. You say you owe him. I think you also owe yourself to be a good man. Somehow I think of you like one of those old Western town marshals, men who stood up to the big ranchers to help out the homesteaders. They never made much money but they did the work because it was the right thing to do. That’s why I have some much faith in you, Johnny.”
John gripped the little truck’s steering wheel even harder. Whatever was ahead, he wouldn’t let his own money problems get in the way of doing a good job for the old priest. He was sure that the old man, wherever he was in eternity, knew that. After this was all over, then was the time to quit the effort and leave River Sunday for good.
Yet, as he drove, his thoughts turned in another unexpected way. If he found that a lot of money was hidden somewhere in the estate, he would get a very big percentage fee for handling Father Tom’s will. He thought about that until the truck went over a large bump and he remembered that the old man had given him the work as a favor. Father Tom had never told him about any large amount of money. The reason probably was that he never expected John to handle the money and, more than that, to get some outrageous fee for doing so. Or had he? Had the old man planned all this? Was John right to consider charging so much money? After all, he was an attorney and lawyers had fees.
Yes, he was right, he thought, but as Father Tom always liked to say, “The Devil is just around the corner, so better come to Mass and serve Jesus and
His Church first.” In other words, don’t make money out of Father Tom’s unfortunate death.
John smiled at his moral collapse into personal greed yet he knew the thoughts would not go away. No one was going to blame him for thinking like an attorney. He might be outspoken in helping the unfortunate but he wasn’t going to be foolish and sentimental, at least, not any more.
He sat back into the worn truck seat and went over in his head some anecdotes he had heard about the Chestertown monastery. The Catholic brothers at the old building were known by the locals as the “foot washers” due to their peculiar tradition of showing absolute humility in face of outsiders. They would carry a small towel and basin of water and ask to bathe the feet of those around them.
The monastery had been constructed in the years following the Civil War by wealthy veterans from both the Federal and Southern armies. After they had laid down their weapons, they had desired forgiveness for the killing they had done during the battles. The effort towards humility was, according to the writings of the founders, the best way to seek this forgiveness and the foot washing was derived not only from the Bible but also from nursing work done by most of these men as they served their wounded comrades and former enemies in camp hospitals. The monastery had declined in recent years since all those benefactors were long dead and their descendants had not chosen the religious way and had found other ways to spend what was left of any family wealth.
By now, John had traveled off the main highway. He had passed the monastery sign and was driving up a single lane black top road bordered by dense pine tree growth. Deep ditches covered with vines and undergrowth threatened his small Chevrolet pickup on each side of the narrow road. Little space was available for breakdowns on this black top and if a car had come from the opposite direction, pulling over would have been dangerous or more likely impossible. The road to the monastery showed little upkeep, the cracks in the tar filled with patches of crabgrass that sprouted from the rain puddles collecting in those low places, these weeds thriving from the lack of traffic, vehicular or human.
Ahead John saw a black and white mist coming over the road and going up into the sky as if a cloud had descended into the shade of the nearby forests of pine. As his truck entered the cloud, John noticed that the mist was getting thick and actually boiling upward. He realized that it was smoke. He smelled burning wood as if a campfire was flaming somewhere nearby.
His eyes began to water. The smoke was too heavy to be coming from a campfire. Somewhere ahead of him a brush fire had got out of control. John slowed his vehicle, the broken driver’s seat shifting slightly under his body as he touched the brakes. Wisps of choking fumes entered the car. He pulled the truck as far off the road as he could and turned off the noisy engine.
He got out and walked forward, holding his hands over his face to fight the fumes. Not far in front of him, he heard a rumbling sound and the crashing of timbers. Bright flames became visible in the smoke, flames licking at the clapboards of an old building. The monastery was on fire. He knew this was the structure because of its size, more than a hundred feet in length and very tall.
The fire had already engulfed the nearest section of the structure. He could see from the weathered boards that the building had been in poor repair. Around him bits of burning wood were crashing to the ground and igniting the dry grass. He ran by a large flat wooden board suspended by chains on posts, the name Chestertown Monastery on it over the drawing of a silver painted crucifix with the date 1865. He stopped a hundred or so feet from the front of the building and looked up at what was visible of the front wall beneath the flames.
“Oh my God,” he said as the fire roared toward the sky, devouring old dry wood. Above, John saw several turkey buzzards circling him overhead high above the smoke. Flames were coming from the broken glass of windows on the façade and the old white clapboard paint was peeling from the heat. The front door was solid flame, which tore at the carved Victorian scrolls of the once rich architectural detail, and the steep steps of the approach were covered with burning fallen timbers. Six chimneys rose at equal divisions along the roofline, flames licking at them. The closest chimney was tilting and already losing some of its bricks. These fell one by one bounding over the roof shingles to the ground only a few feet in front of him.
John shouted several times for Brother Timothy but heard no answer. He had to step back to avoid the bricks and fragments of burning wood falling near him, and again looked up at the face of the building. The smoke burned his eyes. He could see no movement at any of the windows, only bright flames piercing shattered glass.
Hoping he could find a way into the building through a back door, he moved around the building. He had to try to help the old men. He heard the sound of Chestertown fire alarms over the rumbling of the inferno. When he reached the backside, the ground was in shade from the sun. The air was somewhat cooler. The wall of the building did not show as much flame. The ground was covered with moss and dead leaves dropped from great trees that overshadowed the area.
He went along the building towards a small entry porch. It was cluttered with empty cardboard boxes and several plastic garbage cans. The tops of the cans were ajar with refuse pulled out and scattered as though they had been searched. He went to the door and as he cleared the trash so he could open it, he noticed several of the trash bags were marked Strand Street Grocery, one of the River Sunday supermarkets.
He opened the door, trying to keep his eyes free of the smoke which poured out from inside. He moved into a large kitchen with several stoves and sinks and many cabinets of dishes. At the far side of the room, he rushed forward into a great lobby paneled with mahogany, the walls filled with bookcases, the wooden floors covered with rugs and the leather and cloth chairs filled with many pillows.
To the side he entered a corridor with ancient bent wood benches along its walls. The hot air burned his face. He turned right through an arch into a room with a great fireplace and saw two men with white beards lying on their backs. They were dressed in brown robes, and were stretched out on the brick hearth of a great fireplace. He shouted at them but they did not move.
He ran forward assuming they had been overcome, the heavy smoke making it hard for him to breathe. Quickly dropping to his knees he checked each for a pulse but found none. Also, on the hair of the men he could now see matted blood, already dried in the heat. The elderly men had been struck and killed. He remained at their side for a few more moments, trying to remember the words of a simple absolution prayer for the dead. Then the smoke became too much and he knew he had to leave.
John put his head closer to the floor trying to breathe clean air. He would be just as dead as the two old monks if he did not get away. Behind him he heard timbers in the corridor fall, closing off the way he had entered. He saw sparks fly up from the joints of the floor boards indicating the basement below this room was an inferno too.
A window beside the fireplace had been covered with boards. He pulled at the wood slats and they broke loose, revealing broken panes and rotten muntins underneath. He used one of the old boards to smash open the rest of the window. Then he pulled himself up on the sill and tumbled out. He landed in vines as he felt a burst of fire roaring out above him through the window. As fast as he could, he crawled away from the side of the building. Clapboards began to break loose and fall around him.
Hands were grabbing at him. He tried to resist thinking that it might be the man who had set the fire and killed the old men. The man overcame him, pinned his arms and dragged him more than a hundred feet from the building. John saw he had been deposited among the granite overgrown monuments of the monastery graveyard. John could smell the scorched cotton of his own shirt mixed with the odor of the stale cemetery earth.
“You all right, mister?” the man’s voice came through the roar of the fire and he recognized that the man was a fireman. He was safe. He said, “I tried to save them but they were already dead.”
The fireman nodded. “You say there
’re some folks inside. We’ll check that out. You’ll be all right. You stay back here,” he said and moved away.
John fell back exhausted, his skin touching the gravestones. He could feel the smooth marble against on his face.
A State Police officer came up beside him and kneeled to talk. He asked, “You all right?”
John nodded.
“Who are you?” the officer asked.
Before John could answer, a roof timber crashed in the building sending up a flurry of sparks. The officer shielded John as the bits of blame dropped around them, pieces of ash drifting in the hot air.
“I’m John Neale, a lawyer from River Sunday.”
The man went on, “What were you doing here, Neale?” John realized from the man’s tone that he was a suspect in setting the fire.
John said, “I came up here to see Brother Timothy. I found him dead inside. I told the fireman. The two monks who live here are dead side by side in there.” He didn’t relate his suspicions that they been killed. The police would figure that out soon enough.
“So it was burning when you got here?”
“Yessir. I didn’t set it if that’s what you mean.”
The policeman scanned John’s face and noticed his shorts and polo shirt. “No, you don’t look much like a firebug. Did you see anybody else?”
John said, “No.”
The officer stood and shrugged. “The ambulance is on the way,” he said. “We’ll have them check you out.”
John lay back exhausted. He turned his head and his eyes were close to the cut stonework. He read the chiseled words:
“Find treasure in these words: Clean and anoint the feet of thy enemy in absolute humility so that he may no longer be thine enemy but become thy friend in mutual respect”- Brother James 1868
And then below he read, in a different script:
“Brother James showed us the stars
Yet died from earthly battle scars
Gold (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 4) Page 2
