He followed a narrow path into the property, which ended about twenty feet from the highway with an impenetrable wall of honeysuckle and briars. He realized the old priest would have had to crawl in one of these rabbit trails to get beyond the fringe of briars. He found a rabbit trail, which showed a slight path into the wilderness. He scratched his way along toward the shoreline, on both sides of him intense woodland and dense brush and trees.
“Well, hello, Johnny,” said a familiar voice from behind a turn in the path where John could see an open space. Wink Ricker came into view, waddling as he always did, a large overweight man, with a balding head and intense small eyes. He liked to wink at people as if he knew them, even if he didn’t. People knew it was a con and gave him the nickname “wink.” Wink Ricker had on his familiar green ball cap with the words,
Ricker real estate where your grass gets greener
“Hello,” John said. Ricker rented John his office and the old trailer where he lived so he never called him “wink” to his face.
Ricker said, mopping the sweat from his face, “I came out to look over Father Tom’s property. Figured you being the executor you’d be selling it for him.”
“You got good information.”
“I guess you know, I sold this place to the old man a few years back. He wanted it for fishing. Who was I to argue? Tolman wanted to sell so I arranged the deal.”
John was quiet. Ricker went on. “Not worth much. I might get you something from Tolman if he wants it back.”
“Father Tom paid too much, didn’t he?”
Ricker looked away and said, “Don’t hold that against me. I tried to keep the price as low as I could. Like everybody, I know we all got to face up to any bad deeds someday, you know.”
“Too close to the river to perk,” continued Ricker, kicking at the ground.
John could see that Ricker was setting him up for something. He had been around the real estate agent long enough to know his tactic of tearing down the value of property before he made his offer to the owner. In the back of his mind he remembered the dying words of his foster mother, Mimi, the smart old country woman that she was, saying that “you get in bed with the devil and you sure enough are going to have his kids.”
“So you think the site won’t have any market?” John ventured. He knew that Wink had already scrambled everywhere he could looking for signs of money being hidden. He saw that the man’s hands were covered with dirt.
“I’m not saying that, John. I might find a buyer.”
“I’m not sure when we’ll sell it and even if we will. I’ll have to talk to Father Tom’s sister.”
“Well you just do that. I’m sure she’ll see that it’s better to convert the land into cash. She’s pretty far along isn’t she?”
“I believe she’s an older lady, yes.”
“She’ll want money, not fishing. You tell her I’ve had a couple of possibles, sportsmen who want it for fishing and hunting. They already called me as soon as they heard the old priest was gone. Course they don’t want to pay too much.”
“Word gets around.”
“You know that’s my business, keeping my hearing to the ground on what land is available,” he said, grinning. “How’s that little trailer working out for you?”
“Fine,” said John, knowing that he was getting a little reminder of what he owed Ricker, a little pressure. He didn’t want to aggravate his landlord but he didn’t want to trust him either.
“Will you remember where your friends are, Johnny, after you get settled with your new job over there in Baltimore?” John didn’t answer him. He knew only too well what he was being asked. Ricker would want his cut on real estate deals he referred to John’s new firm. He was sure that Ricker had been asked about him, had given a reference, and in time, would expect his due.
John owed it to the old priest to get his estate a good price for this land. At the same time he remembered that his little office would have been closed by now if it had not been for the routine title investigation work that Ricker had sent his way. It was simple work that paid the bills, work researching in the courthouse files the clear title on land sales. Unfortunately the work made it appear as if he really worked for Ricker and not for himself.
Ricker didn’t wait for an answer. He went by John stooping down to crawl back through the rabbit trail. A few feet into the woods, he stopped crawling and looked back to John, grinning again.
“Be seeing you, Johnny.”
Below him John saw high grass leading to a small muddy beach area along the river. The far side of the river was at least a half-mile away and all he could see was woodlands and cornfields. To the left of the beach on this side of the river he noticed a small house and pier with a rowboat tied up.
He remembered the land deed and its reference to neighbors. “That must be the Robbins property,” he said to himself as he rubbed his arm where the briars had cut into the skin.
Back on the highway he noticed that the adjoining property had a small sign at the roadside. It said simply the one word “Shelter” in large block print on the side of a rusted metal mailbox. John had heard that Mister Robbins was a professor of some kind and suspected that this name for the property was part of an offhand humor.
He decided that it might be worthwhile to get a view of the priest’s property from this next-door place. He drove into the yard where large mulberry trees overshadowed a small two-story white clapboard house with a screened porch. He knocked at the screen door but got no answer. Then he walked around the house but still saw no one. To his right was a railing to a stair leading down to the dock so he walked in that direction.
Approaching the top of the embankment he could see the rowboat. He walked out on the pier. When he got to the end of the dock, he stopped and looked back at the house. Still no one was in sight. He started to walk back to the shore when he glimpsed a bare right foot sticking up from behind the gunwale of the rowboat. As the boat drifted closer he could feel the heat of his face growing red. Inside on the plank floor of the small boat was a fully naked woman lying asleep on her back in the sunlight. She was young, pretty, her red hair flowing back across the wooden floorboards and her tanned breasts and slim body exposed in bare sunlit repose.
This was the young woman who had stepped aside at the end of his pew in church, the woman who had cried at the death of the old priest, who had looked back at the altar with some final message in her eyes. He felt his body warming and aroused by the sight of this beautiful woman. In a moment he had looked away and was walking fast, embarrassed at disturbing her privacy and determined to leave as quickly as possible. He hoped that the noise of his old truck engine with its rough muffler would not wake her from her peaceful private sojourn in the river sunlight as he headed back to the road and his own home.
Chapter 4
Tuesday, July 9, 9AM
It was going to be another hot day in River Sunday. He parked his old truck near the front door of his office. Whimsy was sitting at her desk, her body almost as wide as the desk. One of her children, a little girl named Jennie, was playing with a crayon book, kneeling in front of a white plastic child’s table set next to her mother’s desk.
Whimsy said, “Good morning, Mister John. I brought you in some of that coffee you like.” She pointed to the thermos at the edge of her desk.
He smiled and said, “You are reading my mind, Whimsy.”
“I put you mail on your desk with the paper.”
“Anything?”
“People want their money, is all. I’m still trying to get some money in. I’m going over the invoices we still got to send out again.”
Whimsy had been waiting for her salary for two weeks. He’d have to tell her when he was closing the office. He’d give her a bonus too. He picked up the thermos and his cup. On it was printed River Sunday Volunteer Fire Department. He had won it in a bingo game at the church last year.
On the left of his desk was the letter from Light and Pratt, a large Baltimore law firm
which had accepted him for their real estate law department. It was a job with a high salary, enough to pay off his debts and then some. He could close his practice in River Sunday and start immediately.
The managing partner, Bob Pratt, had visited him, had taken him to lunch at the Chesapeake Hotel. “With your knowledge of the farm community, you can be invaluable to our firm as we set up housing developments throughout the area. You know how these folks think and how to buy their land from them.”
“Yes, Mister Pratt,” he thought at the time, but did not say. “I do know that. However, the reason I came to River Sunday was to serve these folks, to keep them from scavengers like your firm. By hiring me, you are buying my mailing list, so to speak, so I hope I can outlive the value of the contacts I bring with me. When I come with you, it means that I have failed and that I have sold out for the money. I had wanted to do something different, had wanted to make a difference.”
Pratt had promised him a black German roadster, a company car. He himself had showed up for the lunch in a red one. He explained that the red ones were given only to the partners. Pratt liked to make a show of money when he dealt with clients. All the team drove these shiny cars.
He opened the Baltimore Sun newspaper. The monastery fire and murder had made the front page. A reporter named Peterson had the byline. John knew him. Peterson had the Eastern Shore news beat. He was aggressive, a fact finder, a man who did not care about anything but what he thought was the truth and, of course, what would sell newspapers. Every court case that Peterson had covered resulted in much newsprint criticizing the police, praising the defendants and making sure that any prison time was questioned. Peterson though had his own jury to convince. He’d never been able to work with Peterson on some of the farm issues. He suspected that the newspaper was caught between its advertisers at the large grocery chains and the interests of small independent farms whose products sold at tables along the side of the road. He hoped that Peterson had not been given orders on what articles to write but he had no way of knowing for sure.
Two aged monks die in monastery inferno.
Brothers Timothy and Henry, Monks at the Chestertown Monastery, were killed yesterday morning by intruders who set the wooden building in which they were living on fire. Firemen from Chestertown and surrounding fire departments got to the fire soon after the alarm was sounded but only had time to remove the bodies of the two men before flames destroyed the building.
Timothy was 75 and his companion Henry was eighty years old. The two had served this rural Eastern Shore community for more than sixty years. The diocese reports that these men were the last monks at this venerable religious organization and that they leave no family.
Returning soldiers began the Chestertown Monastery following the Civil War. It was prominent in veterans affairs in the State of Maryland during World War One but has been declining in membership and activities in recent decades.
Monsignor Carter, a spokesman for the Archbishops office of the Maryland diocese, stated that the religious life is very difficult and that churches have to be secured against vagrants bent on evil. The monks will be buried with full religious honors in a private ceremony and laid to rest in the cemetery at the monastery. The monastery itself, almost completely burned to the ground by the fast moving fire, will be closed. The church official stated that it is unlikely the monastery will be rebuilt. Anyone with business with the monastery or the deceased brothers should contact the diocese offices in Baltimore.
Police spokespersons said it is too early in their investigation to come up with any firm suspects but speculated that the killer or killers were probably interested in robbing the old men and killed them when they fought back. The investigation will continue by the State Police and the Fire Marshal and anyone with any information is asked to contact the State Police barracks in Chestertown.
“Thank God,” he thought, “Peterson and the other reporters at the Sun don’t know about Father Tom and the money yet. I wonder how long that will be true.”
The phone rang. It was Steve.
“I don’t understand him,” Steve blurted.
“Who?”
“Father Tom had all that money and he didn’t give any of it to the parish with all our needs,” Steve replied.
John wondered how Steve had heard about the money. Probably from Father Phillip. They were close.
Steve went on, “Don’t play dumb with me, John. I know all about the missing funds.” He added, “If you ask me, he gave it to his Cathedral fund. We certainly were not high on his list here at home.”
“What does Father Phillip think?”
“He thinks I am right,” said Steve.
John said, “We don’t know the whole story about what Father Tom was trying to do.”
“I just don’t get why he was secret about it. Why didn’t he just come out and tell us about the money?”
John figured that Steve already knew the answer, that he was just blowing off steam. His attitude was proof that the old man’s secrecy had been correct, that the parish would have been upset about the use of the money if the old priest had said he was giving money to the cathedral fund instead of parish repairs.
Steve said, “Father Phillip agrees with me. He’s said all along this cathedral construction is wasteful. Something for the higher-level clergy to show off, that’s all. Father Phillip told me that when the Church built those cathedrals back in the Middle Ages they allowed the poor to sleep in them. That sure isn’t the purpose today. The clergy lock them up tight at night. Fixing up our little church building so the rain doesn’t come in, that’s different.”
“Any ideas where the money came from?” asked John.
“We’ve gone over the church books, and followed Father Tom’s activities for the last three years. We can find no visitors that would have this kind of money. We just don’t know, John.”
John said, “It’s not my place to say this. I’m just his executor. However, I am sorry that parish members feel the way they do.”
Steve said in a lower voice, almost as if he were confiding a secret, “Some think that you might know more than you are willing to say.”
Before John could respond, a soft feminine voice called from the next room. “John Neale?”
John looked up and saw the red haired woman from the rowboat standing at the door to his office. She was dressed in a light colored yellow sundress and sandals.
He stood up to greet her while saying to Steve, “I’ve got to go. I don’t know any more than you do about this and you’ll just have to take my word on that. I’ll talk with you later.”
“I’m John Neale,” he said, as he hung up and put forth his hand. He wondered idly if she noticed he was blushing. He guessed from her manner, however, one that was casual and relaxed, that she had not seen him at her house yesterday.
She smiled and said, taking his hand. “My name is Andy Robbins.”
“Sit down,” he said, pointing to the wooden chair in front of his desk. Father Tom’s Chesapeake had followed her into the office. The dog stretched himself, then rested in the corner of the office, watching Andy and John while panting in the heat.
Andy looked around at the dog, and said, “He followed me from my car.”
John smiled. “He does that to all my clients. Trails them in here like he’s making sure I get customers. He sort of belonged to Father Tom Sweeney, the priest who died.”
“Maybe he likes you,” she said, her deep eyes on John. John felt like he was swimming in them. He sat up straight.
“Animals have feelings too,” she said.
“Yes,” said John. He broke off from looking at her blue eyes.
“If animals like you, you must be all right,” she said.
John smiled. “I hope so.” He paused, groping for something to say, then said idiotically, “Andy. That’s a boy’s name, but I guess you hear that all the time.”
She grinned. “I don’t mind. It’s short for the constellation Andromeda. My
father was an astronomer and it was his favorite star system.”
John wondered why he had not seen her around town before. Then he realized that most of his time was spent traipsing around farms. For several weeks, he hadn’t been in town during the day. He worked in his office mostly at night.
“Ok,” he said, “Tell me what I can do for you, Andy.”
“Father Phillip told me that you are Father Tom’s executor. He said you are in charge of all Father Tom’s property.”
“Yes, according to his wishes.”
She said, “Will you sell the marsh next to our property?”
“News gets around fast,” said John, looking at her with eyebrows raised.
She nodded. “I thought I’d ask you because I understand that you work for Mister Ricker.”
“I’m glad you came.” John bristled at the mention of his employment by Ricker. He realized he’d have to get over this kind of reaction once he started working in Baltimore. He’d be doing a lot more business with men like Ricker.
“See, before you sell it I thought, I mean my mother and I, think that you should check it out. We know there is a mystery about where he hid a lot of church money. It seemed right to tell you what we have seen.”
“What have you seen?”
“He was out there sometimes very late at night. Very late. I was up with my telescope watching stars. When I saw him later, he told me he was fishing but I saw him walking around deep in the brush there, not near the waterfront.”
John looked at her carefully. “How long have you been seeing him there?”
“Since I’ve been living with Mother helping edit my father’s research. About two years now. I know it sounds strange for a priest.”
“What time of night?”
“Usually very late. Not every night, just some. Mostly at the end of the week.” It was her turn to blush. “I don’t want you to think I was spying on him.”
“Did you know him well?”
“He helped me with my work and we’d talk about life,” she said. “He helped me understand myself, I guess.”
Gold (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 4) Page 4
