Pray for Us Sinners, a Cozy Mystery (A Ronnie Lord Mystery, #2) (The Ronnie Lord Mysteries)
Page 1
Pray For Us Sinners
Virginia Beach, VA
Pray For Us Sinners
Ronnie and Gina approached to guide the woman back to bed. “Mrs. Witz, whatever you have to say or do can wait for another day,” Ronnie said. “What’s important now is that you rest.”
“No.” Lorraine’s voice took on its normal tone. “No, this is important right now. I need your help.”
“I told Allayne’s agent that I’d be happy to do anything to help with the funeral services, but he said—”
“I don’t give a damn about that right now, Veronica. I want to you help me nail the creep who killed my Laney.”
“What?” Ronnie flopped on the bed as Lorraine brushed past Gina to her highboy dresser. Had Allayne had been right all along? Why was Lew reluctant to pursue a case, though?
“But Allayne died in her sleep, right?” She looked to her sister, who only gave her a look that said Just wait.
Ronnie’s eyes caught a shining object nestled in a shallow dish sitting atop the highboy. As Lorraine retrieved it and brought it closer, Ronnie saw it was a half-eaten cookie wrapped in plastic wrap. Unbidden, Ronnie held out her palm and stared at the object, turning it in her hand.
“This is a chocolate-covered Oreo cookie,” Ronnie said dully.
“I found that next to Laney’s bed when I went into her room to wake her up for E! News Daily. There was supposed to be a news item about her tonight that she wanted to watch…” Lorraine’s voice broke.
“Why are you giving me this?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Lorraine gestured wildly to the cookie. “That’s what killed her. That cookie is poisoned, I just know it!”
Praise for Pray For Us Sinners
An Ash Lake Mystery
Pray For Us Sinners is a witty, breezy mystery with an appealing heroine/detective, a well-drawn supporting cast, and a surprise ending. Now, what more could you possibly want?
—William J. Calabrese,
Borderland
To Capture An Eagle
Pray For Us Sinners is an intriguing page-turner, full of plot twists and quirky characters, set in steamy Northeast Florida. I recommend you buy two copies: one for you, and one for your favorite priest!
—Lydia Hawke,
Firetrail
Perfect Disguise
Pray For Us Sinners is the perfect blend and balance of mystery, humor and history. Unforgettable characters and surprising twists up until the very end make this a must read mystery.
—Karen Rinehart,
Newspaper columnist and author of
Invisible Underwear,
Bus Stop Mommies
Other Things True To Life
Also by L.K. Ellwood
Saints Preserve Us
Pray For Us Sinners
a Ronnie Lord Mystery
L.K. ELLWOOD
Pray For Us Sinners copyright 2009 by L.K. Ellwood
Originally published in 2005
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
PO Box 55071
Virginia Beach, VA 23471
Cover art © 2008 Kathryn Lively
First DLP Edition – September, 2009
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the memory of Gary Izzo, a great writer and a great guy.
Ad majoram dei gloriam!
Author’s Note
With regards to a number of things mentioned in this novel: Worman’s Deli is an actual Jacksonville, Florida establishment. To my memory have been two locations, neither of which are located on the North side of town, as portrayed here. The Alhambra Dinner Theater is also a real place. Willson’s Chocolates is fictional, but based upon a noted Jacksonville establishment that makes the best chocolate truffle ice cream in the world. If you’re local, you know the place.
The e-mail address used in Chapter Nine is my own creation, and at this writing no such Internet domain exists.
Also, liberties were taken regarding the Rush concert mentioned late in the book. To my knowledge, Rush’s Vapor Trails tour did not occur around the time implied (which is about a year before the actual tour took place), and according to sources consulted on the Internet the tour did not come to Jacksonville, Florida. My apologies to Dirk, Lerxst, and Pratt for this misrepresentation made for the sake of creative license.
Special thanks to my friend Marni for her help with some of the Jewish customs mentioned in this book.
Prologue
Ave Maria, gratia plena…
He sat quietly with his eyes closed, lulled into a feeling of contentment brought on by a combination of prayer and the surrounding white noise. He chose Latin for this particular Rosary, as he found the language relaxing to recite on long trips. As he pronounced each word in his head he became more endeared to the prayer, fascinated with each word, almost hearing a Gregorian echo.
Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus…
He was unaware of the presence looming overhead until a clammy, soft hand touched down on his shoulder and tapped for his attention.
Instantly he was roused from the third Glorious Mystery as his olive wood rosary slid from his fingers and fell into his lap. Sighing, his retrieved the attached, gilded crucifix and turned it in his palm, hoping whatever distraction about to befall him would not be so complicated as to prevent him from taking up where he had been disturbed.
His secretary’s smile was benign and lined with pale, pink lips. Mona Lisa would have wished to look just as diffident. “The pilot informs me that we will be landing within the half hour, Your Holiness,” the man towering overhead said, his voice barely a whisper over the humming airplane engine just outside the pontiff’s window.
The pontiff nodded crookedly and adjusted the white satin miter that covered the majority of his remaining gray hairs. A surreptitious glance out the window confirmed that a change in the flight pattern was indeed about to happen. He watched the flaps on the wing open and close to accommodate the slight altitude decrease, then tightened the belt strapped across his hips.
“Thank you, Gaetano,” the pontiff said. Though the secretary preferred to converse in his native Italian, the pontiff insisted everybody speak English for this trip, even in private, for good practice. “I trust the rest of our party is secure in their seats, as you should be, eh?”
“See for yourself, Holy Father.” Gaetano gestured about the first-class cabin. “Everybody is strapped in, and table trays are secured.”
Gaetano had clearly missed his calling as an air steward, or nursemaid. “And those in coach?”
Gaetano Cardinal Manzetti straightened and unconsciously smoothed his hands down the length of his
black cassock. “You needn’t worry about me, or them.” His voice, as always, was soft and heavily accented, so much that even the Italian pope often had trouble understanding his countryman. Yet, as the cardinal’s gaze drifted behind them towards the curtain that concealed over fifty journalists from around the world set to cover the papal visit to the United States, a low growl could be heard escaping the papal secretary’s lips.
“Your concern for the members of the press is nothing short of admirable, Your Holiness,” the cardinal added, “considering how many of them have not been as kind in recent months.”
The pontiff had to chuckle at that; this was not a new tack of conversation with the secretary. The cardinal’s growing dislike of the global secular press was becoming more pronounced with each passing day, so much that all members of the papal entourage had to stifle their amusement every time a reporter approached to request a minute with the Holy See. The shift in the cardinal’s face, the deepening of wrinkles in the man’s jowls as his smile immediately curved downward, was instantaneous and at times ghastly to behold.
The pontiff gathered his thick-beaded rosary in one hand and dropped the sacramental in a small pocket. Outside, the colorful Miami skyline came into sharper focus as wispy clouds dissolved. Below them the Atlantic Ocean sparkled as if covered with diamond-studded fish netting. He smiled. Despite being the most-traveled pope in the last hundred years, if not in the history of the Church, this marked his first visit to the southern United States, and already he was falling in love with the city.
Much like previous visits to the continent, this would be one for celebration. Seldom did the United States have the honor of adding a native-born saint to its still small roster, and never before had this pope traveled to a foreign country to preside over a canonization Mass. The Catholic faithful of the United States, the Vatican had been told, were ecstatic when they first learned the pope’s visit would coincide with the canonization of virgin martyr Lorena Alger, rather than leave people scraping for spare change to pay for a trip to Rome.
His health, praise the Lord, was good, and unlike his secretary he was not bothered by the recent editorials suggesting his early, voluntary retirement in favor of a younger pope, say, somebody in his sixties at worst. That the cardinal would be so irked by mere words surprised the pontiff. Far worse had been printed about the present pope and the Church in the wake of recent scandals. To be sure, there were a number of detractors upset with this visit, accusing the Pope of masking the urgency of dealing with errant priests with something so frivolous as a ceremony for a child long dead.
Which was exactly why the pontiff insisted on the trip. Lorena’s story, and the fidelity of those who supported her cause, he hoped, would serve to inspire faith in the Church founded by Christ. Errant priests, he had vowed to himself, the press, and the Lord, would be handled swiftly and accordingly.
“I just don’t think those people are being fair, calling for you to step down,” the aged cardinal insisted, as if blessed with the ability to read minds. “When one factors in all you have done during your pontificate, not to mention the fact that those people can plainly see every day how well you get along, it’s absurd. The mere suggestion that a younger man will solve everybody’s problems and that you be retired like some workhorse sent to the knackers—”
“…should not stress us to distraction,” the pope finished for him. “Now, sit down, Gaetano. You achieve far more in making me nervous than a writer does on the printed page.”
With a heavy sigh the cardinal dropped into the chair next to the pontiff and fastened his safety belt. The sudden look of annoyance on the pope’s face as he glanced at a few vacant spaces on the other side of the cabin did not go unnoticed by those seated across the aisle. The weary cardinal bowed his head and focused his eyes on the chair in front of him as the plane dipped slightly to the right and circled the city en route to Miami International Airport.
The cabin remained quiet for a few more minutes, and the pontiff let the dull roar of the engine lull him back into a meditative state. Within seconds he was able to remember exactly which Hail Mary in the third Glorious Mystery he had been reciting when he was interrupted, down to the last word prayed.
…et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.
A soft smile played at his lips as he closed his eyes to resume the prayer. Not bad for an old man some people want to see sent to the knackers, he thought.
He did not get much farther into the decade of prayers, however. A gentle tug at his cassock sleeve diverted his attention once again to Cardinal Manzetti, who now held a thick stack of white paper between his hands.
Gaetano thrust the papers onto the pontiff’s lap. “This family we’re going to meet, these Algers…”
“What about them?” The pontiff was not scheduled to meet the descendants of Lorena Alger—the grandnephew Nicholas Alger, his children and grandchildren, and his mother Julia—until the actual day of the ceremony. An earlier audience, much to the pontiff’s disappointment, could not be arranged for security concerns.
He glanced at the cryptic headline trailing along the top of one sheet and frowned. “Surely you know I’m already aware of the problems the family experienced with Lorena’s abduction? This is not news,” he chided Gaetano. “She was returned safely, yes?”
Gaetano nodded. “Yes, Your Holiness. That unpleasantness was resolved a long time ago.” He tapped a long fingernail against the one sheet the pope held up to the light. “This is an entirely different story about the family, something that happened more recently.”
“I see.” The pontiff squinted at the minuscule black lettering. The papers had apparently been printed from a Florida news Web site, obtained by one of Gaetano’s underlings through the wireless connection. He reminded himself to inform the younger, more pleasant assistant to look into a better quality printer for future trips. Or perhaps a larger font.
“Your Holiness,” hissed the secretary over the increasing volume of the engines, “don’t you think, given this new information, we ought to consider postponing the ceremony?”
“Why would we consider that? The qualifications have been met for canonization, and the area churches have invested a great amount of time and money in seeing this to fruition.” The pontiff skimmed the article with a bemused smile. “I am certain that this is certainly no more scandalous than what the Algers had previously suffered. Surely you know the Mother Church has weathered far worse storms over far many more years.”
“I know,” the secretary sighed, and the pontiff noted immediately the look on the man’s ashen face. Gaetano, it was obvious, was resisting the urge to throw one last disdainful glance at the curtain behind them. A quick glance across the aisle told the pontiff that his secretary’s facial tics continued to be noticed by the rest of the staff. “It’s just that this sort of thing—”
“—is in need of a happy ending, Gaetano, which we will provide. We didn’t fly all the way here to wave and get back on the plane.” Any further thoughts the pope had intended to voice were cut short by the pilot’s announcement of the plane’s final clearance and approach to the runway. With that, the old man in the pristine white cassock offered a silent prayer of thanks for their safe arrival to the United States, then proceeded to finish the article that had so excited his secretary.
One
Three months earlier
Gina Hayes gazed at the framed poster hanging on the living room wall with mild contempt. “Ron, why are you still holding onto this thing?” She gestured to the two-dimensional unsmiling cast of A Fish Called Wanda positioned humorously in a police lineup. “Aren’t you a bit too old for posters? High school’s over.”
“I think it looks nice. It lends a bit of whimsy,” said Julia Alger, their maternal grandmother, as she accepted a warmed mug from her other granddaughter, Ronnie Lord. The three ladies, for lack of a place to sit in the living room of Ronnie’s new townhome, paced slowly around the room’s perimeter and sipped their coffee.
“Yes,” Gina snorted, “if there’s anything lacking in Ronnie’s life, it’s whimsy. As if the box of Beanie Babies I carried in can’t accomplish that.”
Ronnie toed the box in question as she circled her first house guests. Many of the stuffed animals had been gifts from students, some from Gina’s sons, but Ronnie elected not to point that out at this time. She wanted to savor every bit of her sister’s ranting, assuming it would be one thing she would miss now that she had moved from the Hayes’ basement.
“At least she has the poster in a nice frame, and it’s not sticking to the wall by mismatched thumbtacks,” Julia said with a shrug. “Oh, Arthur and your father used to have pictures all over their walls. Left tiny pinpricks everywhere when they left for college.”
“Well, I think it’s juvenile,” Gina insisted. “Ron, you’re in your late-thirties, for crying out loud—”
“Mid,” Ronnie interrupted.
Gina cast her sister a withering look. “Late thirties. If you’re going to hang things on the walls, at least consider something a bit more tasteful and artistic.”
“Oh?” Ronnie raised an eyebrow and moved behind her sister. “How is this not tasteful? At least Jamie Lee Curtis is wearing clothes.”
“She wasn’t wearing much in the movie,” Gina grumbled, and Ronnie bent her face into her mug to stifle a giggle, amused at the notion that a simple movie poster could irk her more rigid sister. She took a deep drink; a mouth busy with coffee could not retort with words that she knew she should not say in front of Nana.