by Lynn Bohart
“I thought we agreed not to have any more children. Two was what we said.”
“I know, but I’m pregnant.”
“But how? I mean, we took precautions. Didn’t we? Didn’t you?”
He grasped his fork like a fourteenth century warlord, a wad of pancake dripping syrup all over the table.
“Precautions are never one hundred percent accurate, Joe. You can’t control everything. God makes his own decisions. We’re going to have another baby.”
He knew what she expected from him − expressions of joy. But he didn’t feel joy. He felt trapped. He dropped his fork and forced his chair back and stood up. He had to think, process. He moved to the kitchen window and looked out at the neighbor’s garage, irritated the man never took in his trashcans.
“How long have you known?” When she didn’t answer, he turned. “How long have you known, Angie?”
She barely whispered. “About four weeks.”
“Dammit, Angie! What do you mean four weeks? Why didn’t you tell me? How could you keep something like that from me for a whole month?” He circled the table once while she began to cry. “Christ. I can’t believe it!”
She shrank into the chair and he realized how miserable she was. He hesitated, confused. Finally, he went to her.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Angie?” he said more softly. “I’m your husband. You should’ve told me. You should’ve been more careful.”
She lifted her tear-streaked face. “I was careful, Giorgio, but I prayed for this child. I wanted another baby. I knew you didn’t, but I did. When the doctor told me I was pregnant, I was happy. I was afraid if I told you, it would ruin your concentration. So, I thought I’d wait until the play was over. I’m sorry, Giorgio.”
He watched her, this woman he loved, filled with a mixture of anger and fear. He’d acted like an idiot, and he had to make it right. He reached out a hand to comfort her, but just then a horn blared out front.
“Shit! It’s Rocky. I’ve got to go. We’ll talk about this tonight. Okay?” He kissed the top of her head. “Okay?”
He moved towards the door as she lifted a napkin to wipe her eyes. She avoided looking at him and got up to take his plate to the sink. He knew better than to push it and so grabbed his leather coat and went out to meet his brother.
Rocky sat with his head resting on the seat cushion, his eyes closed. Giorgio slid into the seat and slammed the door, waking him with a start.
“Hey! Have some respect. I’m doing you a favor.”
“I know. Let’s go.”
Rocky looked at his big brother. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
Rocky yawned and stretched the muscles in his face before starting the engine. “So, what’s the order of the day?”
“Have trouble getting to sleep last night?”
Rocky shot him a reproachful look. “We did work until three in the morning, in case you forgot.”
Rocky turned back to the road, and Giorgio decided to ignore it.
“I want to interview the woman who organized the dinner. We need to find out if anyone came in late. We also need to talk with each of the people who spent any time with the victim, and I want to know everything Mallery Olsen said while she was there.”
Rocky turned to look at him. “That’s a tall order. Who else is helping?”
“Swan and two others.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence. Rocky finally spoke when they pulled through the monastery gates.
“Maybe she didn’t like it as much as I thought.”
“What?” Giorgio’s thoughts were pulled back to the present.
“The play.”
The truck climbed the hill and Giorgio sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair.
“That’s not it. Angie’s pregnant.”
“Whoa. I thought you said you were going to stop at two.”
“We did, but I guess…we didn’t. Something went wrong. It happens.”
“So, Angie’s upset about it?”
“She is now. Instead of being the caring, understanding husband I am, I blew up.”
Rocky parked in the west parking lot along with two news vans.
“Like I said, Angie’s upset.”
“I think that’s putting it mildly.” Giorgio sighed deeply. “God, three kids on a detective’s salary. It’s tight now. I want good things for Angie. For the kids. I don’t want to have to scrape all my life.”
“Angie could go back to teaching.”
Giorgio gave his brother a cold look. “I don’t want Angie to have to work!”
“Jesus, Jo Jo. You can’t control everything. This is the twenty-first century. Women work. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is I don’t want her to have to work,” he emphasized. “And I’m not trying to control everything!”
“She loved teaching,” Rocky argued. “She wouldn’t mind.”
“Look, I’d support anything Angie really wanted to do, but she doesn’t really want to work. She wants to stay home with the kids. It’s all about kids with Angie. Besides, this isn’t what we planned!”
Giorgio turned back in his seat, hoping to let his anger cool. When he saw the same young female reporter and cameraman approaching, he got out and strode right past her. She spun around after him, but he ignored her pleas for a statement. He would have knocked over a second reporter if the pudgy guy hadn’t moved aside. The media frenzy had begun.
Giorgio entered the monastery ordering a patrolman to keep anyone but police personnel out. Inside, the monastery was cool and quiet, and he paused a moment to take a deep breath. A couple dressed in casual clothes chatted in the lobby, their luggage by their side. The power had been restored sometime during the night and Giorgio peeked through the gift shop window. A man in a tweed jacket and turtleneck browsed through a bookcase along one wall. Giorgio opened the door and stepped inside. A woman appeared from an alcove behind the counter smiling at him.
“May I help you? We’re not usually open on Sunday,” she offered, “but I thought under the circumstances,” she paused awkwardly, “well, you know, I thought maybe there might be people looking for solace. Is there something I can help you with?”
Giorgio glanced at the man by the bookshelf, but he was absorbed with a book, stroking his goatee in thought.
“I’m with the police. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Her eyes grew wide. She was in her mid forties and wore a gray wool sweater.
“I wasn’t here last night, but I’ll tell you anything I know.”
Just then, the man with the goatee approached and held out a book to purchase. The woman excused herself to take care of the sale. Giorgio stepped to the side, glancing at a glass case holding a selection of Rosary beads and crosses. Next to the case was a beautiful antique oak wash stand with a locked box labeled “Mail”. No mail today, Giorgio thought. It’s Sunday.
“Oh, shit!” he muttered to himself. He hadn’t thought to ask Father Damian if Sunday morning services would be canceled. The last thing he wanted was a hundred or so worshippers arriving.
“Excuse me,” he called out to the sales lady. “I’ll stop by later. I need to find Father Damian.”
Back in the hallway, he almost bumped into Rocky.
His brother excused himself, backing away. “Sorry. I just saw Swan and he gave me a list of people who still need to be interviewed.”
The man from the gift shop emerged with his purchase safely tucked under one arm. He turned and retreated up the staircase. Several other people milled about, probably waiting for taxies or friends. Giorgio looked about with a fleeting sense of panic. They needed to get this done before they were inundated with more people.
“I need to find Father Damian. I’ll see you later.”
The brothers parted, and Giorgio went to Father Damian’s office. He wasn’t there. Giorgio took a chance and went looking for Anya Peters. He found her in an office around the corner from
the abbot’s. She was talking with John Marsh, the conference chairman. The door was ajar, so he poked his head inside.
“Come in Detective. You’ve met Mr. Marsh?”
She was wearing a pale green pantsuit that softened the green glaze of her eyes, but her demeanor was as cool as the floor tiles. She wasn’t happy to see him. He acknowledged Marsh.
“How are you feeling this morning?”
Marsh looked like the star of a cheap horror flick. His eyes were ringed with shadow, and he’d only briefly run a comb through his hair. The dated tuxedo from the night before had been replaced with an ill-fitting, rumpled gray suit. A dark spec of blood on his chin broadcast that he’d nicked himself shaving.
“I’m afraid breakfast was rather somber,” he mumbled. “We canceled the closing activities and just bid everyone a fond farewell until next year. If there is a next year.”
“Are most people in the banquet room now?”
“Anyone who felt like eating,” he said cynically. “I believe a few people called cabs, and some have checked out early this morning.”
“I found two keys in the box outside my door when I arrived,” Peters confirmed. She gazed impassively at Giorgio as if having a detective in her office was an ordinary occurrence.
Giorgio sighed. “Please make a note of who they were. Also, I was wondering if Father Damian had thought to cancel Sunday services.”
“This church doesn’t have a parish anymore. They only hold public services on Christmas and Easter. Is there anything else we can help you with today, Detective?”
Murder seemed to be a mere imposition to Ms. Peters. It didn’t mean she was guilty of anything more than rude behavior, but he often found that rude behavior camouflaged something else. In high school, a boy named Jason Wright had beat up boys half his size on a regular basis. No one knew why until they realized he couldn’t read and had successfully hidden it for years. A little tutoring had changed more than Jason’s reading skills. The thought made Giorgio wonder what Anya Peters’ was hiding.
“I’d like to talk with the woman who organized the dinner,” Giorgio said to Marsh.
“I’ll get her for you.”
Marsh rose and left the room. An awkward silence stretched behind him. Anya Peters shuffled papers on her desk attempting to ignore Giorgio. A feeling of irritation swept over him. Motivated by the bitter argument with Angie, he fished in the pocket of his leather jacket and placed the pearl earring on the desk in front of her.
“I believe this is yours.”
The air went still between them. She openly stared at the earring while her hand fluttered to her left ear lobe. When she realized she had on a different pair of earrings, she attempted to resume her composure.
“I don’t think that’s mine,” she stated with little confidence.
“No? I noticed you were missing an earring last night that looked just like this. I found this one tucked into the sofa in Father Damian’s office. It appears to match the one you were wearing.”
She reached for the earring, but he closed his hand around it first. Her eyes betrayed a smoldering distaste while she contemplated her next move.
“I had a meeting last night with Father Damian,” she responded almost too quickly. “I remember sitting on the sofa. Perhaps it came off then.”
“Was that before you left at seven-thirty, or before you left around nine o’clock?”
Her eyes snapped wide open exposing green, glacial pools. “I don’t know what you mean. I told you when I left the premises.”
“Yes, but someone has contradicted your story. I thought perhaps you’d like to set the record straight.”
Just then Marsh reappeared at the doorway. “Ms. Chase is waiting for you in the foyer, Detective.”
Giorgio rose, his hand still resting on the earring. “Please ask her to wait. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Marsh left, and Giorgio lifted the earring and dropped it back into his pocket.
“You were seen leaving the parking lot around nine o’clock, Ms. Peters. I must assume you were here when the murder took place.”
“I had nothing to do with that.” Her green eyes darkened as if a cloud had moved across a small pond of water.
“Then why did you lie about the time you left?”
“Because,” she paused, “I was working on something personal, that’s all. Father Damian doesn’t like me to do personal business here, so I said I left at seven-thirty.”
“Wouldn’t he have seen you here after your usual time?”
“He would have been in the Chapel.” She stuck her chin out as if she just made a masterful move in a chess game.
“I see,” Giorgio said, remembering what the janitor said about meeting Father Damian in the hallway instead of at the chapel. “Well,” he paused at the doorway, “I’m sure I’ll be able to confirm that.”
He left Peters’ office with a feeling of intense satisfaction he couldn’t explain, but knowing he’d probably only uncovered an illicit affair. He would have to decide later if it had any significance.
Coming into the main lobby he found a short, rotund woman sitting like Humpty Dumpty on the bench, her feet barely touching the floor. Heavy jowls framed her billiard-ball face. When she saw him, she attempted to rise, but instead, fell backwards, flopping her immense bottom back onto the wooden seat. He waved away her attempts and joined her.
“I’m Detective Salvatori.”
She offered a warm, mushy hand that reminded him of an overripe grapefruit.
“I’m Olivia Chase,” she said with a throaty voice. “I made all the arrangements for the dinner. Mr. Marsh said you wanted to talk to me about the murder.”
She seemed pleased to be discussing the murder and peered at him through small eyes lost in folds of flesh.
“Well, actually,” he said, wiping his hand on his pants, “I was wondering if anyone came late to dinner or didn’t show up at all.”
She coughed suddenly, the way someone does when they’re trying to loosen phlegm. Giorgio tried to look casual as he backed away a few inches.
“Sorry, I’ve got a cold,” she gurgled. “Let me see. We were going to play a game, so everyone had assigned seats. As I recall, one man arrived late, and one didn’t show at all.”
“Do you know their names?”
Giorgio rested his hand on his chin as if in thought, but in fact he was trying desperately to cover his mouth and avoid taking a breath.
“Oh, yes,” she said confidently. “Because it would have affected the game you see. I had to sit in for Cory Poindexter, and Mr. Marsh sat in for Jeff Dorman.”
“Which one never showed?”
“Jeff Dorman. As it turned out, he had checked out earlier and I wasn’t told.”
“Do you know where Cory Poindexter had been?”
“No. He came in eventually and took my place. It was rather awkward because I’d already eaten the main course and had to move.”
“What time did he come in?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, wiping her brow as if the interview were taxing her strength. “It must have been about eight o’clock because I’d already finished the quail. When he arrived, I moved to the head table and finished my dessert up there. It was a lovely chocolate mousse.”
Her eyes sparkled with appreciation, and he suspected she’d enjoyed a good many desserts. It was fascinating how people could always remember particulars about food in the midst of adversity. He’d once interviewed a woman whose husband dropped dead at a Mandarin restaurant, yet she could recount every detail about the elaborate meal down to the pattern on the dinnerware.
“Can you describe anything unusual about how Mr. Poindexter might have looked when he arrived?”
She flicked a finger at her nose, for what reason Giorgio couldn’t be sure, but now he counted the seconds before this interview was over. The beady eyes looked at him as if a light bulb had just been turned on in her squat little head.
“I do remember somet
hing. He wasn’t dressed for dinner.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, that was part of the game. We announced in the registration materials that we were going to stage a vintage murder mystery. Everyone was to dress accordingly. He was rather casually dressed. I remember because he apologized for not even wearing a tie.”
“Did he seem to be in a hurry, or otherwise distracted?”
“Yes, he kept looking at the door as he took his seat, as if he were expecting someone.”
“How long did he continue to do that?”
“I don’t know. Once Mr. Marsh began to speak, I forgot all about him.”
“Was he in the room when you were notified about the murder? I mean the real murder.”
“Yes. We had only just started the game. Father Damian came in and took Mr. Marsh aside, but by then we could already hear the sirens approaching.”
“What happened next?”
“Mr. Marsh told everyone to stay in the room. He and Father Damian went out to meet the police. When he returned, he told everyone that a woman had been found dead in the kitchen.”
“Did anyone get up and leave?”
“Yes, but an officer appeared and told everyone to stay put. He said they would be interviewing everyone before the night was over. Another officer came and stood at the door.”
“Who was it that tried to leave?”
“As a matter of fact, it was Cory Poindexter.”
“Thank you, you’ve been very helpful. Please don’t leave town for a few days without letting us know.”
“I live right here in Pasadena. I can come in and talk with you any time.”
Giorgio hoped to God it wouldn’t be necessary, but merely smiled as she slipped off the bench and waddled away. Just then Swan and Maxwell arrived.
“Where do we start?” Swan inquired.
“I want to interview Mr. Poindexter. You and Rocky can finish with the priests and then check to see if anyone remembered anything after we left last night.”
Swan nodded and left. Giorgio went into the banquet room where about twenty people sat in small groups having a light breakfast. He found Marsh near the kitchen door talking to a young woman.
