by Lynn Bohart
“Do you know a Cory Poindexter?” he asked Marsh.
“Just a minute.” He gestured to an attractive woman sitting nearby. She got up and came over.
“Miriam, do you know a Cory Poindexter?”
She pointed to the back of the room. “He’s the young man with blonde hair looking our way.” She indicated a man in his mid twenties who quickly glanced away the moment he was noticed.
Giorgio circled back in his direction. “Mr. Poindexter?”
“Yes,” he said, turning to Giorgio as if he was unaware of his presence.
A thick, blonde mustache matched heavy eyebrows giving his face an imposing quality. He was wearing a long-sleeved polo shirt, khaki slacks, and expensive shoes. A gold watch glittered at his wrist accenting an even tan. He looked like a man who was acutely aware of his appearance.
“May I have a few minutes?”
Poindexter quickly scanned Giorgio from head to foot, much the same way an electronic scanner would check for weapons at the airport. To a man like Poindexter, every other male was competition, and it was clear he was mentally calculating whether Giorgio was an equal adversary.
“I already spoke with an officer,” he said dimly. “I told him everything I know.”
“I’m following up on a few things,” Giorgio placated him. “Why don’t we go outside?”
Poindexter preceded Giorgio into the lobby. They stepped outside, and Poindexter emerged into the morning light as a world-class athlete might enter a stadium full of fans. The sun was beginning to warm the day and Poindexter paused, lifting his chin until the sound of running feet interrupted his pose. The young female reporter was back, a brown lock of hair flying free. She was only about twenty-three but showed the determination of a pit bull.
“Detective,” she called, “I’d like to…”
Giorgio turned to the patrolman standing close by. “Officer, I want you to escort this reporter back to the parking lot and then escort all media back down to the main entrance. Only police personnel will be allowed up here from now on.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer chirped. He threw out an arm to block the young woman, who then hurled an angry look at Giorgio.
“Detective, the public has a right to know what‘s going on here.
“Let’s go, miss,” the officer ordered. He held out both arms, swiveling her around without actually touching her. She cast a frustrated sneer over her shoulder.
“I’d like a statement, Detective,” she called. “That’s the least you can do.”
Giorgio watched the officer usher the protesting young woman back down the curved path.
“That won’t stop her, you know.” Poindexter gave him a half smile.
“I know. Let’s sit over here.”
The ground was still damp and debris clogged paths adding to the rustic nature of the gardens. They moved further down the colonnade to where a dark, heavy wooden bench sat propped against the building. Poindexter reached into his pants and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
“Care for one?”
His manner was casual as he sat and crossed his legs at the knee. A gold bracelet dangled from his sleeve and across the edge of a tattoo on the back of his hand.
“No. Thank you.”
Giorgio had never smoked and prided himself on the one vice he had avoided all these years. He couldn’t say the same for pastries and touched his midriff, silently comparing himself to Poindexter’s lean physique.
“I need to ask a few questions about the dinner last night.”
Poindexter lit the cigarette and took a long draw while Giorgio joined him on the bench.
“What time did you arrive in the banquet room?”
Poindexter inhaled and looked out towards the valley as if carefully considering the question. Giorgio knew he was stalling for time.
“I’m not exactly sure,” he said, exhaling a stream of smoke and watching it curl upwards into the cool morning air.
“Had the dinner begun?”
He now eyed Giorgio with suspicion. “I think you already know that Detective, or you wouldn’t be asking it. I came in late. And, yes, the dinner had already begun.”
Cautious arrogance replaced his casualness, and Giorgio sensed a cat and mouse game about to begin. Giorgio wondered why it was that young males so often looked upon this line of questioning as a tennis match. Even if they weren’t guilty of anything, they revealed their fragile egos through their need to win.
“Can you tell me why you were late?”
“I went for a walk. It was a beautiful night.”
His answer made Giorgio remember the storm the night before.
“Can anyone substantiate that?”
He turned to Giorgio with a smirk. “The weather or the walk?”
Giorgio was losing patience. “The walk.”
He smiled and returned his gaze to the view. “Jeremy Slater went with me. You can ask him.”
“What time did the two of you go for a walk?”
“I think we left around six-thirty,” he replied slowly, letting the smoke emerge from his mouth as he spoke.
“And Jeremy was with you the whole time?”
The question caught Poindexter off-guard, and he paused, glancing sideways. Giorgio pressed for an answer.
“Did Mr. Slater also arrive to the dinner late?”
“We parted at the back door. I don’t know if Slater went directly to the dinner.”
Poindexter emphasized this point and seemed pleased he’d just thrown suspicion on someone else.
“And where did you go?”
He turned to Giorgio, a brief look of caution flashing in his eyes. “Just because I came into the dinner late doesn’t mean I killed that girl.”
“We’re just trying to put facts together.”
He shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “I continued around the building. Then I returned to my room. I had some things on my mind. I wasn’t even sure I was going to go to the dinner, but I finally did.”
“Did you see anyone when you came back downstairs?”
The young man paused, his mind working. Suddenly, his eyes flashed as if he’d remembered something, and the thought made him visibly relax.
“Actually, I did see someone. I thought I saw someone from the window at the head of the stairs. Just a shadow really. I couldn’t tell who it was. It was too dark. I happened to pause at the window and glance below. Someone was going in the direction of the kitchen.”
“What time was this?”
“Around seven-thirty.”
“And you couldn’t tell who it was?”
“No. It was too dark.”
“Could you see where they went?”
“I didn’t pay any attention. I just continued down the stairs.”
Giorgio’s mind was buzzing. He was trying to determine if what Poindexter had just told him was the truth, or a lie to create an alibi.
“What is your room number?”
He paused as if he thought he’d just gotten caught in a trap. Finally, he replied, “Number eight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Poindexter.”
Giorgio got up to go. “One more thing. Was there a reason you didn’t dress for the mystery?”
Poindexter stopped smiling. “I just forgot,” he said quickly. “I mean about the mystery.”
Giorgio nodded and thanked him again, leaving Poindexter to gaze out at the valley below as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Chapter Twelve
Giorgio decided it was time to examine the monastery by daylight. He followed the rear hallway east along the north side of the building past the bathrooms, two small classrooms, and a large meeting room set up with a projector screen and folding chairs. An intersecting hallway served as the boundary between the retreat center and monastery. On the monastery side, Giorgio passed a small meditation room and a large laundry. Finally, the hallway opened into a stairwell where a metal door led to the backside of the property, probably the escape route for
the cigarette-smoking monk. When he opened the door, Giorgio stepped through a wooden awning covered by a thick tangle of vines. An ancient light fixture was tucked up under the overhang, but when he reached in and flicked the light switch, it didn’t work. No wonder he hadn’t noticed it.
A worn, brick path led away from the building to a circular courtyard and pond. The pond languished in the cool morning air, its green water bubbling up like the headwaters of a mountain stream. Several small tadpoles kicked around the bottom looking for cover under the floating lily pads. Giorgio glanced around thinking that by day the monastery and its elaborate grounds only added to the mystery. Almost every view was blocked by something − trees, bushes, cement statues, or vine covered arbors.
He reentered the building and rounded the rear staircase, stepping into a wide hallway that fronted the commercial kitchen and chapel. An open-air courtyard was visible through a set of double doors to his right, complete with another fountain, two flowerbeds, a second pond, and a large statue of Christ standing on a pedestal. Looking up, Giorgio realized the monks’ bedroom windows looked out onto this courtyard, making it unlikely any of them had seen anything the night before. Retracing his steps, he climbed the stairs to the monks’ quarters.
If the conference wing had felt worn and old, the monks’ quarters were cold and empty. The hallway was all hard angles, bare wood paneling, and a hardwood floor. Three tall windows on the exterior wall were flanked by plain, dark green curtains. It all reminded Giorgio of the first time he’d attended classes at Sacred Heart Catholic School when he was six. His earliest memories were of being trapped in a frigid classroom with uncomfortable wooden desks and a harsh-looking woman encased in black, flowing robes and some sort of bonnet. The ruler she held became a weapon, and to this day the image filled him with a mixture of awe and dread. While there was nothing to fear here, the austerity of the monks’ existence was intimidating.
Giorgio counted eight doorways before the hallway turned left. He passed four more rooms before the hallway turned again, returning along the south side of the building. There were no embellishments, not even room numbers. At the end of the south hallway, a second staircase led to the first floor and the chapel. He suspected it was down this staircase that he and Swan had witnessed the chanting monks.
Turning around, he walked the route in reverse, this time peering out the windows and stopping to explore a supply closet at the west end of the wing. The closet was stocked with toilet paper, blankets, and other basic necessities. If his calculations were correct, it backed up to the closet just outside of Mallery Olsen’s room. Giorgio returned to the first floor.
It appeared the building was shaped like a hammerhead shark. When he stepped into the east hallway again, just outside the open air courtyard, he was standing where the shark’s brain would be, if hammerhead sharks had brains. At the end of the hallway was the chapel; to his left the baking kitchen.
The smell of baking bread drew him to the arched kitchen doorway. The room was large and equipped with two sets of big, black wall ovens, several work tables, a stand that held a large, copper kettle, and two walls of shelves and cupboards. Five monks were busy kneading dough, sorting ingredients, and working the ovens. Two additional monks worked in the rear, wrapping and packing loaves of freshly baked bread. Giorgio swallowed the saliva that flowed freely into his mouth. Father Rosario, the small monk who had greeted them the night before, saw him and approached.
“Detective, can I get you a sample?”
“Oh, no,” Giorgio replied, his gaze drifting to where a short monk was just pulling a long metal paddle from the oven. On it sat six round loaves of steaming brown bread. Father Rosario followed his gaze.
“We don’t eat butter, but let me get you some fresh bread.”
He lifted a fresh loaf of bread from where it sat cooling on a nearby table and retrieved a long, serrated knife to cut off a large hunk. He placed it on a paper towel and gave it to Giorgio.
“Thank you,” Giorgio murmured. “You’re well known for your bread.” He took a mouthful as Father Rosario smiled.
“We sell to all the local super markets and even many of the bakeries. It’s a labor of love.” He smiled. “That’s the name of our business, of course, “Labor of Love”. We thought the name was catchy. We’ve been approached to expand our market, but as you can see,” he gestured to the other monks, “we have a limited labor pool.” He smiled again, exposing a set of crooked teeth.
Giorgio sunk his own teeth into the soft bread. “Mmmm,” he mumbled. “How do you resist? I’d eat this all day long.”
“Actually, today is a fasting day. We fast two days a week to commemorate the death of our Lord Jesus.”
“But it’s Sunday. Don’t you eat at all?”
“We are allowed one nourishing meal, which will be shared in the refectory after the morning service. No other food will be taken for the day.”
His voice reflected his surrender to a life of poverty and lack of convenience. Giorgio had always wondered why the lack of anything was somehow more holy than actually having those things. It was a conversation he’d had often with Father Michael.
“Life is not about things, Giorgio,” the good priest had said. “Life is about love; the love of God, love of life, love of family. Remember that,” he added, tapping Giorgio’s head, “and you’ll do just fine in life.”
The problem was that Giorgio liked his things. He didn’t think he was materialistic. There was just a certain comfort in having things like his favorite chair and his big screen TV.
“I never understood fasting,” Giorgio mumbled, swallowing another chunk of the tasteful, heavy bread. “If God meant for us to eat, why would anyone choose not to eat?”
“Fasting has its roots in the very beginnings of Christianity,” the small monk offered. “Many believe you cannot know God unless you fast, just as you cannot know God unless you pray. Fasting has many physical and mental benefits, as well as spiritual, not the least of which is to slow us down and force us to pay attention to the essence of life. When you fast, you let go, and by letting go, you see and hear more clearly.” The little priest clasped his hands over his abdomen and smiled. “Perhaps it would even prove helpful in your line of work, Detective.”
Giorgio knew when he’d been bested and decided to change the subject.
“So, this is the kitchen the monks use?”
“We have three kitchens on the premises. The one you saw last night was built when the boys’ school was created. When we began baking commercially, we had to create this kitchen out of the old library. Because this is the commercial, we keep it separate from a smaller kitchen that serves to make our meals.”
He gestured for Giorgio to follow him through a doorway to a smaller kitchen that wasn’t much bigger than his own. There was no outside window making him think it had been converted from something else.
“As you can see,” Father Rosario began, “it’s quite small in comparison, but adequate.”
Through the far wall was a well-stocked pantry; to the left was a door leading into the dining room. This was a long room with a high ceiling and large, arched windows, looking out to the east parking lot where a delivery truck sat. Two long wooden tables ran the length of the room, dotted on both sides by wooden chairs. The room was mostly unadorned, except for two fresco-style wall paintings at the far end.
“Is this how most of the monks spend their time during the day, Father, working in the business or bread baking?”
“This or gardening. Of course, there is always time for prayer and meditation, and we also hold classes for our novitiates and guests. In fact, twice a year, we offer one week of fasting and meditation for guests who come from all over the world.” The monk’s eyes lit up. “You might want to consider joining us, Detective.”
Giorgio made an immediate left turn.
“Do any of the guests mingle with the monks?”
“We’ll often run into guests when we’re working around
the grounds. We are not a mute society, so we have no problem conversing with others.”
“I appreciate your time, Father, and thank you for the bread. It was delicious.”
“You’re most welcome. You can return to the hallway through the door at the end of the room.” He pointed to a set of double doors at the far end and retreated to the work area.
Giorgio returned to the main hallway and found Rocky sauntering toward him from the direction of the main lobby.
“Wha’ sup?” he slurred.
“I’m trying to figure out how someone might have carried Olsen’s body to the kitchen. What’ve you been doing?”
“Interviewing some of the monks. A Father O’Leary was taken ill last night and isn’t up to talking yet, but I’ve met with two of the young ones.” Rocky stuck his nose in the air and sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
“Bread. Which ones?”
“Frances and Julio. What bread?”
“They bake bread here. What did they say?”
“Who?”
“The two monks,” Giorgio sighed with exasperation.
“Frances was very forthcoming. Julio was more difficult. What do you mean they bake bread here?”
“To sell,” Giorgio snapped. “What did you learn?”
“Nothing much. Can we get some?”
“Not so fast. I want an update first. Let’s go into the chapel.”
Giorgio opened the door and they stepped inside. The room embraced them with its hushed silence and strong smell of incense. A row of stained glass windows glistened with the little bit of sunlight outside. Overhead, the spindly slivers of richly polished cherry wood arched across the cathedral ceiling like the skeleton of a large whale. More ornate carvings filled each corner in graceful curves, giving the appearance that the entire room had been carved out of one large piece of wood. An octagonal stained glass window sat high above the altar where the ceiling came together in a point. A single monk silently polished tall, golden candlesticks near the altar.
Giorgio and Rocky quietly took seats in one of the back pews where Rocky stretched his long legs underneath the pew in front of him, clasping his hands tightly in his lap. As comfortable as Giorgio might feel in being here, his brother looked like he’d just been sent to the principal’s office. Rocky sighed before speaking in a whisper.
