“Did you happen to know Father Doherty, the priest who died this week? My whole family is in mourning over that.” The slightly better light showed the young man to be handsome in a real world kind of way, a chipped tooth balanced by a cleft chin.
“Are you Catholic?”
“Nine kids—how could we be anything but Catholic?”
Rufe caught the eye of a waiter and motioned for a fresh round of drinks. In calibrating his response he was careful to come off as someone who didn’t know the dead priest. “I’ve been reading about him. Didn’t realize he’d been stationed up on the Midcoast.”
“Stationed? That’s funny.” The handsome kid smiled. “Like he was in the Navy or something. Anyway, he wasn’t our priest, he was a customer. He’d show up at the lobster pound several times each summer and order up a feast. He’d walk right into the shed and pick out his own lobsters, supervise while we steamed ‘em. People can bring their own beer and wine to drink with their meal and he’d bring a whole six-pack in while we were cooking, offer beers around to all the men. He didn’t wear a collar or even black clothes, so for years we didn’t even know he was a priest, assumed he was just a friendly guy renting a cottage somewhere on the peninsula. It wasn’t until he was on the news—when everyone got so upset when they started combining parishes—that we realized he was a priest.”
“What made you think I knew him?”
“Because I suspect he was gay, and if I’m right about that, I figured he might have socialized a bit around Portland.”
Rufe shook his head, unwilling to confirm that he’d even known Pat, much less the kid’s suspicion that the dead priest had been gay. “Never saw him in here.” Pat was skittish about going out to the bars, so it was a true statement if not a complete response to what Bryce really wanted to know. “What made you think he was gay?”
“Gaydar, I guess. I was probably fifteen when he first started coming to the pound. I sure as hell knew I was queer and my antenna was on high alert for anyone else who might be. Father Doherty showed up with a gorgeous man a few times—occasionally a woman was with them, but mostly it was the two of them, Father Doherty and the hunk.” He rolled his powerful shoulders. “They sat like men who are into men sit. Closer together than straight guys, made a lot of eye contact, touched each other sometimes when they talked. Maybe I was imagining it, because I was coming to terms with my own self, but they looked to me like two guys in love.”
Rufe slipped into the role of interested listener as though he was on stage, cocking his head and propping his chin, sending every physical signal he could to keep the kid talking.
“So what’d the boyfriend look like?”
“Tall. Dark. Built like Adonis. I couldn’t take my eyes off him when he came into the shed. Most of the time he stayed outside, taking photographs or using binoculars to watch the activity around the harbor.
DiAngelo, Rufe thought. He’s describing DiAngelo, to a T.
“The other one held us at arm’s length—unlike Father Doherty, who wanted to know all our names and whatever else we’d tell him. Of course, the fact the boyfriend kept his distance made him all the more captivating.”
“If you can write the way you talk, you ought to get this down on paper,” Rufe said. “It’d make a terrific short story. Young man with one foot out of the closet watching older men he assumed had already made the journey. And the lobster pound setting would be perfect.”
“Maybe I’ll work on that,” Bryce said, a flirtatious smile playing around the corner of his mouth. “How about we get out of here? My apartment’s only three blocks away.”
Another night, when Rufe had less on his mind, it would have been a hard-to-refuse offer. He tried to let the younger man down easy.
“I’m sorry, man. Not tonight. Complicated reasons. But it’s been great talking with you, and I really hope you’ll think about writing. You tell a hell of a story.”
“Another time, maybe.” Bryce offered another handsome smile before heading back to the dance floor.
Rufe zipped his leather jacket against the October chill, his mind whirling with the tale of the two priests sitting too close to be straight guys, but otherwise looking like a thousand other men who enjoyed feasting on lobster in the rough. It was freaky that on this particular night he met up with Bryce, as forthcoming a kid as he’d ever met when out dancing. If Bryce’s perception was accurate, DiAngelo had lied to his face. Pat had told Rufe his lover was the closet case of all closet cases. But like many people who hide their true selves from scrutiny, Rufe thought, Pat also was a hell of an actor.
Chapter Eighteen
The sky was as blue as it gets and the trees every gorgeous shade of fall Saturday morning as Christie and I drove back roads toward the Mahoosucs. The early morning air was chilly, but the forecast called for midday temps near sixty degrees. Once we started climbing, we’d be down to T-shirts, but at 8:00 a.m. a fleece sweatshirt felt damn good.
I’d left my dog at home because her days bounding up mountain trails were over. Christie acknowledged my loss of canine companionship.
“Sad not to have Lou along.”
“It’s not her scene anymore.”
“Have you checked out the shelter this week?”
“In what spare time?”
Christie had been encouraging me to get another dog, preferably a young one who could absorb Lou’s sweet ways before my old girl passed on. Part of me thought it was a good idea but fear of commitment—my old nemesis—held me back.
My phone dings like an old-fashioned typewriter reaching the end of a line to alert me to a text message, and the distinctive noise sounded twice as we cruised northwest. I ignored the first bell but pulled into a convenience store parking lot after the second, even though the car didn’t need gas and we had an oversized thermos of coffee behind the front seat.
“I need to check, in case it’s Leah.”
“It’s your day off.” She said it in a sing-songy voice, but I wasn’t sure if she was teasing.
“I didn’t finish writing until late last night, so she’s probably calling with a question about my profile of Patrick for tomorrow’s paper.”
I got out of the car when Christie went into the store, her body language piano-wire tense. The texts were indeed from Leah. I called rather than texted her back, figuring it was the most efficient way to resolve whatever she didn’t like about my story. It turned out she hadn’t had time to read it yet because she’d been trapped in Jack Salisbury’s office, defending my honor.
“I don’t know what earned you a place on his shit list, but your name is right up there at the top.”
“He’s finally been worn down by Al Lombard running upstairs and tattling every time I tell him to get lost.”
“It’s more than that. He keeps harping about readers complaining about you. He got hedgy when I asked who beyond the anonymous commenters, but I had the sense he’s actually talked to a couple of people.”
“Why not tell you who they are and what they’re saying?”
“When I asked the same thing he sidestepped the question. He claims he’s on the side of us angels—doing what he can sound the alarm that someone’s gunning for you—hoping you’ll dial it back before it spins out of control.”
“Dial it back—I hate the way he cowers when people bitch about the newspaper. And what does he mean, someone’s gunning for me? The anonymous commenter, or that damned lawyer who’s afraid of his own shadow?”
“I don’t know. He was evasive about whether the threat is coming from inside or outside the company.”
“I’ll bet you ten bucks Salisbury’s getting email from a guy ostensibly named Edgar. I suspect it’s an email address used by J.C. Bozco, an anti-church-closing crusader.”
“He’s the one they call Megaphone Man, right?”
&nb
sp; “Megaphone Man. Bullhorn guy. That’s Mr. Bozco. He dropped in to see me when I was working late last night and essentially accused me of being a tool for the institutional Church, which is similar to what the rabid commenter is saying. I didn’t get into it with him because I know something Bozco doesn’t realize I know. He’s an ex-con with a history of violence, and one of my sources said not long ago he was openly making threats against Patrick.”
Christie was walking across the parking lot toward the car. I could feel her stare through her sunglasses.
In my right ear, Leah’s voice was irritated. “Why haven’t you told me about this Bozco until now?”
“Shit. I’m sorry. I filled in Roz the other night but forgot to tell you. For all I know, he has nothing to do with Patrick’s death. The only suggestion of that is my source’s tip, which is being investigated by the police.”
“Because you passed it on to them?”
“Yeah, to Barb Wyatt.” It gave Leah heartburn that I swapped information with cops, but the Riverside police chief had proven herself to be a two-way street player, so I didn’t apologize for my decision to share. I smiled at Christie, who was standing next to the passenger door, hands on her hips. I held up my index finger and mouthed just a sec.
“Last night Bozco showed up late with some cock-and-bull story about wondering if I was working late when he walked by the paper and saw lights on.”
“What time was this?”
“A little before eleven. I talked to him in the lobby for a few minutes. Mostly he called me names, so it’s a good thing Paulie Finnegan bequeathed me his tough skin. Bozco’s a very intense guy. I caught his act a few times at protests, but last night I got an up-close-and-personal look. Believe me, any meeting I have with him is going to be in a public place.”
“I’d rather you not meet with him at all.”
I let that pass. In the past year or so I’d had a couple of close calls when covering stories, through no fault of my own. One guy shot at me and another nearly cracked my head open. Salisbury and the other spleeny boys Upstairs were convinced I’d brought it on myself, and pressured Leah to rein me in. Anonymous commenter-gate no doubt was an outgrowth of those incidents. I wasn’t going to change my ways and she knew it, so there was no sense reacting to her suggestion to avoid Bozco.
“I’ll track down Barb tonight to find out if he’s been interviewed.”
“Why wait till tonight?”
“I’m leaf peeping with Christie all day, going to try to give her my undivided attention.”
“Back on your horse, are you?”
“One step in the stirrup. But it’s better than both feet on the ground.”
* * *
Christie already was sitting in the passenger seat when I slid back in, my phone on vibrate. She gave me a mild stink-eye when I was pulling out of the parking lot.
“You done with business?”
“I think so.”
“Good.”
We rode in silence for a few minutes. I got why she was peeved but I didn’t know what I could do about it. A prominent person had been killed and it was my job to both tell his story and cover the investigation into his death. A reporter can’t always step away from his job for a day or two. If it’s a quiet week, sure. But the five days since Patrick’s death had been anything but routine. I was about to open my mouth to say some of that when Christie reached over and touched my hand.
“I’m sorry for falling into a snit. Let’s turn the page and have a nice day.”
Someone had told Christie about a particularly nice hike outside of Bethel but we had no idea how to find the trailhead, so I pulled into a visitors’ center. While she was getting directions I found a text message from Roz saying Jack Salisbury was pacing around the newsroom.
gd thing u r out of town. jack’s got a mad on.
I thumbed a quick message back. I’ll be out of pocket 4 a while. will ck in ltr.
The chime sounded again almost immediately, again Roz, reporting that her sources weren’t willing to talk about property being stolen, and one of them told her not to get too far out on the theft story limb.
may not be what it appears, he sd.
what the hell does that mean? I texted back.
will find out.
She was as well-connected a reporter as there was in town, especially where the state police were concerned, so I left her to it, and my phone was back in my pocket before Christie was back in the car.
We found the trail and, as advertised, it was beautiful. It was also crowded, it being a gorgeous Saturday on October’s long weekend. Hiking at a steady pace, we tried to ignore the families and dogs. At a dramatic waterfall the vast majority stopped to pose for photos and eat lunch, so we pushed on up the mountain.
I let Christie walk ahead of me. Watching her voluptuous but strong body made me forget about Jack Salisbury for a while.
It was only eleven but we’d started early, so we stopped for lunch in a clearing edged by a couple of granite boulders the glaciers had scoured into shapes suitable for lounging. Christie had packed us a feast—a fresh baguette, fancy cheese, chicken salad with lots of tarragon, a homemade apple tart. Our conversation was light for a while, then veered toward the cloud that was Theodore Pappas.
“Did you loathe being home when you were a teenager?” Christie asked.
“Sometimes. But remember, my dad was a high school teacher, so wise in the ways of teenage angst. Whenever I bumped up against his rules, he managed to stay pretty low key.”
“Are you suggesting I’m high key?”
“No, but your son didn’t give you any trouble until last Christmas, so I think his acting up feels especially awful, because it’s so out of character.”
“I hope he gets it together soon. He’s making me feel like I’m a terrible parent.”
I took her face in my hands and kissed her.
“You are a wonderful parent. Boys need to periodically distance themselves from everyone they love. It’s primal for him and painful for you, but quite normal.”
“Thanks for the consult, Dr. Gale. Do you have any tips on how I can turn off the worry switch?”
“I wish I could convince you that he’ll be fine.”
“Keep saying that,” she said. “Another kiss would help, too.”
There must have been a cell tower somewhere nearby because I felt my phone vibrate in my hip pocket. Christie felt it, too. Our broken kiss left my lips tasting of tarragon and lip gloss.
“Go ahead and answer it.” She stood up and brushed off the seat of her pants. “I need to find a place to relieve myself.”
“Keep an eye out for bears.”
“I’ll send ’em your way.”
Leah didn’t bother to say hello, she just started speed talking, telling me someone had called the newsroom to report Kathleen Hazelwood was in the Emergency Room at the hospital in Bangor.
“What the hell happened?”
“Unclear. The woman who called said she was a friend—a nurse colleague of Kathleen. They were supposed to meet for lunch. Kathleen didn’t show. The friend went to her house and found Kathleen on the floor, unconscious. Cops and ambulance came. Took her off to the medical center. The friend—her name’s Lola Linsky—said Kathleen was out cold and lying on a stone floor. She’s worried about head trauma.”
I pictured Kathleen pouring bourbon with a free hand. “Do they think she fell?”
“Lola said the front door was half open when she got there, and some stuff had been knocked around, like there’d been a struggle. The first cop on the scene asked for a crime scene tech.”
I remembered the slate foyer and the marble-tiled kitchen. If she’d been in the foyer, that suggested she’d been answering the door. If she’d been found in the kitchen, that would imply sh
e knew her assailant.
“How’d this Lola know to call the Chronicle?”
“She had no idea where she was calling. She somehow wound up with Kathleen’s cell phone. Lola hit redial. Your desk line must have been the last call Kathleen had made, and when you didn’t pick up, it bounced to me.”
Boot steps were moving my way. I told Leah I’d call her back in a minute or less. A shadow fell across Christie’s face when I told her what had happened. She turned and took in the view, inhaled a lungful of fine mountain air.
“There’s nice foliage on the way to Bangor, right?”
I nodded.
“Then let’s get going to the Queen City,” she said.
* * *
There are two ways to get to Bangor from Bethel, neither of them fast. Route 2 was more scenic, but I knew it would be clogged with cars and tour buses full of leaf peepers, so I headed southeast to Augusta and picked up the interstate. The road directions app on my cell said it would take us two and a half hours after we got off the mountain. We made it in two hours ten minutes flat.
Halfway there Roz called with a rundown on Wrecker Rigoletti’s press conference, where he appeared to be fishing for information more than giving it out. My Bluetooth meant Christie got the briefing the same time I did.
“As usual, Rigoletti came to dole out a certain amount of information and no more. He said it appeared valuable property had ‘disappeared’ when some of the closed parishes were being closed down, and the police welcomed tips—even anonymous tips—about the theft. Didn’t mention Patrick’s name, and I overheard a couple of TV reporters speculating that the thieves killed him, so expect to see that hasty conclusion reported live at six.”
“Did anyone ask whether Patrick may have been the thief, or one of them?”
Truth Beat Page 14
