Murder, She Uncovered

by Peg Cochran

  Elizabeth hesitated.

  “Come on, darling. Talk to me.” He started to motion to the young man standing behind Elizabeth in the line.

  “A coffee and a buttered roll, please,” Elizabeth finally blurted out, ordering Kaminsky’s favorite breakfast.

  “Regular?”

  “Excuse me?”

  The man sighed. “Regular coffee?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said uncertainly. What other kind of coffee was there?

  Seconds later, he handed Elizabeth a paper bag with a grease stain already forming on the front. She wrapped her hands around the container of coffee—the warmth felt good on this chilly morning—and scurried toward the Daily Trumpet building.

  Kaminsky was at his desk humming, surprisingly on key, “You’re the Top” from the Cole Porter musical. He spun around in his chair.

  “How are you this fine morning?” he said, tapping his foot.

  His face looked lighter than it had for days and his eyes were bright. He was obviously in a good mood. Something was clearly up.

  “Have you seen the paper?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Not yet, no.”

  Kaminsky reached across his desk nearly knocking his mug of coffee over. He picked up the newspaper and brandished the front page at Elizabeth.

  “That’s my photograph,” Elizabeth said, dropping her paper bag onto a nearby desk.

  It was, indeed, her photograph—Gordon Tyler locked into an embrace with the young woman in the red coat.

  Kaminsky began whistling again. “No other paper in town is covering the story like we are. We had exclusive pictures of the body and now…now this! This is even better, Biz.”

  Elizabeth opened her paper bag and pulled out the cardboard container of coffee. She pried off the lid and stared at it in dismay.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I wanted black coffee and they’ve put cream in this.”

  “Did you say you wanted black coffee?”

  “Not exactly.” Elizabeth took a tentative sip and winced when the hot liquid scorched the end of her tongue. “The man asked me if I wanted regular coffee and I said—”

  Kaminsky burst out laughing. “A regular coffee is with cream and sugar. If you want black, you gotta ask for black.”

  “Oh.” Who knew ordering coffee could be so complicated, Elizabeth thought.

  Kaminsky tapped the newspaper and grinned at Elizabeth.

  “The boss is thrilled.” He winked. “And your boy Marino has already called asking for the photograph. Wouldn’t that be something?” Kaminsky waved a hand in the air. “I can see the headline now. ‘Daily Trumpet Solves Murder Case That Baffled Police.’ ”

  “Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”

  “You’ve got to think positive, Biz.”

  Elizabeth refrained from telling Kaminsky that that was quite the opposite of his previous outlook. She wanted to tell him her theory about the father of Noeleen’s baby, but she thought she’d wait a bit. She didn’t want to spoil his exuberant mood.

  She sat at her desk and ate her buttered roll. It was the sort of breakfast her mother would frown on as being not refined enough, but Elizabeth found herself enjoying it.

  When she was done, she wiped her hands on the paper napkin, finished the last bit of her coffee and threw everything into the trash.

  Kaminsky was still at his desk flipping through last evening’s edition of the paper.

  He looked up as Elizabeth approached. He studied her face for a moment.

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “How did you know…”

  “Let me give you a word of advice, kid,” he said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands across his stomach. “Don’t ever play poker.”

  Elizabeth ignored him. “I have a theory,” she began.

  “Come on. Out with it. You were right about that Tyler fellow. Nabbed us the biggest scoop we’ve had in ages.” He swiped a hand across his eyes, which were suspiciously wet. “You saved my life with this, Biz.” He slapped the paper with the back of his hand.

  He appeared to gather himself together. “Tell me your theory. I’m learning to pay attention to what you say.”

  “Well,” Elizabeth took a deep breath and spread her hands out. “I started wondering about Noeleen Donovan. Who was the father of her baby? No one seems to know. She obviously didn’t confide in anyone.” Elizabeth was nervous and the words came out in a rush. “If we rule out the obvious people—Killian, Duff and Tommy—that leaves one person she apparently saw quite frequently—Father McGrath.”

  Kaminsky sat bolt upright in his chair. “What? You think the good Father…” Kaminsky rubbed his forehead. “Do you think he killed her? I mean it’s one thing to abandon his vow of celibacy—it’s quite another to murder someone.” He drummed his fingers on his desk. “Not that I have any illusions about priests,” he said so quietly, Elizabeth almost didn’t hear him.

  “I don’t think Father McGrath is necessarily the killer. I don’t know who killed Noeleen. Plenty of people had a motive.” She began ticking them off on her fingers. “Killian obviously has mental problems. And he was apparently drawn to Noeleen. Maybe she rebuffed him, and it was too much for him to bear.”

  Kaminsky pointed a finger at Elizabeth. “And Duff. I wouldn’t put it past him if Noeleen had him in a tight spot.” He shook his head. “I hate his type. Think they’re owed some kind of special treatment just because they have money.”

  Elizabeth leaned against the desk across from Kaminsky. “Let’s not forget Orla Cullen.”

  “That was quite a stunt Noeleen pulled on her.”

  “It was a dirty trick. And it cost Orla that job with the Posts. She seemed quite bitter about it.”

  “Bitter enough to kill?” Kaminsky said. He pushed back his chair. “First order of business is to talk to Father McGrath again.” He looked at Elizabeth. “If you’re right about him, this could be an even bigger scoop than the Tyler story.”

  Elizabeth twisted the gold bracelet on her wrist around and around.

  “But what are we going to say? We can’t simply ask Father McGrath whether he fathered Noeleen’s baby.”

  “Why not? That’s what reporters do.”

  “But I doubt he’ll answer.”

  “Even no answer becomes part of the story. Let the reader draw their own conclusions. At least until we uncover more information.” Kaminsky grabbed a pencil from the Campbell’s tomato soup can on his desk that served as a pencil holder.

  “What are we waiting for then?”

  * * *

  —

  One of the brief warm spells typical of October weather had descended on New York City rather suddenly. Elizabeth pulled off her gloves and unbuttoned her coat as they walked toward the Lexington Avenue subway at Forty-Second Street.

  Office workers on their breaks were leaning against walls and sitting on benches smoking and chatting, hats and coats left behind.

  The walk from the subway station at Sixty-Eighth Street to the church was pleasant, but Elizabeth’s emotions were in turmoil. She was grateful that Kaminsky would be asking the questions. She mounted the steps to the priory with a feeling of dread.

  Father Thomas once again answered the door. He gave them his gentle smile and led them into the same sitting room where they had last talked to Father McGrath.

  A woman with her gray hair tied up in a scarf was dusting the table on the far side of the room. Father Thomas nodded at her, and she gathered up her cloth and tin of polish and left.

  “Please, sit down.” He motioned to the sofa.

  They took a seat. Elizabeth sensed Kaminsky’s impatience.

  “We just want to talk to Father McGrath again if he’s here,” Kaminsky finally said.

  Father T
homas touched the cross around his neck. “I had rather hoped that you had finished with Father McGrath. He is still quite distressed over that young woman’s death, I’m afraid. He hasn’t been himself at all. Talking to you will only bring up the memory again.”

  “Just a few questions,” Kaminsky said. “I promise we won’t disturb Father McGrath.”

  Father Thomas didn’t look convinced. He frowned and pursed his lips, one hand reflexively fingering the rosary beads at his waist. Finally, he said. “I suppose it will be all right.”

  He stood up and Elizabeth and Kaminsky rose with him.

  “I believe Father McGrath is in the sacristy. If you’ll follow me.”

  Father Thomas walked slightly ahead of them, the rosary hanging from his belt swaying back and forth with each of his steps.

  They entered the church, and Father Thomas stopped when they reached the center aisle, turned toward the altar, genuflected and made the sign of the cross. His knees creaked as he bent them, and he had to put a hand on a nearby pew to steady himself.

  He turned toward Elizabeth and Kaminsky and pointed at a heavy wooden door at the back of the church. It was open a crack.

  “Father McGrath is in there.” He started to head back the way they’d come, but at the last minute turned around. “Please remember that Father McGrath is young. He hasn’t yet developed the callouses that age confers on us as we grow older.”

  Kaminsky nodded and started toward the partially open door, Elizabeth following behind.

  Polished wood cabinets lined the walls of the sacristy. Sun shone through the small-paned window onto the Oriental carpet setting the colors aglow. One of the drawers was open, revealing layers of white cotton vestments, and one of the cabinet doors was ajar.

  At first neither Elizabeth nor Kaminsky noticed anything amiss. The room appeared to be empty.

  “Looks like Father McGrath must have gone out for a walk or something,” Kaminsky said, looking around with his hands behind his back.

  “He left that drawer open and that closet door as well. He must be planning on coming back. Should we wait?”

  Kaminsky put his hand on the closet door and pulled it toward him, opening it farther.

  He made a sound Elizabeth had never heard from him before and staggered backwards.

  “What is it?” Elizabeth said, peering around the door. “Oh,” she uttered a cry and closed her eyes briefly.

  “We need to call the police,” Kaminsky said. “And get Father Thomas.”

  Chapter 14

  “Quick. Get some pictures before we call the police,” Kaminsky said.

  Elizabeth peered behind the cabinet door. “I—I can’t,” she said.

  Her face was wet with tears although she wasn’t actually aware of crying.

  “Come on, Biz. This is huge. Even bigger than the Tyler story.”

  Elizabeth fumbled with the clasp of her case and pulled out her camera with shaking hands.

  She focused the lens on the scene behind the closet door—Father McGrath with a red stole wrapped around his neck and tied to the rod in the closet. His face was dusky with suffused blood, his blue eyes open.

  Elizabeth pressed the shutter a number of times using different angles to capture the scene. Finally she returned her camera to its case and turned to Kaminsky.

  “We have to get Father Thomas and call the police.”

  “How about you stand by the door while I make the call and get the good Father. Don’t let anyone in.” Kaminsky was about to leave when he hesitated and turned around. “Will you be okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Elizabeth was more than happy to do as she was told and to let Kaminsky break the news to Father Thomas.

  There was a straight-backed wooden chair just outside the door to the sacristy. Elizabeth pulled it closer and sank into it. Her left leg was getting tired and she was afraid it would cause her to limp if she didn’t rest it.

  Five minutes later she heard the slap of rubber-soled shoes on the marble floor and Father Thomas came rushing toward the sacristy, his cheeks flushed and wisps of hair fluttering around the bald spot on top of his head.

  “It’s best you don’t go in there,” Kaminsky said, putting out a hand to stop him. “You don’t want to mess up the scene.”

  Father Thomas looked confused. “What do you mean? You said the poor boy committed suicide. What does it matter?”

  “The police will still want us to stay out of there,” Kaminsky said. “That’s what happens in situations like these. The police still have to investigate.”

  “I must say a prayer.” Father Thomas crossed himself and began moving his lips. At first no sound came out and he cleared his throat twice. “All-powerful and merciful God, we commend to you Timothy, your servant. In your mercy and love,” he began.

  He was saying “Amen” when they heard sirens outside.

  The door to the church groaned as two patrolmen pulled it open. A shaft of sunlight momentarily lit up the center aisle as they stepped inside.

  Kaminsky motioned to them, and they made their way to the sacristy, their holsters slapping against their broad thighs.

  “There’s a body?” one of them said to Kaminsky when he reached them.

  He pushed his hat back revealing the thin line etched into his forehead by the brim.

  “Detective Marino is on his way,” the other policeman said.

  Father Thomas groaned. Kaminsky turned to him and put out a hand as the priest’s knees began to buckle. They helped him to the chair outside the sacristy. He trembled as he lowered himself onto the seat.

  “Maybe see if you can rustle up a cup of tea for Father Thomas,” Kaminsky said, turning to Elizabeth. “And maybe a shot of something stronger to go with it,” he called after her as Elizabeth began to walk away.

  She found her way to the priory’s kitchen where the woman who had been dusting the sitting room was standing at the counter wiping it down with a sponge.

  She jumped when Elizabeth walked in.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Elizabeth said.

  The woman smiled. “I didn’t hear you coming. Can I help you?”

  “There’s…there’s been an accident,” Elizabeth said finally, not sure how to begin. “I’m afraid Father McGrath is dead.”

  The woman gasped and put both hands to her chest.

  “Was he taken ill? The poor thing. And so young, too.”

  “Yes, yes, you could say that,” Elizabeth said quickly. “Father Thomas is taking it rather hard. If he could have a cup of tea perhaps?”

  “Of course.” The woman picked up the dented metal teakettle off the stove and swung it under the faucet. “He’ll be needing something a bit stronger with that,” she said. She put the kettle on the stove and turned on the gas, then opened a cabinet and pulled out a dusty half-full bottle of whiskey.

  “I knew something was wrong with Father McGrath,” she said as she opened a canister and took out a tea bag. “He was worrying himself to death over something.” She looked horrified and put a hand to her mouth. “You don’t suppose…?”

  “What was he worried about? Do you know?”

  “I think he struggled with doubt about his calling to the priesthood.” She clucked her tongue. “He was so young.”

  The kettle whistled and she poured the boiling water over the tea bag in the cup and saucer she’d set out on a tray, adding a good glug of whiskey to the brew.

  Elizabeth thanked her and carried the tray through the priory and into the church.

  She was approaching the door to the sacristy when she heard a familiar voice, and the sound of it nearly stopped her in her tracks.

  Marino came out of the sacristy and smiled when he saw her.

  He looked Elizabeth’s face over carefully and frowned. “Are you okay?�
�� He put a hand on her arm.

  Elizabeth felt the warmth of his palm through her sweater.

  “I’m fine. I have some tea for Father Thomas.”

  Marino squeezed her arm. “I must get back to work. I’ll see you soon?” His eyes reflected the question.

  Elizabeth nodded.

  The tea brought some color back into Father Thomas’s face. Elizabeth was sorry she hadn’t made herself a cup. The church was damp and the chill was beginning to creep into her bones. Elizabeth huddled in a pew, her arms wrapped around herself.

  Kaminsky finally came out of the sacristy and walked toward Elizabeth. He shoved his notebook in his pocket.

  “Marino won’t confirm Father McGrath’s death is a suicide, but he agrees it has all the signs. He’ll know more after the autopsy, but we have enough for a story. We can make the evening edition. Those two patrol cars sitting out front will soon have the other papers sniffing around.” He winked at Elizabeth. “But we’ve got pictures.”

  The hearse from the morgue was pulling up to the curb when Elizabeth and Kaminsky walked outside. Elizabeth paused for a moment to let the warmth of the sun soak into her skin.

  Kaminsky pointed to the two men unloading a gurney from the back of the truck. Elizabeth’s hand was already on her camera case and she pulled out her Speed Graphic.

  Kaminsky lit a cigarette and watched as the men bumped the gurney up the curb toward the door of the church.

  “I guess we’ll never know for sure whether or not Father McGrath was the one who got Noeleen pregnant, but it sure seems like a good guess considering he’s killed himself.” He jerked a shoulder toward the church. “The guilt must have been gnawing at him.”

  “You’re right,” Elizabeth said, watching as the two men muscled the gurney into the church. “I don’t suppose we ever will know for sure.”

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth raced out the front door of the Daily Trumpet, nearly colliding with a man passing by on the sidewalk. He gave her a severe look and continued walking, briefly touching his hat in passing.

  She was due at the Bergdorf Goodman bridal salon in ten minutes for a dress fitting for Marjorie Hicks’s wedding. Not for the first time, she cursed herself for having agreed to be in Marjorie’s bridal party.