by A W Hartoin
“Nobody beat me, unless you count the river.”
“When it’s that effective, I count it. Trouble sure knows your name,” said Donny.
“Yours, too,” I said.
Donny laughed, a wheezy, weak sound that reminded me of what he’d been through, thanks to a teenaged carjacker with an IQ of 82 and access to an arsenal. He stood up to show me that surviving was a win in his book. “What’s with the outfit? Tommy tell you to wear that?”
“I’m going for innocent. Think it will work?”
He slid the visitor log over to me. “Not with that face. Conway's tried everything. She's a tough old bird.”
I showed him my ID and we skipped the pat down. I didn’t carry as a general rule. “What do you make of her?” I asked.
“She's not crazy, if that's what you're asking. I’ll be curious to see what she says. Hasn’t had many visitors. Just the priest and her lawyer.” He unlocked the barrier door for me, and I followed him slowly down the hall into the visitor's room, wishing I’d taken more Motrin. I might’ve imagined it, but my ankle decided to hurt more the second I entered the building. Maybe it was sensitive to criminals like rheumatism is to incoming rain.
The visitor’s room hadn’t changed since my last visit. It was long and narrow split in half by a Plexiglas wall. The desks sported privacy dividers lined up on either side. The whole place smelled like Simple Green. But nothing looked clean like someone ran a mop around everyday and never bothered to change the water.
I sat in a cracked blue plastic chair at one of the desks and waited. The chair looked and felt like the ones from my high school cafeteria. After fifteen minutes, an elderly woman entered the other side of the room with a tiny female guard who hardly seemed tough enough to deal with hardened criminals. But looks are deceiving. I wasn’t the only example. The guard saw me and her blue eyes widened with recognition. I smiled and she gave me a nod of one professional acknowledging another. I wouldn’t exactly call myself a pro, but it was nice just the same.
The guard pointed to the desk opposite me and Lorraine Grady walked with quick steps to it. She didn’t show her age with careful movements or hesitation. She was a decisive woman and I wasn’t going to snow her. No way.
Lorraine Grady sat down and kept her hands in her lap. We stared at each other, neither moving. I wasn't sure what to do. I hadn't visited a lot of prisoners, but usually they were eager to pick up the phone receiver and hear a voice. The killer librarian just sat there looking at me. I felt dirty the minute I walked in the room, but Lorraine looked serene and remarkably tidy. Her gray hair had some style to it and it was pinned on the back of her head in a French twist. Little curls were arranged in front of her ears. Her eyes were clear and alert, showing mild interest, but not hope. That wasn’t good for me. I picked up my receiver and silently prayed that she'd pick up hers. Donny would laugh if she didn’t, and he’d tell me that he could’ve told me so. Donny never thought of me as a professional and never would.
After a moment of consideration, she picked up and I breathed out a sigh of relief. “Miss Grady. I'm Mercy Watts. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
“You're not a lawyer.” It was not a question.
“No, I'm not.”
“Or a policewoman.” Her eyes roved over my face, noting the bruises, but not dwelling on them.
“No.” I'd been so busy thinking about my look; I'd forgotten to think up a lie.
“Who are you, young lady?”
Uh oh. Young lady isn’t good.
“Actually I'm doing a favor for my father. He wanted me to talk to you.”
Miss Grady's face softened and she showed me a hint of a smile. “And who is your father?”
“Tommy Watts,” I said. That usually impressed in the lockup.
“And?”
Or maybe not.
“And he's a private detective. He's been hired to investigate your case.”
Crap. I hate telling the truth.
“Hired by whom?”
“The Mosby family.”
There I go again. Stupid truth.
Her face changed, and there was a flicker of sadness in her eyes or maybe it was guilt. “I don't have anything to say as I'm sure you know.”
“True, but here I am. The family is looking for closure. You can understand that.”
“Certainly,” she said, all business again.
“Did you know Harold well?”
“I have nothing to say. I'm sorry you've wasted a trip.”
“Wouldn't you feel better, if you got it off your chest?” I asked.
“This has nothing to do with my feeling better.” She reached up and twisted a curl around her index finger.
“They'd feel better.”
“I don't think so. I'm going back to my cell now. Please do not come back. It will only frustrate you and irritate me.” Lorraine Grady got up and went over to the guard. She let Lorraine out of the room, and I was left sitting in my dirty chair. I think my mouth was hanging open. That was the last thing I expected. Where were the excuses? Where were the protestations of innocence, of just cause? Who was this woman?
I waved goodbye to Donny and hustled out as fast as I could. A woman was pounding on his desk and screaming about her daughter being setup by the cops. Donny had a rubber ball and was squeezing like crazy. This was supposed to be less stressful than the street? Not so sure about that. I got in my truck and cranked up the heat. A strong wind was coming off the Mississippi and making a pretty St. Louis day colder than it should’ve been in spring. I popped a couple of Motrin and called Dad.
“Hey, it's me,” I said.
“Did you see her?” he asked.
"I did, for all the good it'll do you.”
“So?”
Through the glass door, I watched the irate mother slap a cop and be taken down to her knees. And Dad wondered why I wasn’t keen on a career in law enforcement. That looked like so much fun. “The librarian seemed alright to me. I kinda liked her.”
“Why's that?” he asked.
“She reminded me of Great Aunt Elizabeth.”
He snorted. “You hate Liz.”
“No, you hate her. She's got some good points.”
“Name one.” Dad's voice went down an octave. The mere thought of my mother's aunt made him sound like James Earl Jones.
“She likes me, for one. In my opinion, she's not crazy. Lorraine Grady, I mean.” I was looking at crazy. The mother was trying to bite the cop’s ankle, even though Donny was out from behind his desk and had his Taser out.
“Liz is a different story.” said Dad.
“Dad!”
“Alright, alright. Go ahead. Why isn’t the librarian crazy?”
“She was calm and oriented. She understood the Mosbys’ problem and she knew where she was. That's the best I can do. She told me to leave and never come back. I don't know why she killed him, but I'm sure she had a reason.”
“Good enough.” Dad sounded satisfied, but he was never satisfied, not with me, anyway.
“I’m done?” I asked.
“Unless you want to come over and help me with some filing. Claire’s on vacation.”
“Pass.” I laughed and Dad grumbled. He was so lazy when it came to organization.
I pulled my cast out of the way of my pedals and drove home, finding a parking spot right in front of the building. That luck should've told me something was coming. I was a lucky girl, but not when it came to parking.
My building didn’t have an elevator, and it took me a good fifteen minutes to hobble up the stairs. I just about turned around and went back down when I saw Sister Miriam standing outside my door. Miriam was my Great Aunt, but she could've passed for a great-great-aunt. Her age was a mystery, but I'd have guessed mid-seventies. She wore her usual uniform of black gum-soled shoes, tan support hose, and a gray, A-line skirt with sweater set and matching veil. Most nuns have a serene aura, but Aunt Miriam looked like a crotchety spider waiting for
a fly. I stopped short when I saw her, and all the lines in her face took a downward turn. She’d never been a beautiful woman, much too stern and critical. But standing there pigeon-toed and grasping a black patent leather purse, she looked handsome and formidable. Aunt Miriam was the bane of her Archdiocese, and I never wanted to meet her in any of the alleys she combed looking for drug-users and prostitutes to reform.
“Good morning, Aunt Miriam,” I said, trying to look happier than I felt.
“Good morning.”
She stood there and stared at me. I started to have a Lorraine Grady flashback without the pleasantness.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Must you always assume that?” Her lips tightened into a barely perceivable line.
Yes. Absolutely.
“May I come in…dear?”
Dear? Now I’m in trouble.
I unlocked my door and let her in. One look at my apartment and Aunt Miriam's lips vanished all together. There hadn’t been a whole lot of cleaning since I’d broken my ankle, but my condition wouldn’t be considered a good excuse.
“Sit down,” I said.
“Oh, no. I'll stand.” She looked at my sofa like it might attack her. It was just some old pizza boxes and clothes. Maybe a couple of recently-used plates. Sheesh.
“Fine,” I said with a sniff. “What can I do for you?”
“I hear you spoke to Lorraine Grady this morning.”
“Are you freaking kidding…I mean, yes, I did. How did you know?”
“I hear things.”
Yeah, she did. I was starting to think she was a bat on her off-duty time.
“Do you know Lorraine Grady?” I asked.
“Not personally, but Father Gregory is her grandnephew. He'd like to help her and she won't hear of it.”
Father Gregory was Aunt Miriam's favorite young priest. He'd only been out of seminary a few years. He still thought he could change the world and Catholicism. Pope Francis might be able to help, but Father Gregory wasn’t convinced that he needed assistance.
“Well, I can't tell you anything. Attorney-client privilege,” I said.
“You're not an attorney.”
“No, but Dad's working for the Mosby family’s lawyer and privilege extends.”
She scowled, and a slight tremor went through my limbs. Such is the power of a disapproving nun. Halloween was her favorite day of the year and for good reason. No costume necessary.
“Privilege doesn’t extend to you unless your father has decided to put you on the payroll. Has he?”
She knew damn well he hadn't. Dad loved a free lunch and I was his favorite waitress.
“Not exactly,” I said.
“Then you can tell me.” She crossed her arms and tapped her foot.
I went into the kitchen and made a soothing latte. “Fine. There's nothing to tell anyway. I didn't learn anything, except that she's probably sane and definitely stubborn.”
“You disappoint me,” Aunt Miriam said, somehow becoming more disapproving. I wouldn’t have thought it possible. “You should've gotten more than that. What is your next move?”
I dug for chocolate in my dedicated dessert cabinet and came up empty. Dammit. I needed chocolate so bad. It cures practically everything. “I don't have one. I'm done. Dad just wanted me to talk to her the one time.”
“Go talk to Father Gregory. He's expecting you.”
She said it when I was taking a drink. I gagged and sprayed latte out of my nose. Ouch. “What? Why?”
Aunt Miriam thrust a paper towel at me and said, “Because I told him to.”
I blew my nose into the paper towel. I’d be smelling coffee for the rest of the day. It was kind of a good thing. “I’m sure Dad will interview him.”
“I don't want your father. He's on the wrong payroll and he won't tell me anything. Lorraine needs someone to be on her side.”
“But I'm not on her side. She did murder someone.”
“It's not your place to judge,” she said.
“I’m not judging. It’s a fact.”
Aunt Miriam gave me a look that I felt in the center of my forehead. It was somewhere between a headache and a brain tumor. My mother called it Catholic guilt. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to feel guilty about, which only made it worse.
Aunt Miriam marched to my door and called over her shoulder, “I’ll expect frequent updates. Bye, dear.”
“Wait,” I said, hobbling around my breakfast bar. “Let’s make a deal.”
She spun around on her sensible shoes. “I don’t make deals. This is the Lord’s work.”
“I’ll be happy to do the Lord’s work.”
She seemed surprised, and it was kind of insulting. I did things for people all the time. My ankle was a case in point.
“It’s not Christian to charge,” she said after the surprise faded.
“I’m not charging anything. I could use some help myself.”
Aunt Miriam glanced around at my mess. “I can see that.”
“I need groceries, and it’s a nightmare to go to the store like this.” I pointed to my face.
“Vanity is a sin.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not being vain. Can’t you be on my side for a second? I did this to myself for someone else. It’s wasn’t fun then, and it sure isn’t now. I hate people staring at me. Grocery stores are so public.” I sucked in a breath. I’d never talked to Aunt Miriam that way before, and I wasn’t altogether sure I’d survive it.
A hint of compassion came into her faded blue eyes. “I know that. What do you need?”
“Food in general. The cupboards are bare.”
“Why hasn’t your mother helped?” The disapproval was back, but, for once, it wasn’t for me. Poor Mom.
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I just need a little help,” I said.
“I’ll take care of your food dilemma, and you’ll take care of Miss Grady.”
“Great.” I hoped by ‘take care of it’, she didn’t mean granola and tons of veggies when I meant high-fat cheese and sugar.
Aunt Miriam left after scowling at the sofa again. I held my breath until I was sure she was on the stairs. The whole conversation took less than ten minutes and left me feeling like I'd had an out-of-body experience. If it weren't for her lingering lavender perfume, I wouldn't have been sure that she'd been there. Then there was Father Gregory, sitting at the rectory with his hands on his knobby knees, waiting for me. Just what I needed, more guilt and a continuing investigation. At least nobody at the rectory would try to take a selfie with me.
I called for Skanky and eventually found my cat hiding in a pile of laundry. He has an aversion to Aunt Miriam just like my dad, although she’d never done anything to Skanky that I knew of. She was a good scapegoat so I told him that it was all her fault that I was taking him to the vet for worming and shots. By the empty look in his eyes, he bought it. There were advantages to having a stupid cat. My mother's Siamese would never have bought it and they believed in payback. My parents’ sofas had been peed on more than once.
I dropped Skanky off at the vet at one o'clock and went to the cathedral. I wouldn't say it was exactly my parish since I attended church about as often as I floss. The rectory door was propped open with a brick and I slipped past the secretary and went down the hall without an escort. I found Father Gregory sitting in his office reading a Tom Clancy novel.
“Can I come in?” I asked.
“Of course. Have a seat. Sister Miriam said you would be coming by. I hope she didn't…pressure you on my behalf.” Father Gregory put his book in a drawer. He leaned forward and folded his hands in his lap. He looked too young to be a man of spiritual responsibilities, but I guess priests had to start somewhere.
“So Lorraine Grady is your aunt?” I said.
He jumped up and said, “Would you like some coffee? Or a donut? I have some. Chocolate sprinkles?”
I forgot about the donuts. There were always donuts at the rectory
.
“Sure. That'd be great.”
Father Gregory poured me a generous coffee in a St. Jude mug. Not a good sign. Lost cause? Fantastic. “Aunt Lorraine is my favorite aunt. My favorite relative, really. I don't understand how this could happen to her.”
I took a sip of the strong brew and said, “I don't mean to be blunt, but some people would say that she happened to someone else.”
“I understand that opinion. But if you knew her, you'd know she's wonderful and kind. She'd never do anything like this.” Father Gregory fiddled with his St. Agatha mug.
“She confessed, Father,” I said. “Have you talked to her? Did she give you any explanation?”
“She didn't want to discuss it. We prayed together and talked about the library.”
“I thought she was retired?”
“She is, but she volunteers twenty hours a week. Does that sound like a murderer to you? She's the one who got me into the priesthood. I don't know where I'd be without her.” He covered his mouth and nose with his hands. For a moment I thought he would cry. His eyes welled up with tears, and suddenly I was on Lorraine Grady's side.
I set my mug on the desk and took his hand. “Father, I know you're upset. But I can't prove that she didn't do it because she did. What do you expect me to do?”
“A reason. Find a reason,” he said. “That would help with the sentencing, wouldn't it? What do they call it?”
“Mitigating circumstances and it might help. If it's a good reason, that is. Tell me about her life.”
“I don't know what will help. She's retired. She worked as a school librarian for forty-eight years. Everybody loves her.”
Well, not everybody.
“Ever been married, engaged? How are her finances, her health?’
“Never married. I don't think she was ever engaged. I never asked. She's very healthy, and she loves the stock market so I think she's fine financially. She has lots of Apple and Exxon.”
