Chapter 15

Sister Eunice was all too grateful to hitch a ride with me back to the inn to escape the risk of Sister Alice’s sidecar. Aspen, however, appeared less than enthused—a passenger meant he had to sit in the back seat like the dog that he was instead of the human he thought he was. 

Except for the cars belonging to the inn’s employees, parked along the far edge, only two remaining vehicles were in the small lot. One of those, I believed, was from housekeeping.

After letting Jade and Lily know I was back, I left Aspen with them and went to my office to check my computer for any applications that may have trickled in. I swallowed my disappointment when the results yielded nothing. Sister Alice said she’d spread the word at St. Michael’s, but I’d hoped the electronic call-out would have hooked someone’s attention for efficiency more than anything. Seeing the application and resume beforehand could eliminate unnecessary interviews, a colossal waste of time for everyone involved. I heaved a sigh.

I snagged a red spiral notebook from the top drawer of my desk and opened it to a fresh page. To organize a legion of disconnected parts, I began writing suspect names to better see the whole. First was Luka: there was open hostility between him and Ivan. If I was to include mitigating factors, though, he was the church’s deacon, a father, husband, and Godly man. Or was he? I camped here for a moment before deciding I’d pop into the coffee shop and chat with Roman. The quiet kid he was, he’d probably have few words to say unless Sister Alice was with me. People generally disclosed more information with laity or a clergy member. Didn’t they? Next to Luka’s name and probable motive, I wrote in parentheses speak with Roman.

Next, there was Tom. He had motive and opportunity—opportunity because he didn’t have an alibi and motive because his wife had an affair with Ivan. Still worse, she was pregnant with his kid. Not to mention the temper I’d witnessed at the library. I softly tapped my pencil tip a few times on Tom’s name. This didn’t look good for him at all.

Then there was Jade. I scribbled her name next to Tom’s. She, by her own admission, was with Ivan in the room I found his body shortly after. A lover scorned was as great a motive as any, especially pregnant and hormonal. I shuddered.

Tony—Ivan stole something of value from him; they worked together nearly every day, giving Tony’s animosity toward Ivan plenty of time to pick up steam. And both had free access to the inn’s kitchen at any hour. 

I leaned back in my chair and chewed on the inside of my cheek. Considering Tony as the culprit was a struggle. Sure, he’d confessed disdain for Ivan, but so had several others. Even Marcie and Frank didn’t like Ivan. And a stolen recipe seemed a weak motive. But then, I wasn’t familiar with the life of a chef. I dwelled there a moment before sitting back up and moving on.

Mike Swanson. If he and Ivan had several altercations, what’s to say the last one wasn’t the final straw? The coup de grâce. Maybe Mike had finally had it, went out on a bender, and snapped. I added him to my list of people to chat with.

And what about Ella? If she’s dating Mike, perhaps Ivan said something to her about Mike, and she defended her man. But murder? I considered what Deacon Molotov said about Ella waiting for her inheritance. If she could be so cold about her own mother, choosing the inheritance over her mother’s life, perhaps she was cold enough to kill. And she could also potentially be the one stealing the items from the church, connecting the dots between the two cases. But as I mulled it over, it was a weak connection at best. I added Ella to my chat with list. 

Tossing my pencil on the notebook, I sighed and sat back in my chair. I reached my arms up and behind me, clasping my hands behind my head. While staring absently at the open notebook, a new email popped up in the lower right corner on my computer screen, followed by the quiet ding. I leaned forward and opened the email. It was an application with an attached resume. I skimmed through it as I chewed on my pencil, followed by a sharp inhale. I could hardly believe my luck. This had to be too good to be true. 

I went back to the beginning and reviewed it more slowly. The applicant left a couple of minor areas on the application blank—her school attended, age, and sex—info easily gleaned from an interview. Given the name on the application, Izzy, the sex was a no-brainer. Maybe. And the age didn’t matter—unless she was a hundred. I could even work with that. She demonstrated exceptional experience in her family’s catering business despite her limited educational history. I’d take extensive experience over education any day. Not sure how Tony felt about it, however.

I reached for my phone and punched in the applicant’s number, receiving a voice message. “This is Izzy. You know what to do.” The voice sounded to be maybe mid-twenties, answering another blank on the application.

At the beep, I left my voicemail. “Hi, Izzy. I’m Andie Rose Kaczmarek from the Spirit Lake Inn. I’m calling regarding your application and resume for a sous-chef. I’d like to schedule an interview with you. Please call me back.” After leaving my number and a final “thank you,” I hung up with a hopeful smile. Until I remembered I was a suspect in a murder investigation, as well as my newly appointed chef, and may not be here to see how well Izzy does in the kitchen should I hire her. And who would run the inn for me? My folks? Sister Alice? I slunk back into my chair.

****

Sister Alice left Father Vincent’s office, closing the door behind her as she chewed on his words. Sister Ida had sought out Father Vincent’s counsel to improve the relationship between her and Sister Alice. He wanted to set up a date, the sooner the better. Sister Alice wasn’t surprised, but she sure as heck wasn’t happy about it. Sister Ida’s last “I’ve had it with you” conversation with Sister Alice was about two missed prayer meetings in the past week. Also, that she hadn’t been fulfilling her duties at the house. Right. It surprised her Sister Ida even wasted Father Vincent’s time with something so insignificant as what happens at the house. It wasn’t as if he gave two cents about what happens at the house.

Sister Alice fought the attitude rising in her throat. Somehow, she’d maintained control and agreed to the arrangement, albeit reluctantly. She’d gone to Father Vincent herself recently, confessing her contemptuous feelings for Sister Ida because of her impatient and critical nature. On one occasion, Sister Ida even apologized to her, yet nothing changed. Sister Alice suspected she’d have to spend an abundance of time on her knees to get past this one.

She perched on a bone-colored concrete bench in the tranquil church courtyard under the vibrant red leaves of a sugar maple tree. An antique finished statue of Mary, with pastel blue and pale-yellow clothing, roses at her feet, and a rosary draped between her fingers, stood before her. She could only hope to be filled with such grace and gentleness as the Holy Mother someday. Sister Alice bathed in the beauty of it until her mind persisted at replaying the conversation with Father Vincent.

“In my defense, Father,” she’d said, “one meeting I had to miss because of an emergency at the hospital.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Sister. Sister Ida is the house Superior. She’s the one you need to communicate with.”

“I did, Father.”

He held her gaze for a moment. “I see. Not that it’s my business, but what caused the second absence?”

“I forgot about the meeting.” Sister Alice shifted her weight. Father Vincent was the most congenial priest she’d worked with. Even so, she didn’t like letting him down.

He frowned. “You—forgot?”

“Unfortunately. I was helping Andie Rose with a—shall we say, an issue.”

Father Vincent sat back in his chair. “And that is what you told Sister Ida?”

“Not exactly, Father.”

“I see.” He leaned forward and looked at his calendar. “Let’s get this scheduled, shall we?”

Sister Ida had given Father Vincent dates for her availability, and after deciding on a congruent date for all three, he marked it on his calendar.

“It’s in pen, Sister. Let’s get this taken care of.” She nodded and stood when he said, “I imagine the issue you’re referring to helping Ms. Kaczmarek with is the unfortunate death at her business.”

“Yes, Father.” She looked at the canvas painting of the Last Supper, made famous by Leonardo da Vinci, then back to Father Vincent. 

He appeared to think a moment before replying, “Out of curiosity, what kind of help were you giving Ms. Kaczmarek? Grief counseling?”

Sister Alice shuffled her feet again. “Not exactly.” Father Vincent remained silent, waiting for her to continue. “Andie Rose and her staff are considered suspects. I’m helping her find the actual killer.”

Father Vincent let out a barely audible chuckle. “I see. And how do the police feel about that?”

“Probably not happy,” she answered honestly.

“And how did you get involved?”

“I’m Andie Rose’s sponsor. I figured it was the right thing to do.” How could he argue with that?

“Does that fit within the scope of an AA sponsor?” he asked, clearly amused. 

Sister Alice, grateful she was having this conversation with compassionate Father Vincent and not prickly Sister Ida, sat down in the chair across from him. “Father, how well do you know Deacon Molotov?”

He raised his hand from his desk and rested it again. “Well enough, I imagine. Why do you ask?”

“He and Ivan—that’s the murder victim—have been at odds for many years. Do you know anything about that?”

“Even if I did, you know I can’t—and wouldn’t—say anything.”

“Do you think he’s capable of murder?”

Father Vincent’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. It closed again, and he leaned forward, clasping his hands on his desk. “Where are you going with this question?”

“Just wondering, Father.”

“Wondering what, exactly, if he killed Ivan Laskin?” he asked incredulously. “Do you know how preposterous that sounds?”

Sister Alice nodded and said, “Yes, I do. But all humans are sinners.”

“But Luka?” His thick, bushy eyebrows—in sharp contrast to his nearly bald head—drew together, and he sat back again, rocking his chair gently back and forth. “What motive does he have?”

“That’s what I’m working to find out.”

Father Vincent sighed and ran his hand over the remaining wisps of gray hair. “If I may intercede, Sister, see to it that you don’t ruin lives by falsely accusing innocent people.”

“Yes, Father.” When he rose to a standing position, his hands resting on his desk, she followed his cue and rose to her feet. When she reached the door, she turned toward him. “Any news on the missing collection money?”

He sighed, sat again, and shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid not. I hoped it was an accounting error, but that doesn’t appear to be the case.” 

Sister Alice hesitated, weighing her next question. “Deacon—”

Father Vincent’s hand shot out, palm facing her. It was unquestionably the fastest she’d ever seen him move.

“Don’t go any further with that thought.” She nodded and turned toward the door. “Sister?” he said. She turned to face him again. “See that you don’t forget our mediation session with Sister Ida. It would be easier on all of us if the two of you wouldn’t aggravate each other so much.” She could see the corner of his mouth twitch and curve upward.

“That’s hard, because everything I do aggravates her,” she murmured. 

He cocked his head to the side, the curve in his lips growing ever so slightly. “What was that?”

“Nothing, Father.” She smiled and pushed her glasses up with her pointer finger. “I hear Marie Dayton is doing better,” she said, hoping to refocus his attention. 

“Yes. That was wonderful news.”

“I heard her daughter is—”

“Sister Alice,” Father Vincent said with a sigh. “Gossip has no room in God’s house. Or anywhere. It seems you have enough on your plate with Ms. Kaczmarek, Sister Ida, and the hospital without fretting about other people.”

She nodded and silently closed the door behind her.

****

I busied myself with paperwork and mingled with guests that had returned, striving to keep that personal touch that Grandpop and Honey had always made a priority. “Andie Rose,” Honey said on one of my long-ago visits, “you can have the best inn in the world, but if you don’t give them service they’ll remember, they’ll forget to come back.” I’d need to pay special attention to the inn while solving the murder. Connecting with the guests was a favorite part of owning the inn. Aspen seemed to enjoy it, too, lapping up the love and attention they gave him. To be honest, it was Aspen they were likely to remember more than the personal touch I provided. 

After mingling with each one, Aspen and I trekked to my room for a brief respite and to call Sister Alice. Hopefully, she could go with me to Hallowed Grounds to talk with Roman.

As we passed the library, the copy of The Woman in Black lay on the side table alongside another book, An Unlikely Suspect. I looked at the author’s name: Lisa Martelli. I’d never heard of the book or the author. I was familiar with the books in the inn’s library, and An Unlikely Suspect wasn’t one of them. A guest obviously brought it. Probably the same one reading The Woman in Black.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered two entire walls of the library, a set of wingback chairs with a reading lamp on a table between them against another wall, and another chair tucked in a corner beside a tall, narrow window, beside which set a floor lamp. Making it even more cozy was a gas fireplace that emitted a surprising amount of heat; a fireplace that some proclaimed turned on and off while the room was empty, giving credence to a ghostly presence. The library was one of the more popular rooms at the inn, and I often come here to read myself. After a pause, I left both books in place and continued to my room.