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THE FORTY-FIVE-MINUTE commute and short walk home had settled her nerves. Her stomach growled as she dropped her keys onto the tray at the door and headed to the kitchen. No wonder, she thought as she prepared a chicken sandwich and poured a glass of tomato juice. Her last meal consisted of two bites of muffin at ten that morning. Then hell broke loose and food had been the last thing on her mind. She stepped through the patio doors to the deck, and settled into a chair at the table. The sun, more than half-way through it’s daily journey across the sky, illuminated white, red, and yellow tulip petals, transforming them into a live version of stained glass. After she'd eaten, Tori looked around her garden. The arduous work she'd put into it showed. Hydrangea and rose bushes, strategically planted, lush and green, would soon flower. A variety of perennials and annuals huddled together as if in companionable conversation. Her favorite water lily pads dotted the surface of the tiny pond. It was life, it was beautiful, and it nourished her soul. She'd bring whatever was in bloom to toss onto Reverend Andrew's coffin at his interment.
Tori shuddered as the unbidden image of the priest's frozen grimace in death filled her mind. This murder wasn't a choreographed and staged scene from a movie. Reverend Andrew was a real human being, someone she'd respected and admired. Now he was gone, brutally killed. What kind of rage pushed someone to commit such a violent act?
Tori went inside, rinsed her few dishes, and brewed a cup of double bergamot tea. A change of focus should erase the dark thoughts that swirled in her head.
In her workshop, a foursquare white pegboard hung on the wall behind a busy worktable. Two rows of shelves, laden with small jars of beads, stones, findings, and other miscellaneous accessories of the costume jewelry maker took up the top quarter. Below that, pliers, cutters, and gleaming wire dangled from hooks.
She'd spent many happy hours in this room, designing, creating, and beading. A half- finished multicoloured peyote stitch cuff lay on a mat. The technical aspect of construction had defeated her, and time away from the project hadn't fostered a solution. As she stared at it, discouraged, chin propped on her fists, the answer crawled into her mind. The focal piece must be constructed first, then the cuff woven around it
Tears dribbled down her cheeks to the corners of her mouth and plopped onto her fists. Hours of patient stitch by stitch beading had to be undone and reworked. She buried her face in her palms, and let grief and sorrow spill out. When the storm passed, she hiccupped her way to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. In the mirror, red, swollen eyes peered out from under a fringe of wet hair. This was a face in need of a mother's love. She combed her hair, attempted to reduce the swelling with a cold compress, dropped her house key into her pocket, crossed the street and rang the doorbell.
“Silly girl. How many times have I told you? Walk in or use your key. You look awful. What's the matter?” Tori hugged her mom and ignored the last question.
“What if you're in the middle of something naughty when I walk in unannounced? I don't want to see something I can't unsee.”
“Your sister walks in. Why can't you?” Tori shrugged and closed the door behind her. Mrs. Carlin waved her daughter into the kitchen.
“Just in time for fresh scones.” Mrs. Carlin filled the kettle, set it on the stove and eased into a chair opposite her daughter at the kitchen table. She folded her hands. “Why have you been crying?”
“Something awful happened today.” Tori's voice cracked. Mrs. Carlin's eyes widened in concern. “I'm okay. It's just that my boss was...” She took a deep breath to steady herself as an image of the grisly scene flared in her mind. “Murdered.”
Her mother's jaw dropped just as the kettle whistled.
“I'll get it.” Grateful for a distraction, Tori switched off the stove and poured boiling water over two tea bags in the teapot.
“The priest?” Tori nodded as she rummaged in the cupboard for cups and plates. “But you said he was a sweetheart.”
Tori shrugged. “I guess even sweethearts have enemies. I didn't know him well, but he seemed an upstanding fellow. Doris has worked with him for years. She passed out, poor soul. The paramedics took her to the hospital for observation. Sasha and Theo were there.”
“Poor lady. I hope she's okay?”
“I hope so. I'll find out tomorrow where she was taken, and go see her.” Tori absently swished the tea pot, filled her mother’s cup, then her own. Mrs. Carlin added milk to her tea and sipped.
“Peggy said Sasha's definitely coming to the family dinner on Sunday.”
“With his new girlfriend, I hear,” Tori chuckled, grateful for the temporary change of subject. Mother and daughter fell silent as they slathered their scones with butter and marmalade.
“Shocking thing to see, I'm sure. I hope this business won't give you nightmares, sweetie.” Mrs. Carlin said when they’d finished eating. She circled the table to hug her daughter, kissing her on the cheek.
Tori frowned. “There was a shelf of statues in Reverend Andrew's office. I wonder if Judas was one of them.”
“What?”
“When you kissed me, it reminded me of how Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss.”
“Oh, for heaven's sake, Victoria Carlin. You always had a wild imagination. How is it you expect me to betray you?”
“Not you, Mom. I just remembered...” She stopped when she saw the twinkle in her mom's eyes and grinned.
As distracting as her mother's affection, the warm scones and the hot strong tea were, her mind refused to let go of the statue. Why keep a statue of Judas with the saints? Perhaps a bizarre reminder of the ultimate betrayal? Doris would know if Reverend Andrew kept a statue of Judas on his shelf. Mrs. Carlin hugged her daughter tight and smoothed her hair.
“Leave it for Sasha and Theo to sort out. It's their job. You try to rest. It'll do you good.” Tori returned the hug and kissed her mom's cheek.
“Good advice, as always. Thanks, Mom.”
“So, how are you girls getting on with the family dinner plans?” Mrs. Carlin refilled her teacup.
“It's almost all done.” Tori held out her own cup for a refill. “Everyone has emailed me their contributions to the menu. I told Sasha to bring the refreshments.”
“Sounds good. I'm not sure I should ask, but is Theo coming?”
Tori's gaze dropped to her cup. Her Mom must have noticed Theo's car parked in her daughter's driveway for an entire evening. Perhaps she'd witnessed the goodbye kiss. If her Mom suspected anything, she'd never mentioned it.
Tori shrugged. “I dunno.” Mrs. Carlin nodded and rubbed her daughter's arm.
“I better get back home. Thanks for the tea and comfort, Mom. It was a nice change from grisly murders and phantom statues.” Tori probed the pocket of her sweater for her house key and hugged her mom again. “I love you.”
Tori jogged across the street and paused at her front door to glance back at her family home. As she suspected, her mom was in the window, a guardian angel watching over her eldest child.
Tori paced her living room, restless and unable to focus. On the mantle of the electric fireplace, photographs of her smiling children stood side by side. She ran a finger over their faces. Marina, on contract in Italy, filmed documentaries. Nico bounced around the world, in search of exotic supplies for his father's chain of specialty grocery stores. When his work took him to Italy, Nico stayed at his sister's apartment in Rome and they all had a virtual family visit over the Internet. They never said if they called their father, and although Tori wondered, she never asked. She was past caring about Enrico Calvino's life now that the kids were adults. Their relationship with him was part of their lives, not hers.
Tori was a proud mom. Both Nico and Marina excelled in their chosen fields. Their desire to lead their own lives was healthy, but she missed them. Perhaps because Tori lived across the street from her own mother and next door to her sister, it was a generation thing. Young people had access to the entire globe now, and why shouldn't they take advantage while they were single and free.
She poured a glass of wine and switched on the electric fireplace. They'd cuddled on this couch, she and Theo, fingers intertwined, sipped red wine while his dark eyes smiled into hers. His mouth, soft and hungry on hers.... No. No thoughts of Theo. He's reconciled with his wife and it's over between us.
Two glasses of wine later, exhausted by the day's intense emotions, Tori stumbled into bed.
She drifted into a foggy world on the cusp of sleep and wakefulness. Just before sleep took her, she remembered something. It floated in and out of her mind, just beyond reach. She commanded herself to remember in the morning.
––––––––
AFTER A RESTLESS NIGHT filled with troubled dreams, she woke with the distinct feeling that something didn't make sense. The feeling persisted throughout her morning routine and commute into the city. Perhaps the shock of Reverend Andrew's murder had knocked whatever it was out of her head. Never mind, it'll come back, eventually. She'd learned her insubordinate subconscious didn't like pressure.
The light was red when she got to the corner opposite the Cathedral. While she waited, cocooned within the crowd, she noticed police officers circulating across the street. They spoke with commuters lined up for the bus and to passersby, nodding and making notes. Tori moved along with the tide of people across the street. A police officer stopped her.
“Good morning, madame. We're investigating an incident that occurred nearby yesterday morning. Were you in the area?” Tori nodded.
“I work at the Cathedral. Detectives Hamel and Vincent interviewed me yesterday right after -” Tori lowered her voice, “the incident.” The officer's lips twitched.
“Your name, please?” Tori told him her name and waited while he consulted his mobile.
The policeman touched his fingers to his cap and stood back. “Have a good day.” He waved Tori on.
Resisting the impulse to look back, Tori continued to the rear entrance of the Cathedral, pausing to rummage through multiple pockets inside her bag for the spare key.
Inside, the door to the priest's office was open. There were traces of the powder used to collect fingerprints on the desk, the doorknob, and the door frame. White streaks on the hardwood floor made a ghostly outline of the priest's body. Where the cleric's head had been, an asymmetric blotch, dark and crusted, stained the wood. Reverend Andrew's laptop was gone, probably taken for evidence. A chill ran through her body, raising goose-bumps on her arms. Only last week the mood in this office radiated serenity and safety. Now, without Reverend Andrew, it felt sad and bereft.
A muted beep echoed through the hall. Wiping away a tear, she walked briskly to her office to answer the telephone.
“Good morning, Ms Carlin. Bishop Laridy here. I've engaged a crime scene recovery firm to see to Reverend McAdam's office. They're coming this morning at eleven. Will you be kind enough to oversee them?” The Bishop's calm, cool tone, and direct manner offended Tori's sensibilities. No preamble, no 'how are you today'. A priest murdered, the support staff shocked and traumatized and the Bishop's first concern revolved around clean-up. Granted, someone had to remove blood stains and traces left by the forensic crew, but would it hurt to inquire about how the living were coping?
Was he not curious to know if Doris had recovered, or concerned about parishioners left without a spiritual guide?
“Of course, Bishop Laridy. Not a problem.” She matched her tone to his. “By the way, some of the congregation are inquiring about funeral services. What can I tell them?”
“My admin is working on that. The body hasn't been released yet by the Coroner’s office. We'll be in touch as soon as we know, Ms Carlin.”
“Thank-you, Bishop Laridy.” The connection broke. Tori growled as she stabbed the red end button. The Bishop seemed untouched by a violent death in a holy place. He was back to business as usual, taking care of logistics. His initial concern for her in front of the detectives and the crime scene team was a sham. In his heart, he was a business man, and Tori's job was to pay the bills, field calls, edit sermons, and obey orders, not make suggestions, or provide challenges. Just like in the business world.
Never mind, cold fish, I have my own sources. She doubted Sasha was authorized to talk about the murder, but he could maybe say when the Coroner’s office might release the body, and where Tori could find Doris.
Tori wandered back into McAdam's office, and stood in the doorway. It was quiet, dim, as if in mourning. It came to her in a flash what she'd remembered just before she fell asleep last night. She'd wanted to check the shelf for evidence of a Judas statue there. It was doubtful Reverend Andrew would place Judas, a universal symbol of betrayal, on the shelf with saints. Tori ran a forefinger over the shelf. The statues stood in a gleaming, pious row, eyes downcast to the dusty shelf. There was no room for Judas here, and the upper and lower shelves bore no mark in the dust.
Tori glanced at her wrist watch, and hurried back to her office to called Sasha.
“Hi Aunt Tori,” he sounded distracted. What's up?”
“Sasha, I hate to bother you. I'm concerned about Doris. Was she hospitalized, or sent home?”
“Sure, just a sec. Let me pull up the file. She was taken to the General. Don't know if she's still there.”
“Thanks, Sasha. By the way, was it a statue of Judas I saw lying by Reverend Andrew's body yesterday?”
“It was. Aunt Tori, you know I can't give you any information concerning the investigation. I've told you as much as I can.”
“Sorry dear. Thank-you. Can you tell me when they plan to release the body?”
“They're doing the autopsy later today. Possibly tomorrow. Why?”
“To inform parishioners who ask regarding the service and funeral arrangements.”
“The protocol is to inform next of kin and the Bishop when the body is released. I'm guessing the Bishop will be in touch.”
“No doubt. Thanks, Sasha.” Tori docked the handset, wondering if she should have told him the Judas statue didn't belong to Reverend Andrew's collection? Meaning the killer brought it with him.
The cleaning crew, two men and a woman, arrived at that moment, cutting off further theorizing. She escorted them into the cleric's office, and returned to her desk. The to-do list she'd prepared that morning was propped up against the computer monitor, a stern reminder that she had tasks to fulfill. With a suppressed sigh, she booted up the computer, and brought up the bookkeeping software.
Forty-five minutes later, the female member of the crew popped in.
“Would you like to inspect the work, Madame?”
“Of course, thank-you.” Tori followed the woman back to Reverend Andrew's office. The desktop and shelves shimmered like chocolate ganache, the hardwood floor had been buffed to a satin shine.
It's like nothing happened here. A surge of loss and nostalgia filled her chest. She'd never again see the playful spark in Reverend Andrew's blue eyes, hear his distracted 'come', or 'give me a minute, on a roll'. She brushed moisture from her eyelashes and cleared her throat.
“This is fine, thank-you.” Tori returned the young woman's sympathetic smile, and signed the invoice.
She saw the crew out, and with a deep sigh, walked back to her desk to call the diocese office.
“Bishop Laridy's office, how may I help you?”
“This is Tori Carlin, from -”
“Yes, I know who you are. Thank-you for calling. The recovery crew is finished?”
“Yes, they are. The room is pristine.”
“Good. Scan the invoice and email it to me, then send the original in the courier pouch. Oh, and the Bishop wishes to inform you your services are required only half days until he assigns a new minister. Starting today.”
Tori wondered if they set the air conditioning to maximum at the Bishop's office. The chill that crept over the phone lines could have frosted her ear.
“Okay. Should I work mornings or afternoons?”
“Mornings will be fine. Until further notice. Thank-you and have a good day.” The connection broke with an unapologetic click.
A giggle tickled the back of her throat, and expanded until she'd laughed herself to tears. Then laughter morphed into its real face; shock, grief and sorrow, until, exhausted, she slept.
The clock tower bell struck twice. Tori sat up, confused. Was she home? No, still at the office. She removed the wet tissue stuck to her nose. Her eyes and face felt very warm and swollen.
In the restroom, she wet a paper towel with cold water and pressed it against her face. Almost immediately, her skin cooled off.
“That's better,” she murmured at her mirror image after a second application of the cold compress. Her eyes were still a little pink, but her skin was back to its normal colour.
Back at her desk, Tori's thoughts turned to Doris. If her own visceral reaction to the death of a man she'd known for less than a week crushed her, Doris must be beyond devastated.
Tori jostled the computer into life and found the telephone number for the hospital. After fifteen minutes of transfers from one department to another, the connection went dead. She growled in frustration and began over again. Finally, she reached someone who told her Doris was still in the emergency room. She retrieved her purse, made sure her mobile was in it, left St. Mark's by the rear entrance, locking it behind her. Should anyone need access to the Cathedral, Miss Prig better have a duplicate key. Meanwhile, Tori headed off to the Gare Centrale for lunch before she went to visit Doris.