![]() | ![]() |
The first Monday morning back in the Rectory–now the home I share with Helen–I settle into my desk chair.
“Ahhh,” I say, leaning my head back with my eyes closed. “Home sweet home.”
“Happy to be back?”
I open my eyes. Anna’s standing just inside the door to my office, her arms crossed and a smile on her face.
“Very,” I say. “The cruise was wonderful, and I’m happy anywhere I am with Helen, but there really is nothing like getting back to real life.”
“And how is it–real life? Any problems?”
I peer at Anna. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Because you know full well that every newly married couple has a period of adjustment. I was just wondering if you two encountered any bumps.”
“Not yet,” I say. “Although as much time as we’ve spent together recently and back in college, there were some things I wasn’t prepared for.”
“Like?”
“Well–I always knew Helen wasn’t a morning person. I’ve had her bite my head off for calling her at 7 a.m. But that’s different than experiencing it up close. Wow. It took me a few days on the cruise to realize that the best thing to do was to wake up before her, slip out, bring her a cup of coffee, then meet her at the breakfast buffet when she was ready.”
“I’m sure there are things about you she’s having to adjust to, Tom.”
“Me? What would she have to adjust to? I’m the perfect husband,” I say with a wry smile.
“Don’t forget modest to a fault,” Anna says.
“I’m very proud of my modesty,” I reply with my chin in the air.
Anna sighs and shakes her head. “Just as I feared. Helen has her work cut out for her. Anyway, I do have a serious purpose for coming here.”
I lean forward and fold my hands on my desk. “What is it?”
“As Helen no doubt told you, whoever defiled the sacristy by killing Deacon Derek used some of the altar linens to clean up after himself.”
I nod. “Yes, she told me.”
“We only have one set of linens left. It’s almost an antique. Now, it’s been well cared for but it won’t hold up for very long being used for multiple Masses seven days a week. We’re going to need to get new linens, and soon.”
I nod. “I’m actually on top of that. There’s a woman in the church who has some training in making altar linens. She’s out of practice, but she’s quite deft with a needle and told me she knows of a convent that offers classes online.”
“Tom,” Anna says, confusion written all over her face, “I know every woman in the church who can sew. None of them have ever mentioned anything like this to me. Who is this mystery seamstress?”
“Wait here.” I stand and walk out of my office. I go upstairs to our room and return a couple of minutes later with a large box.
“She’s the same person who gave me this,” I say quietly.
I take off the lid and fold back the tissue paper. Anna gasps when she sees the green silk chasable with intricate embroidery. She carefully strokes the fabric and leans closer to examine the stitching.
“This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she says in amazement. “Look at the detail–this must have taken her months.”
“It did.”
She looks up from the chasable and smiles. “Helen did this, didn’t she?”
I nod. “It was her wedding present to me. She started it on Ash Wednesday last year. She told me she learned sewing in high school, but she learned this technique from the nuns online.”
“And why did she never tell me? Do you know how helpful she could have been to the Ladies of Charity with their different projects?”
I pause for a moment. Do I tell Anna the whole truth–that Helen feared she’d be inundated with requests to repair worn-out altar linens? That the Ladies of Charity would expect her to be their head seamstress?
“Well, Anna,” I say slowly. “Wasn’t the main sewing project last year for the surprise upstairs?”
Anna starts to say something, then just nods. “I see your point. Besides, she was too busy being a bride.” Looking down, she strokes the silk vestment again. “And she was using her skills for the parish.”
With that, Anna leaves and I put the lid back on the box. I set it to one side–I’ll take it back upstairs later.
Promptly at 11 a.m., the doorbell rings. I answer the door and find Martin and Mae standing on the porch, Martin carrying a large pot of what smells like chili and Mae a big pan of cornbread.
“Right on time, you two,” I say with a smile. “Come in, come in.”
“Beware Romulans bearing gifts,” Martin says with a smile.
I laugh and take the pot from him. “I much prefer this to Romulan ale, especially when I’m counseling people.”
Mae looks at the both of us, confused. “What? What’s a Romulan?”
Martin and I stare at the young woman. “What’s a–haven’t you ever seen Star Trek, Mae?”
“Star Trek?” Mae says. “Is that the one with the little bears?”
I stare at her, wondering how an otherwise delightful and intelligent woman has such a huge gap in her knowledge. “That’s Star Wars,” I say.
“Oh. I didn’t think there was a difference.”
I blink, wondering how anyone wouldn’t know the difference between the greatest science fiction franchise of all time and Star Wars. “Martin, I thought we’d worked through the most difficult issues in counseling. But I can see we have a lot more ground to cover.”
“Tom, it’s OK,” Martin says, putting his arm around his worried-looking fiance. “Every couple has things it just takes time to work out. I’ll just add it to the list of things to teach her.”
Mae rolls her eyes. “My parents didn’t let us watch a lot of TV or see many movies growing up!”
Martin and I laugh, causing Mae to become red-faced with embarrassment. “Mae, tell your Mom thank you from Helen and me–but I think it will take us a while to eat all of this.”
“I know it's a lot, Father Tom,” she laughs. “But this is really the only quantity that my Mom knows how to cook. She used to send this home with me in college and I can tell you, it freezes great.”
I take the pot and Mae follows me into the kitchen. “Tell you what. Helen’s coming home for lunch. If you two have time, why don’t you join us?”
“We have time, Father Tom,” Mae says cheerfully. “Martin’s on call but as long as no one runs into a tree, we should be fine. I don’t have anyone coming in until around 3 p.m. Since I’m seeing school-age kids now, there are rarely any coming in earlier. And besides that, Martin was talking all the way here about how much he likes Mom’s chili.”
“Great,” I say. We walk into my office and settle in for our meeting. After an opening prayer, I ask, “So how did your meetings with Deacon Derek go?” Since he was a married man, I had asked him to meet with them and give them his perspective a couple of times while I was so busy in December.
Martin and Mae look at each other, as if trying to decide what to say. Finally, Martin says, “Well, Father Tom, they would always start out well enough, you know, with whatever topic we were supposed to discuss. But then, every time, he would sort of veer off to the importance of faithfulness in marriage and how you had to remain true to your spouse, no matter what. I mean, of course we agreed and we told him that, but it was like he was driven.”
Mae chimes in. “Frankly, Father, I felt like he was projecting his own experiences on us. We talked about it a lot in my classes, and our professors said it was an occupational hazard counselors needed to be on guard against. That’s what I believe Deacon Derek was doing. Marty teases me about the dangers of medical training without practice, but even he agrees with me.” Martin nods firmly as she continues, “One time he almost shouted, ‘Marriage is for life, so make sure you’re ready to commit to that. There is no repeal from a sacramental union.’”
“That doesn’t sound like Deacon Derek at all,” I say. “He never struck me as the kind of man given to such vehemence.”
“Me, neither. And he never started out that way. We talked about the usual stuff, you know communication and learning to function together as a family unit, and he was fine. But then we’d somehow end up in this weird place.” Mae says.
“I thought about pulling him aside and asking him what was really on his mind,” Martin interjects. “I didn’t know if he had a problem with the difference in our ages, or if he thought I was not a good enough Catholic for Mae. But she insisted that we might as well wait for you to get back, and I guess now I’m glad she did.”
“Personally, I don’t know if I’m glad or not,” I say. “Would you mind mentioning this to Helen?”
Martin and Mae look at each other. “Why, Father Tom?” Mae says.
I take a deep breath. “I’d rather not say, but it may prove useful in Helen’s investigation.”
“Sure, if you think it will help,” Martin says.
“OK, well, it will make for a lively lunch at least,” I say. “So, why don’t we leave this for a while and move on to our topic for the day.”
We have what I hope is an enlightening and enjoyable time discussing the Church’s teaching on the role of the husband and the wife in Christian marriage. We are just finishing up when I hear Helen come in. “And now,” I say happily, “my own wife can offer a rebuttal.”
We leave the office and head for the kitchen, where Helen is stirring the pot of chili. “Oh, hello, Martin, Mae,” she says. “Is this yours?”
“My mom’s,” Mae says. “Also, there’s cornbread.”
“Wonderful,” Helen grins. “I was thinking how much this reminded me of my grandfather’s.”
“Your grandfather made chili?” Martin asks.
“Uh-huh. He was the county fair chili cook-off champion for seven years running.”
“Yes, you’re in the presence of a real chili connoisseur,” I say. “Would you like me to get the plates and bowls down?”
“Yes, darling,” she says. “Set the table if you would, and I’ll transfer some of this to a less imposing serving bowl.”
I get the dishes out, along with some spoons, and place them around the table. Mae grabs a pitcher of lemonade out of the fridge, and Martin helps Helen set the chili and the cornbread on the table.
We pray and dig in as Martin asks, “How’s the investigation going? Any leads on who mugged Deacon Derek?”
“Well, the biggest thing so far is that we determined he wasn’t attacked outside,” Helen says between spoonfuls of chili. “We found out he was stabbed in the sacristy, then dragged outside.”
“How horrible!” Mae cries. “What kind of person would attack someone in a church?”
“The same kind of person who would kill another human being in the first place,” I say quietly.
“Do you still think robbery was the motive?” Martin asks.
Helen and I look at each other across the table. Finally, she says, “Right now, that’s the theory we’re operating under.”
“Right now?” Looking at me, Martin says, “Is this why you wanted Mae and me to tell Helen what we told you?”
I nod as Helen asks, “What do you need to tell me?”
Over the next few minutes, Martin and Mae recount their counseling sessions with Deacon Derek, including their opinion that his comments were a form of projection. When they finish, Helen sits quietly, contemplating what they just said. Finally, she looks at Mae. “So, is this your professional opinion?”
Mae ponders her question, then nods. “Helen, I’ll admit I don’t have a lot of real-world experience. But based on my training, I’d say he was projecting his own situation onto ours.”
“If that is the case,” Martin says, “does this mean that the Deacon and his wife were having some kind of marital problems?”
Helen and I look at each other. This is one of those occasions when we’re both in possession of information we can’t share because of our professions. This is an ongoing investigation, so Helen’s limited in what she can tell anyone. My conversations with Linda, and the strange attitude she had about the funeral, are confidential.
“Is that why the funeral was private?” Mae asks.
“It’s what she requested,” I say simply. “Even though it was unusual, there’s nothing wrong with it. She wasn’t required to have anyone else there.”
“Still, weren’t they married a long time?” Martin asks. “I mean, when my Dad died, he had a funeral Mass even though he was hardly the most devout man when he was alive. We had family and friends–I think there were about two hundred people there.”
“Again, it’s what she requested.”
Martin looks at Helen. “Is his wife a suspect?”
“Whoa, Martin,” Helen says, shaking her head. “First, I couldn’t tell you anyway since it’s an ongoing investigation. Second, we’re still looking at the evidence.”
Martin takes his spoon and stirs his chili. “Well, since you brought up the evidence–”
“Marty,” Mae says slowly. “You promised.”
“I said I wouldn’t bring it up today. I didn’t. Helen opened the door.”
“What is it, Martin?” Helen asks.
He takes a deep breath and says, “Helen, I’ll be the first one to admit that I’m not a forensic pathologist. I’ve never performed a post-mortem examination of a murder victim. But I’ve seen hundreds of fatal stabbings, including ones less extensive than Deacon Derek’s. He shouldn’t have died. The wounds were not as severe as the autopsy claims. Whoever did the autopsy got it wrong.”
Helen stiffens in her chair. “Now, Martin, wait a minute,” she says. “I know the pathologist who did the autopsy. He’s an old friend of mine. I’ve worked with him on dozens of homicides. He’s one of the best in the country.”
“Even ‘the best’ can make a mistake, Helen,” Martin says firmly. “By the way, you didn’t include the toxicology report. I’m curious what he made of the Haldol in Deacon Derek’s system.”
Helen’s expression changes from irritation to surprise. “What are you talking about?”
“I had a full panel tox screen run as soon as he came in as part of his other blood work. I didn’t get it until the next day, but it showed he had a substantial amount of Haldol in his system. It was enough to completely sedate someone, which is why he was most likely found lying in the snow. He could very well have staggered to find help, at least for a short distance, with the kind of injuries he had. I’m confident the hospital lab’s findings were correct, but I wanted to compare with the forensic tox report. Do you have it?”
“No,” she says. “He didn’t order one originally.”
“But isn’t that standard?” I ask.
She nods. “Which is why I demanded that he run one. He was back in the office today and promised he’d take care of it.”
“Did he say why he didn’t order one in the first place?” Martin asks.
Helen’s eyes flash. “He said that, based on his experience, one wasn’t necessary since it was a mugging.”
“I can’t believe this,” Martin says with disgust. “That could have answered everything.”
Helen opens her mouth to say something, but I shake my head slightly. She nods, acknowledging that she saw my signal. “Martin,” I say, “what exactly is Haldol, anyway, and why is it so important?”
Speaking through gritted teeth, Martin replies, “It's an antipsychotic, often used to calm patients who are otherwise out of control. Roderick had enough in him to stop a raging bull. That alone wouldn’t have killed him, but it made it impossible to get up out of the snow, much less resist being dragged out of the sacristy and left on the sidewalk to die.”
“And you think the Haldol contributed to his death?”
“I don’t think, Tom. I’m certain of it. Neither his injuries nor the Haldol by themselves would have killed him. But the amount of the drug he had in his system, combined with the trauma, is what killed him.”
“In your opinion,” Helen says.
He turns quickly and glares at her. “One based on my experience as a trauma surgeon.”
“OK, let’s say you’re right and there was Haldol in his system–”
“—are you questioning the lab’s findings, Helen?”
“Mistakes can be made, you know.” Martin starts to speak, but Helen interrupts. “OK, say there is no mistake and he did have Haldol in his system. How did it get there?”
Martin takes a deep breath and in a calmer tone, says, “I have no idea. But it couldn’t have been an accident. Haldol isn’t something you see on the street. A non-professional would have a hard time getting it. You’d have to be a doctor, nurse, paramedic–something like that. I mean, even a veterinarian.”
“Vets use it?” Mae asks.
Martin nods. “I’ve seen mention of it used to calm animals before administering anesthesia. I think it’s been tried to treat epilepsy in cats.”
“So if it was in his system,” Helen says, “it would have been deliberate.”
“Exactly, Helen,” Martin says. “And there’s no ‘if.’ It was there. I’ll send you our labs so you can see yourself. There’s no mistake. I guess the question you need to answer is what kind of thief would have Haldol in their possession?”
***
“Have you thought about what Martin said?”
Helen’s sitting on the edge of our bed, brushing her hair. She’s wearing a nightgown that’s–well, more substantial, I guess you’d say–than the ones she wore on the cruise. I’m a little disappointed, to be honest, but this one still allows me to appreciate her soft, creamy shoulders and her alabaster neck.
She stops brushing, looks over her shoulder at me, then resumes. “I’ve thought about it a lot, of course.”
“And?”
She stands and walks across the room, placing her hairbrush on the vanity in the bathroom. Returning to our bed, she crawls under the covers and curls up next to me with a deep sigh.
“And?” she says. “I don’t know what to think. If Derek had Haldol in his system like Martin said, then it looks like someone planned to kill him. So we don’t have a robbery anymore. We have cold-blooded murder.”
“Martin is certain the hospital lab was right,” I point out. “Do you doubt him? I mean, it is Martin, after all.”
“And you’re probably wondering how I could doubt the professional word of the man who saved my life?”
In fact, I have been wondering about that, but I don’t say so out loud.
“Look, it’s not that I doubt Martin,” Helen says in answer to her own question. “But the hospital lab is hardly as sophisticated as the state ME’s office. Myerton General has no toxicologist–the state ME does. Martin, by his own testimony, isn’t a forensic pathologist. Sam’s one of the top ME’s in the country. I trust his judgment.”
“But doesn’t it bother you that your friend didn’t order the tox screen in the first place?” I ask.
“Frankly, yes,” Helen sighs. “But I don’t think there’s anything suspicious about it. I think it’s more likely a lapse because of overwork. He’s also getting near retirement, so maybe he just forgot and was too proud to admit it.”
I consider what Helen says. When she first told me about the missing tox report, something didn’t sit right with the explanation her friend gave her. I’m sort of reassured that he’s going to do tests when he returns from vacation, but it still feels a little wrong to me.
“Are you going to tell Sam what Martin found?”
“Certainly,” she says. “He needs to know we’re looking for Haldol in Derek’s system. If he asks why, I’ll tell him a test at the hospital showed it was there.”
“Well,” I say, pulling her closer and brushing her lips with mine. “That’s tomorrow. Tonight, it’s just us.”
“Hmm,” she says with a smile. “And what is on your mind, Father Greer?”
“Well,” I say with a grin, “we really haven’t seen if this bed is as good as Bill said it was.”
“Oh, no, we haven’t. Well, let’s take care of that oversight right–”
Just then, my phone rings.
It’s Darth Vader’s march.
Helen and I groan in unison. “You don’t have to answer, you know?” Helen says.
“If I don’t, she’ll just keep calling. Or try calling your phone.”
I roll over and pick up my phone. “Hi, Mom,” I say, putting my phone on speaker so Helen can have the full experience, “how are you?”
“I’m OK, Tommy, just still trying to recover from all the wedding stress. I guess you and Helen got back from your honeymoon OK?”
“Her wedding stress,” Helen mouths with an eye roll thrown in for good measure.
“Yes, we did, Mom.” I’m not about to tell her we got back a week early, because no good can come from that.
“Did you have a nice time?”
“Yes, we did, Mom.”
“I’m so glad. I’m sure you and Helen had a better time than your Dad and I did on our honeymoon.”
Dear God, please. Not that story. My expression must betray my sheer horror, because Helen mouths, “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head as I say frantically, “Yes, yes, Mom, you told me that story when I was marrying Joan. So–”
“Well, then, you remember. It was just awful. We got to the hotel and I went into the bathroom, you know, to change, and would you believe it? I had started my period. So, as you can imagine, that made for a pretty miserable week.”
While my darling wife is trying to suppress a laugh at this, I’m simply hoping not to die before we get off the phone. Desperate to change the subject, I hear myself asking, “So how’s Trevor, Mom?”
“Oh, he’s fine,” Mom says. “He’ll be so glad to know that you asked. You know, he was so afraid that you didn’t like him when you first met.”
“Really,” I say, “I’m sorry I gave him that impression.”
Meanwhile I’m thinking to myself, Why in the world wouldn’t I like the twenty-something gigilo who’s shacking up with my mother, remodeling her house, and drinking from my Eeyore mug?
But wait, my brain says, she’s talking again.
“Is Helen there, Tommy?” she’s asking.
“Yes, Mother Greer,” Helen says with a forced smile. “I’m right here with Tom.”
“Oh, good,” she whines. “There’s an important matter that I want to speak to you about.”
Helen’s smile disappears. “OK?”
“Trevor and I want to file a complaint against that awful Officer Hallstead for the way she threatened Trevor the night before your wedding.”
After she refused to attend the rehearsal dinner–she was upset because no provision had been made for her to have a special position in the wedding party–Mom and Trevor went to the Hoot-n-Holler, Steve’s establishment. While there, Trevor drank quite a bit and loudly opined that Helen and I hadn’t been waiting until our wedding night to sleep together. At least that’s what Steve told me when he recounted the story. Apparently, Trevor offended Nick and Nina Hallstead, who were seated at the next table. Having heard enough, Nick grabbed Trevor by the throat and Nina described in excruciating detail the beatdown she’d give him if he didn’t shut up and leave.
Which reminds me. I need to get Nick and Nina a gift to thank them.
“I’ll be glad to talk to you tomorrow morning,” Helen says. “I’ll be running warrants, so that will be a good time.”
We hear Trevor in the background. Apparently, he’s been listening and doesn’t like what he just heard. Mom says, “Hang on a minute, Tommy.” A moment later, she comes back with, “Trevor says that he’s decided to forgive and forget.”
“Tell him I appreciate that,” Helen says with a smile. “It will save me a lot of paperwork.”
“Well, you see, it's part of this ‘New Year, New Me’ program that he’s developing. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I called. He is looking for investors and I mentioned that you are good friends with that Dr. Maycord fellow. Trevor did some research and found out he’s really wealthy and has a reputation for investing in innovative approaches to health. So we were wondering if you could set up a meeting between him and Trevor. We could even fly back up there for–”
“Dr. Maycord’s dead,” I say quickly, causing Helen to hit me on the arm. “What?” she whispers.
Pressing mute, I say, “It was the first thing that came to mind.”
“But to tell her Martin’s dead? Have you lost your mind?”
“Probably.”
“Dead,” Mom gasps and I hear Trevor sob a little.
“Yep,” I say while Helen shakes her head at me. “It was a terrible accident.”
“My goodness. What happened?”
“Well, see,” I say, piling up the years in purgatory, “he was at the hospital, washing up for an emergency surgery, and he got soap in his eyes and he was trying to get it out, with his hands all wet and all, when he ran right into a defibrillator that someone had left charging. He was instantly electrocuted.”
By this time, Helen’s shaking her head and looking up at the ceiling, mumbling something to herself.
“That is sad,” she says with near sincerity. “Wait, what, Trevor? Oh, yes, Trevor wants to know about his estate?”
“Every dime went to the Little Sisters of the Leopards in Africa.”
Helen sits up and grabs her phone. She’s typing something as Mom asks, “Don’t you mean lepers?”
“No,” I say, not having any clue what I mean anymore. “It's a progressive, environmentally-aware order. They work with big cats.”
She seems confused by this, so I take advantage of her pause to say quickly, “Hey, Mom, I’m so sorry. I need to go. It’s late, and I’ve got a long day tomorrow. We’re planning Martin’s memorial service, and a sister is coming here with Louie the Leopard. He’s accepting the donation on behalf of the sisters. Talk soon. Love you. Bye.”
I slam the phone down on my side table and collapse back into the bed. “What were you typing?” I ask Helen.
“A message to Father Wayne,” Helen says.
Just then, my phone chimes indicating an incoming message. I take one look at it, then look at Helen. “I really appreciate that, darling.”
She shrugs. “Just doing my duty as a priest’s wife.”
The message is from Father Wayne, confirming that he’ll be visiting Saint Clare’s to hear my confession Friday afternoon.