Chapter 27
In the end, I sent Mal home. It took some arguing, but I managed to convince him, and myself, that I was in no immediate danger. “It’s obvious that whoever is writing these letters is toying with me, playing a game,” I told him. “If he or she wanted me dead, I’d be dead by now. And to be honest, I need my space, Mal. I appreciate you putting your life on hold as you have for me these past few days, but I don’t think it’s necessary any longer. I’m quite secure here between the locks and the alarms, and I think it’s best if you go home.”
It was obvious he didn’t like this idea, though whether it was concern for my safety, a desire to be with me, or some combination of these that bothered him, I didn’t know. In the end, he called Duncan, explained that I was adamant about being alone for the night, and after some discussion they both agreed. Or perhaps they simply caved. I think both men knew at that point that once I had my mind made up, I wasn’t going to back down. Mal left reluctantly, hollering at me through the door as soon as he stepped outside to make sure I locked all the locks and set all the alarms. His concern for my welfare was sweet, and as I watched him turn away, looking sad and disappointed, I almost changed my mind. But I stuck to my guns knowing it was the wisest thing to do, at least until I could get my head on straighter with regard to Duncan and me. I came to regret my insistence. I tossed and turned all night, haunted by dreams of some vague, shadowy shape that followed me everywhere I went, never getting too close, never letting me see a face, but relentlessly there.
My alarm went off at nine, and I dragged my weary bones out of bed and hopped in the shower to wash the sleep off me. After I was dressed, I headed out to the living room and stared at my couch, wondering how Mal had slept. And as I brewed myself a cup of coffee, I realized I missed him.
I shoved thoughts of Mal from my mind and focused on the day ahead. I called Joe, Frank, and Cora, and asked them to please be at the bar by eleven. Then I headed downstairs to start the opening prep work.
Pete and Jon came in just after ten, and Missy showed up at 10:45. We unlocked the doors a minute or two before eleven and, as planned, Joe, Frank, and Cora arrived minutes later. I ushered them into my office, locking the door behind us.
“Did you tell Joe and Frank about the contents of the latest letter?” I asked Cora.
She shook her head.
“Hell, no, she didn’t,” Frank said. “And we’ve been dying of curiosity.”
I satisfied their curiosity by describing the letter’s contents in more detail and showing them the pictures I had on my phone. Then I told them Cora’s theory about the church and how my trip there yesterday had been a bust. “I’m meeting with Father Manx at noon,” I concluded, “but I have my doubts about this church being the right solution. And if we are wrong, time is running out. So I need you guys to focus on these items and try to come up with some alternatives.” I told them about the pollen that Duncan’s lab tech had found in the cinnamon, and how it was from a stargazer lily. “So maybe think along the lines of florist shops,” I told them.
“Happy to help,” Joe said.
“Thanks, guys. And please keep it between yourselves. You’re welcome to hang out here in my office if you want, so you’ll have some privacy. You can use my computer. I’ll check back with you once I get done with Father Manx.”
With that taken care of, I grabbed my coat and headed for St. Paul’s Church.
I expected Mary Fromme to cast a dubious eye my way after yesterday’s encounter, but she greeted me like I was an old friend. “Father Manx isn’t here yet, but I expect him any minute. Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait?”
“No, thanks.”
“How about a cookie then?” She gestured toward a platter of yummy-smelling, iced sugar cookies on a plate on her desk. “I went a little overboard with the Christmas baking this year.”
I graciously accepted a cookie and took a bite. It was sweet, soft, buttery, and had a hint of almond flavoring that made me hear the faint ping of water drops.
Father Manx arrived just as I finished my cookie, and Mary introduced us. He was tall, gangly, and like me, a redhead. He greeted me with a warm smile and led me into his office, which was next door to Mary’s. Once inside he gestured for me to have a seat in one of two chairs that sat in a corner. I chose one and he settled into the other. Aside from the clerical collar he was wearing, he could have been any guy on the street. He was wearing khakis and a dark blue pullover sweater with a black shirt underneath.
He leaned back, crossed his legs and his hands, and said, “Ms. Dalton, how may I be of assistance to you today?”
I’d thought about how to handle my meeting with him during my drive over and had decided to stick with the story I’d been using all along. “I wasn’t totally honest with Mary about the reason I was here yesterday. You see, I’m participating in a treasure hunt with some friends and I received some clues that made me think my next clue might be here in your church.”
His smile faltered a little. “I see. So when you told Mrs. Fromme you were interested in joining our church, that wasn’t true?”
“It’s not the real reason I came here, no,” I admitted. Then, feeling like a callous cad, I added a caveat. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t happen.” I tried a smile, but it felt forced and fake to me, so I’m sure it looked so to him.
He nodded solemnly, steepled his hands, and tapped them against his chin. He looked skeptical but indulgent, and his demeanor was friendly, open, and accepting. I felt ashamed for lying to him and I was stricken with a sudden and desperate need to unburden myself.
“Okay, here’s the real story,” I said, and then I spent the next hour telling him everything, starting with my father’s murder, Ginny’s murder, Duncan, Mal, my synesthesia, the Capone Club, and finally, the letters and where they had taken me so far. Some part of my mind told me I was being foolish to open up this way to a complete stranger, but I couldn’t stop myself. I justified it by thinking that at least this person was someone I could trust to keep the information confidential, and someone I wouldn’t be putting in jeopardy by sharing it.
When I had finished my story, I concluded by saying, “So you see, Father Manx, while I may have deceived you and Mrs. Fromme about why Mal and I came here yesterday, our real reason wasn’t as frivolous as some fun treasure hunt game. This is a very serious, life-and-death situation.”
“I can see that,” he said, looking solemn. “And if I understand the situation correctly, you think that this person who is sending you the letters has used me or my church as the next stop in this game.”
“Yes,” I said. “So many of the clues in the last letter pointed to here: the spice reference, the bread, the wine, the water, the flower petal, the Cats marquee, and the map piece. . . .”
“But the coffee?”
“There’s the rub,” I said, frowning. “I can’t figure out how the coffee fits in here.”
“Neither can I. We do have a meeting room downstairs with a small kitchenette, and there are coffee urns there, but other than that, I’m at a loss.”
“Does that mean you don’t have anything for me? No package that was delivered with instructions and money?”
“I’m afraid not.”
I closed my eyes and felt dread settle over me as if a heavy, wet blanket had been dropped on my shoulders.
“I’ll be happy to take you downstairs to look around in the kitchen area,” Father Manx said.
“We saw it yesterday with Mrs. Fromme, but we didn’t search it as thoroughly as we could have. So if you wouldn’t mind . . .”
“I’m happy to oblige.”
I followed Father Manx back down to the basement kitchen area and he watched as I searched the cupboards, looked at the coffee urns again, including the insides, checked the refrigerator and freezer, and peeked in the oven and microwave. I came up empty.
I remembered the Bible study class Cora had mentioned and asked Father Manx about it, referencing the time deadline in the letter.
“We do have a Bible study on Wednesday evenings that typically runs from seven to eight,” he said. “And sometimes they make coffee. But the classes are suspended right now until after the first of the year. We always suspend them during the Christmas season.”
“Is there anything else going on here tonight?”
He shook his head.
“Then I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time. But thank you for being so understanding about this.”
“I’m sorry, too. I wish I could help you. Might I suggest something?”
“Sure,” I said with a shrug.
“Do you believe in God?”
I sighed, not sure I had the patience for the typical religious rhetoric I was about to hear. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “My father was a practicing Catholic before he married my mother, and she converted after they met. But when she died, he seemed to lose all faith in that sort of stuff. And I understand that, because I have to confess, it’s hard to believe in some sort of all powerful and loving being who allows people to suffer so much.”
“There is a lot of evil in the world, but . . .”
I must have rolled my eyes because he paused, held up a hand, and said, “It doesn’t matter who or what you believe, or don’t believe. If you have faith in nothing else, have faith in yourself. You were given this disorder you have, this syna. . . .”
“Synesthesia.”
“Yes, synesthesia,” he said with an abashed smile.
“And regardless of what you believe, I believe God gave you this gift for a reason. Sometimes it’s hard to understand the trials we face, and even using the most basic, pragmatic, and secular type of thinking, it’s hard to make sense of it. So my suggestion is simply that you open your mind to the possibilities. Have faith, Ms. Dalton.”
“I’ll try,” I said with a wan smile. “Thank you for giving me your time today.”
I headed back upstairs, and he fell into step behind me. As I approached the exit, he said, “Please come back anytime. All manner of people and beliefs are welcome to worship with us.”
“Thank you.”
“And remember, Ms. Dalton. Have faith.”
I walked back to my car, feeling scared and worried. With the church idea proving to be a bust in terms of solving the latest puzzle, the clock was ticking, counting down the hours and minutes left to the latest deadline. Time was running out and if it did, someone was going to die.