CHAPTER 58

The ungodly have great power, riches, and respect … we … have but only one poor, silly, and contemned Christ.

Martin Luther

The Monday before Easter was freakishly hot. Homer took off his jacket as he walked past the Church of the Commonwealth. He nodded at Donald Woody, who was removing a dead pigeon from his lush garden of daffodils, and Woody said, “Hi, there, nice day.” Across the street a beach umbrella had blossomed on a sunny rooftop. Joggers were out in force.

Homer had an appointment at 115 Commonwealth Avenue. It wasn’t with Alan Starr, it was with Mrs. Garboyle. Homer had turned over the matter of Pansy Kraeger’s panties to his wife. His own concern this morning was with the whereabouts of Rosie Hall, who was now fully alive in his mind. Somewhere the woman was living and breathing, with warm blood pulsing in her veins. She might be as lovable as Starr thought her, or she might be an awful person, but she had certainly not been burned up in that flaming automobile. Where was she?

Mrs. Garboyle’s apartment was on the third floor. On the way up the stairs Homer passed a couple of girls on the way down, plump young students in curly permanents. They were laughing at some joke, their arms full of books. Exams must be in the offing.

Mrs. Garboyle opened her door at once, and beamed at him. “Oh, come in, Mr. Kelly. Isn’t it a lovely day!”

Homer made admiring remarks about her apartment, which was the same shape and size as Rosie’s, but altogether different. Gathered under her bay window was a cactus garden. Prickly objects sat on tables. Every sort of geometric shape thrust out dangerous-looking spines. A ceramic dachshund sported a thorny tail. Pots of African violets had a place of honor on the television set, beside a photograph of a young marine.

“Your son?” said Homer, bending to look at it.

“Yes, that’s Scottie. He was killed in Viet Nam.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Never mind, dear.” Mrs. Garboyle pointed at another picture, a large framed color print. Homer recognized the portrait of Isabella Stewart Gardner. “I found it,” said Mrs. Garboyle, “and brought it back to the Gardner Museum, remember?”

“Of course I do. That was a great day for the museum, after all they’d been through.” Homer turned to look solemnly at his hostess. “Mrs. Garboyle, Alan tells me you used to babysit for Rosalind Hall.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, many times. Such a good baby.” Her face fell. “I pray to the Lord someone’s taking good care of him, that dear little boy.”

“Well, I hope so too. Tell me, Mrs. Garboyle, did Rosie go out often?”

“Almost every night.”

“Every night? She went out every night?”

“Oh, yes. She went next door to the church to do her organ practicing. She played the organ, you know, the king of instruments. She practiced late at night when there weren’t any weddings or funerals or novenas. Oh, no, I suppose this church doesn’t have novenas.” Mrs. Garboyle’s voice trailed off sadly.

Homer thought it over. “You mean she practiced on the old organ, before the fire?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Mrs. Garboyle’s face screwed up in pain. “The fire, oh, that was a dreadful night.”

“You saw it, Mrs. Garboyle?”

“Yes, I did. Oh, dreadful, it was dreadful.”

“Was Rosie practicing that night?”

“I’m not sure. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten. She was certainly at home when the fire started. We all woke up when the fire engines came, what with all the noise and the sirens. Then when we saw that it was right next door, we were afraid we might be next. All the girls took their best clothes out-of-doors. I took my hedgehog outside.”

“Your hedgehog?”

Mrs. Garboyle picked up a large potted cactus with rosettes of dagger-sharp spines and held it in her lap. “I’ve grown it from a baby.”

“But this house was safe, wasn’t it? The fire confined itself to the balcony of the church, as I recall. I saw all the damage next morning, when they called me in, and it was clear that it was mostly the balcony and the pipe organ.”

“That’s right. We were in no danger after all.” Mrs. Garboyle thanked the good Lord. “But it killed that poor man. I’ll never forget it. The tears! We all cried and cried.”

“I understand Rosie saw the fire? She was pretty upset too, I gather?”

“Oh, yes. She wrapped little Charley in a blanket and stood there watching beside me. But it was too much for her. Well, it was a terrible sight, that poor man. They brought him out, all burned.” Mrs. Garboyle’s eyes filled with tears.

“Mrs. Garboyle, try to remember whether or not Rosie practiced in the church that evening. Because if she did, if she was there after Mr. Kraeger and James Castle, then they couldn’t have been responsible for the fire, do you see?”

“I’m sorry, but I just can’t recall. All I remember clearly about that night is the fire and smoke, and poor Mr. Plummer.” Mrs. Garboyle covered her face with her gnarled old hands. “Oh, it was terrible, terrible.”

Homer reached out in sympathy and drove his thumb into one of the hedgehog’s spines. He cried out in pain.

Mrs. Garboyle put the cactus on the floor and leaped up for a bandage, her tears forgotten.