When I got back to the office, it was pretty much mayhem. Calls and emails had been coming in from all over the country about the Mountbatten story—requests for comments, verification of facts, link requests, etc. Kay was on the phone with her door closed. Stupid Spencer, who had been assigned to cover the updates coming out of the sheriff’s office (it was now all hands on deck with this story), said Dale was meeting with Carl at the sheriff’s office again this morning. District Attorney Lindsey Davis was with them, as well as four other individuals thought to be federal investigators and possibly Mountbatten’s attorney. Carl must be having a day, I thought.
No one over at the sheriff’s office would comment officially, but speculation was that assuming Mountbatten made the same admissions as he had when he spoke to us, the federal agents would file paperwork with the courts to file charges and probably take away his passport. Being that it was Friday afternoon, I doubted anything would get processed before the weekend.
Back at my desk, I checked my messages and was glad to hear there was one from a Nicole Breedlove with the prothonotary’s office (a fancy name for the chief clerk in some jurisdictions) in New Castle County, Delaware, the municipality where Colonel Mustard Enterprises had been incorporated. I had left her a message the night before asking for some information I had a right to under the Sunshine law, which required that certain information from government agencies be available to the public. Nicole said she’d be happy to help. When I called her back, she confirmed, as I had suspected, that Dale Mountbatten had filed a DBA (doing business as) certificate under the name Colonel Mustard Enterprises nine years ago just before he moved Rosalee down to Tuttle Corner. She agreed to fax me a copy of the certificate.
This was a big deal. Even though Dale Mountbatten had basically told us this much, up until now all we had was his word. And I didn’t trust Dale Mountbatten’s sudden desire to come clean. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him about the foreign money and scheme to launder it, I suspected he had an ulterior motive for his sudden confessional. It didn’t make sense to me that a guy who spent the better part of a decade breaking the law for monetary gain would give it all up so easily. He said it was because Rosalee killed his wife and was trying to set him up to take the blame for that, but I wasn’t so sure. There was too much finger-pointing going on between Rosalee and Dale. Neither was acting innocent. And neither seemed to care one bit about Justin Balzichek. Which is what made it all the more odd that someone out there, presumably a third person involved in this whole mess, wanted Balzichek’s things badly enough to commit fraud to get them. A rosary and twenty-eight cents in coins wasn’t exactly a treasure. I couldn’t understand why someone would want to steal them badly enough to risk being found out. If Ash had been any more knowledgeable or experienced, he would have asked the person for their ID. What would they have done then?
On a hunch, I decided to swing by St. Paul’s church, the one that was just down from Campbell & Sons. I thought Father Dunn might have some insight for me on why someone might want to steal a rosary.
“The rosary is basically a meditation on the life of Christ,” Father Dunn said as I followed him from pew to pew helping him put the hymnals into their correct spot after that morning’s Mass.
“Is there any other use for them? Something less…pious, perhaps?” I asked carefully.
Father Dunn looked concerned. “I’m not sure what you mean, Riley.”
“Oh no, it’s not for me,” I said. “It’s a story I’m working on for the paper.”
His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “A story on the tradition of the rosary!” He clapped his hands together. “How joyous!”
“Oh well…” I said, sheepishly. “It’s not exactly that kind of story.”
“No?”
“I mean, well, it is about a rosary…but more about a crime that someone committed using one…”
He sucked in a sharp breath and then crossed himself. Father Dunn was known for being a little dramatic. People in town still told the story of the Palm Sunday picnic when a king snake slithered into the He is Risen! Balloon Filling Station and Father Dunn was convinced it was Satan himself. When Millie Hedron grabbed it behind the head and took it down by the river, he insisted on taking her straight back to the church and dosing her in Holy water.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” I said, trying to calm him (although I’m pretty sure if I told him the rest of the details, he might conclude that Satan was once again among us). “I was just wondering if there’s any reason you can think of why a person would want to take someone else’s rosary beads? Are they valuable?”
Father Dunn sat down as he thought about my question. “Value, of course, is in the eye of the beholder. My own rosary was given to me on my first communion by my beloved grandmother, who has since passed, so to me it’s priceless.”
“But there’s no intrinsic value, like they’re not made of precious metals or anything like that?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not usually. There are artifacts, of course, rosaries from throughout history that would have some value. And I suppose there are probably some out there adorned with valuable stones or gold and silver and whatnot, but the real value of the rosary comes from within. The key is what it means to each individual person.”
I stilled, a thought slowing starting to take shape in my mind. “Say that again, Father.”
He looked confused. “I said, there are rosaries from throughout history—”
“No,” I said, startling poor Father Dunn. “Sorry. Not that part—what you said at the end.”
He knitted his brow together. “I said the key to a rosary is what it means to the individual.”
“That’s it!” I said, running for the door. “Thank you, Father! You’ve been such a huge help!”
“A key?” Ash said, looking at me like I was crazy.
“Yes, I think the rosary was either holding a key or possibly the key itself.” I held up the results of my Google search to show him. “Look at all of these. Every single one has a mechanism by which you can slide the top of the crucifix over or unscrew a tiny little invisible screw on the bottom to reveal a hidden compartment.”
He took the phone from me and studied the images. I moved around to his side of the desk so I could look with him. “And these,” I said, taking the phone and calling up the search I’d done for crucifix keys, “you slide over this shield, and the sides of the crosses have been carved into the shape of a key. It’s very subtle, not something you’d necessarily notice if you didn’t know what you were looking for.”
Ash studied the pictures silently. Every now and then he’d enlarge a photo and bring the phone closer to his face.
“Did Balzichek’s rosary look anything like these? Could it have had a hidden chamber?” I asked.
“I suppose it’s possible,” he said as he handed back my phone. “It was bigger than most of the other rosaries I’ve seen, but I’m not Catholic. I’m no expert.”
“See, that’s the thing. Most people here aren’t. Carl isn’t. And even if you were, it’s not like you’d be suspicious of someone hiding something inside a rosary. It’s kind of brilliant, actually.”
“If it is a key, what do you think it opens?” Ash swiveled his chair around to face me.
I’d thought about that on my bike over here from St. Paul’s. “The obvious answer is some sort of a safe or safe deposit box.”
“Maybe it contains proof of who murdered him—like in the movies where the person leaves a letter saying, ‘If you’re reading this, then I’m probably already dead.’ ”
I laughed. “I know this all sounds a little far-fetched, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past few months, it’s that you just never know.”
“You going to tell the sheriff your theory?”
“Definitely.”
“They probably have pictures of it in the evidence locker. Maybe someone over there could blow up the images.”
“Good idea,” I said, putting my phone back into my purse. “I’ll let you know what he says.”
Ash stood up to walk me out. “Thanks for…well, for everything you’re doing,” he said as we got to the front door of Campbell & Sons. “I know it’s not all for me or anything, but…” he let his sentence trail off.
I felt a blush beginning. “Just doing my job.” I smiled. “But I hope it’ll help.”
I was halfway down the steps toward my bicycle when he called out, “Listen, after this is all over, maybe I could take you out for a drink to say thanks or something?”
“Fraternize with a reporter? You sure about that?”
He laughed. “Maybe I’m reconsidering my position on reporters?”
I slung my purse across my chest and climbed onto my bike. “If you’re not careful there, Ash, I just may start to think you’re actually a nice guy.”