James caught up with Jonathan near the Spanish-American War monument in Forsyth Park.
Jonathan slowed to a walk as James pedaled alongside him.
“I’ve already done three miles,” Jonathan said. “Where have you been?”
“The bike had a flat tire,” James said. “I had to stop at that gas station on Victory to pump it up, and I saw somebody I used to know, and they wanted to know why I quit the priesthood, and all that.” He threw up his hands. “The usual chat. Sometimes I think I should write down the reasons on a business card and hand it out to people.”
“You could just tell them you quit because you’re gay.”
“But that’s not the reason,” James said.
“No, but it would certainly stall the other questions,” Jonathan said.
They circled Forsyth Park twice more, Jonathan running at a slow steady pace to allow James to keep up with him.
“I had dinner with Weezie last night,” Jonathan said as they were halfway down the Drayton Street side of the park.
“Where?”
“At Merijoy and Randy Rucker’s house, at supper club. Mother and I met Weezie, and her friend.”
“Which friend is that?” James asked.
“His name is Daniel Stipanek,” Jonathan said. “They seemed very taken with one another. Really a cute couple, was the consensus.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of a boyfriend,” James said. “But that’s good. She needs to get on with her life. What’s he like?”
“Nice,” Jonathan said. “He’s a chef at Guale, that restaurant Weezie’s friend BeBe owns. He’s well spoken, intelligent, and”—he grinned,—“he couldn’t keep his hands off her all night. They left before dessert. Merijoy had the impression they wanted to be alone.”
“They can’t have been dating very long. Weezie’s never even mentioned him to me.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Jonathan said. “We’ve been dating for months now, and she doesn’t know anything about me, does she?”
“No,” James admitted. “She knows I’m seeing somebody. And she said she was glad. But she doesn’t know who you are.”
“For now, I think you’d better keep it that way,” Jonathan said. He slowed again, put his hands on his hips, and bent forward. “Let’s go get a drink,” he said, pointing to the drinking fountain near the Confederate memorial.
James walked the bike to the fountain and they both took long drinks of the lukewarm water.
“There was some interesting talk at dinner last night. About Caroline DeSantos,” Jonathan said. “None of it flattering.”
“Was any of it useful—I mean, to Weezie?”
“Could be,” Jonathan said. He told James about the real estate agents who’d shown the Gaston Street house to Caroline, and about her anonymous friend.
“You know I can’t get involved in any of this,” Jonathan said. “I’ve already told the DA that I have a conflict of interest. But I would suggest you talk to Weezie as soon as possible. Get her to tell you the story Anna and Emily Flanders told us.”
“And then what?” James asked. “Do you think I should talk to the owner of that house on Gaston Street?”
“Yes,” Jonathan said. “See if you can get a better description of this mystery man. And find out what kind of car he was driving.”
James nodded. “I’ve been thinking about why Caroline was killed. If Weezie didn’t kill her, who did?”
“That’s what the cops want to know too,” Jonathan said. “And by the way, I hear you’ve been promoted to saint status by Detective Bradley.”
James made a dismissing motion. “All I did was try to cool him down, and call the EMTs. It really isn’t that big a deal.”
“It’s a big deal to Jay Bradley,” Jonathan said. “Don’t underestimate the importance of having the lead detective in this case thinking he’s indebted to you. It can only help Weezie’s cause.”
James got back on the bike. “If it helps Weezie, I guess I can let Jay Bradley think he owes me.”
“What are you going to do next?” Jonathan asked.
“Next? I’m going to go home and take a long shower and then collapse,” James said. “Then I’m going to take a look at Anna Ruby Mullinax’s will.”
“You got a copy? So soon? How did you swing that?”
“Simple,” James said, pleased with himself. “One of the women in the probate clerk’s office used to be in my parish here. I baptized her first child.”
“Very good,” Jonathan said. “I think you’re finally figuring out how Savannah works.”
James ran a comb through his wet hair. It was still thick and wiry, but the deep ginger color of his youth was a memory. Now there was more gray than red. With his glasses, he looked like what he was, a middle-aged lawyer, fast approaching the far side of his fifties.
He went into the study and pulled out the file containing the Mullinax will.
It was ponderous reading. He’d studied wills and estates what, twenty-five years ago? When he’d gone to law school following the seminary, he’d never really intended to practice law. Canon law had been his specialty, although he’d not had much use for it in his career as a parish priest.
After an hour he set the will aside. It was a seemingly clear-cut document, executed only two months earlier. In it, Miss Mullinax, being without any surviving relatives, left the bulk of her estate to a nonprofit entity called the Willis J. Mullinax Foundation. She also directed that her real property, Beaulieu Plantation, and all its contents be disposed of, with the proceeds from the sale to be distributed to the foundation. The will named Gerry Blankenship executor of the estate, and also director of the Mullinax Foundation.
Odd, James thought. But not strictly illegal. He’d also gone over the legal papers setting up the foundation. Its purpose seemed extremely vague. Although the documents provided that the foundation’s funds were to be used “to provide vocational training and community leadership assistance to local youth and young adults,” there were no directions about how this should be accomplished.
The sale of Beaulieu to the paper company should generate millions in revenue for the foundation, James knew. But how would that money be used for vocational training?
What James did not find odd or vague was the provision that the foundation be run by its director, Gerald Blankenship, at a salary “commensurate with his duties and responsibilities.”
In other words, Gerry Blankenship could raid the foundation’s coffers at will. Nice work if you can get it, James thought.
When he was through reading the file, he looked over the page of notes he’d scrawled on a yellow legal pad.
There was more research to be done. He wanted to find out when the Coastal Paper Products sale had taken place, and what the sale price had been.
He’d also made a note about the people who’d witnessed Anna Ruby’s will. Grady and Juanita Traylor. He knew those names—but why?
He doodled on the notepad, drew arrows and dots, even a church steeple, hoping that the aimless sketching would free up his subconscious.
The phone rang. He picked it up.
“James?” It was his sister-in-law, Marian. She was breathless, excited.
“Hello, Marian,” he said, sketching a bourbon bottle. “How are you?”
“I’m blessed, James. Really blessed.”
“How nice,” he said. Marian had always been something of a religious zealot. “So few of us these days stop to realize how fortunate we are.”
“No, James, not fortunate. Blessed. I’ve had a vision, James.”
He put down his pen.
“What kind of a vision? Where are you, Marian?”
“I’m at my cousin Lucy’s house. She died last week, you know.”
“God rest her soul.” He said it automatically. “Did I know this cousin?” Marian’s side of the family, the Brannens, was a huge, sprawling tangle of aunts, uncles, cousins, etc. Marian herself was one of eleven children.
“Lucy Sullivan McKuen, she was. On my mother’s side,” Marian said. “You remember Lucy. She was the Avon lady.”
“Oh yes.” He had a cabinet full of evil-smelling potions the old lady had badgered him into purchasing. Horrible person, with pink powdered cheeks and green-tinted eyelids.
“I’ve been out here at Lucy’s house in Thunderbolt, sorting things out,” Marian said. “So that the house can be sold. Lucy was a maiden lady, you know, so the cousins will inherit.”
He was sketching again. “Uh-huh. Yes. How nice.”
“James, Lucy had this statue. It was in the hallway, in a little niche, right near the phone. The Infant of Prague. I was sweeping up in there, and I accidentally knocked the statue over. Onto the floor.”
He tsk-tsked. “I’m sure it was an accident. I hear they have some lovely statues over at the gift shop at St. Joseph’s.”
“It didn’t break,” she whispered.
“Thank heavens,” he said. He started sketching the Infant of Prague, whom he remembered as a chubby-cheeked child dressed in a long robe with a high wimple sort of collar—and a halo, of course. He tried to remember the legend behind the Infant of Prague. He did know that the Infant was regarded as some sort of household mascot by old-line Catholics. His two sisters had Infant of Prague statues in their homes, and his own mother had had one prominently displayed on a windowsill in the kitchen—in this very house. He’d packed away most of his mother’s trinkets when he’d taken possession of the house, but somehow he hadn’t wanted to displace the Infant.
“James,” Marian was saying, “I set the Infant on the kitchen counter so that I could wipe it down with Pine Sol. Lucy wasn’t much of a housekeeper, God rest her soul. And then after I’d cleaned it and dried it off, I put it back in the hallway niche. I went back to my cleaning and sorting, and ten minutes later, I was back in that hall. I glanced over and the Infant was crying. The Infant wept!”
“My goodness.” James did not know what to say.
“It’s a miracle, don’t you think?” she went on. “I got right down on my knees in the hallway. Well, first, I ran the sweeper. It’s really shocking how dirty the house was. But after I ran the sweeper, I got down on my knees and said two decades of my rosary. Was that the right thing to do, James?”
He sketched faster. Now he was drawing Marian, and a set of rosary beads, and a crucifix, around the bottle of Four Roses. Marian had been a closet lush for as long as he’d known her. But having visions was a new development.
“Well, Marian,” he said finally. “I’m sure it never hurts to spend some quiet time in prayer and reflection.”
“I know why the Infant was crying, James. And that’s why I called you. The Infant weeps for sins.”
He put the pen down again. How much bourbon had she had? And how much did she know about his private life? He’d been so discreet. So circumspect.
“What sins? Why is the Infant weeping?”
“Weezie,” Marian said. “He’s weeping for Weezie.”
“And what sin is Weezie supposed to have committed?” James was really perplexed. Weezie and Marian had never had a close relationship. Marian just didn’t understand her daughter. But he knew she loved Weezie deeply.
“The divorce, of course,” Marian said. “The church doesn’t recognize divorce. It’s an abomination. And what about that woman she killed? That’s why the Infant weeps.”
“Marian,” he said sternly. “Weezie did not kill that woman. Your daughter is a kind, loving person. She is not a sinner. That divorce was not her idea. Tal was the adulterer, not Weezie.”
“No,” Marian said. “The Infant wants Weezie to repent. I prayed for an hour about this, James, and that’s what the Infant wants. Talk to Weezie, James. She trusts you. You’re her godfather. She’ll listen to you. You’re a priest.”
“I’m not a priest anymore, Marian,” James said, sighing. “And I can’t ask Weezie to repent for a sin she didn’t commit.”
“I’ll just have to keep praying then,” she said serenely. And she disconnected.