“So what am I doing?” asked Uncle Morty, freshly showered and feeling feisty. “Sitting here with my thumb up my ass.”
“Thanks for the visual,” I said. “But no, you will be hacking the church to find out what they knew and when they knew it.”
He dropped onto my poor sofa and ran a dishcloth over his red face.
I snatched the dishcloth away and held it out at arm’s length. “Gross. This is for dishes.”
“I’m sweaty again.”
“How is that possible?” I asked. “You just took a shower.”
“It’s hot in here.”
It was not hot. It was sixty-seven degrees in my living room and sweat was beading up on his forehead. There was something wrong with him.
“I want you to go to the doctor,” I said. “This isn’t normal.”
“I ain’t never been normal,” said Uncle Morty.
There was no arguing with that. “You’re still getting checked out.”
He eyed me for weaknesses and found none. “When you get off the list. Not before. Don’t ask me.”
“Fine.” I tossed him the dishcloth. “Don’t drip on my sofa.”
“Whatever,” he said. “There aren’t gonna be any church records about Father What’s-his-face.”
“Dominic. Why not? The church’s digitalized.”
“The Vatican is digitized. All the manuscripts, incunabula, stuff like that. The parish stuff from that far back would still be paper. What do you want to find anyway?”
I told him about the church not reporting Maggie missing and the rest of it. Uncle Morty scowled and more sweat rolled down his face. He had issues with the church and organized religion, in general. I suspected that the word “organized” was the key.
“I’ll take a peek, but the most I’ll get is a list of priests in the parish at the time,” he said.
“Oh, good,” I said. “Get that.”
“What for?”
Uncle Morty got a to-do list. I think he’d have been happier with the thumb thing. I needed to know if Father Dominic had a car, and, if so, what kind. If he didn’t, I wanted to know if any of his fellow priests did. He could’ve borrowed a car. After that, I wanted any newspaper articles on his death. I doubted from what Myrtle said that there would be any, but you never know. After that, it was all about the families, Maggie’s and Dominic’s. Was anyone still alive that was around at the time? Was there anybody period?
“Alright. Fine. I’ll get that crap. When are you going to St. Sebastian?” he asked as he began typing on two keyboards at once. It really was fascinating to watch.
“Tomorrow.” I threw on a jacket and checked the time. Myrtle should have Millicent out of the house by then.
“Today. Hit it today, hard and fast.”
“This isn’t a surgical strike on an enemy stronghold,” I said.
“That’s what you think. Get out. I’m busy.”
I got out of my own apartment and called Chuck on the way down the stairs. He was happy that I didn’t go to Greece until he found out why and that Uncle Morty was now living with me. But for the moment, all he could focus on was apartments and a pile of new possibilities. My guy was thinking about laundry rooms and counter space. I think he was nesting, but that didn’t seem like something hot cops did.
I promised to consider how big a washer we might need and got off the phone after he asked if I needed a potting room. What the heck is a potting room?
Outside the sun was already waning, but I pulled my poof ball hat down low and put on a pair of sunglasses. I looked stupid. But what can I say? I felt better. Anonymous.
By some miracle I got over to Hawthorne Avenue without getting harassed and dashed down the alley, letting myself into the stables/garage. If I’d have been thinking, I wouldn’t have done that. But thinking isn’t my strong suit so I didn’t and I ran smack dab into Rocco Licata, sitting on the floor in front of a car that had never been there before. A ruby red 1935 Auburn Boattail Speedster.
I did an about face, but Rocco shot out a hand and grabbed my ankle. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Away from you.
“I forgot something.” I kicked my leg but didn’t manage to shake him loose. “Let go.”
“You forgot to avoid me.”
Correct.
“I’m not avoiding you. I’m busy.”
“I called you fifteen times.”
“Stalker.”
Rocco jumped to his feet so fast I wasn’t able to make a break for it and grabbed my arm. “My sister’s acting weird. Tiny’s acting weird. Do something.”
“You do something.”
“Is that bastard breaking up with my sister?” Rocco got in my face and it was not pleasant. He wasn’t the beast his sister was at a mere five ten, but he had the same look in his eye that Fats got when we were talking to a suspect. Violence was always an option.
“Not that I know of,” I said quickly. “What’s he doing?”
“Acting weird.”
“That’s not descriptive.”
“He keeps asking me what’s wrong with her. She keeps asking me what’s wrong with him.”
“Maybe nothing’s wrong,” I said.
“Something’s wrong. People don’t ask if something’s wrong, if nothing’s wrong. Got it?”
“I guess. I didn’t know you liked Tiny that much.” I tried to get his fingers off my bicep. It was not happening and I was losing the blood supply to my hand.
“He’s fine, but I think he might be sleeping with Princess Porks-a-lot.”
Was there any doubt?
“Er…maybe. Fats is a grown woman. She can decide.”
“Damn straight, but she takes this shit seriously,” said Rocco with a dangerous glint in his eye. “She’s picky. There’s only been a few guys.”
I hope they’re still alive.
I decided it was best not to point out that I happened to know that Fats wasn’t all that picky. She slept with Lorenzo Fibonacci, who, while unbelievably hot, had his intelligence unfavorably compared to a meatball.
“I get it and the last time I saw Tiny he was still in love with Fats,” I said.
“In love?”
“Yes.”
“With my sister?”
I wasn’t sure where this was going, but it probably wasn’t good. “I have to go. I’m doing a thing for Myrtle, your boss. Can’t be late.”
His grip on my arm tightened and I squeaked.
“Tiny loves my sister?” asked Rocco. “You sure? Fats? Six foot five hundred. A thousand pounds of muscle.”
“She’s not that big, but yes. Mary Elizabeth Licata. Your sister.”
Rocco let go my arm and slapped his thigh. “Holy shit! I never thought I’d see the day.”
I backed away slowly toward the garden door. “So you’re happy.”
“Hell, yeah. My mom wants grandchildren and I am not made for that business. She’s serious about him?” he asked.
“I think so.” I got in front of the doorknob and turned it slowly.
“Hey! Where are you going?” Rocco came over and grabbed me. “What do you think about this car?”
“Er…nothing. Can I go? I’ve got stuff and things.”
Rocco held a battered toothbrush aloft. “This is a 1935 Auburn—”
“Well, I know that.”
“Why did you say you didn’t know?” asked Rocco. The warning was back.
I grabbed the toothbrush and smacked him with it. “Because I’ve got stuff to do. What’s with the toothbrush?”
“I’m cleaning the headlamps. A thing of beauty and a winning thing of beauty.”
“Huh?”
“This is The Girls’ grandmother’s car. It’s usually over at Prie Dieu. I got them to let me bring it over so I can clean it up.”
I eyed him. “What for?”
“The Amelia Island Concours d’Elegance,” he said proudly.
“A car show?”
“For charity. This baby could win. She is in original mint condition.” He leaned in close, his minty breath hot on my cheek.
Oh, no. Not good.
“Good luck with that.” I went for the door, but he slammed a palm against it. I had no hope. “What do you want, Rocco?”
Rocco bent over me, his liquid brown eyes boring into mine. Did I mention that Rocco, despite being named Rocco, is hot and smells fantastic. He had all of Fats’ electric power without the 250 pounds of beef.
“I want you to fix my sister and Tiny. I don’t like her talking to me about feelings. I don’t have feelings. I’m against it.” He moved in closer.
I rolled my eyes, but my stomach was churning. “And?”
“You like me.”
Like? No. Want…
“Get off me, ya turd.” I shoved him back. “I’ll see what’s up with Fats and Tiny. Happy?”
“Mildly. Now about the car,” he said, moving in again.
“Look, Skinny McSwizzle Stick, if you want this car to go to that show, I suggest you ask The Girls.”
“Don’t call me that.” Rocco turned red.
“That’s what Fats calls you,” I said sweetly.
“I can’t believe she told you that.”
“She also told me that you had some tummy trouble when you were ten at a sleepover.”
“I will kill her.”
“I’d totally pay to see you try.”
Rocco picked up his phone and started yelling as I went out into the garden. Strike one against family unity. The scary thing was that if Tiny did marry Fats, Rocco Licata was part of the deal. My dad had yet to notice the Licatas in our midst. When he did, it wasn’t going to be pretty. He always said we had to be above reproach, no questionable business dealings, connections, etc. The Licatas were neck deep in the Fibonacci crime family and I’d dipped my toes in, too. Not on purpose, but I dreaded that coming out.
“Mercy!” Joy called out from the back door. “Where have you been?”
I jogged up. “Rocco waylaid me.”
“I thought so. He is absolutely fixated on that car. I caught him cleaning the dash with Q-tips the other day.”
“He might be obsessive.”
She grinned at me. “But he looks good doing it. I only wish we had a pool.”
“Joy.” I fluttered my hand over my chest.
“I’m just saying.”
She and I giggled our way up to the attic, gossiping about the hotness of Rocco and a few others. She thought Chuck won hands down, although he lost points for the crazy presents thing and advised that I handle all finances if we got married. That was a must. I’d seen him buy Kobe beef treats for Pickpocket. If we’re not eating Kobe beef, neither is the dog.
After about an hour of digging through the attic, we found Mrs. Perkins’ household diaries. They were remarkable and not a little OCD. I got the feeling that she’d have kept a record of the family’s bowel movements, if she could’ve. The diaries were on a shelf, organized by year, twelve diaries to a year. Joy found the right year and month and we hunched over it, holding a flashlight and trying not to breathe too deeply. The books were turning to dust, which was kind of a shame. It was a detailed account of a famous family, done without sentiment or embellishment.
Myrtle called Mrs. Perkins’ books diaries, but that made them sound small. They weren’t small. They were legal ledger sized and had everything in them. They were Mrs. Perkins’ smartphone.
“Here we go,” said Joy. “December third. 1965.” She chuckled. “She got up at five in the morning every day. Nightmare.”
I bent over the book. “She lived-in then?”
“In one of the apartments over the stable. Let’s see the day’s to-do list. Cook made breakfast for service at seven, like Myrtle said. I’m surprised she didn’t count the grains of salt used.”
“They probably did walk at eight until quarter to nine.”
“Hold on. I bet that’s here. She’s a nut,” said Joy.
Mrs. Perkins was meticulous. The breakfast menu was there and included any dislikes by the family. Millicent was judged not to have liked her sausage. There was a lunch menu and dinner. A cleaning schedule. Staff schedule. Joy turned the page and found exactly what we needed. The family activities schedule. The Girls did walk at eight for exactly forty-six minutes and Lawton came back with a little cough. He was immediately bundled off to the nursery by Nanny who gave him a medicinal bath.
I pointed at a line that was originally printed in black ink, but then crossed out in red.
Millicent 10 a.m. Meeting with Sister Maggie—St. Vincent affairs
The one thing that Mrs. Perkins didn’t note was when the call came in to cancel, but we didn’t really need it. Sister Maggie had a small window to disappear. At most, two hours, but probably less.
“So now we know the meeting with the bishop must’ve been at ten,” said Joy. “Does it help?”
“Not yet,” I said. “But it will. Someone got between Maggie and that meeting. I have to find out where she would’ve been that morning and where the meeting was.”
“I know that,” said Joy. “She’d have gone to the bishop with the doctor.”
“Where though?”
“The offices are in Shrewsbury now. They probably were then.”
“If she was at the asylum that morning and Dr. Desarno worked there…”
Joy grabbed my arm. “They would’ve gone together.”
“Who was that doctor?” I asked.
She grinned at me. “It can’t be that hard to find out.”
I called Uncle Morty and gave him Dr. Desarno’s name. As he predicted there wasn’t anything online about Father Dominic. He did find out which rectory he would’ve lived at and the names of all the priests that lived there at the time. Four priests had cars registered to them and Uncle Morty was running down the cars to see if they still existed somewhere. I didn’t think it was necessary, but you never know. A couple of years ago, Dad took a thirty-year-old cold case and found a likely suspect in the neighborhood loser that had been known solely for boosting cars. Twenty years later though, he’d been convicted of rape and attempted murder. Dad had Morty track down the car that the guy stole around the time of the murder. It was sitting in a barn slowing disintegrating, but, low and behold, the fabric in the trunk was intact and had the victim’s blood on the underside. That guy’s on death row now.
“What about the families?” I asked. “Are they still in St. Louis?”
Uncle Morty was typing so fast it sounded like one continual keystroke. “Hold on.”
Joy and I went into the kitchen for coffee and I tore into a coffee cake that Millicent must’ve made. It had her combo of allspice and nutmeg in the streusel topping. Delicious.
“He ain’t your guy,” said Uncle Morty.
“Dominic?” I asked.
“The doc.”
“How do you know?”
“Check your phone.”
He continued to type and I found pictures of Dr. Desarno in my inbox.
“He’s not that old,” I said. “If he incapacitated her somehow with a blow to the head, he could’ve done it.”
Uncle Morty snorted. “The dude is seventy-two going on ninety. He had prostate cancer and a heart condition.”
“Dr. Desarno was probably the last per—”
“He died four days after Sister Maggie disappeared. That’s how healthy he was. That guy did not kidnap a young, healthy nun and strangle her.”
My mind raced around, trying to escape the feeling in my gut. Something wasn’t right. Four days? Ah, crap.
“Mercy?” asked Uncle Morty.
“Yeah.”
“Goddammit, girl.”
“What?” I asked.
“You got a feeling about that geezer, don’t you? Forget it. He had a heart attack.”
The feeling got stronger. I couldn’t ignore it. The Tommy Watts in me wouldn’t allow that.
“Where?” I asked. “And how?”
He grumbled and started typing again.
Joy whispered, “What is it?”
“Dr. Desarno died four days after Maggie disappeared,” I said. “Heart attack.”
She shrugged. “You think he died from stress over murdering her? Do murderers do that?”
“Not as a general rule, but that’s not what I’m thinking.”
Uncle Morty came back. “It ain’t nothing. Heart attack after a car accident. Like I said that guy was in no shape to be murdering anybody.”
I didn’t think the feeling that something wasn’t right could get any stronger, but it did.
“Where did that happen?” I asked.
“I don’t have a police report. It’s 1965 for fuck’s sake.”
“What do you have?”
“Newspaper.”
“Lay it on me.”
The articles and Dr. Desarno’s obituary laid it out pretty well. Dr. Desarno—man of impeccable reputation—got hit in his 1963 Buick Riviera in the parking lot of the asylum, which caused a severe coronary, killing him. The original article said that the good doctor was in stable health, despite his condition at the time of the accident. In other words, Dr. Desarno wasn’t on death’s doorstep. The article blamed the accident for his untimely death and the police were searching for the hit and run driver. The vehicle they were looking for was a green Dodge pickup truck, but it didn’t say why.
“I take it they never found the truck,” I said.
“No.”
“You know what I’m getting at, right?”
He grumbled, “You’re gettin’ distracted. You just gotta get Maggie’s case reopened. That’s it. Focus, Mercy.”
“Not anymore. The Girls need this solved. That’s the goal.”
Cursing spewed out of my phone and Joy took a step back, wrinkling her nose. “He’s salty.”
“He’s something,” I said, waiting for the avalanche to peter out.
“So what’s next?” she asked.
“I’m going to call a lanky detective with a great butt and ask a little favor.”
“Sidney Wick?”
We both burst out laughing. Sid was Chuck’s partner. He was a great guy and excellent detective, but about as far as you could get from lanky. I didn’t know about his butt and I didn’t want to.
“What are you chicks laughing about?” snarled Uncle Morty. “This ain’t funny. I’ve got to get to Greece before Nikki falls for that hairdo with abs.”
I swallowed the last of my laughter. “Sorry, but I can’t help it if this isn’t simple.”
“Just stay on Maggie.”
“I will, if I can.”
“Give me one good reason why you think this decrepit old doctor kicking it in a parking lot has anything to do with Maggie,” said Uncle Morty.
“The church delayed reporting her missing.”
“Yeah?”
“For four days.”
“Shit.”
“Yup.”
“Could be a coincidence,” he said.
I smiled. It was so much fun to bother him. “Could be.”
“But it ain’t.”
“No.”
“We gotta go get the accident report. That isn’t online.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I know a guy that wants to show me houses.”
“You don’t play fair.”
It was my turn to snort. “This coming from the guy camping out on my sofa.”
“Point taken. What else you need?” Uncle Morty asked.
“Did you find any family?”
I was in luck, sort of. Dominic was an only child and his surviving relatives were third cousins living in Colorado. They probably didn’t know his name, but Maggie’s family was living in Dogtown, mere blocks from St. James the Greater where her funeral was.
“Who are they exactly?” I asked.
“We got a Patrick Mullanphy. He’s the grandson of Maggie’s uncle.”
I made a face. “That’s close and not close at the same time.”
“Oh, it’s close. The family built that house in 1935. Maggie was raised in it.”
“Score!”
He chuckled and it was nice to hear. I’d hardly gotten a smile out of him since Nikki left.
“You got any more questions for me?” he asked.
It was one of those leading questions. All in the tone.
“I guess I do.”
Uncle Morty went silent while continuing to type. I went through what we had. I’d missed something, but I had no clue what.
“What’s going on?” asked Joy.
“I’m forgetting something. He wants me to guess what it is.”
Joy looked at the clock and grabbed the phone from me. “Just tell her, you pain in the ass. We don’t have time for this crap.”
She gave me the phone and it took me a second to recover. Strong words from a prim housekeeper.
“You got that?” I asked Uncle Morty.
“I got it,” he said. “You forgot about Dominic.”
“I didn’t forget him.”
“The church did.”
“Huh?”
“Google the poor bastard.”
I asked Joy if I could use Millicent’s iPad that lived on the counter for recipes and quickly googled Father Dominic Kelly. Zero hits. I tried every combo I could think of. Priest. Suicide. Catholic. First name only. Last name only.
“He doesn’t exist,” I said.
“Now try this one. Father Bernard Potter.”
Potter didn’t have lots of hits, but he had them.
“Who is he?”
“Another priest living at the rectory with Dominic. It’s the same with everyone else at the time. They exist. He doesn’t.”
“What about newspapers?” I asked.
“We’ve got two mentions. The first one is him starting a medical outreach at a homeless shelter with a picture. Good looking guy. You’d never figure he’d jump off a bridge six months later.”
“What’s the second?”
“An article about him jumping off the Eades Bridge. Looks like it came in just under the print deadline about four hours after he jumped.”
“No follow-up?”
“Nope.”
“Does it mention a connection to Maggie?”
Uncle Morty read it out to me and it wasn’t what I expected. The reporter didn’t say suicide. He said, “fallen to his death”. Three witnesses said they’d seen a man fall and a car belonging to Father Bernard Potter was found nearby. Father Bernard confirmed that Father Dominic borrowed the car to run an errand. He said that Father Dominic seemed fine and he didn’t think that he was going to harm himself. It did say that Father Dominic was a close, personal friend of Sister Maggie, the recently murdered nun, and knew Dr. Desarno, victim of a hit and run.
The article sounded a whole lot like Uncle Morty’s leading question. The reporter was suspicious and he wasn’t trying to hide it.
“What was the errand?” I asked.
“Doesn’t say. But listen to this. ‘Another person was seen on the bridge by a fourth witness at the same time. Police are seeking to identify this unknown man. Any information, blah, blah, blah’.”
“Oh, my God.”
“It don’t mean he was pushed,” said Uncle Morty.
“It means that reporter thought he was and that’s a good place to start.”
The wind went out of his sails. “If our body count keeps going up, I’m never getting to Greece.”
“We’ll get there,” I said. “We’ve just got a little more to do.”
“A little? Three freaking murders and they are ice cold,” he said.
“We’ll just have to heat them up. Find out if any of those priests are still alive and take a peek at Bishop Fowler. See what his problem was.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“Interviews.”
I hung up and Joy asked, “What can I do?”
“Call Mary and see if I can come over for a chat.”
Joy called Mary’s daughter to see what kind of shape Mary was in and I called Chuck. He was in an autopsy, waiting for a slug to be dug out of some poor guy’s brain, so he was bored and chatty. Less so when it became clear that I wanted a favor.
“You have got to be kidding?” he asked.
“How hard can it be?” I used my wheedling voice, good for getting candy bars in checkout lines and extra time on research papers.
“A hit and run in 1965? Who cares?”
“Your girlfriend. Uncle Morty, who’s living on my couch until this job is done. The Girls. Joy.”
“Alright. Alright,” said Chuck. “I’m not giving you that report, just so you know.”
I rolled my eyes at Joy and she rolled hers back, whispering, “Men.”
“I don’t need to see it. You’ll see it. You’re a really great detective. You’ll know if it’s hinky.”
Chuck was preening. I could tell and it was adorable.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Dr. Desarno was hit in a parking lot. I want to know how hard.”
“Hard enough to kill him,” said Chuck. “But…you say he was in stable condition.”
I smiled. “Yes.”
“Parking lots are generally minor fender benders. Maybe fifteen miles an hour, if it’s big enough, but people slam on their brakes and the contact should be less. He was in a Buick Riviera?”
I grinned at Joy and gave her a thumbs-up. “He was. Those are big cars, aren’t they?”
“They’re boats and heavy. My third stepfather had one. It was a beast. You’d have to hit it with some speed to cause an occupant any real damage. Five or ten miles an hour? I doubt it, but he did have a heart condition. I have to see the report. Pictures will be helpful.” Chuck went on. He was working it through like my dad did. Thinking out loud. He went through the connections. Doctor was a witness in Maggie’s disappearance. An unknown suspect on the bridge at the time of Father Dominic’s fall. Three witnesses to the fall didn’t see the second person on the bridge. Why? Who saw the second person on the bridge?
“I like it,” he said. “I think you’re on to something.”
“Excellent. I don’t suppose you could take a peek at Father Dominic’s file?”
“I got it on the list. So Morty doesn’t think we looked at Sister Maggie’s case, even though it logically originated here?”
“That’s what he said.”
Chuck was quiet for a moment and I knew that silence. He was a cop and that went to the bone. He didn’t want to say that the department screwed the pooch on Maggie’s disappearance and murder, but it didn’t look good.
“I’ll let you know,” he said finally.
“Tonight at dinner,” I said.
The worry turned happy. “Your place? I’ll bring wine.”
Wine. You sneaky bastard.
“No way. Not with Uncle Morty stinking up the place. Let’s meet at Kronos at eight.”
“This is why we need to move out of the city proper. No more uncle camping.”
I ignored that volley and we said goodbye.
Joy rinsed out her cup and put it in the dishwasher. “Mary’s having a good day. We can see her now.”
“We?” I asked.
“I want to go. I’ve never investigated anything before.”
“Won’t Millicent expect you to be here when they get back?” I kept the hope out of my voice. I didn’t relish a partner. I just wanted to interview and get the job done. No chatting. No nothing. Done.
“Oh. You’re probably right.” Joy was so crestfallen, I broke down and promised to give her an update as soon as I was done with Mary.
It worked and I escaped without a partner. It lasted exactly thirty-five seconds.