An Affair to Dismember (23 page)

Holden turned off the motor. “Murder has got your color up. You’re flushed.”

“Solving two murders has got my color up. Getting the crazy Terns family off my back has got my color up. C’mon, let’s go get Chuck Costas,” I said.

I reined in my gung ho attitude after I walked into the church. Whereas from the outside the church was a nondescript little wooden building, not out of place in any Western town, the inside of the church was resplendent. It stopped me in my tracks, calmed me down, and
put me in a spiritual frame of mind, which I guessed was the architect’s intention.

The church dated from the eighteen hundreds like the town itself. It had high ceilings supported by whitewashed wooden beams. The pews were covered in red velvet. The sides were decorated with stone sculptures of various saints, and behind the nave were rows of lit red candles and another set of doors.

Holden pointed back toward the candles. “The confessional is back there.”

It looked like a large wooden closet, and the door was closed.

“Maybe he’s in there right now,” said Holden, reading my thoughts.

“What should we do?” It was probably a question I should have thought over before I walked into the church. What exactly was I going to do when I caught up with Chuck Costas? Point at him, tell him he’s been a bad boy, and order him to follow me to the police station?

If Chuck Costas was the killer, then he might be after me, too. I could be his next victim, and here I was handing myself over to him on a silver platter without any means of defense. I looked over at Holden. He was definitely fit, but how would he do against a two-time murderer, a former gang member, and most likely a knish thrower? I could have kicked myself for not bringing along Spencer. Spencer had a gun and backup. But he also had an attitude, and he would never have allowed me to walk into the church to confront a fake dead murderer. He would have sent me home or arrested me or not have believed me about Chuck Costas in the first place.

Holden raised an eyebrow. “What should we do? We could wait until the door opens and see if it’s him. He’s an old guy, right?”

“Yes.”

“I think we should play it by ear.”

We stood at the front pew and watched the closed confessional for a sign of life. The church was empty and quiet, and I was just wondering if the Catholic community in Cannes had gone the way of the gold miners when the confessional door opened. I was greeted by a familiar face—so familiar I almost fainted in shock.

I PUT my arm out for Holden to steady me. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

“What? Huh? You?” I sputtered.

“It’s not what you think! Well, it is, but hear me out.” Bridget, my atheistic, religion-hating, establishment-hating friend, pushed her glasses up her nose. She had broken out into a flop sweat and everything was slipping off her.

“Are you protesting the confessional?” I asked.

“Not exactly.”

“The church?”

“Not really.”

“Religion?”

“Well …”

“The Vatican?”

Bridget’s glasses slipped from her nose and fell to the floor with a small crunch. Her body sweated and shook with equal force. I was close to calling the paramedics. Finally she erupted.

“I’m a Catholic!” Her voice echoed against the rafters like thunder. “I can’t hide it any longer. I’m a Catholic. I go to mass every day, and I have to go in disguise so no one notices me.”

“You go to mass
every day
?” I asked.

“I’ll just be over there by the candles, looking around,” said Holden. I had forgotten he was there. I nodded and watched him walk to the back of the church.

“Do you mind if I sit?” I asked Bridget. I sat in the first pew. It felt good to be off my feet. The pew was more comfortable than it looked. Bridget bent down and picked up the remains of her glasses. She was practically blind without them, and I had to guide her hand to find them.

“Darn,” she said, fingering the broken lenses. “These were brand-new.” She squinted at me. I patted the seat next to me and she sat, the glasses still clutched in her hand. “I can’t see a blessed thing,” she said, peering closely at my face. “You look an awful lot like George Bush now.”

“Your speech is much cleaner in a church. No swearing.”

Bridged turned red. “You know, Gladie, I come from a real religious family. And old habits die hard. I tried to turn my back on the Church, but I couldn’t. Can you understand?”

“Of course I can. You don’t have to apologize for your beliefs. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“But I gave you the impression—”

“Of being a strident, militant, religion-hating atheist?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I love you for who you are. You don’t have to hide anything from me.”

Bridget sniffed. I took a Kleenex from my purse and handed it to her.

“I want to be a strident, militant, religion-hating atheist,” she said. “I am one, really, but I can’t let go of the Church.”

“Traditions are great. I haven’t had a lot of them. My parents didn’t pass on many traditions to me. Mom liked after-Christmas sales. That was about it.”

Bridget nodded and blew her nose. “The after-Christmas sale is kind of a universal religion, don’t you think? Everyone can get behind it. It builds revenue, and it alleviates economic pressures on at-risk families. Although, you know I’m opposed to the cheap labor being used for today’s products.”

I wrapped my arm around Bridget’s shoulder. “You’re still the same Bridget,” I said.

“What are you doing here with the hunk?” she asked.

“We’ve tracked down Randy Terns’ remaining gang member, Chuck Costas. He’s supposed to show up here for confession. I got the information from a lying priest.”

“A lying priest?”

“It’s a long story, but the important thing is that I’ll finally have this whole mess wrapped up,” I said. “Chuck Costas killed Randy Terns and Jimmy the Fink for the bank robbery money. I know he did it, the thieving, murdering bastard.”

Bridget gasped and crossed herself three times.

“I’m sorry. I forgot where I was,” I said.

The confessional door creaked open, and the priest’s head emerged. I thought for sure I was in for a good knuckle-slapping.

“She didn’t it mean it, Father,” said Bridget. “It’s her first time in a church.”

This information didn’t seem to mollify the old priest. He scowled at me, clearly angry at my outburst. He looked around, then stepped out of the confessional. That’s when I saw the gun in his hand, pointed directly at me.

I stood up, ready to bolt or scream or throw my purse at him.

Bridget stood as well, a dopey smile plastered on her face. “How inconsiderate of me. Father Seymour, this is my dear friend Gladie Burger. Gladie, this is my spiritual advisor, Father Seymour.”

Bridget squinted, blindly making her way toward the armed priest, not seeing the gun in his hand.

“Get back, Bridget, or I’ll shoot,” the priest said with an icy calmness in his voice that made me believe every word.

“Very funny, Father.” Bridget giggled, still unaware of the situation.

“Bridget, he’s got a gun,” I hissed.

“What?”

“A gun. The priest has got a gun.”

“What?”

“I’ve got a gun, Bridget. I’ve got a gun, and I’m going to shoot both of you unless you let me go.”

“I’m all for letting you go,” I said. “I’ll let you go anywhere you want.”

“What’s going on?” asked Bridget, squinting harder.

“Why couldn’t you let well enough alone?” He waved the gun at me. “I had changed my ways, turned over a new leaf. Then you started snooping around and bodies started piling up.”

“Chuck Costas?” I asked.
Ding ding ding
. I’d hit the jackpot. Chuck Costas was now a priest. With a gun. The world is a strange place.

“I even had a tombstone made so nobody would come looking. It cost me two thousand bucks. That was a lot of money in the seventies. Everything was fine until you showed up.”

I thought it was a little uncharitable to blame me since he was the murderer, but I didn’t think it was a good time to remind him.

“The cops will be looking for you now. You should probably give yourself up,” I said.

“Why would the cops be looking for me?”

“They frown on killing two people,” I pointed out.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. My priest has a gun on me. My priest is a killer,” Bridget said, finally taking stock of the situation.

“I didn’t kill anybody,” he said. “I’m the one running. I don’t want to be number three. There’s a crazy person out there. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

“My priest has a gun!” shouted Bridget. She flung her hands out, a little reminiscent of Jesus on the cross, and punched me square in the jaw, sending me flying to the side. Before I could right myself, a shot rang out. I searched my body for unwanted holes, but it was Father Seymour who fell to the ground in a bloody heap, half of his head blown apart into little pieces, some decorating my cotton shirt and jeans.

“Like broken eggs,” I mumbled, and then everything went black.

I WOKE to music, Aerosmith’s “Dream On.” Then a man’s voice.

“Chief Bolton here. No, I dealt with Holden. That’s right. We’ll follow up with Ms. Donovan at another time. Her statement is fine for now.”

I opened my eyes. I was in a hospital room. Spencer was pacing, his cellphone against his ear.

“Did I get shot?” My voice came out gravelly. Spencer clicked off his phone and sat at the edge of my bed.

“Hey there. Are you up for good, or are you going to go away again?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been slipping in and out for a few hours. Concussion,” he said, pointing to my head.

“Was I shot?”

“No. As far we can make out, you fainted and hit your head on a pew.”

“The priest—”

“Was Chuck Costas. Yeah, your friend Bridget filled us in. Do you want to talk about this now, or do you want to rest?”

“Do I have to rest? Am I dying? You’re being awfully nice to me.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not usually nice to you? Scratch that. We don’t need to argue in your condition.”

“My condition?” I asked.

“A slight concussion. Some residual shock. You don’t do well with blood.”

A flash memory of the priest’s head exploding made me shudder. I pulled the covers up to my neck.

“Is Bridget okay?” I asked.

“A little shaken up. She didn’t see much since her glasses were broken. She’s at home with your other friend Lucy. Your grandmother called me ten times. I was clearing up the mess with Peter and Christy Terns, but she insisted I go to the church. I was parking when the shot was fired.”

“I was sure Chuck Costas was the murderer,” I said. “But he told me he was running, hiding. He didn’t want to be number three.”

“Well, he was. A messy number three. But that doesn’t mean Randy and Jimmy were murdered, too.”

“Then who killed Chuck Costas?”

“No witnesses. And there’s no guarantee the bullet was meant for him. It could have been meant for you. You were in the line of fire. Bridget explained how she accidentally pushed you. Maybe it was your head the shooter was aiming for.”

“There’s another priest. He lied to us. Father Lawrence,” I said.

“Yeah, we talked to him. He said he was protecting Chuck Costas. He said that Chuck had become a priest and devoted his life to good works and required anonymity. When I pointed out that the good-works priest threatened to shoot you and Bridget, he said Chuck had a lapse of judgment due to stress. He doesn’t like you. I think he meant you when he said ‘stress.’ He’s also upset about the church. It’s going to take days to clean.”

“No witnesses?” I asked. “That’s impossible.” Even if Bridget was nearly blind, Holden had been there.

“Your friend Arthur Holden said he was investigating the vestibule in the back of the church when the shot was fired. He ran in immediately after but he didn’t see anything.”

A silence thick with suspicion and unspoken accusations filled my hospital room. It was entirely possible for my mysterious new neighbor to be the killer. Spencer waited for me to either indict Holden or defend him. I was reserving judgment. Besides, my head hurt. I had too much information to process.

“Peter and Christy are in jail?” I asked.

“Yes, for a while. They’ve got some strikes between them.”

The gang members were gone. Two of the Terns children were gone. The suspects were dwindling as the bodies piled up.

“I guess you want my statement, but it sounds like Bridget told you the whole story,” I said.