A Dismas Shaunessey Mystery
Patricia Doherty
All rights reserved by Denlinger's Publishers, including the right to reproduce this electronic book, or portions thereof, in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
All the characters and events in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. There was, however, an excellent pastry shop called Julio's in Antioch, California, a town that is otherwise not the specific model for Santa Marta.
Thanks to the Contra Costa County (CA) Coroner's Office for kind assistance.
For Tony, who got me started
A native of Washington, D.C., Patricia Doherty grew up a myopic bookworm blessed with a love of music. Though she'd been writing sporadically since her childhood, after the birth of her son she confined her bursts of creativity to singing. After studying voice in both Rome and New York, she made forays into local opera and oratorio while raising their son Marc.
In 1966 her husband Tony gave her a copy of James Agee's masterpiece, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, which reawakened a desire to write. Eleven years later Pat slammed a mystery story shut in despair, declaring she could write better herself. Her husband challenged her to do it. She's been writing seriously ever since. Some of her best work is a body of interviews and feature articles on opera written for an occasionally-published opera newsletter. She's written compact disc liner notes, a novella, poetry, and children's stories. She's just finished co- authoring A Chance to Dare, the memoirs of Olympic pole vaulting champion Don Bragg, and is currently completing the next book in the Dismas Shaunessey mystery series.
Ms. Doherty takes the reader into a comfortable suburb and then reveals a darker side to charm, ambition, and "good will." These suburbanites are typical community leaders and parishioners who reveal themselves, and are revealed, to be more complex and certainly more devious than expected. Murders occur and the unraveling of the crime is as surprising as the human personality itself. This expertly crafted novel engages the reader from beginning to end and offers insight into people you thought you knew. Evil is more ordinary than we want to believe and flourishes in unexpected places. —Catherine M. Spiro, Walnut Creek, CA
In their headlong flight from the city, many contemporary Americans seek refuge in the myth of the benevolent suburb. With childlike faith they endow their bucolic neighborhoods -- and their suburban parishes -- with all the cozy attributes of the English country village of the 1930's. But like the English village of yesteryear, the modern parish can nurture vindictive and restless souls who do not shrink from doing murder.
Thwarted in her desire to live in San Francisco, an unhappy corporate wife decides to make a splash in the bucolic suburb of Santa Marta. Driven and ambitious, she sees the town's plans to establish a half-way house near her posh new home as a call to battle. A status-hungry friend tells her that the best way to collect support is to join St. Francis Church. This drowsy, semi-rural parish is both pastored and loved by Father Dismas Shaunessey. With its beautiful grounds and hallowed traditions, like the Fall Frolic and the blessing of animals, it fits him like a well-worn sweater.
Moving quickly and with consummate skill, the lovely newcomer establishes herself in the parish, immediately assuming leadership of the Frolic Committee. Blinded by her single-minded rush to succeed, however, she underestimates the deep currents of feeling that run in the parish. Despite Father Dismas's best efforts, friendships and marriages crumple as events take on a life of their own. Once the protection of comforting traditions is stripped away, parishioners must face their own unexpected demons, and some aren't equal to the task. Two murders are committed, transforming the parish into a bleak war zone. With a mixture of Irish intuition and spiritual insight Father Dismas flies in the face of authority to trap a killer.
The author draws on her observations -- both as a former parish secretary and the wife of a church musician -- to depict the ungodly aberrations all too present in the house of God. This is a story for murder mystery fans as well as for those who have either survived or fled the Catholic Church, or for whatever reason find it fascinating.
Father Dismas Shaunessey pushed the yellow pad away and rose stiffly from his desk. If he left now it would allow him time to walk over and watch the children getting out of school. Any contact with the school kids was a tonic.
At the edge of the playground Dismas stopped to enjoy the efforts of a detachment of diminutive third-graders taking down the school flag, which balked and kited skittishly, gnashing its grommets. The two distaff members of the group were primly directing operations, much to the growing irritation of the three little boys immersed in billowing fabric.
"It's gotta be neat, you guys," carolled a pigtailed brunette. "You got stars mixed up with the stripes, that's not right. And grab that end! Don't let it drag on the ground. Billeee! Not on the ground."
A red-faced little boy stuck his head out. "Shut up, Shelley, you're supposed to help! You grab that end."
Dismas was on his way to lend a hand when a shuffling figure ambled into the fray. "You're right, young lady. Gotta have it ship-shape. Grab hold to your end, both hands there, youngster. You in the middle, come out and get some air. There you go. Take hold on t'other side, now pull across and -- that's it." Pea jacket flapping, grizzled chin grinding out speech, Karl Klaussen ordered his crew. Under his direction, the mass of heaving red-white-and-blue cloth was transformed into a neat triangle. The old sailor swiftly threw a deft hitch on the slack halyard and grinned at the children. "There. You all did good."
Pigtails said, "Sister put us in charge, Karl. They," indicating the boys, "got silly. I'll carry it, Billy. Sister put me in charge."
"That's right," Karl put in, before the bristling Billy could protest. "Carry it nice, young lady. You men form the honor guard. That's the flag, there. See it gets put up safe."
The flag detail, solemn and short, marched off, engrossed in its sense of mission. The other little girl lingered by Karl, fishing in her shiny white-and-violet flowered purse. "I found this for you, Karl. Here." Shyly, she deposited a piece of mother-of-pearl shell in the old man's gnarled palm. "Do you like it?"
Karl smiled a slow, sweet smile. "Been to the shore, haven't you, Miss Megan? It's a pretty piece you've brought me, and I do appreciate it." Karl bobbed his head to the departing child and slid the shell into his canvas sea bag.
Dismas waited while the old sailor rooted through his sea bag, rearranging his possessions, muttering softly to himself. He had met Karl the very day of his arrival at his new pastorate. Joyce, the parish secretary, had buzzed him discreetly. "There's a gentleman to see you, Father Dismas."
Tall and scrawny, the old sailor had snatched his watch cap from his gray thatch and touched his forehead in salute.
"Mornin'," he'd said. "You're the new man, ain'tcha?"
Dismas had guardedly admitted to this.
"Always want to keep things proper. That other one didn't like me about much. I tol' him all his scowling and fuming would be the death of him, and now he's gone!" Dismas had heard Joyce choking on her coffee as Karl permitted himself one gap-toothed grin. Then he'd gotten down to business. "I like to see a place kept up ship-shape." He displayed four aluminum cans, a nickel, and three pretty stones. "Can I keep this stuff, or will it leave you short?" As far as Dismas was concerned, Karl was one of the most uniquely spiritual men he'd ever met.
"Hello, Karl," called Dismas with real affection. The old man's baltic blue eyes took in Dismas and, as recognition curled his mouth in a lopsided smile, he touched his cap and threw in a few bobs of his shaggy head. "Afternoon, Cap'n. Just look at that young'un! Kinda matches the day, so sunny and nice. Just like her mother. I done some work for her mother. But what a day! See how the Lord scrubbed the day clear? Real nice, huh?"
"You're right." The two men scanned the line of hills, watching the weather for a moment. The priest added, "Care for a bite, a sandwich, some soup? There's some fresh-made over at the rectory."
Karl grimaced wryly. "Thank you, no, Cap'n. Me and my mates had a few last night, and I don't want to look at chow just yet. Kind of you, and I do thank you." The man began to amble away.
"Where are you off to now? Got a place to stay the night?"
Karl turned, grinning his nearly toothless grin. "Sold me a carving to a lady an' she wants another. Goin' up to the shore and see what's come in on the last tide. I got a nice sound piece of oak in my sea bag, right for a whale carvin'. The ladies like the whales, but don't want 'em done in nothin' but wormy drift. That's fine, Cap'n, the ladies haven't seen the soundin' and the rammin' or seen harpooners break their hearts. Done in stone, would be a proper whale. But the ladies like their bits of light wood."
"One of our Stations of the Cross needs some repair work," ventured Dismas, but Karl was just waxing to his subject. "And the Kraken that drag a ship down. I've seen that, too. You need a good cap'n to hold a crew when the Kraken stir. The way you hold your folk when demons is about. Can't let 'em get sucked down like the drink done to me."
Melancholy was swirling around Karl like tule fog, so Dismas prompted, "You've had good captains?"
That seemed to focus the man. "Some of the best, Cap'n, some of the best. Cap'n Cook was first rate, but he got et. Magellan, now, was stingy with drink and let the bread go mouldy." Karl adjusted his sack. "Got to get to it, now. Nice talkin' here." He touched his cap and processed on.
Dismas wondered where Karl had picked up so much history, however skewed. He could visualize a young seaman poring over a dog-eared volume to break the tedium off watch. He'd never really know. Karl couldn't tell him. As he watched the old man shamble off, it struck Dismas how much he loved St. Francis Parish: the serenity of the grounds, to be sure, but most of all the people of his church family that made the parish come alive. It hadn't been his first parish, but St. Francis was the one that had won his heart. He hoped it would never change.
Dismas's musing was blasted by a preemptory halloo. Tom Clewiston was bearing down on him, white mane a-bristle.
"He's mad!" Tom thundered, pointing at Karl. "Raving about blubber and blood! When a man brings his offering envelope to the church office he shouldn't have to deal with that. It could be dangerous having a man like that running loose!" The two men faced each other. Dismas wondered, not for the first time, why it was that this staunch parishioner didn't put his offering in the collection basket like everybody else. He waited patiently as Tom Clewiston took his measure, head to toe, from his windblown hair to his well-worn running shoes. Dismas had heard it said that to Tom's mind, good black oxfords were among the indelible marks of Holy Orders.
"Once more, Father, I insist you forbid that lunatic the grounds."
The phrase "forbid the grounds" brought a smile to Dismas's lips. Something irate fathers once did to ardent young men come a-wooing the daughter of the house with nosegays and bad poetry.
"Karl's no threat to anyone except himself. There's no harm in him but a great thirst, and he'd never come here drinking. He seems to find a comfort here, and I'll not deny it to him."
Only Tom's sense of his own importance kept him from dancing in wrath. His nose and mouth went white, as if he'd been browsing in the flour bin. "So you'll do nothing about this man. Of course, you are the pastor, but it'd be wise if you took advice when it's kindly offered."
Dismas bit his tongue as Tom huffled off. The priest turned his steps toward the playground -- it wouldn't hurt to be a bit early for his meeting with Sister Agnes and the eighth grade honor students. The kids would be an antidote to the stuffiness that had just assailed him. Then he chuckled to himself. Some parishioners not only made the parish lively, they weren't above giving the reverend pastor a good swift kick in passing. Ah, well, it was no doubt good for his character.
Zanna Smyt was still trying to wipe resentment from her face as she pushed Diane DeLongue's door bell.
Diane was distant, pleasant but cool, as she asked Zanna to excuse the carpenters' mess, got coffee and pastries, and led the way into the library. The room felt chilly.
Zanna dropped onto the wide leather footstool at the foot of the chair Diane had waved her to. This was no time to get mired in cushions -- she might need maneuvering room. Diane watched her for a moment, then brought the tray to a table at her elbow.
"Have one of these eclairs. I know you love them."
Zanna realized sourly that Diane had visited Julio's. Pastries like this could've come from nowhere else, but she doubted she'd receive an acknowledgement that the bakery had been her discovery. "My favorite. You're too good to me, Diane."
"I try, Zanna, I try."
Zanna plunged in. "All right, what's wrong?"
"Have you seen this?" A smile was still snagged on Diane's lips as she handed Zanna a newspaper. "Left hand column. Beside the picture of the cherry trees."
Zanna's eyes skimmed the paper rapidly while her lips slowly framed the sense of the article. "A halfway house here? I don't believe this."
"I want to believe that, Zanna."
"What? That I'm surprised about this? Come on, Diane! Look, everyone I've talked to has been sure the council would go with the Mangrove Circle property. Do you think I've done something unethical here?" Zanna threw down the paper in unfeigned anger. "I thought we were friends."
"Don't be silly, of course we're friends," countered Diane. "I had to pose the question, and you've answered it. I never doubted you, or that I could count on your help."
"What do you expect me to do, lead a charge?"
"No. That's my department. But I do hope you'll provide any information I might need. Names, needs, old grievances. Or new ones. You know what I'm talking about."
"All the dirt?"
"If it comes to that. It may not."
"I'm not good with these political things," stalled Zanna.
"Perhaps, but you're very good with people. You intuit a lot -- from how many closets your clients really want to what nasty little skeletons they plan to store in them."
Zanna took a deep breath and untensed. This wasn't all bad. Not necessarily. Snips of conversations and gossip all kaleidoscoped in her mind. Yes, she knew a thing or two that might be quite valuable. But let's start with something at hand.
"The people right here. What's the feeling in Coral Pointe?"
"What do you think?"
"Talk to your neighbors. Stir them up. Focus on the notion that your side is their side. You're one of them -- capitalize on that!" Zanna ventured a shaky smile. "Throw one of your famous tea and pastry sociables. Do a little politicking."
"Anything else?"
"I know Linus Craig, the councilman. He's a pain, but I could talk to him."
"Maybe it'd be better if I talked to him."
That nettled Zanna, but she continued mildly, "Whatever you say. But talking to Linus and your neighbors won't be enough to get you what you'll need to fight city hall." Zanna warmed both hands on her teacup. "I think you ought to come to church with me."
"Church? Zanna, you've lost your mind," came the hoot of derision.
"Why? Ardyth said that you both went to that starchy Catholic girls academy. Weren't you the May Queen or something?"
"That was ages ago."
"Do you want to bring this off? Because if you do, you'd better not come across as the poor little rich girl defending her estate against the vulgar masses." Zanna stared into her tea, appreciating the delicate huffing sound coming from Diane. "What you need is to get a lot of ordinary folks and the right extraordinary ones behind you. What you need is St. Francis parish."
"I'm not that desperate," Diane said with a scowl, then raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Why do I need St. Francis parish?"
"St. Francis is a little bit of just about everything. You'd be surprised who shows up in the congregation. Not a bad place to make useful contacts. I can introduce you around. After all, Chuck and I have been members for years." Over ten years. Yet a part of her still felt like an outsider. "You're my friend -- it'd be the natural thing for me to do."
Diane was paying attention now. "Who do you think would be so useful to me? Anybody special?"
"Linus Craig attends, of course, but what I'm talking about is the social depth the parish has. Some of those families have been coming to St. Francis for generations, long before they built the present church. Win their loyalty, you'll have something," said Zanna, a little sadly.
"Do you have their loyalty?"
Zanna flushed and shook off her little heartache. "Me? I don't need anybody's loyalty. You're the one with the agenda. I merely suggest that St. Francis is a good place to start. I'd like more tea, please."
"My name wasn't on the list, Diane. An oversight, of course?" said Linus evenly.
"It's not as if you're being excluded. Here." Diane pulled a galley proof from her capacious navy blue handbag. "Right there, lower corner."
"The Home Advantage? What the hell's that?"
"We thought it better to let all our truly local dealers share one space. Everyone'd show off better."
Linus peered at the sheet. "Why yes. There it is. Craig's. How nice."
Diane laid a conciliatory hand on his sleeve. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but we had no choice."
"You gave me your word."
"I promised to help you. That means protecting you from mistakes that might damage your future."
"What?"
Diane stepped a little closer and riveted Linus with her gorgeous eyes. "You're not ready, dear. No, no, hear me out. You sold the Queen Anne chairs. The only other good pieces you have are the Chinese screen and the Hepplewhite settee. Even the best of what's left isn't worthy of you."
"The Sheraton commode -- " sputtered Linus, but Diane cut him off.
"Desperately needs restoring." She shrugged helplessly. "I really felt torn, but since I'm responsible for the success of the Faire, I have to see that we meet a certain standard." Her eyes commiserated. "You do see that, don't you?"
Linus still smiled his enervating smile. "Yes. Quite. Standards. Like not having objectionable folk dwelling near the exclusive bailiwick of the movers and the shakers."
"I'll make it up to you. And please know that I do understand your anger," began Diane.
"You'll make it up to me? The last words of Elizabeth to her fond Essex. And you understand my anger? No, my dear. But you will."
Dismas peered out a window. What was going on? Yes, the church lights were on. Why? An unscheduled rehearsal perhaps? Perhaps. Dismas ignored the ring of the phone. He was out the door.
Wisdom might have dictated that he cut around by the old sacristy and slip into the church discreetly. But the big front door was closer, and Dismas only remembered how noisy it was as he impatiently shoved it open. A falling portcullis would have made less racket. Dismas scanned the empty church as the bang of the door shivered into silence. But wasn't there a suggestion of an echo just on the edge of hearing? And a brighter scent than the usual sad, sweet odor that kept constant vigil before the altar? What did that remind him of? Dismas went to each of the exits and tried the doors. Locked. He moved to the light panel, turned the levers to "off," then let himself out onto the gallery. He could see nothing out of the ordinary, but stood for a while in the darkness watching the shadows and listening to the night wind sighing against the old stones. He remained motionless for a long time, then walked slowly back to the rectory.
Dismas bowed before the chapel altar. He straightened slowly and stared with dead eyes at the altar crucifix. From some dark anteroom of his consciousness the images began to stream. An unfamiliar scent lingering in a not quite silent church. Unbound wounds of grieving. The priest forced himself to breathe deeply. He was sweating now. The monstrance was heavy, slippery in his hands as he turned to face the people and raised it in blessing.
He quailed at the implications of his thoughts. What if you're wrong? Want to be branded the cuckoo priest? An hysterical, clerical kook, meddling in police matters? Tom Clewiston would have a picnic.
But what if you're right?
With an effort, Dismas tried to concentrate on the ritual. While his mind raced, he began the great litany of praise. "Blessed be God. Blessed be His holy Name." He thought, as usual, of the reverent faces around the altar, but his mind's eye could only see an abyss opening before the feet of an unwary victim.
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