The Fatal Fall E-Book

Susan Mathis

• Herausgeber: Mercy and Justice Mysteries
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Is stolen money buried somewhere on the campus of Myer College? A newspaper article by Nate prompts a frenzied hunt for the ill-gotten gain. But when a hundred year old skeleton is found buried in a gorge, Father Tom and Helen try to solve a mystery hidden in the mists of time.

Leseprobe

The Fatal Fall

The Father Tom Mysteries, Book 11

By

J. R. Mathis and Susan Mathis

Also by J. R. Mathis

The Father Tom Mysteries

The Penitent Priest

The Framed Father

The Redemptive Return

The Buried Bride

The Defining Decision

The Silent Shooter

The Purloined Paintings

The Slain Saint

The Perfect Patsy

The Haunted Heritage

The Fatal Fall (Coming Soon)

The Father's Family (Coming Soon)

The Mercy and Justice Mysteries

The Honeymoon Homicide (Coming Soon)

The Maligned Marine (Coming Soon)

Standalone

The Reluctant Rector: The Father Tom Mysteries Books 1-3

Watch for more at J. R. Mathis’s site.

Also by Susan Mathis

The Father Tom Mysteries

The Penitent Priest

The Framed Father

The Redemptive Return

The Buried Bride

The Defining Decision

The Silent Shooter

The Purloined Paintings

The Slain Saint

The Perfect Patsy

The Haunted Heritage

The Fatal Fall (Coming Soon)

The Father's Family (Coming Soon)

The Mercy and Justice Mysteries

The Honeymoon Homicide (Coming Soon)

The Maligned Marine (Coming Soon)

Standalone

The Reluctant Rector: The Father Tom Mysteries Books 1-3

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also By J. R. Mathis

Also By Susan Mathis

The Fatal Fall (The Father Tom Mysteries, #11)

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Preview of The Father’s Family

The Honeymoon Homicide

Also By J. R. Mathis

Also By Susan Mathis

About the Author

Mercy and Justice Mysteries, 2021

Copyright © 2021 by James R. Mathis and Susan S. Mathis

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

––––––––

FIRST PRINTING, OCTOBER, 2021

Contact: [email protected]

––––––––

COVER PHOTO: DEPOSITPHOTOS

Cover: Millie Godwin

Editor: Anna Palmer Darkes

Prologue

November 1928

I LOOK AT MYSELF IN the mirror, wearing a light blue dress with the beading I love so much. I think this one will have to do. All the others I’ve tried are simply too tight.

We’re getting out just in time, because it’s getting impossible to hide my secret anymore. My husband is never around, so I’m not worried about him noticing. But my friends have already commented that I’ve gained weight the last few months. I’ve laughed and told them it’s because of our new cook. But I think a couple of them suspect the truth.

I hope none of them mention it to my husband.

I look at the time. He’s already waiting for me.

No luggage, he said. We can’t arouse suspicion. We’ll buy everything we need when we get to wherever we’re going.

A new life together, away from here. Away from my husband, his wife.

I know it’s a grave sin. I know I’m going to hell. I know it makes no sense.

But I look down at my ever-expanding stomach, and know I have no choice.

I put on my green coat—it’s chilly outside, plus I need it to hide my shame—and walk to my dressing table. Opening the jewelry box, I grab a few things and stuff them in my pockets. I’m still wearing the locket my husband gave me as an engagement present.

I look at my wedding band. It symbolizes the vow I'm breaking. But my love said to keep it on, since it would support the lies we’re going to tell.

Turning, I grab my green cloche hat and set it on my head. Looking at myself in the mirror, I take a deep breath.

“You can do this,” I whisper. “It’s not that much longer.”

I turn around and march out of my bedroom without looking back.

One

“TOM,” HELEN SAYS TO me over lunch on the first Sunday of November, “what are we going to do for our first Thanksgiving together?“

This question catches me off guard.  “Well, I hadn’t thought much about that,” I say. “I mean, I guess I thought that we’d just do what we did last year and help with the community dinner. Don’t you remember?”

Helen blushes at my question and takes a sip of sweet tea. “Ahem, yes, I remember.”

I’m a little curious about her reaction. “You were there with a few other officers from the police department, right?”

The redness in her face deepens, and she takes a sudden interest in the remains of the shepherd’s pie on her plate. “Yeah,” she says without looking at me.

I stare at her, not comprehending why she’s acting this way. “What is it?” I ask. “Why are you blushing like that?. Did something happen that I don't know about?”

She takes a deep breath. “Tom,” her gaze still fascinated by the gravy on her plate, “last Thanksgiving was not my finest hour. Not by a long shot.”

“Really? I don’t remember anything embarrassing happening to you.”

She finally looks up at me. “Tom,” she says with a slight smile, “I have a confession to make.”

“Shall we go into the Church, or is this not that kind of confession?” I say with a grin.

Helen takes my hand and casts her eyes downward. “I really don’t know. Maybe, maybe not.”

“OK?” I say slowly.

She pauses for a minute, as if deciding whether she’s going to admit something to me, and finally says, “Tom, I know that my actions that day were good, but my motivation was far from it.“

I stare at her until she continues. “I came up with the idea of the department participating so that I could spend the day with you. It was a very difficult time for me, and I didn’t want to be alone. I also didn’t want to have to fend off offers from sympathetic people who were only asking me because I was a widow or otherwise just pitiful. I will not say that my feelings for you at that moment had reached a level of potential sin, but I was certainly on my way, and I should have stopped then.“

I really don’t know how to respond. Obviously, I can say that everything worked out for the best since I have been dispensed to marry.

But it could have turned out very badly.

We both know it almost did.

“Helen,” I say, squeezing her hand, “one thing I’ve learned in my decade in the priesthood is that God does a great job taking the things we get wrong and making them right. Our situation is one of my favorite examples.”

She smiles. “Of course you’re right about that. But still, we were taking a terrible chance, or at least I was. I would not recommend it to anyone else.“

“I agree, and I would not recommend what we have done to anyone else. We are very fortunate in how our story has turned out, but then again we also made some hard choices in the beginning.“

We both sit and contemplate this for a moment or two before Helen says, “You know how much I love the holidays, Tom. And I want this to be special for us.”

I have some information that I need to share with her that she is not going to find amusing. Trying to ease my way into the topic, I ask, “Helen, how important is it to you that we cook a whole turkey for ourselves?”

“Just for us?” she asks, incredulously, “Not that important. I mean, I don’t particularly care for endless leftovers. Why do you ask?”

Instead of answering her question, I ask, “So, suppose we got a tray of pre-cooked sliced turkey and then you made whatever side dishes you wanted to go with it? It could be just us, or we could invite Gladys and Nate and Anna and Bill.”

“I’m liking this idea better and better, Tom, but I suspect there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Only this,” I say, taking a deep breath, “We’ll have to eat in the evening because St. Clare’s is hosting the Community Dinner this year.”

Helen is only briefly crestfallen before admitting, “I remember that, now. Look, Tom, we’ll have plenty of other Thanksgivings together. We can just—”

“We can just offer to do the heavy lifting the day before and in the early morning. Then we can excuse ourselves as soon as we finish serving. In fact, you don’t have to be there at all.”

“Oh, yes, I do. Not just as your future wife, but as the Chief of Police. No, I can’t ask my people to volunteer for something that I’m not doing myself.”

“And that, my darling, is one of the things I admire about you. But,” I add, “you can still certainly leave early, and I can get to the Rectory as soon as I can.”

“It’ll be a long day but I can do a lot of the prep work in the days leading up to Thanksgiving.”

I sit up as something occurs to me. “Wait a minute. I just remembered. Will you have to work Thanksgiving? I mean, I know that Dan has a lot of family that comes to town.”

“Miriam has a lot of family,” Helen corrects me, “including several sisters who blame Dan for the size of their family and are often after him to ‘get snipped.’”

“You’re kidding?”

“Not at all. Now, beyond issues related to Church teaching, he finds the idea both frightening and appalling, as he ends up telling me at some point every Thanksgiving weekend. So the upshot is that he works on Thanksgiving, taking a long lunch break when everyone’s eating and inclined to have their mouths too full to say much. Then, I work on the day after so that Dan can stay home and redeem himself in the eyes of his in-laws by watching the kids while Miriam shops the Black Friday sales.”

“OK, so are we set then?”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll start looking online for recipes.”

“Please,” I insist, raising my hand to make my point, “just don’t read them to me. My mother used to do that and it drove me crazy.”

“Speaking of your mother, shouldn’t we invite her for Thanksgiving?” Helen asks. “I mean, she is alone now.”

“No!” I cry, putting my hands over my face. “Please, no, not that.”

“Tom,” Helen begins, obviously warming up to lecture me about being nicer to my mother, the way adult orphans love to do.

I decide to stop her by saying, “Helen, do you really want my Mom here watching every forkful of food you place in your mouth and commenting on it on Thanksgiving?”

She pauses at this, obviously remembering that my mother is more than a little obsessed with Helen’s weight. Finally, she smiles kindly and says with obviously false generosity, “Well, I suppose it would be a bit much to ask her to fly up here twice in less than a month.”

“It would,” I agree.

“We’ll send her a nice flower arrangement instead.”

“She’ll like that.”

I look at her plate. “Do you want any more?”

She shakes her head. “I couldn’t eat another bite. That was delicious.”

“Why, thank you, my dear,” I say, inclining my head. “I’ll clear.”

Helen stretches and asks, “So, what time’s the race this afternoon?”

“Not until later,” I say, placing the plates in the sink. “Last one of the season.”

“Oh, dear, are you going to be OK?” she asks with mock seriousness.

“Well,” I say, bending over her, “fortunately, this off-season I’ll have plenty to keep me occupied.”

“Oh? New hobby?” she grins.

“No,” I whisper as I lean in to kiss her. “A new job I’m very much looking forward to.”

***

“ARE YOU SURE MAE’S expecting you?” Helen asks.

“She asked me to come by after Mass and bring her communion,” I say as I ring the doorbell at the Trents’ sprawling Victorian home. “Apparently, Martin’s insisting that she wait two weeks before coming back to Mass.”

Helen rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “He hovers over that girl more than you did me.”

“The only reason I didn’t was because you didn’t want me to.”

“Oh, I wanted you to,” she smiles. “I just didn’t want you to treat me like I was frail.”

I roll my eyes. “You are never going to let me forget that, are you?”

“I don’t plan to.”

The door opens to reveal not one of Mae’s parents, but Vincent, her oldest brother.

“Father, Mrs. Parr,” he says with a smile, extending his hand to me. “Please come in.”

Helen and I enter the warm and inviting foyer. “It’s good to see you again, Vincent,” I say. “I’m surprised you’re still here. I thought you’d have to go back to school.”

“I’m actually just down here for the weekend,” he says. “I’m leaving in an hour to drive back.”

“I know your parents are happy to see you,” Helen says. “As is Mae.”

Vincent laughs. “Frankly, Mae only has eyes for Martin. I’m not even sure she’s aware I’ve been home this weekend.”

We walk toward the Trent’s living room. The pocket doors are closed, and there’s a gaggle of little Trents and Martin’s young nieces gathered outside with their ears pressed against the wood.

“Hey,” Vincent says, causing the children to jump and turn to us. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The youngest Trent child present, Kateri, says, “Listening.”

“Hush, Kat,” Martin’s niece Sophie says.

“Eavesdropping, huh? That’s not very nice.”

“We were just trying to hear what Mae and Martin are arguing about,” Isabella Trent says.

I cock my head to one side. “Why do you think they are arguing?”

“Because we heard Mae yell at Uncle Martin,” Lucy, Sophie’s sister, says.

“Why in the world did she yell at Martin?” Helen asks.

“I think she was afraid he'd break her doll,” Kateri says.

The three of us look at each other. “What, Kat?” Vincent asks.

“Uh-huh,” she says, nodding her head with her eyes as big as saucers. “Martin said she needed to take it easy, and Mae yelled that she wasn’t some frail china doll that needed to be surrounded in bubble wrap.”

Helen and I look at each other. “Ahhhh,” we say in unison. “Are they still yelling?” I ask.

“No, they’ve been quiet since then,” Sophie says.

“OK, go outside and play,” Vincent says. “It’s chilly so don’t forget your coats.”

The girls grumble as they walk away from the door. Vincent knocks. “Go away, girls!” Mae yells.

“Mae, it’s Vince. Father Tom and Mrs. Parr are here.”

There are indistinct whispers coming from the room and sounds of movement. Finally after a moment, Mae says, “Let them in, please.”

Vincent slides open the doors and Helen and I walk into the living room, changed into a hospital room for Mae’s recovery from being stabbed. Mae’s sitting up in bed wearing a sweatshirt from the prestigious Catholic university she attended, while Martin is seated in a comfortable-looking armchair.

What’s striking is the distance between them, and the fact that neither looks particularly happy.

“Father Tom, Helen,” Mae says, smiling. “So good to see you.”

“You’re looking even better than you were a couple of days ago when we were here,” I say. “Apparently, Martin’s taking good care of you.”

Her smile slowly disappears. “Oh, yes, Marty’s been just wonderful, making sure I don’t exert myself in the slightest,” she says sarcastically.

“Now, Mae,” Martin says, “that’s not—”

“I’m surprised he’ll even let me feed myself,” she continues. “I half expect him to thrust a bottle of formula into my mouth!”

“Really, Monica June!” Martin says. “You’re acting like a child!”

Mae sits up, her eyes ablaze in a way I never expected from her. “A child! Marty, did you just call me a child!”

Martin looks sheepish. “Now, Mae, darling, I didn’t—”

“If I’m acting like a child, Dr. Martin Joseph Maycord,” Mae shouts, “It’s only because you’re treating me like one!”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Martin says.

“Silly! Silly! Don’t you call me—”

“OK, you two, that’s enough,” I say. They lapse into silence and look at me.

“Now,” I continue, “Helen and I came here to visit, to see how Mae was doing, and so I could give her communion. Breaking up an argument wasn’t part of our plans for the afternoon.”

“We weren’t arguing, Father Tom,” Mae says.

“No, we were just having a discussion,” Martin says. “I was trying to get Mae to be reasonable about her recovery.”

“And I was trying to get Marty to understand that I didn’t see the need to lay around the house all day like I was still in the hospital,” May says, “when I feel fine.”

“And I was explaining to her that her injury was serious, it has been less than a week since Rusty Davis stabbed her, and she really should still be in the hospital.”

“And I—”

I hold my hand up. “We get the picture,” I say with a slight smile. “This sounds familiar, doesn’t it, Helen?”

“I do have a distinct feeling of deja vu, Tom,” Helen says with a smile.

“Now, look you two,” Martin says, “Mae’s situation—”

“Is not nearly as serious as Helen’s was,” Mae says.

“True,” Helen says. “I was in the hospital a lot longer. But Mae, the only reason Martin discharged me was because I made Tom promise he’d change my bandages and the like. And even with that, I still made his life difficult because I didn’t want to accept that I still wasn’t a hundred percent.”

“Thank you, Helen,” Martin says. “See Mae—”

“Not so fast, Martin,” I say. “I made Helen’s recovery more difficult than it should have been because I was so worried about something happening to her that I wouldn’t let her do even simple things.”

“Well, you tried,” Helen says.

“I rarely succeeded, admittedly. But we finally realized that we were both wrong and we were both right.”

“Is that some kind of weird logic they teach you in seminary?” Martin asks.

“No, it’s just common sense. I recognized that I needed to let Helen do what she could for herself.”

“And I,” Helen says to Mae, “realized I needed to let Tom help me.”

“Mae, it doesn’t mean that Martin thinks you’re frail or a child or anything like that,” I say. “And Martin, I’m sure Mae doesn’t want to get up and start training for a marathon. You need to let her do some things, and Mae, you need to let him take care of you.”

Mae and Martin look at each other. “Another compromise, huh?” Martin says.

“We do seem to be making a lot of them lately,” Mae says with a smile.

“Sorry, darling,” Martin says as he approaches Mae’s bed.

“I’m sorry, too,” Mae says. With a smile, she adds, “I actually don’t mind you taking care of me.”

“It’s something I love to do, Mae, and always will.”

Taking a deep breath, I say, “Well, now that that’s settled, why don’t I do what I came here for.”

Two

“I HAVE THE BOXES YOU requested, Father Greer.”

I look up from my laptop at the student assistant, who’s just wheeled a cart carrying four six-inch by twelve-inch gray archival boxes to my table in the Myer College Archives and Manuscripts Reading Room. She’s a young, bespeckled coed wearing a burnt orange sweater and a skirt that catches her just below the knee.

She bears no resemblance to another young coed I met in the same area fifteen years ago, but she still makes me uncomfortable.

“Thank you, Gwen,” I say quietly. I peer at the labels. “So these are Father O’Connor’s papers from when he was Rector at Saint Clare’s? Doesn’t seem like very much.”

“This is just his personal correspondence,” she replies. “Also his diary, which is fairly detailed. The parish records are at the Archdiocesan Archives.”

I smile slightly. “Yes, I know.”

“He was at Saint Clare’s during the Depression? That was a hard time for this area.”

I look at her. “I’m doing my senior honors thesis on that period,” she explains.

“Ah, I see. Well, he was here at the beginning. He was assigned in 1927, but died in his sleep in 1933. Which is interesting in and of itself, considering he was only forty.”

Gwen’s eyes get big. “Really? You—you don’t think—I mean, is that why you’re—”

Changing the subject, I say, “So, you’re majoring in history? That was my major as an undergrad.”

“Was that before you became a priest?”

I look at her and smile. “Oh, yes,” I say. “A while before I became a priest. I didn’t even think about becoming a priest then. It wasn’t until—”

She gasps and puts her hand to her mouth. “Oh! Of course! I remember now. I’m so sorry, Father.”

I put my hand up. “It’s fine. I’m surprised you even know the story.”

“Are you kidding?” she squeals. “I mean, you and the Chief of Police are a big deal among my friends, and most of us aren’t even Catholic. It’s just such an incredible story. So romantic.” Gwen pauses, looking like she wants to ask me something.

I raise my eyebrows. “You have a question, Gwen?”

She blushes even as she says, “Well—er—ah—we were talking—my friends and I—and one of the other girls—well, she said she saw it in an interview, and Mrs. Parr said that—well, that is to say, she said—”

“Yes,” I say simply, knowing what she’s trying to ask.

I know, because it is THE BIG QUESTION Helen and I get in every interview we’ve done since the Pope granted me a dispensation to marry and our engagement was announced to the world.

Gwen’s mouth falls open. “Really? You mean, you two have never—”

“That’s right,” I nod.

“I mean, I know you can’t—what I mean is, you can, but you’re not supposed to. Right?”

“Yes, they’re very strict about that,” I say.

“Gwen!” I turn in the direction of the sharp voice and see Linda Danes, the head archivist—my old job—glaring at her young student.

“Yes, Ms. Danes?” Gwen says quickly.

“Please leave the patrons alone,” she says. “This is not the place for you to add to your no-doubt ample supply of gossip.”

The young lady swallows, nods, and scurries off. To Danes, I say, “She wasn’t bothering me, Linda.”

“I just thought you’d like me to run off another—do you call them fans?” she says with a smile.

“I call them fans,” I chuckle. “Helen, well, has another word for them.”

“When am I going to meet this woman, Tom? You need to bring her sometime.”

I sit back and shake my head. “Alas, Helen does not have my love of dusty stacks and the smell of old paper.”

“That’s unfortunate, considering you share her love of solving crimes,” she replies.

I wave away the comment. “I don’t love it, in spite of  any evidence to the contrary.”

“You could fool me,” Linda says. “If the papers are right, you’re the real Father Brown.”

“They exaggerate—though Helen did buy me a saturno for Halloween. No, I just find myself involved. I don’t go looking for it. Sometimes, it seems that a crime finds me.”

“You need to be more careful, then,” Linda laughs. “I’ll leave you to do your research.”

She walks away from my table and I open the box with my white-gloved hands. Removing a folder, I lay it on the table and carefully open it, revealing exquisite handwriting in blue ink on aged, lined paper.

“You did have excellent penmanship, Father,” I whisper with admiration. I begin to read the first letter and start transcribing the contents.

Now, you may wonder what I’m doing in the Myer College archives, reading the 100-year-old correspondence of my predecessor. Frankly, I decided I needed a hobby to help relieve stress. After Dr. Martin Maycord told me that I needed to lower my blood pressure, I began riding my bicycle regularly. I’ve come to not entirely hate it—especially when I’m riding with Helen—but along the way, I realized I needed something to relax my mind as well.

And what’s more relaxing to a former archivist than a couple of hours immersed in the records of the past?

Minutes later, I’m reading a letter from Father O’Connor’s sister—his actual sister as well as a Sister with the Daughters of Charity in Emmitsburg—when someone taps me on the shoulder.

I jump and turn to find Nate Rodriguez grinning down at me.

“Hi, Father Tom,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“Morning, Nate,” I respond. “Just doing some research.”

He peers at the box on my table, and the letters in front of me. “Oh, Father O’Connor, huh?”

“Yes. You recognize it?”

“Oh, yes,” he says. “I looked at the same boxes researching Victoria Myer for the article I did for the Gazette.”

I try not to grimace. That article he wrote, saying the Myer Mansion was haunted by the ghost of Victoria Myer, was at best a mixed blessing to the parish. It sent ticket sales to the Acutis Society’s Fairy Tales and Frights through the roof. It also put us on the map of every “paranormal investigator” in the country.

It also made me much more aware of my responsibilities to pray for all the members of my parish, even those who died over 150 years ago.

“I spent some time reading Winthrop Myer’s letters as well. There’s actually a copy of a letter Myer wrote about Victoria’s death in one of his letterbooks,” Nate says. “So, what are you researching?”

“Frankly, Nate, your article—for all the problems I had with it—got me interested in the history of the town in general and the parish in particular So, I decided to do some research into Father Liam O’Connor. I learned about him in seminary. He was well known in Maryland for his work against the Ku Klux Klan in the 1920s.”

“Interesting,” he nods. “Are you going to write a book?”

I smile. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just a way of relaxing, taking my mind off things for a few hours. What are you doing here?”

“Just researching another article for the Gazette,” he grins.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. There was so much attention for my article about the Mansion,  they wanted me to do an article each month about something related to the history of the area.”

“That’s great, Nate,” I say. “And you’re still cleaning up crime scenes?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, this is fun and what I really like to do, but that pays the bills. Besides, I still owe Gladys for the money she loaned me to start the business.”

“I haven’t seen you two in a few days. How are things?”

He smiles. “Really good, Father. Best they have been in a while. We’re still working through some things, but at least we’re talking instead of yelling.” He pauses. “A few days ago, Gladys asked me if I was disappointed in her after she told me about her past.”

I don’t say anything, letting Nate tell me what happened in his own time.

“I didn’t answer for a long time,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell her the truth. Then I admitted that I was.”

“Did you tell her why?” I ask.

He nods. “That I’d built this vision of her in my mind, and in one fell swoop, she knocked it down. She wasn’t the sweet, innocent girl I thought she was—I’d known she wasn’t, you know, after she told me about Richard Davenport, but I still—I don’t know—I thought that was an anomaly, I guess. So yeah, I was disappointed. But I realized I still loved her and, even though I did something wrong and stupid for the dumbest of reasons, that never changed. And it wasn’t going to.”

I stand up and clap him on the shoulder. “That took a lot of courage, Nate. I’m proud of you.”

He swallows and manages to say, “Thank you, Father. That means a lot.”

“Nate,” Gwen says behind him. She has another cart, but with only one box on it this time.

“Oh, great! Thanks, Gwen,” he says. “Sorry, Father, I’ve got a job this afternoon, but I want to look at this first.”

“Totally understand,” I say. Looking at the time on the clock in the reading room, I add, “I don’t have much time before I need to meet Helen for lunch. By the way, what’s the article about?”

Nate grins, his eyes flashing with his usual exuberance. “No ghosts this time, Father. Buried treasure.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“OK, maybe not buried treasure. I’m doing an article on the embezzlement of $150,000 from the Bank of Myerton in 1928.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that?”

“Oh, it was a huge scandal back then. The vice president of the bank took off with a Western Maryland and Ohio Railroad payroll and neither he nor the money was ever seen again. There have been all sorts of rumors over the years about what happened to the money. Well, I think I’ve figured it out.”

“Oh? So, where’s the money?”

Nate grins again. “You’ll just have to find out with the rest of the town.”

He grabs his cart and goes to a table on the opposite side of the room. I return to the nun’s letter, trying to focus on the contents.

But I can’t help feeling disquieted about Nate’s latest project.

***

I’M WALKING DOWN THE hallway at the police station toward Helen’s office when I pass a conference room. Glancing inside, I stop at the site of my bride-to-be, the Chief of Police, talking to a group of children and their moms.

I recognize most of the group as Saint Clare’s homeschooling co-op. Miriam Conway, one of the leaders, is there, along with her daughter Catherine. Other moms and children from the parish are listening in rapt attention to Helen speak.

“So,” she’s saying with a smile, “when we need to track a bad guy through the woods, or see if a car or van has drugs in it, we call on Sergeant Cupcake here for help.”

I walk in and smile at the sight of the proud German shepherd standing next to Helen. She has her hand firmly on the leash, more to emphasize her control than to prevent Cupcake from hurting the children.

Unless given a command to attack, Cupcake is as sweet and gentle a dog as I’ve ever seen.

A hand shoots up. Helen smiles at the questioner. “Yes, David?”

Daniel Wright, child of the parish—and a nemesis of Catherine, truth be told—asks in his usual loud way, “Is she trained to kill?”

That produces startled gasps from some of the children. But before Helen can answer, Catherine steps forward to Cupcake and drops to her knees, wrapping her arms around the dog. In response, the dog whines and licks her face.”

“I know, I know,” Catherine says. “That’s just Daniel. He’s a poopyhead.”

Miriam says, “Catherine, what?—”

The girl looks up at her mom with her wide brown eyes. “Daniel hurt her feelings. She doesn’t like it when people think she’s a bad dog, just because she works for the police.”

Helen says quickly, “That’s right, Catherine. Cupcake is highly trained and only attacks on command—not to kill, just to stop a bad person. Now, that’s the end of our tour, who—”

Daniel laughs and says, “What, Spooky? You can talk to animals, now?”

Catherine stands up and turns to face her tormenter. But before she can say anything, Cupcake growls menacingly at Daniel.

“Aahh!” the boy screams. Cupcake growls a little louder and stands up, taking a step forward.

“Down, Cupcake! Obey!” Helen commands, pulling at the leash.

“I thought you said she wasn’t dangerous, Chief!” Daniel’s mom Lilith says, grabbing up her now-scared son.

“She’s not,” Helen says, still pulling on the leash.

“Don’t let her eat me!” Daniel says. “I’m sorry, Catherine! Tell her I’m sorry!”

Calmly, Catherine turns around and says to Cupcake, “He’s sorry. You can stop now.”

Immediately, the shepherd stops growling and sits. Catherine pats her on the head. “Good girl,” she whispers.

“Um—I—I’m sorry about that,” Helen stammers. “Ahem, now, we have some treats for all of you right over there. I’ll just take the Sergeant back to her partner.”

Quickly, Helen walks from the room, leading Cupcake. I realize that no one has made a move to the table ladened with punch and cookies.