The Framed Father E-Book

Susan Mathis

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

My wife’s killer finally caught, I was content to leave Myerton to serve in the isolation of the same monastery where I found my call to the priesthood. The temptations of the past still occupy my mind, but behind these walls I’m safe from them.
A call from the Archbishop sends me back to Saint Clare’s, to find out if a young priest has broken his vows. Confident I’ll find nothing wrong, I’m content to return.
Then a young woman is murdered, and the priest stands accused. Helen is on the case, and I must work with her again to find the truth. 
But the feelings we left unspoken before are harder to avoid, and I find my heart struggling with my head.
 
Can I save a young man’s life without risking my soul?
 

Leseprobe

The Framed Father

The Father Tom Mysteries, Book 2

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 Framed Father (The Father Tom Mysteries, #2)

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

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Epilogue

Preview of The Redemptive Return

Acknowledgements

Also By J. R. Mathis

Also By Susan Mathis

About the Author

Mercy and Justice Mysteries, 2021

Copyright © 2020 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.

––––––––

FOURTH PRINTING, OCTOBER 2021

Contact: [email protected]

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COVER PHOTO: ADOBE Stock Photos

Cover: Millie Godwin

Editing: Anna Palmer Darkes

Prologue

DEAR TOM, I HOPE YOU are well and still enjoying your life behind monastic walls. Sometimes I envy the quiet you must enjoy there, but just as often, I wonder how you stand it. Not that life in Myerton is anything like walking a beat in DC, but at least I get the occasional robbery to keep me busy. 

Parish life at St. Clare’s is also pretty interesting. I have not yet followed your suggestion to join the Ladies of Charity, but I do attend parish functions occasionally. Most of the time I’m working so Dan can attend with his family. It makes a lot more sense for him to be there with Miriam and the kids than it does for an old widow like me to go. I’ve only met Miriam once or twice, but I admire how devoted she is to her family.

Oh, Gladys wants me to be sure to tell you ‘Hi.’  She still has a huge crush on you, so watch your back if you come into town. I’m not sure what she might try if she caught you in a dark corner, and she’s pretty fast in that wheelchair.  I admit I’m a bit worried about her. She seems to have a very active social life—a little too active, if you know what I mean. As her supervisor, it's none of my business, but as a friend, I wonder if I should say something to her. Another thing you can pray for me over: discernment.

Speaking of social lives and discernment, this thing with Brian is beginning to get out of hand. He just won’t leave me alone. In fact, I’m about to the point of saying I’ll go out with him once just to prove that it won’t work out. I mean, I don’t think he’s a bad guy, but he’s very ambitious politically and as you may remember, that is something I do not care for at all.

So, is there anything new at Our Lady of the Mount? I saw something in a supermarket tabloid about a secret Vatican takeover. Do you know anything about that? I suppose you couldn’t tell me if you did. Anyway, please write back when you get a chance. I do look forward to hearing from you.

Helen

One

I BEGIN TO REPLY TO Helen’s latest email when there’s a knock on the door of my cell.

“Come in,” I say, quickly closing my laptop.

“Excuse me, Father Tom,” a young brother says.

“Yes, Brother Thomas?”

“There’s a call for you on the main line,” he replies, somewhat out of breath.  “The Archbishop.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

Brother Thomas shakes his head. “No, he didn’t say. He just told me to get you as quickly as possible. Apparently, he’s been trying to call you.”

A summons like this is not to be disobeyed and I follow Brother Thomas quickly down the dimly lit hallway to the office. The blinking hold light shows the line the Archbishop is waiting on.

Lifting the receiver, I begin, “Hello, Your Eminence what—”

“Father Tom, I need you to go to Saint Clare’s immediately,” he orders before I can finish my sentence.

“Excuse me?”

“How soon can you leave?” he asks.

“Well, I don’t know,” I reply. “I have several—”

“Let me clarify,” the Archbishop interrupts. “When I say immediately, I mean today. When I ask how soon can you leave, I mean how long will it take you to pack?”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why the urgency?”

He hesitates. “A . . . A situation has arisen that needs to be addressed quickly and quietly.”

“What kind of situation?”

The Archbishop sighs.  “One involving Father McCoy.”

I furrow my brow. “What kind of situation could Father McCoy be involved in?” Having met the young priest, I have a hard time coming up with one that would agitate the Archbishop so much. I like Father Leonard McCoy, but he seems too scared of his own shadow to be involved in anything that might be termed “a situation.”

“Something has come to my attention,” the Archbishop continues. “I need you to look into it.”

“With all due respect, Your Eminence, you haven’t answered my question.  Are you going to tell me what you want me to look into?”

Silence. “Hello, are you still there, sir?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m here.” A pause. A sigh. “We’ve received an anonymous allegation of misconduct against Father McCoy.”

“What kind of misconduct?”

“Father Greer, are you being obtuse on purpose? What kind of misconduct do you think? All right, I’ll come right out and say it. We’ve gotten an anonymous allegation of sexual misconduct involving Father McCoy and an adult member of the parish.”

I pause, then burst out laughing. “You’re joking!”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

“But really, Your Eminence. We’re talking about Father McCoy. Leonard McCoy? The same Father McCoy who is pastor of Saint Clare’s Parish in Myerton? That Father McCoy?”

“Yes, Father, the one and only.”

“But have you met Father McCoy? I mean, it’s absurd! He’s the walking definition of milquetoast. This has to be a joke.”

“I do not find it the least bit funny.”

I pull myself together. “No, sir, of course not. We need to take the allegation seriously.”

“We can’t afford not to,” the Archbishop says. “We’re still trying to recover from our past behavior and we can’t discount something like this or sweep it under the rug.”

“I agree,” I say. “So, who is he alleged to have . . . committed this misconduct with?”

I hear papers rustling. “The parish secretary.”

I burst out laughing again. “But I know the parish secretary,” I say. “She’s my mother-in-law. Anna’s an attractive woman for being in her early sixties, but she’s—“

“I am certainly not talking about Anna—Mrs. Luckgold, Father,” Archbishop Knowland says.

“But she was serving as parish secretary when I left Myerton four months ago.”

I can hear the Archbishop shuffling papers. “According to the allegation, the parish secretary’s name is Rachel Watson.”

“Before I left Myerton,” I say, “Anna told me they were interviewing for the position but I hadn’t heard that Saint Clare’s had hired one.”

“Is there any reason why you would have heard, Father?“

I think of my weekly emails from Helen Parr, an old friend whose acquaintance I had renewed during my brief time as Rector of Saint Clare’s parish in Myreton last year. In keeping with our commitment to avoid personal entanglements, her emails typically concern goings-on in the parish and in the town of Myerton itself. She has not mentioned the parish hiring a new secretary, but then again, I guess she might not have noticed unless she had to go into the office for some reason.

“No, sir. There really is no reason.” I answer.

“This says that Ms. Watson,” the Archbishop continues, “is a single woman in her late 20s.”

“Hmm,” I say. “Not your typical parish secretary. Not like the last one.”

“Exactly, which is why we have to get on top of this,” the Archbishop says. “I need you to go to Myerton to sort this out.”

“What do you—”

“Talk to Father McCoy, get his side of the story. Interview this Watson woman, see if anything alleged is true.”

I hesitate to ask the next question I have, but it needs to be asked. “Have there been any other similar allegations against Father McCoy in the past?”

“No, not one,” the Archbishop says. “I had his file pulled the moment I finished reading the letter. He’s squeaky clean, not so much as a hint of scandal at his previous assignments.”

Considering his last assignment was at the Archdiocese assisted living facility, I’m not surprised.

“What exactly are the allegations?” I ask.

He hesitates. “I don’t want to get into them over the phone,” he says. “I sent a copy by email to Saint Clare’s.”

“So Father McCoy knows about the allegations?”

“Yes, I called him last night to tell him.”

“I bet he had a restless night.”

“He’s not the only one!” Archbishop Knowland exclaims. “This hasn’t been good for my blood pressure or my ulcer!”

“Does he know I’m coming?”

“He knows someone is coming. Frankly, you were not the first name on my list. You’ve shown a tendency to, well, get a little too involved.”

“I hardly think being involved in one murder investigation—”

“—two, Father, if you include your wife’s.”

I pause. The Archbishop says, “Sorry, Tom. I shouldn’t have said that. It wasn't fair. But you got too involved last time you were at Saint Clare’s.  Because of that, you weren’t my first choice. But I got to thinking that your familiarity with the parish, with the town, with the authorities could come in handy.”

I furrow my brow. “Are the police involved?”

“No,” the Archbishop insists. “No, not yet anyway, since the letter does not imply anything illegal has happened. That’s one thing I want you to look at.” He paused. “If Father McCoy did something egregious to this woman, something that broke a law, then I want you to find that out, and I want you to report it. You know the Myerton Police’s lead detective, correct?”

I’m careful before answering. “Yes, I got to know Detective Parr fairly well. She’s a good detective.”

“What kind of person is she? In other words, will she give the Church a fair shake?”

“Oh, definitely,” I say, remembering our relationship of 20 years ago. “She was raised Catholic and may have stumbled in her faith as a young adult, which most people do, but it’s my understanding from her own words that she never stopped attending Mass completely. But she has not been involved in a parish since the death of her husband. Still, last I spoke to her, she had begun attending Saint Clare’s.”

“Well, hopefully, this will not be an issue. If the police need to be involved, involve her. We’re not sweeping another problem under the rug. But don’t do it unless you uncover something that is a crime.”

“I understand.”

“Oh, I should also say you’ll be taking over the public ministry of Saint Clare’s until this matter is cleared up.”

“But what excuse will I give?”

“I’m sure you and Father McCoy will think of something appropriate.”

I sigh. “What do I tell Father Abbot? We’ll be leaving him in a bit of a lurch.”

“That’s not my concern,” the Archbishop yells. “He’ll have to manage for a while. We’ve got to get this taken care of.  Pack up and get on the road to Myerton. I’ll be waiting for your call.” He hangs up, leaving me looking at the receiver.

I ask Brother Thomas if Father Abbot is free.  “I think I saw him go in the Grotto's direction. He’ll probably be back soon.”

“That’s all right,” I say quietly. “I’ll go to him there.”

***

I FIND FATHER ABBOT at the reproduced Grotto of Lourdes, seated on one of the rough-hewn wood benches. The elder monk looks deep in prayer. I approach him quietly, stepping softly on the warm summer grass. It’s just after 9:00 a.m. and the early July sun is already hot. I’m sweating by the time I get to the Grotto. The sun is glistening off the white marble statue. I stand a respectful distance away so as not to disturb him.

After a few moments, he looks at me and smiles. “Come, Father, sit by me,” he says, patting the seat next to him.”

“Sorry to disturb you, Father Abbot,” I say, sitting down. “I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t important.”

He shakes his head. “It’s perfectly all right, my son. I just come here to meditate. It’s often the quietest place on the property. The enclosure gets too noisy sometimes.”

I smile inwardly. The monastery is too quiet for me sometimes, and he finds it noisy.

“Now, what is it you need to say to me?” he says, turning to face me.

I tell him about the Archbishop’s call. “So he’s taking you away from us?”

“Only temporarily,” I say, “only until I can get this situation at Saint Clare’s straightened out.”

“Temporarily,” he repeats. “But he gave you no idea how temporary this would be, did he?”

“No,” I say hesitantly, “but I can’t imagine it would take very long. It’s ridiculous, these allegations, and it should only take a week or so to wind up.”

He considers what I say, turning to the statue of the Blessed Mother. “Well, I suppose we have no choice,” he sighs. “You’re still under the Archbishop’s authority, and I think we can manage for a few days without a priest. I can still say Mass; one brother will help me move around.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “You, the brothers, everyone has been so good to me since I came. It’s been a real blessing to me.”

He smiles and places his wrinkled hand over mine. “You’ve been a blessing to us, Father . . . to me.” He pauses. “Have you gotten what you came here for?”

“I came here to serve, to help the monastery, to repay you for what you did for me years ago.”

Father Abbot smiles. “Yes, I know that’s why you say you came. But that’s not why you came. You know that.  So, I ask again, have you gotten what you came here for?”

I look at the statue of Mary, then the statue of Saint Bernadette. Often my thoughts have returned to this spot, to this place of prayer and solitude, to the day—the moment—I received the call to the priesthood. Out of the depths of my despair over my wife’s murder, out of the depths I had sunk to in trying to numb my pain, I had found myself in the monastery all those years ago, wanting peace. What I found then was peace—and a new life.

What had I come back for? After Helen arrested Joan’s murderer, after I saw him convicted and locked away, after all the events of last fall, I needed to find peace again. Have I found it? Maybe. But after four months in the quiet and solitude, I am feeling restless and am secretly not sorry to be called to go out again.

“I think so,” I reply. “I guess I really won’t know until I leave.”

“The guilt you once carried, do you still carry it?”

I take time to consider this before I can admit the truth. “No,” I whisper. “That’s gone, but I still grieve for Joan, for what I lost, not just when she died, but when I learned all that I did last year. It still hurts, even after all this time.”

“You wouldn’t be human if it didn’t,” Father Abbot says. “We never really get over our losses. A loved one dies. A favorite pet runs away. Our innocence is taken from us.” He pauses and smiles wistfully. “Someone you love marries another person.”

I look at him, my mouth open to speak. He looks at me and smiles. “I wasn’t always a monk, Father Tom. But that was a long time ago. I never—well, rarely—think about it. So when I say we never really get over loss, I know what I’m saying. Loss isn’t something we get over. It’s just something we learn to live with. Some people suppress it, others replace it, and others allow their losses to consume them. It’s those last who have the hardest time.”

“What have you done with yours?”

He smiles. “I’m still figuring that out.”

***

“IT’S RIDICULOUS. IT’S  absurd. It’s preposterous. It’s . . . it’s scandalous!”

I watch the agitated, red-headed cleric pace up and down in the Rectory living room. He’s been this way since I arrived, only four hours after the Archbishop’s conversation with me at the monastery.

He hadn’t greeted me when I knocked on the door. Much to my surprise, Anna answered.

“Tom, thank God,” she had said. “I can’t get him to calm down.”

“What’s going on? What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? He called me,” Anna explained. “At six o’clock this morning he called me. Fortunately, I was up. He asked—begged me to come over. He sounded agitated, so I came right away. He’s been in the living room the whole time. Sometimes, he’ll sit and stare at the wall, then he’ll get up and pace back and forth, mumbling to himself, gesturing with his hands. Then he got a call and when he hung up, he looked at me and said, ‘Father Greer will be here around noon. Can you make sure the guest room is ready, please?’” She stopped. “What’s going on, Tom? Why are you here?”

I’m not sure how much to tell her. “The Archbishop called me. He asked me—ordered me—to come.”

“Why?”

I choose my words carefully, admitting, “I can’t say, really. He asked me to look into a . . . complaint against Father Leonard.”

She looks confused. “Who could have a complaint against Father Leonard? He’s the least offensive person I’ve ever met.”

For Anna to call someone the least offensive person she’s ever met is high praise. She has firm opinions about most people, many sharp, few incorrect.  It is a trait I have found comes in handy.

“That,” I say, responding to her question, “is what the Archbishop wants me to look into. He wants me to see if there’s any merit to the complaint.”

Anna’s countenance turns serious. “Is Father Leonard in some kind of trouble?”

I sigh. “I don’t know, Anna, that’s what I’m here to find out. Listen, I can’t say any more, the Archbishop asked me to be discreet.”

She puts her hand up and insists, “Say no more, I won’t ask anything else. Though,” she smiles, “you know I can find out if I want to.”

“And I’m asking you, Anna,” I say firmly, “not to.”

She nods. “Okay, Tom.”

The first words out of Father Leonard McCoy’s mouth when Anna shows me into the living room are, “Father Greer, I’ve done nothing inappropriate with Rachel Watson!”

Anna’s eyes get big. So much for discretion, I think. I glance at Anna and get a look that is a combination of surprise, concern, and assurance. Surprise at the accusation, concern for Father Leonard, and assurance that I can trust her not to say anything.

“Why don’t I go make us some coffee,” she says. Returning a while later with a tray holding a coffee pot and two cups with a creamer and sugar bowl, she says, “I’ll be in the back cleaning if you need anything.” A moment later, I hear the door to the kitchen close, music coming from her phone, and the exhaust fan over the oven running. When Anna has to stay out of the loop, she does it, no matter what the temptation.

Father Leonard spends the next half hour continuing to pace up and down the living room, sometimes quietly, sometimes uttering words of protest, all the time agitated, just as Anna had described.

“Please sit down, Leonard,” I say finally,exhausted by his exertions. “Calm down. No one is saying you’ve done anything wrong.”

“Then why did the Archbishop send you? Why is he removing me from public ministry?” He runs his fingers through his mop of hair, grabbing a handful and pulling. “Oh, what would my mother say if she were alive to hear about this?”

“The Archbishop,” I say, trying to sound as soothing as possible, “sent me to look into the allegations. Discreetly, quietly. He wants me to take over your public duties, well, to give you a break.”

“But what will we tell people? You’re not supposed to be here. Everyone knows you’re at Our Lady of the Mount.”

“I don’t think we need to make a big deal of it,” I tell him. “I’m here in town for two weeks, visiting family and friends, and I’m helping at the parish. A vacation, we’ll say.”

He slumps back in his chair and I shift on the couch. I’m pleased to see new—or at least newer—furniture in the rectory. Someone has gotten rid of the sixties vintage thrift-store rejects and replaced them with much more comfortable, much less threadbare furnishings. I recognize a couple of pieces as ones from Anna’s house. She must have done it when she was parish secretary.

“Why don’t I get us a fresh pot of coffee,” I say standing up. “Give you a chance to calm down. Take a few minutes and we’ll continue talking when I get back. Okay?”

Father Leonard looks at me, his mouth in a firm line, and nods. “I’d prefer tea if you don’t mind.”

I carry the tray into the kitchen. Anna turns to me, eyes wide, and exhales.

“Well,” she says, “that’s something.”

“Now, Anna,” I say as I empty the coffee pot and fill it with water.

“So that’s why the Archbishop sent you here,” she whispers. “You’re replacing Father Leonard?”

“Oh, no, no, not at all,” I say, pouring the water into the coffeemaker and scooping coffee grounds into the filter basket. “Can you put on a kettle of water for Leonard? He wants tea.”

“Of course he does,” she mutters, then fills the kettle. “So if you’re not here to replace Father Leonard, what are you here for?”

“To look into it,” I say. “To see if there’s any merit.”

“I can tell you there’s no merit,” Anna scoffs. “I mean, Father Leonard? Inappropriate? I doubt he’s ever done anything inappropriate, or even thought anything inappropriate.”

“I told the Archbishop as much, but he insisted I come and investigate immediately. He says the Church can’t be seen as taking any accusation lightly, no matter how improbable.” I shake my head. “I have to say I agree with him.”

“Well, I see his point. But why you?”

I shrug. “Not sure. He said I wasn’t his first choice, but decided I was the best person for the job.”

“Well,” she says as the kettle whistles. “If you can find Joan’s killer after fifteen years, you can get to the bottom of this.”

“Well, that wasn’t me, that was mostly Detective Parr.”

Anna looks at me and smiles. “Don’t you mean Helen?”

I glance her. “Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Anna says. “I know there’s something there, though I’m not saying you’re in any spiritual danger. Still, it’s in your eyes when you say her name. It’s in her eyes when I mention you.”

I open my mouth to speak when Anna goes on, “So who made the allegation?”

“No idea. It was anonymous.”

“Well, whoever did it either doesn’t know Father Leonard and Rachel, or really has it out for one or both of them.” She hands me Father Leonard’s mug, a bag of Earl Grey already steeping in it. “You will not find anything.”

“I hope not,” I say. “I really hope not.”

Two

FATHER LEONARD ADDS three teaspoons of sugar to his tea when I set it in front of him. He seems calmer, but his red hair is all over the place, like he had continued running his fingers through it while I was out.

“Feel better?” I ask.

“How would you feel if you were in my position?” he replies. “I feel attacked. Assaulted. Betrayed.”

“Okay, all understandable. But I’m here to figure all this out. Now just calm down, take a deep breath, and let’s talk this over.”

He does what I ask. “All right. What do you need to know?”

I pull out my phone to take notes. “Why don’t we start at the beginning.  When did you meet Rachel . . .”

“Watson,” he says. “Rachel Watson. I met her back in April, for the first time. Well, I should say that’s when I officially met her. She started attending Saint Clare’s just after Christmas.”

“Okay.”

“I noticed her at 10:30 a.m. Mass, I think on Epiphany Sunday it was.” He stops then adds quickly, “I don’t mean I noticed her-noticed her, like I took any special notice of her, more like I saw her and thought, ‘oh, someone new,’ not that I really thought of her then or later, I mean—”

“Father McCoy,” I say, holding my hand up. “Leonard, please, I'm not here to trap you. Just go on. So Epiphany was the first day you saw her.”

He nods. “It’s the first time I saw her at Saint Clare’s. I had not seen her here before.”

“When did you meet her?”

“Well, you know we needed to get a new parish secretary, after everything that happened,” he says. “Ms. Luckgold was wonderful, a valuable person. I asked—practically on my hands and knees—if she’d take the position permanently. But she declined. So we advertised.” He sighed. “We got two applicants. One was an old widow, a long-time parishioner, a solid person. The other was Rachel.”

“Why did you choose Rachel? It seems like an unusual thing for someone her age to apply for the job of parish secretary and housekeeper.”

“I thought so too when I first saw her resume—she was the only one to send a resume. The other woman just left a note in the offering basket. College degree in business management, experience in retail and customer service, quite over-qualified. But I interviewed her, anyway.”

“What was that like?”

His eyes brighten, and a slight smile appears on his lips. “Wonder—” He obviously catches himself. “Quite good,” he replies. “She was very impressive in the interview. She explained that she wanted to work in the parish because she was discerning a vocation.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Really? That’s good.”

“I thought so too. I thought it was a great deal for everyone. She told me she thought working at the parish would give her the opportunity to be closer to our Lord—more time to pray and attend Mass daily. Her current job was at the office park outside town, so she couldn’t make daily Mass and she wanted to adopt that discipline.”

“So you hired her, but of course she didn’t live here in the Rectory.”

“Oh, no, Father, no, she rents a townhouse in one of the recent developments on the edge of Myerton.”

“Have you been to her home?”

“What—oh, no, certainly not. I just know where she lives because I drove her home when her car was in the shop and I thought it was too late for a single woman to take an Uber.”

“She would work late?”

“Occasionally.”

“You’d spend time alone with her, here in the Rectory?”

“Yes, of course, she worked here after all. But nothing inappropriate ever happened.”

I look at my notes. “I haven’t seen the complaint, so I don’t know exactly what the accusation is.”

“The Archbishop sent it to me by email,” Father Leonard says, getting out of the chair. “I’ll go get it for you.” He leaves the living room and Anna darts in from the kitchen with a plate of sandwiches.

“I thought some food might help,” she whispers. “I’m not sure he’s eaten today.”

“Could you hear anything?” I ask, taking a sandwich off the plate.

“Oh, Tom, I wouldn’t listen to a private conversation.”

“I didn’t ask if you listened. I asked if you could hear anything?”

She hesitates. “These walls are kind of thin, Tom.”

I nod.  “Any thoughts?”

She leans closer and whispers to me, “There’s more here than he’s saying.”

“Here,” Father Leonard says, brandishing a piece of paper as he returns from the office. “This is—oh, Anna! I forgot you were here. Sandwiches. Thank you. They look delicious.”

“I’ll leave you two,” Anna says. “The . . . kitchen floor needs mopping. I’ll just go do that.” She hurries from the room as Father Leonard resumes his seat.

“This is the allegation?” I say, taking the paper from him. It’s the printed scan of a handwritten document. “It wasn’t sent by email?”

“Apparently not,” Father Leonard says. “It arrived at the Archdiocesan Office late last week by regular mail. No return address, a Myerton postmark. It wasn’t signed. It’s a tissue of lies and slander!” He’s getting agitated again.

“Father Leonard, I very much want to find out the truth in this situation, and if you are as innocent as you say you are, then to prove that. But to do that, I need to see for myself what’s in this letter and I cannot do that with you blathering over me,” I say as I try to read the letter.

Only when I’ve read it through twice do I ask, “Is any of this true?”

Father Leonard shakes his head vigorously. “No. Not a jott. Not a tittle.”

I roll my eyes slightly. Why he insists on speaking like a character out of a Dickens novel, I don’t know. “So nothing in this is factual? Nothing at all?”

“Not a word of it.”

“But you told me you’d work late with her here at the Rectory and,” I look at the letter, “it says right here, ‘Father McCoy and Ms. Watson are often at the Rectory late at night alone.’ So this is true, isn’t it?”

“Well,” he sputters, “well, yes, I suppose if you put it a certain way, that is strictly accurate. But it’s the implication that’s incorrect.”

“I’m not seeing the implication, Father.”

“The person who wrote that,” Father Leonard explodes, “is clearly implying that Rachel and I are engaged in some kind of inappropriate behavior here late at night.  The whole letter is like that, one unfounded accusation after another. Preposterous.” He plops in an armchair and brings his clenched fist down on the arm.

“The letter also says, ‘Father McCoy engages Ms. Watson in intimate conversations.’”

“I’ve offered her spiritual direction,” he barks. “She’s discerning her vocation. We’d pray together. She’d ask for guidance. I’d offer it as best I could.”

I look at Father Leonard. Slowly, he’s changing from frantic and anxious to visibly angry. I continue reading, “‘They’ve been seen dining alone together.’”

“We’ve had dinner a few times at The Bistro, the restaurant up the street,” he says. “People have to eat.”

“‘Several people saw them together at the parish Memorial Day picnic.’” I look at him.

His face turns red and sweat beads on his forehead. A look of panic passes across his face. He swallows and clears his throat. He clenches and unclenches his fist, rubbing it with his other hand. “That—” he squeaks, then clears his throat. “There were a lot of people at the picnic.”

“‘Father and Ms. Watson disappeared for about half an hour, then someone saw them engaged in deep conversation apart from the rest of the group.  Father at one point kissed her.’”

“She had gotten something in her eye,” he explodes, standing up and beginning to pace again. “Rachel wanted to discuss something with me, so we went off a short way—a very short way, I could still see the games the children were playing—and sat together to get away from the noise. You know how noisy it is here, all the time, with all the children. We sat together under a tree. She got something in her eye, so I was trying to get it out. I got close to her face, you know, to see her eye.”

I regret how lame this excuse sounds. One the one hand, most people know that it's the oldest excuse in the book. A sophisticated man would never use it. But Father Leonard is anything but sophisticated, so it's just possible that that’s what actually happened. “What did you and she talk about?” I ask.

Father Leonard shakes his head. “No, I can’t tell you that. It’s under the Seal.”

The Seal of Confession. The shield that can be a sword.  “In general, then,” I continue. “What did you and she discuss?”

He exhales. “She wanted to discuss her call to religious life. She was having doubts, and she talked to me about them.”

“Why at the picnic? Seems an odd place for spiritual direction.”

“It was my idea,” he says. “I noticed her looking distracted, somewhat upset. I asked her if anything was bothering her. She said there wasn’t, but I insisted we go off together to talk.”

“What did she tell you?”

Leonard shakes his head. “You know I can’t tell you that, Father. You must ask her.”

There’s a soft knock behind us. “Excuse me,” Anna says. “Father Leonard, you have sick calls this afternoon.”

“Oh! Oh my, I completely forgot,” he says. “I suppose I can’t do that now, can I, Father?”

I shrug. “I don’t see why not, Leonard,” I say. “The Archbishop said nothing to me about your visits or hearing confessions, just saying Mass. I’ll be glad to go in your place if you don’t feel up to it.”

“No,” he says, squaring his shoulders and straightening his collar. “No, thank you, Father. These scurrilous accusations have deprived me of saying Mass. I will not let them keep me from my flock. No, my mother always told me, ‘When people speak ill of you, go out among them with your head held high.’ If you’ll excuse me.” He starts out of the living room, then pauses.

“I was just trying to help Rachel,” Father Leonard says. “We became friends. I’ve never had that many. It’s difficult for me to make friends. Rachel, well, she and I are a lot alike.” He sighs. “It’s just nice to have someone who understands.”

“That’s all you are. Friends,” I say.

Father Leonard looks me in the eye. “Yes. Friends.”

***

“THERE WERE MANY PEOPLE at the picnic, Tom,” Anna says. She squeezes the mop out into the bucket, then leans it against the counter. She dries her hands and looks at me. “I was helping with the kids’ games so I saw nothing in particular I thought anything about.”

“Have you heard anything? I mean, I know you keep your ear to the ground.”

Anna wipes the counter with the towel. “Nothing specific. Just murmurings about how close they seem.” She looks at me. “I’ve heard nothing that would warrant someone writing to the Archdiocese.”

“Do you have any idea who would write anonymously?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t think of a single person, Tom. Everyone in the parish likes Father Leonard. I mean, we all think he’s a little odd sometimes—the way he speaks, his homilies can be a bit long-winded, he sometimes lapses into untranslated Greek or Latin, the fact he’s named after a science-fiction character, you know the teens call him Father Bones—but he’s been good for the parish. The young people like him. He’s done a lot of talks to the Catholic student group on campus. Overall, a nice, calming presence.”

“Someone doesn’t think so,” I point out.

Anna sighs. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“That’s what the Archbishop wants me to do.” I think for a minute. “So tell me about Rachel Watson.”

She shrugs. “There’s not much to tell about her. Her family has lived in Myerton for years. They’re members of the parish, but not active; if they attend more than Christmas and Easter, I’d be surprised.”

“She attended Myer College?”

“No, she went to school in Emmitsburg. Got her degree in business, according to her resume, and took a job with a firm in Pittsburgh. Worked there for a few years, then moved back to Myerton. She’s been attending Saint Clare’s since January.”

“How did she come to be interviewed for parish secretary?”

“She applied,” Anna says matter-of-factly. “Simple as that. We put a note in the bulletin asking for applicants. She and Fern Grumly were the only two that applied. Fern just didn’t cut it; Father McCoy didn’t like her, though I think she would have done a good job. But,” she adds slowly, “he took to Rachel right away. Came out of the interview having offered her the job. Only took about fifteen minutes.”

“You weren’t in the interview?”

“Oh, of course I was,” she says. “Had an entire list of questions for her. We kept Fern in there for about 45 minutes—may seem like overkill, but parish secretary is a sensitive job. They’re privy to all sorts of information about members, and work intimately—” she stops. “Maybe not the best word under the circumstances, but I mean closely with the priest. They need to get along, have discretion and sensitivity.”

I chuckle. “The last full-time secretary had none of that,” I say.

Anna guffaws. “Yes and look what happened. Anyway, 45 minutes with Fern, about fifteen with Rachel. I got through three or four questions when Father Leonard offered her the job.”

“Didn’t you think it was strange?”

“At the time I did. When we received Rachel’s resume, he had a negative reaction. Nothing specific, mind you, but I could tell from the way he looked and the tone of his voice when he talked about her he wasn’t too excited about her interest. So it surprised me when he offered her the job so quickly. But I said nothing. Rachel was much more qualified. And her reason for applying made perfect sense in one respect.”

“But not in all respects?”

Anna shakes her head. “In working here, even full time, she’s making less than half what she did in her previous job.”

“Leonard told me she has her own townhouse,” I say. “Does she still have family in town? Why doesn’t she live with them?”

“From what she’s told me,” Anna says, leaning forward, “she’s not on great terms with her family. They’re not exactly thrilled that she is considering entering religious life.”

“So no support, huh?”

She shakes her head. “No. Oh, her mother and father are decent people.  Her father is a CPA in town. I think they just had something different in mind for their daughter. Rachel has a twin sister, Rebecca, who is married.” She pauses. “Her husband is Winthrop Myer IV.”

I whistle. Winthrop Myer was the founder of Myerton, the founder of Myer College. The Myer family is still a prominent family in town, and Myer Holdings owns much of the surrounding mountains. “So Rachel is related by marriage to the Myer family?”

Anna nods. “There is one other thing I should mention about Winthrop Myer. It’s probably nothing. But I think you should know.”

I lean against the counter. “What is it?”

She looks out the window over the sink, then turns to look at me. “Not long after Rachel’s resume came in, Mr. Myer paid Father Leonard a visit. They were in his office for about half an hour.” After he left, Father Leonard gave me a check to deposit in the Parish’s account. It was for $15,000, signed by Winthrop Myer IV.”

I stare at her. “Do you think Myer persuaded Father Leonard to hire his sister-in-law?”

She shakes her head slowly. “I don’t know, Tom. It could just be a coincidence. You know, the Myers have been patrons of the parish for generations. His great-great-grandfather helped pay for rebuilding Saint Clare’s after the fire. He’s continued to be a frequent donor, though rarely under his own name. Maybe he threatened to turn off the money?”

I exhale. “I’ll ask Father Leonard about it. What can you tell me about Rachel and her sister? Do you think the sister would have sent the letter?”

“Rachel and her sister still seem close, from what I’ve seen and what Rachel’s told me. But even her sister doesn't seem to understand her vocation. But to answer your question, I really don’t know.”

She folds the dish towel and places it on the counter. “So what are you going to do now?”

“Well, I suppose I must interview Rachel. I’ll contact her and try to get that done in the next couple of days. First, I’ll get settled in here. The Archbishop wanted me to let him know when I arrived, so I guess I’d better call him.”

“I’ve got the guest room all ready for you,” Anna says.

“Thanks.” I pause. I wonder if I should ask what’s on my mind. “How’s Helen?”

“I don’t really know,” she replies. “I have seen little of her lately.”

“But I thought she started attending Saint Clare’s?”

Anna shrugs. “With three Masses, she’s probably just not there at the same time I am. I mean, there hasn’t been a murder since you left, and I can’t think what else would make her miss Mass.”

I note the sarcasm and laugh. “Well, that shouldn’t be a problem this time.”