The Haunted Heritage E-Book

Susan Mathis

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Excitement is building as the opening of the Acutis Society’s Fairy Tales and Frights haunted house approaches. The members of Saint Clare’s gaming group have worked hard to transform the interior of the Myer Mansion into something both magical and scary to entertain the families of Myerton as Halloween approaches.

But does an actual ghost walk the halls of the 170 year old house?

After Nate writes an article for the Myerton Gazette claiming that that ghost of Victoria Myer haunts the mansion, Father Tom wants a retraction--until the story is picked up by the Baltimore paper and ticket sales go through the roof.
 
Still, Father Tom knows there’s no such thing as ghosts . . . Right?

When he finds Catherine Conway in an upstairs room talking to someone he can’t see--a woman asking for a priest to say Masses and prayers for her soul--Father Tom comes to the only conclusion possible.

Victoria Myer still lives in the house. And she’s suffering the torments of purgatory.

But when one of the participants in the house is found stabbed to death, Father Tom and Helen must search for an earthly killer before he strikes again.

Leseprobe

The Haunted Heritage

The Father Tom Mysteries, Book 10

By

J. R. Mathis and Susan Mathis

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.

All characters and situations are totally the creations of the authors. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

First Printing, September, 2021

Contact: [email protected]

––––––––

Cover Photo: Depositphotos

Cover: Millie Godwin

Editor: Anna Palmer Darkes

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

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

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

Copyright Page

Also By J. R. Mathis

Also By Susan Mathis

The Haunted Heritage (The Father Tom Mysteries, #10)

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

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Preview of The Fatal Fall

The Honeymoon Homicide.

Also By J. R. Mathis

Also By Susan Mathis

About the Author

“It’s what I call common sense, properly understood,” replied Father Brown. “It really is more natural to believe a preternatural story, that deals with things we don’t understand, than a natural story that contradicts things we do understand. Tell me that the great Mr Gladstone, in his last hours, was haunted by the ghost of Parnell, and I will be agnostic about it. But tell me that Mr Gladstone, when first presented to Queen Victoria, wore his hat in her drawing-room and slapped her on the back and offered her a cigar, and I am not agnostic at all. That is not impossible; it’s only incredible. But I’m much more certain it didn’t happen than that Parnell’s ghost didn’t appear; because it violates the laws of the world I do understand. So it is with that tale of the curse. It isn’t the legend that I disbelieve — it’s the history.”

― G.K. Chesterton, The Incredulity of Father Brown

One

THERE IS NOTHING LIKE a trip through the western Maryland mountains in the early fall to restore the spirits. Today, the first Saturday in October, is the perfect day for it. The fall colors are nearing their peak, with a clear blue sky and crisp air that’s just about perfect for a drive through the area.

Particularly if one is alone with one’s much loved soon-to-be-wife.

Even if she does want to shop.

Helen has insisted on going to the outlet mall in Hagerstown at least once a month since we got engaged, saying again and again that she needs just “one or two” more outfits for our honeymoon cruise. At this point, I don’t see how any ship could possibly stay afloat with all the luggage she appears to plan on taking with us.

But I admit, it’s not a bad way to spend a day. We’re away from the trials and tribulations of our respective vocations. For Helen, that means there are no criminals to interrogate, no crime scenes to tromp through. For me, it means no emergency phone calls to the hospital, no confessions to hear. She doesn’t wear her sidearm, and I don’t wear my collar.

But since neither of us is ever really off duty, she does carry her backup weapon, carefully tucked in her mysterious thigh holster, and I carry my stole and a bottle of holy oil in case someone needs anointing of the sick.

Or last rites.

Fortunately, in our approximately half-dozen trips, Helen has not once had to chase down a perp through the food court, and I have not had to give the last rites of the church to an elderly person struck down by the kiddie train that runs by with alarming speed and regularity.

Our trips typically follow the same pattern. We leave right after 8 a.m. Mass, swinging by The Muffin Man for coffee—and, of course, muffins—to enjoy on the long drive. Once we get to the mall, I drop Helen off at one of the plus-sized women’s clothing stores and then park the car. I go inside and take a seat near the fitting rooms, where I spend the next hour or so oohing and ahhing over everything she tries on.

Since I love and appreciate Helen’s wonderful curves, this is the highlight of the day for me.

Unfortunately, my enjoyment is limited, because when she’s done with the regular clothes, she shoos me out into the mall “to get us something to drink.” She and I both know that this is unspoken code for “OK, Tom, I’m going to shop for lingerie now, so you need to go.”

Neither of us speaks of it because, well, it’s unspoken.

I wander around for a while, staying close enough for Helen to find me but far enough away so that I can’t see what she’s buying. After a while, she comes out.

Then I carry the bags to the car, laden down like a pack mule, usually with at least three store bags and one dress bag.

Inevitably, Helen catches me trying to sneak a peek. “You might as well give up, Tom,” she usually says with a giggle. “I always have the clerk put the unmentionables at the bottom of the bag underneath everything else.”

“I know,” I usually sigh, “but you can’t blame me for trying.”

“Tsk, tsk, Father Greer,” she says, shaking her head. “What would people think if they saw a priest trying to catch a glimpse of a woman’s underwear?”

“Why do you think I never wear my collar?” I say.

After this exchange, we go to a late lunch at one of three restaurants we particularly like.  Since we always go on the last Saturday of the month, when Father Wayne comes out to celebrate the 4:30 p.m Mass, we drive back to Myerton. There we usually end our day together with a long, luxurious kiss when I drop Helen and her purchases off at her apartment. 

We have just reached the point in the day when I have been shooed out of the store and am wandering up the wide hall in search of a comfortable bench when I see a blue-haired young woman in a wheelchair being wheeled toward me by a flustered-looking young man.

Of course, I think. Nate and Gladys had the same idea for a relaxing drive up into the mountains.

It's actually a relief to see them together—and by together, I mean somewhere other than my office or Mass. In the couple of weeks since the revelations about Nate’s activities leading up to the murder of Ashley Becket, when he hired her as a prostitute in a frankly idiotic plan to lose his virginity, the three of us have met together to discuss their relationship. Nate is intent—almost desperately so—to show Gladys how sorry he is and is willing to do anything it takes to earn her forgiveness. Gladys—well, let’s just say she’s been a little mercurial, alternating between merciful and forgiving one moment and angry and accusatory the next.

So, the fact they’re together in a mall in Hagerstown the first weekend of October, apparently not arguing with each other, is a good sign.

Since no one wants to run into their priest—even one who is out of uniform—when they’re on a date, I try to make myself scarce. Unfortunately, before I can escape I hear Nate say loudly, “There’s Father Tom. We should ask him what he thinks.”

My heart sinks even as I paste on my best pastoral smile. The reason that I assume people don’t want to run into their priests is that I, said priest, don’t want to run into them. All I wanted was a nice, quiet, drama-free day with Helen. We haven’t had too many of those lately.

Oh, well, it’s too late. At the very least, chances are this encounter will be interesting.

“Hi, you two,” I say pleasantly, when they reach me just past the Boardwalk Fries. “What brings you here today?”

“Shopping, because of Nate’s irresponsible behavior,” Gladys scowls without hesitating. Even with an IQ on the high end of genius, she often lacks the gift of discretion.

“This situation is not just my fault,” Nate snaps, at least for the moment refusing to be cowed.  “You could have believed in me. ‘Stand By Your Man,’ you know?”

“Are you really trying to win me over by using song lyrics from a bad 1970s country song?”

“No, but I am saying—”

“Hey, guys,” I say, trying to head this same argument that I’ve already heard off at the pass, “Why don’t you just tell me what you’re shopping for?”

“Halloween costumes,” they say in unison.

I just stare at them. “Halloween costumes,” I say. “That’s what you’re arguing about today?”

“Uh-huh,” Gladys says firmly, “and it’s all his fault.”

“It is not my fault,” Nate says. At her glare, he shrugs. “OK, it is my fault. But you didn’t have to cancel the plans we had already made.”

“Why would I have her waste her time when I didn’t know if you’d even be out of jail by the time we needed them!” Gladys shouts, causing several people to stop and stare.

“Gladys,” I say quietly, “please tell me why you two are almost coming to blows over Halloween costumes.”

She takes a deep breath. “Because Nate and I were a couple, we needed to have matching Halloween costumes. We talked about what we were going to be since June, and we settled on The Little Mermaid and Flounder. I had already lined up someone to construct a rock around my chair and to custom make our costumes—I’d be the Little Mermaid, of course, and Nate would be Flounder.”

“OK, those both sound nice,” I say. “So, what’s the problem?”

Gladys grits her teeth and says, “Nate had to go and get arrested for murdering a hooker. I just assumed I’d be alone again and cancelled the costumes. But now, we’re back together, since he didn’t actually kill her, so now we have to find new costumes. OFF THE RACK!”

She’s pretty agitated by now and getting loud as more people begin to stare and Nate turns eight shades of red.  I try to calm her down by saying, “Well, I’m sure it shouldn’t be too hard to find something. What about Raggedy Ann and Andy?”

“Dad, really?” Gladys snorts.

“Yeah, Father,” Nate says, rolling his eyes. “We’re not kids.”

“OK,” I say, wracking my brain for something even moderately helpful. “What about something from the classics, like Anthony and Cleopatra?”

“I like the sound of that,” Nate says, grinning at Gladys in a way that I’m pretty sure is not appropriate for my eyes.

“No,'' Gladys says sharply. “I’m not going to dress up like some Egyptian Queen in that scanty sort of harem outfit”

“Gladys, that is hardly what I was imagining,” I insist, blushing.

“I want to do something from Star Wars,” Gladys says, shooting Nate a look, “like Princess Leia and an Ewok, but he won’t do it.”

“An Ewok,” I say, grinning, “Hey, that’s a great idea. You’d be so cute as an—”

“No,” Nate says with a dismissive wave. “It’s too undignified for someone who now has his own business. I’m still trying to recover from that issue with the murder accusation.”

I refrain from pointing out that two people in their mid-twenties standing in the Hagerstown outlet mall arguing about Halloween costumes is hardly dignified in the first place.

“Anyway,” Nate continues, “I think implying there’s a relationship between Princess Leah and an Ewok is bordering on bestiality, which I know is against the Commandments.”

“Hah!” Gladys says loudly. “You’re one to talk about something being against the Commandments.”

“For the millionth time, Gladys, I didn’t actually commit fornication!” Nate yells.

When I visualized what my life as a priest would be like, and even when I visualized my life as a parish priest, I never foresaw that it would include standing in a mall in Hagerstown, Maryland, talking about bestiality as it relates to Princess Leia and an Ewok, with two people, one of whom just yelled the word “fornication.”

But then, as my professors always said, you never know.

“OK, Nate,” I say, desperate to bring this increasingly uncomfortable conversation to an end, “you don’t want to be an Ewok. What if you were Han Solo? He was her boyfriend.”

Nate grins. “Hey, I like that!”

I feel a flush of triumph and I think I have a winner.  Then Gladys says caustically, “He’s not tall enough to be Han Solo.”

I look at her like she’s lost her ever-loving mind, because that’s the only thing that can explain her behavior.

Then, I take a closer look at Gladys. She doesn’t appear angry. She doesn’t even appear hurt.

She looks . . . disappointed.

This is not about the costumes. This is about something else.

“Hey, Nate,” I say, keeping my eyes on Gladys, who is looking at her clasped hands. “Can you go in that store and tell Helen to meet us down at the ice cream shop?  I know she’d like to spend a few minutes with y’all. Gladys and I will go ahead and head that way. You stay here and help carry Helen’s packages.”

I take Gladys‘s chair and we head towards the Baskin Robbins. On our way, I say, “OK, Gladys. You and I both know this isn’t about Halloween costumes.”

“It is,” she says quietly. “It’s just about the costumes. I know it sounds stupid to you, Dad—”

I push her over to a wrought-iron table right outside the ice cream parlor and sit down. “Gladys, I may not understand it, but I don’t think it’s stupid. I don’t think it’s about the costumes, though. So, what is it?”

She looks up at me, a tear trickling down her face. “OK. It’s not the costumes themselves. Not really. It’s . . . it’s what they mean. Or, what they meant.”

I sit quietly, knowing she’ll tell me in her own time without prompting from me.

“Halloween was always my favorite holiday as a kid, even more than Christmas,” she says. “Not because of the ghoulish stuff, but because I got to dress up, become someone else. Especially after I lost my ability to walk, I could be anybody. I put on a Wonder Woman costume, and I was Wonder Woman for a few hours. Everyone else saw the chair, but in my mind I could run, and jump, and fight the bad guys. Everything I couldn’t do in real life.”

“I can see that,” I say, “but it still doesn’t explain—”

“I was by myself, Dad,” she whispers. “I didn’t have a brother or sister to dress up with. And when I was a teenager, I didn’t have a  . . .”

“A boyfriend,” I say quietly. And with that, things become clear.

“Right,” she says with a pained smile. “I was homeschooled, I didn’t get to know guys my own age, and even if I did, you know how insecure teenage boys are. They were never going to go for the genius in the wheelchair.”

“And in college,” I say, “you didn’t have a boyfriend, either.”

She laughs bitterly. “I loved Richard, or I thought I did, but he wasn’t exactly the kind of man who would dress up in a costume. Then of course, the guys and girls I had sex with, well, they weren’t really interested in a relationship that had any real meaning to it. Honestly, by that time, I wasn’t, either.” She takes a deep breath. “But I’ve told you that.”

I stay quiet, and she clears her throat. “By the time I came to Myerton and took the job at the police department, I’d given up on relationships of any kind. I decided I was just never going to have a real boyfriend. As far as imagining dressing up for Halloween with the man I loved—well, I’d given up on that years ago.”

She pauses for a moment. Quietly, I say, “And then you met Nate.”

She looks at me, a smile lighting up her face. “I know everyone else thinks he’s goofy, but Dad! He was like a dream come true! I mean, not only was he interested in me as more than an easy lay, he liked me. He loved me. He liked costumes, and dressing up, and Halloween, and cosplay, and everything I liked. He was different.”

Gladys’ smile disappears. “Except he really wasn’t. He really isn’t. And that’s why I’m so upset. Because he’s not what I thought he was.”

“Gladys,” I say, “you know he still loves you, in spite of what he did.”

“But what I still cannot get my mind around, Dad, is that he did it in the first place. He says he loves me, but I’m still having a hard time believing that.”

“Let me ask you a question,” I say, folding my arms. “Did you expect Nate to never disappoint you?”

“I never expected him to hire a hooker,” Gladys says.

“Frankly, I didn’t expect that, either,” I say. “And it was wrong. It was sinful. It hurt you. And it’s something that he’s confessed to you and asked forgiveness. He’s been to confession and received absolution.”

“I know all that,” Gladys says, nodding her head. “But it’s like I don’t know who he is anymore.”

“He’s still Nate,” I say.

“But he’s not who I thought he was,” Gladys whispers.

I consider my next words carefully, for my own sake as well as hers. “You worked with Helen on her investigation into Joan’s murder, right?”

She nods. “Yes.”

“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but one of the most difficult things for me about that was not having to relive her murder,” I say. “It was discovering that the woman I loved—still love, really—was not who I thought she was.”

Gladys looks at me. “Oh,” she says quietly. “I never really knew for sure if you knew. Mom never told me.”

“No reason she shouldn’t have,” I say with a shrug. “But yeah. I didn’t know about her struggles with mental illness. I didn’t know about her multiple hospitalizations as a teenager. And I certainly didn’t know about her first marriage.”

“How did you feel when you found all that out?”

“Hurt,” I say with a tight smile. “Angry. Confused. I was that way for a while. You know I left town and went to a monastery as their chaplain for a few months after Helen solved the case. One of the things I came to grips with during that time was what I learned about Joan. I finally realized that she didn’t hide who she was from me to hurt me. She didn’t mean to deceive me. She did it because she was afraid if I knew the truth, I wouldn’t love her anymore.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” Gladys declares. “She was sick! You wouldn’t have stopped loving her!”

“Of course not. I still loved her, even after I learned the truth. I was disappointed, true. But it wasn’t the first time Joan disappointed me. And I disappointed her plenty of times. And Gladys, Nate will disappoint you again. It’s inevitable. Not because he’s a particularly bad or evil person. But because he’s human. He’s a flawed and sinful human being, as we all are.”

She says nothing, so I press forward. “And you will disappoint him, too. I’m sure you have.”

“Me!” she says indignantly. “How?”

“He said it. You didn’t stand by him, not the way he thought you should. Now we can argue whether or not he’s right, but that’s how he feels.”

“But he—”

I hold up my hand. “You heard him tell you that when he first met you, he assumed you were a virgin because you seemed so sweet and innocent. Gladys, do you think he wasn’t disappointed when you told him otherwise? You don’t think he struggled with anger and sadness over that?”

“I don’t know,” Gladys says quietly.

“Did he ever berate you about it? Did he bring up your past over and over again?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

I take a deep breath. “The point is, Gladys, you can wallow in your disappointment over finding out that Nate isn’t who you thought he was. You can continue to be angry with him over something that he’s already sought your forgiveness for. You can give him hell for hiring Ashley Becket in the first place for the rest of his life. But if that’s what you want to do, then end things with Nate right now so you can find a man who will never disappoint you, and so he can find a woman who won’t disappoint him. And when you do, I want to meet him.”

Gladys looks at her hands. “But I don’t want anyone else,” she whispers. “I want him.”

I sigh. “Then Gladys, you need to decide if you can accept him as he is. Flawed. Sinful. And very likely to hurt and disappoint you in the future.”

She doesn’t say anything and I don’t say anything. I leave her at the table and order ice cream cones for Helen and me—butter pecan for her, chocolate caramel swirl for me. By the time I get back to the table, Nate and Helen are there. The young man looks as weighed down with packages as I have been on occasion.

“Hi,” I say, handing Helen her cone and giving her a kiss. “Mission accomplished?”

“For today, anyway,” she says. “Oh, butter pecan. My favorite.”

“I know, that’s why I got it for you.”

While we’re talking, I’m aware that Gladys and Nate are sitting next to each other quietly. I wonder if I’m going to have to continue counseling them when Gladys says,  “You know, Nate, I’ve thought about it, and I think that you’ll make a wonderful Han Solo. Let’s go back and get those costumes we saw when we first got here this morning.”

“Really?” Nate says, a smile breaking out on his face. “Are you sure?”

Gladys looks him in the eye and says, “Yes, Nate. For the first time in weeks, I’m sure.”

Nate clearly looks confused by this, but I give Gladys a smile. “Well, you two have fun. Helen and I are going to wander the mall eating our ice cream cones like teenagers.”

“We are?” she asks. I give her a look, and she says brightly, “Oh, we are. How fun will that be?”

We tell Gladys and Nate goodbye as Nate says, “Don’t forget I’ll be by tomorrow afternoon to talk to you about the Myer Mansion.”

I have been dreading this but know that it's an important part of promoting the Haunted Mansion, so I say, “Yes, Nate, 5:00 p.m, right?”

“Yes. See you then,” Nate says. “Oh, and at Mass.”

My work finished, Helen and I walk off to stroll happily through the mall, licking ice cream cones like two little children out of school for the first day of the summer. When we get some distance from them she asks, “What was that about?“

“Nothing you need to be concerned with. File it under pastoral counseling and don’t give it another thought.“

Much to my surprise, she grins at me and says, “Thankfully.“ Then, having finished her ice cream cone, she slips her arm through mine and we head back towards the car, carrying the latest additions to her honeymoon wardrobe.

Two

ONE OF THINGS THAT I have been both looking forward to and dreading since the beginning of the new school year is meeting with this year’s group of First Communicants. These kids, generally going into second grade, will spend the coming school year preparing to receive First Holy Communion in the spring.

Normally, I would not meet with them until sometime during Lent. Their initial instruction would come from Saint Clare’s Director of Religious Education, and I’d only come in to talk to each child individually near the designated time.

But we hardly have a normal situation this year. I have not yet hired a Director of Religious Education to replace the crazy woman who shot Helen a few months ago. I’ve managed to resist Anna’s best efforts to get me to advertise in the Archdioceses of Baltimore and Washington for a new DRE, since I’m reluctant to take any chances hiring another person who turns out to be a lunatic. There’s always the possibility we’d wind up with an actual serial killer instead of simply the daughter of one.

I have put in a request, through the Archdiocese, to the Nashville Dominicans for a qualified sister to serve as the DRE.  But it’s one of hundreds of similar requests from this order of teaching nuns—one of the most rapidly growing religious communities in the country, with young women eager to serve God and His people—and the likelihood of receiving one in my lifetime is small. But I’m hopeful.

So, because of my determination—or stubbornness, depending on who you ask—I am taking on the responsibility of leading the children, and their parents, through the first steps. That is why, at 9:15 a.m., I’m seated on a child-size chair in the first grade classroom, surrounded by about a dozen inquisitive looking youngsters and their obviously nervous parents.

Technically, not all the parents are nervous. Alan Trent, who was just made chair of the Department of Philosophy and Theology at Myer College, and is arguably better qualified than I am to teach this class, is here with his youngest, Betty. She is the ninth—and last—Trent child to prepare to receive her first sacraments at Saint Clare’s

Louise Harrell is there with Martin Maycord’s two older nieces, Lucy and Sophie—the latter, at eight, being the oldest child in the group. I’m gratified to see them here. Since their father was imprisoned for various crimes ranging from drug trafficking to being an accessory to murder, they’ve made remarkable progress, thanks to both the stability provided by their uncle and the counseling provided by their therapist—and Martin’s girlfriend—Mae Trent. The girls are still shy, but Louise more than makes up for their awkwardness with her warm, encouraging smile and helpful comments.

Miriam Conway, on the other hand, looks like she’s about to throw up. Now, that may or may not be related to her very obvious pregnancy. She is in her seventh month and due in late-December. Both she and Dan are hoping for a girl to, as Dan says, “help civilize the three hooligans”—his affectionate term for his twin boys, Max and JP, and their brother Andrew.

Sitting next to Miriam is their daughter, Catherine, who is not quite seven. If it were any child other than her, I’d wonder if she were ready for her first sacraments. But it seems appropriate that Saint Clare’s little seer should be spiritually precocious. Of course, wondering what her daughter might say is probably contributing to Miriam’s nausea.

I know the other parents and children less well, but all are regular attendees at Mass and have been in religious education before, so I don’t foresee any problems.

My optimism will be the death of me.

I’m about to start when Helen slips in the back and takes a seat by Miriam. She gives the mother of her godchild-to-be a hug and blows a kiss to Catherine. She catches my eye and gives me a smile and a wink.

“OK, boys and girls,” I say with what I hope is a friendly smile. “In church, we always begin everything with a prayer. So, let’s start by saying the Lord’s Prayer.”

After making the sign of the cross—and noticing my first job will be to teach a few of the children the proper way to make the sign of the cross—I begin the prayer by saying “Our Father.” From there, the children all join in, some more than others, including one little boy with a very short hair cut who seems to think that God will hear him better if he yells.

“Very good, very good,” I say, encouraged that most of them at least seemed familiar with a prayer we say at every single Mass. “OK, so, who here knows who I am?”

Several hands go up, and I call on a little blond girl who says, “You’re Father Tom.”

“That’s right,” I say.

I think, This is going to be easier than I thought. “And what is your name?”

“Emily,” she says pleasantly. “Father Tom, I have a question.”

“OK, sure” I say, happy to meet such an enthusiastic student.

“Why don’t you have heat in your house?” she says with perfect seriousness.

“What?” I ask, obviously caught off guard.

“My Daddy says that you're a priest and if you're cold at night, you should get a blanket, not a wife.”

There are a few stifled chuckles from the adults—including Helen, bless her heart—and I see Emily’s mother lunging for the child from the back row. I wave her back to her seat with what I hope is an understanding smile.

I then turn my attention back to Emily and say, “Oh, Emily, thank you for asking. I do have heat in my house but I haven’t had to use it in a while because it's been summer time. But now the fall is coming and it's time to start talking about Sacraments. Who knows what a sacrament is?”

The boy with the short hair, whose name tag reads “Daniel,” waves his hand.

“Yes, Daniel,” I say.

Standing up, he belts out,  “They are the divine helps which God gives us to enable us to believe the truths of faith, live according to God’s moral code, and grow in the gift of divine life.”

“That’s very good, Daniel,” I say, as his mother beams with pride. “So a sacrament is something that God has given us to help us be closer to him. There are Seven Sacraments. The first is one that you’ve all had, right after you were born. Does anyone know what that was?”

A little boy named “Pio” raises his hand, and when I call on him says confidently, “Circumcision.”

“No,” I say as the parents in the room try desperately not to laugh. “This involves water and usually a baby wears a white outfit for it.”

At this the entire class erupts with “baptism” and I smile on them beatifically as I say, “Right. Baptism is the first sacrament you receive and the second is called reconciliation. Now, does anyone know what reconciliation is?”

A little girl named Alice raises her hand and says, “It's when a husband leaves the whore he’s been shacking up with and moves back in with his wife.”

There are a few audible gasps, and I wonder if the sun has gone behind a cloud or if I am about to pass out, when a deep voice from the back corner of the room commands, “Alice Elisabeth McDermott, you need to shut your mouth!”

Wanting to defend little Alice, who looks about to cry, I say, “That’s sort of right. It is when two people who have not been getting along say they’re sorry and become friends again. With the sacrament of reconciliation, we admit that we’ve done some things that are wrong and have kept us away from God so that we can be close to him again. We do this in Confession. Who knows what Confession is?”

Catherine Conway throws her hand up confidently. “Yes, Catherine,” I say, noticing too late the look of horror on Miriam’s face.

I soon understand why.

“Father Tom,” Catherine says authoritatively, “a confession is when a perp admits he is guilty, but sometimes you have to beat it out of him.”

Helen almost bursts out laughing. Miriam looks like she wants the floor to open up and swallow her. Around Catherine, little boys and girls are expressing horror.

“No, no, Catherine,” I say quickly, trying to maintain a smiling countenance, “that’s not—”

“But Father Tom,” she continues with surprising dignity, “you will not have to beat a confession out of me. Mommy has made me keep a list of all the things I’ve done wrong ever since I could spell ‘hit’ and ‘bit’.”

“That’s good, Catherine,” I say weakly as Miriam struggles to remain upright in her chair.

“Father Tom!” Daniel yells, “Are you going to beat us?”

“No, of course not,” I say hastily. “Catherine—”

“No, Father Tom’s not going to beat us,” Emily says. “He’s nice.”

“Thank you, Emily,” I say, thinking things have turned a corner.

“He’ll get Miss Helen to do it,” she goes on. “She’s a cop.”

From the back of the room, I hear Helen begin to laugh uncontrollably. She stands up and exits swiftly.

“Daddy will do it for you,” Catherine says, “if Miss Helen can’t. I’ve heard Mommy and Daddy say—.”

“OK,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster, “We’re out of time. Miss Helen has some treats for you in the other room. I need a minute or two to talk with your mommies and daddies and then we’ll come in there, too.”

As soon as the last child has cleared the door, I look at these desperate parents and say calmly, “I assure you that I treat all comments that come to my ears with the utmost charity and encourage all of you to do likewise. Please check your email Tuesday morning for a set of printable worksheets that the children can complete at home in the coming week. I will go over the material with them during next week’s session. Obviously, the Socratic method is for the birds. Class dismissed.”

***

AFTER THE FIRST COMMUNICANTS class debacle, the rest of the morning goes smoothly. The 10:30 a.m. Mass is its usual mixture of reverence and chaos, with the proceedings highlighted by my first triple baptism—two boys and a girl from three different families, the continuation of the parish’s baby boom prompted by a particularly snowy January and February.

After Mass, Helen and I eat a delicious lunch of pork that has been slowly braising in cola all morning. Helen brought her brussels sprouts cooked with bacon and brown sugar, as well as rolls and cheesecake, courtesy of The Muffin Man.

“So tell me, Tom,” Helen says with a smirk, “is there a Vatican-approved paddle for beating confessions out of children, or would you like my old nightstick?”

I roll my eyes. “Well, according to Emily, I’m too nice to beat anyone, so you’re going to do it.”

Helen laughs as I add, “Though Catherine did say Dan could do it if you couldn’t.”

“I think I need to have a little talk with him,” Helen says as tears roll down her cheeks, “about his interrogation techniques.”

“Eh, he probably uses them on the twins,” I shrug.

After this bit of banter, Helen says, “Nate and Gladys looked good. I mean, I didn’t see her scowl at him once. Has she finally forgiven him?”

“I sure hope so,” I sigh. “After yesterday, I think things will improve.”

“By the way, what was all that about?”

“You’re not going to believe this,” I say. “They were in a battle royal over Halloween costumes, of all the ridiculous things.”

For some reason, Helen’s smile disappears. “You think Halloween costumes are ridiculous?”

“Well, not for kids. But they’re full grown adults. I mean, I know they do all the cosplay stuff with Age of Artemis at comic book conventions, but dressing up for Halloween at their age?”

Helen’s frowning now. “So, tell me, Tom,” she says. “If I said we wouldn’t be having that argument because I’d decided a couple of months ago what we’re wearing—”

“You’re not serious, Helen!” I exclaim.

“Of course I am, Tom,” Helen says. “You know the last night of the Acutis Society’s haunted house—what are they calling it again?”

“Fairy Tales and Frights,” I say, “to emphasize that there is family-friendly stuff earlier in the evening.”

“Well, the last night is on Halloween,” she continues. “And they’re having a party afterwards. And someone in this room promised Mae Trent that we’d be chaperones.”

“Yes, chaperone,” I say. “Not dress up.”

“But Tom,” Helen says with a smile. “You know how much I love to dress up for Halloween.”

“I thought you’d outgrown that in 20 years.”

“Honestly, I haven’t in a long time—about 20 years,” she says. “I’m really looking forward to this, darling. And the costumes I picked out are perfect.” She lowers her voice. “And, Father Tom, I can guarantee you’re going to like my costume in particular.”

Her sultry tone sends a thrill through me, and I’m suddenly aware that I need to turn the heat down in the Rectory.

Rallying my last remaining shreds of dignity, I whine, “But you know how much I hate Halloween.”

Helen rolls her eyes. “Yes, Tom. I remember. And I remember why you hate Halloween. But shouldn’t you be over that by now?”

“Listen, being awakened every day in October year after year by Nola Greer wearing a hideous witch mask is not something you get over easily.”

“That was forty years ago!”

“And the scars are still there.”

Helen leans forward and pouts. “Oh, come on, darling, won’t you do it for me?”

“I guess so, but only if you insist.”

“Anyway, Tom, it’ll be good for you.”

“That’s what you always say.”

Three

HELEN LEAVES JUST BEFORE 5 p.m, and Nate arrives at the Rectory. He volunteered to write an article about the Myer Mansion, the parish’s plans for the estate, and the haunted house to stir up interest and frankly, sell tickets. This is a fundraiser, after all.

We sit down in my office and he pulls out a digital recorder. “Do you mind if I record you, Father?” he asks with enthusiasm.

This gives me an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu. For a moment, I’m taken back to when Nate and I first met and he was working on a documentary about my late wife Joan’s murder. It was his work that ultimately led Helen to reopen the case and catch her killer.

I manage to brush those thoughts away. “Not at all, Nate,” I say with a smile. “I’d like you to quote me accurately.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he says. “I’ll make sure to write exactly what you tell me.”

Nate pulls out a notebook from the messenger bag dropped on the floor by his chair. Flipping it open, he says, “I have some questions, Father Tom, about the mansion.”

“Well, I’m happy to talk about the mansion and our plans for the Myer estate. This project is very close to my heart, and I’m just so happy that the Acutis Society is hosting Fairy Tales and Frights for the families of Myerton. I know that the Saint Francis Education Center it’s raising funds for will be a real benefit, not just to the parish, but to the town as a whole.”

“I understand from Gladys that you’ve done some research into the history of the house?”

I nod. “Yes, some, though I can hardly claim to be an expert on its history. The house was built before the Civil War and was added onto over the years. Interestingly enough, it was the first structure in town wired for electricity—that was done by Thomas Edison himself.”

Nate’s writing something down—probably noting what I just said as a good quote to include in the story—when he looks up at me and says, without preamble, “So, Father Greer, have you ever heard anything about the Myer Estate being haunted?”

The question catches me off guard, and all I can manage is, “Excuse me?”

“Yes,” he says, seriously. “It’s one of the oldest houses in Myerton, and there have been some stories over the years about strange noises being heard, lights being seen from the outside, and other unexplained phenomena.”

“OK,” I say, still trying to figure out how to respond. I clear my throat and say, “Well, the house has seen its share of tragedy over the years—”

“I’m talking about Victoria Myer,” Nate says.

I take a deep breath. “Victoria Myer,” I repeat. “She was a daughter of Winthrop Myer, the founder of the town and the one who built the Myer Mansion. I remember there being something in the family history about a wounded Confederate soldier who fell in love with her while it was being used as a hospital after the Battle of Antietam. He died in her arms or something like that?”