The Perfect Patsy E-Book

Susan Mathis

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

I take his head in my hands and force him to look at me. “Nate,” I say again, this time more forcefully, “where did all this blood come from?” 
This seems to get through, and his unseeing eyes struggle to focus on mine as one whispered word escapes his lips.
“Her.”


When the body of Ashley Becket is found naked, tied up, and butchered in Nate Rodriguez’s bed, Father Tom can’t believe the young man’s responsible.
Then, it’s discovered Ashley was a prostitute . . . and Nate was a frequent customer.
As the rumors fly around Saint Clare’s and the gamer group fractures, Father Tom finds himself trying to keep his parish together and repair Nate’s relationship with Gladys. He soon discovers that Nate is keeping a huge secret from the woman he loves--a secret that led him to hire Ashley in the first place.
Then, Gladys finds evidence that points away from Nate--and to someone who couldn’t possibly be responsible.
Because, after all, Richard Davenport is safely behind bars . . .

Leseprobe

The Perfect Patsy

The Father Tom Mysteries, Book 9

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.

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First Printing, August, 2021

Contact: [email protected]

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Cover Photo: Depositphotos

Cover: Millie Godwin (www.fiverr.com/millieg0414)

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

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

Preview of The Haunted Heritage

The Honeymoon Homicide.

Also By J. R. Mathis

Also By Susan Mathis

One

“NO!” I SCREAM. “THIS can’t be happening! Not again! How much can one man take in his life!”

With as much drama as I can muster, I fling myself on the table and pound it with my fist as Helen says calmly, “That’ll be $1,200 dollars, darling.”

“Why?” I cry. “Why?”

“Because it's Park Place, and I own it.”

Once again, the injustice of life mows me down as I declare bankruptcy for the third time this month. “I don’t even like this game,” I laugh. “I don’t know why we always play it.”

“Hmm,” Helen says, arching one eyebrow as her lips form into a smirk. “Could it be because I like it and you love me?”

I look at her and scowl. “Yes. Obviously. Why else would I subject myself to this torture?” I begin to put the game away as Helen moves from the card table to the couch, putting her stockinged feet on the coffee table and laying her head back on the couch.

“I do love winning,” she sighs. “But you knew that about me.”

“I just don’t know why we always have to play this game,” I say. “We have other games here in the Rectory.”

“And what game would you prefer?”

I have to consider her question for a moment. As a rule, I hate board games. Not because I lose—I’m not quite that immature—but because there’s something about sitting around a piece of cardboard and moving little pieces and rolling dice that just bores the heck out of me.

But Helen loves board games, Monopoly in particular, and so we play board games. If I could just think of one that I was good at, that didn’t bore me to tears, and that she’d enjoy—

I snap my fingers. “Risk,” I say, pointing at her for emphasis.

“Risk, hmm?” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I played that game all the time with Gus and Charlie when we were kids. I was pretty good at it, if I remember right.”

“So you want to play a board game that you played with one friend who grew up to be a corrupt county sheriff, and another who grew up to become a sex trafficker,” Helen says. “Are you sure that the game’s not cursed?”

I cross my arms, cock an eyebrow, and smile. “Are you worried, Chief Parr, that you might lose?”

“Oh, you didn’t just say that,” she says, fixing me with a glare. “I know you didn’t just say that.”

“So do you accept the challenge, Chief Parr?”

“Oh, I welcome the challenge, Father Greer.”

We shake hands,  and Helen says, “Now, go get our beers. Whipping your butt again made me thirsty.”

As I walk to the kitchen, I call over my shoulder, “You better be prepared for your own butt-whipping, Helen.”

“Excuse me, Tom?” Anna says when she materializes in the kitchen.

“Anna!” I say, startled. “Why are you coming in through the kitchen?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt you and Helen,” Anna says with a grin. “But maybe it’s a good thing?”

“We were talking about her beating me at Monopoly again.”

“Ah,” she says, nodding her head.

“Hi, Anna!” Helen calls from the living room.

“Good evening, dear,” Anna responds.

“How was your date with Bill?” I say, pleased that I can now ask that without hesitation.

“Oh, just lovely,” Anna says with a smile. “He took me to this place that has dancing. I haven’t danced in, I don’t know, forty years, since the night of . . .”

She stops herself and I notice a wistful look come into her eyes, not to mention her cheeks redden at whatever’s in her mind.

“Well,” I say, “I’m glad you had fun. Going to bed?”

“Yes,” she says, shaking herself out of her reverie. “I think I’ll get a basin of hot water and epsom salts and soak my feet. Good night, you two.”

We wish her good night as she walks up the stairs to her room. As I walk into the living room, Helen puts her feet back up on the coffee table. I join her on the couch with our beers.

“Wow. You were really enjoying Anna being out tonight, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” she sighs. “Nothing says our chaperone is out on her own date like being able to prop my feet on this nasty old coffee table.”

I sit down beside her and slip my arm around her. “Well, my darling, it's just going to have to be enough for another few months.”

“I know,” she says, snuggling down into my shoulder. “And it is, for a few more months.”

I am about to turn on the TV and look for something to watch when Helen’s phone rings.

“Oh, da—rn,” she says as she reaches for her phone.

“Are you going to need to go out?” I ask.

Looking at the number, Helen shakes her head. “I don’t know. This isn’t the station.” She answers it, saying, “Chief Helen Parr. . . Oh, hi, Herman . . . Oh, that’s terrible. Is he going to be OK?” She listens as Herman answers her question, then says, “Sure, I can do that . . .  No, not at all. I’ll be glad to. Yes, I can be there by lunchtime tomorrow.”

She continues her conversation for a few more moments before hanging up. Looking at me, she says, “Well, Tom, I’m afraid I have to head home.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is someone hurt?”

“Yes, but thankfully not seriously. That was the sheriff of Braxton County. There’s a little town up there with only a police chief and one patrol officer. The chief is out of the country on a cruise and the officer just got hit while directing traffic. He’ll be fine, but he’s out of commission for a while. The sheriff can have someone answer calls tonight but he’s short-staffed as well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “But what does that have to do with you?”

“Well, one thing we discussed at the Chiefs’ meeting last month was covering for each other, so I am on the Emergency Contact List. I’ll drive up tomorrow and cover things until the Chief gets back on Sunday.”

Of course, I knew things like this would come up for both of us from time to time. I say with as good grace as I can muster, “I’ll miss you, but I’m glad you can help. I guess Dan will mind the store here?”

“Yeah, he can handle it just fine,” Helen says, grabbing her tote bag, “and it will only be for a few days.”

“So,” I say as I walk her to the door, “since I’m sending you off to parts unknown in the next county, I guess I better give you something to remember me by.”

Taking her in my arms, I give her what I hope is a memorable kiss and send her on her way.

***

HELEN CALLS ME THE next morning before she leaves town and then texts me off and on throughout the day. But other than these brief contacts, I focus my attention on the parish.

Including something I’ve been avoiding for almost three months.

“Tom,” Anna says, “you just need to take care of it.”

I slump in my chair. “But can’t we give it some more time?”

She sits across from me and crosses her arms. “Now, Tom,” she says firmly, “you cannot go any longer without one. The education center seems like it’s actually going to happen, and besides, religious education was supposed to start last week. No one’s complaining—yet—because everyone knows the amount of stress you’ve been under.”

“But it’s not like I haven’t done anything,” I point out. “I put in a request for a Nashville Dominican a week after the incident with Leslie.”

“Tom, that’s a pipe dream and you know it,” Anna says with exasperation. “Every parish in the country would like one of them as a teacher, and you want one with the qualifications to be Director of Religious Education. It’s a moonshot.”

“But it’s my moonshot,” I say plaintively.

In my heart, I know Anna is right. The Dominican Sisters of St. Cecilia, based in Nashville (hence the nickname ‘Nashville Dominicans’), are well known as one of the few orders consisting of young, enthusiastic, and energetic women dedicated to teaching the Faith. And while they’re also one of the fastest growing orders, their numbers cannot keep up with demand. The chances of Saint Clare’s getting one in my lifetime is small, something both Anna and the Archbishop warned me about when I first proposed the idea.

“But Tom, you cannot just let the religious education program wither on the vine while you wait,” Anna says. “There are several children, including Catherine Conway, who are due to receive their sacraments this year. You need to do something.”

I take a deep breath and give voice to an idea that has been solidifying in my mind for some time.

“I know. That’s why I’m going to serve as DRE until we get our Dominican.”

The look of incredulity on Anna’s face is disheartening, but not as disheartening as the laughter that bursts forth from her.

“What’s so funny?” I ask indignantly.

“Tom,” Anna says, “you can’t do that. You’re busy enough as a parish priest, plus you’re getting married in a couple of months.”

“I’ve already begun to line up teachers,” I go on to explain. “Most are on board, except for Miriam for obvious reasons. I’ll teach the sacrament preparation for the six- and seven-year-olds myself. The curriculum should be arriving this week.”

“Are you that determined to not hire a DRE?”

“I’m getting a DRE,” I say. “From the Nashville Dominicans.”

“But Tom, shouldn’t we—”

“Shouldn’t we do what, Anna?” I snap. “Advertise for another Director of Religious Education like last time? That’s how we got Leslie.”

Even after several months, just mentioning the name of the woman who almost killed Helen sets my teeth on edge.

“I very much doubt that we’d get another DRE like Leslie,” Anna says quietly. “Most of them are not the psychotic daughters of serial killers.”

“I hope not. I found the one quite sufficient. But at least with a Nashville Dominican, we have someone who’s already been vetted and tested and examined.”

“But Tom—”

“Anna, my mind is made up on this,” I say. “I’ll serve as interim DRE until my request is granted.”

Anna glares at me. “And if it isn’t?”

I meet her stare. “If there’s no news on my request from Nashville by the time Helen and I return from our honeymoon, then we’ll advertise. But I’m having Helen run a background check this time.”

Anna nods. “Fair enough.” She gets up to leave, and then asks, “By the way, how long have Mae Trent and Martin Maycord been seeing each other?”

I sit up straight. “How did you know about that?”

“Oh, Tom,” Anna shakes her head. “You know I don’t like to gossip. And I wouldn’t have said anything if I hadn’t seen it for myself.”

“Where?”

“Last night, when Bill and I were out. They were at the same restaurant. I didn’t see them at first, but they were on the dance floor, looking like they thought they were the only people in the world.”

“Well,” I say. “I knew there was interest there.”

“Oh, there’s a lot more than interest,” Anna says. “Even if he’s somewhat older than she is, they do make a nice-looking couple. Trust me on this, Tom. You’re going to have a wedding next year.”

“Two, if Gladys and Nate work things out,” I say quietly.

“Is something wrong between the two of them?”

“Let’s just say Gladys was mad enough to throw a milkshake on him at Sprockets a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh, Tom,” Anna says. “You know young people. I’m sure it was nothing more than a lover’s spat. Things will be just fine between those two.”

***

I’VE JUST SETTLED INTO bed Friday night at about 9 p.m., intending to spend some quality time with Agatha Christie, when my phone rings. Looking at the caller ID, I see that it's Nate Rodriguez.

“Damn,” I whisper, hoping that Anna did not hear me cursing in the Rectory.  Nate has the irritating habit of calling at the most inopportune moments, usually to ask the most inane questions or whine about his relationship with Gladys.

I mean, I like Nate, I really do. Just in small doses and not after 9 p.m. at night.

Still, I try to sound pleasant as I say, “Hi, Nate.”

I barely get the words out of my mouth before he screams, “Father Tom, you’ve got to help me! Something terrible has happened!”

“Nate,” I say, sitting up in bed, “what is it? Is Gladys OK?”

“Yes, she’s fine, but she probably never will be again. Not after this. No, Father, it's Ashley Becket.”

I recognize the name but can’t place it right away, so I just ask, “What’s wrong with her, Nate?”

“Father Tom, I think she’s dead.”

I jump out of bed at this and start moving toward the clothes I lay out every night before I go to bed. My time at Saint Clare’s has taught me to always be ready to be called out for an emergency. “Nate, where are you?” I ask, as I pull my shirt over my head.

“I’m at my apartment. You’ve got to get over here!”

“I’m coming now, Nate. Have you called 911?”

“No, just you,” he says, now sobbing.

I know I need to let someone know what’s going on but I don’t want to hang up the phone. I finish getting dressed and go out of my bedroom and down the hallway to Anna’s room. I knock and call, “Anna!”

“Tom?” Anna says when she opens the door, concern written all over her face, “What is it?”

“Something’s happened at Nate’s,” I explain. “I need you to call 911 and ask them to send the police and an ambulance to his apartment.”

“What’s his address?” she asks.

I’ve been to Nate’s apartment a couple of times, and I know how to get there, but I don’t know the exact address. To the distraught young man on the phone, I ask, “Nate, what’s your address?”

“Huh?” he says, clearly disoriented. “Address? Oh, yeah, I know that.” There’s a pause on the other end before he whispers, “I can’t remember my address, Father Tom!”

“Maybe I can call Gladys,” Anna says.

“No! Don’t call Gladys! Please! She can’t know!” Nate yells. “I mean, she’s going to know, but not now!”

“Nate, OK, OK, we won’t call Gladys.” To Anna, I say, “Look in the parish records. I know he’s registered.”

“Nate,” I say as I go down the stairs. “Try to see if she’s breathing. Put your ear to her mouth.”

“She’s not, Father,” he sobs. “She’s just laying there, not moving, staring up at my ceiling.”

I grab my keys off the hook just inside the door and head out, dashing to my car. “OK, OK. So her eyes are open, right?”

“Yes, they're open, but they’re not blinking or moving or anything. They’re just staring.”

I crank the car and pull out of the driveway. “OK, Nate, I’m on my way. Just stay with me.”

“I will,” Nate says. “Oh, my God. This is all my fault. This is all my fault.”

I don’t ask him what he means.

I’m afraid of the answer.

***

THE LIGHT IS ON BUT the door is locked when I get to Nate’s apartment. I bang on the door and call, “Nate! Nate! It’s Father Tom.”

The words are hardly out of my mouth when his door opens and the young man falls into my arms.

I grab him around the waist as a sickly sweet metallic smell, mixed with body odor, assaults my nostrils. I feel something sticky on my hands. For a second, I’m afraid I’m having another panic attack, but soon realize I’m not.

The blood is real.

With Nate leaning against me, I pull my hands away and see them covered with the all-too familiar crimson fluid. Instinctively, I push Nate away from me, trying to see where the blood is coming from.

It’s only then I realize blood is the only thing covering him. Otherwise, he’s naked.

“Nate,” I say, my calm returning now that I realize that this is something real and not a figment of my tormented imagination, “where are you hurt?”

He just stares at me, obviously in shock. I give him a quick once over and cannot see any obvious wounds, at least none that would cause this much bleeding. I begin to gently lower him to the floor.

I take his head in my hands and force him to look at me. “Nate,” I say again, this time more forcefully, “where did all this blood come from?”

This seems to get through, and his unseeing eyes struggle to focus on mine as one whispered word escapes his lips.

“Her.”

Two

“NATE!” I SAY, MY EYES locked onto his glazed-over, unfocused orbs. “What happened? Who did this?”

He doesn’t answer—I’m not even sure he knows what I said. I start to shake him, ignoring any injuries he may have. “Listen, Nate! You’ve got to talk! Is someone in there!”

Finally, he shakes his head. “No,” he says weakly. “Just Ashley. It’s so horrible. She’s alone. Someone needs to be with her. It’s not right that she’s alone.”

I look from Nate to the open door. Hearing sirens in the distance, I say, “Stay here, Nate. I’m going to find something to cover you up with.”

He nods and curls himself into a fetal position. I stand and slip past him into his apartment. Nate’s bloody footprints form a trail from the door, down the hallway and back to where his bedroom probably is.

I follow the footprints to a partly-closed door. The bloody handprint on the jamb is mute testimony to this being the crime scene. I am about to open the door when a forceful voice behind me yells, “Freeze! Police!”

“It’s Tom, Dan,” I say as I slowly move my hands to where he can see them. “OK if I turn around?”

“Sure,” he says, and I hear him holstering his weapon as I slowly turn so he can see my face.

Dan Conway, Myerton’s chief detective, is a big ex-Marine who’s usually unflappable in a crisis. I’m thankful he’s here, knowing that his cool professionalism will bring order out of this chaos.

But one look at him tells me that he’s as stunned and confused as I am.

“What the hell is going on here?” he says as he walks up to me. “What happened to Nate? He looks like he’s been in a slaughterhouse.”

“I don’t know. He called me a few minutes ago, hysterical, saying something terrible had happened, a woman was dead, and there was blood everywhere.”

Dan grows ashen. “Gladys?” he whispers. “Did . . . did that son of a bitch do something to her?”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Dan, Nate says it’s not Gladys, and we don’t know he did anything. He did mention a name. Ashley Becket.”

Dan sucks in his breath. “What? Ashley Becket?” He says. “What the hell was she doing here? She wasn’t—”

“She wasn’t what, Dan?” I say, confused at the detective’s reaction.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “Ashley Becket. Oh, shit. Oh, shit,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, no. First his wife, now his daughter.”

The mention of a wife hits me, and I know why the name sounds familiar.

“She’s the daughter of Frank Becket, right? The stepdaughter of Sharon Richardson,” I say. Looking at the door, I begin to push it open when Dan grabs my wrist.

“Don’t,” Dan says. “Step away from the door, Father, and go back outside until I clear this area.”

I suddenly realize that I am not at a friend’s apartment but instead at the scene of a violent crime. There could easily be someone else in here, armed and ready to kill. I beat a hasty retreat to the door, pulling out my badge and holding it up in case any other officers have arrived. On my way through the living room, I stop to grab an afgan off the couch when I remember that would be disturbing the crime scene. When I get back to Nate, I slip the badge on its lanyard around my neck and slip off my shirt, using it to create a sort of makeshift loincloth for Nate.

Ironically, pulling off my shirt to wrap around a bloody body sets me off worse than anything else that has happened up until now, and I have to fight the panic rising up in my throat. I force myself to turn my eyes from Nate, who is sitting up now, still stunned and still covered in blood, but clearly not in any serious physical danger.

I see the night sky instead of a dank basement. I’m standing up instead of laying on a cold concrete floor. Helen is fine, fully recovered from her injuries.  Thanks to Dan’s coaching, she was able to shoot well enough to requalify on the pistol range, so she can carry her gun again. She may not be the shot she was, but she’s well on her way.

I see police arriving, Officers Thompson and Hallstead and Potter. They’re trained to handle this situation, to deal with the crisis. I can trust them. They are in charge now. I can focus my attention on the victim and her spiritual needs.

It's at about this time that Dan comes out, saying loudly enough for everyone to hear, “The apartment is clear. Thompson, it's a bad one, and I need you to stay with the body. Hallstead, you go, too, but be prepared for the worst. Potter,” he says to his newest and youngest officer, “son, you stay out here.”

Then he comes over to me and says quietly, “The EMTs will be here in a minute. I’ll stay with Nate until then.”

His meaning is clear, so I go inside and walk back to Nate’s bedroom. There I find the dead body of Ashley Becket. In spite of myself, I see the blood sprayed on the walls and soaked in the sheets. It's pretty obvious how Nate got so bloody.

Hallstead steps back, giving me room to anoint her. Ashley’s naked body is still uncovered and I know it must remain that way until the crime scene techs arrive. It is only because of my training that I’m even allowed in at all. I quickly anoint her forehead, praying fervently for a gentle journey for her soul to heaven. Then I gratefully leave this charnel house to return to the land of the living.

“Dan,” I say, “The girl in there is definitely Ashley Becket.”

Dan nods, a grim expression on his face. “I know. I recognized her. And her fingerprints came back confirming it.”

“Wait,” I say, growing confused again. “What were her fingerprints doing in the system?”

He looks around, then pulls me to one side. “Tom, they were in the system because Ashley has a record. She’s been arrested several times for solicitation of prostitution.” Dan pauses, then says, “She’s a Freshy Fresh girl.”

I close my eyes. “Oh, dear Lord!” I whisper. “What the hell was she doing here, in Nate’s bed?”

“Only one reason I can think of, Tom,” Dan looks back at Nate.

“No, not Nate,” I say. “It’s impossible!”

“Tom, trust me,” Dan says, “nothing is impossible.”

Dan returns to the bedroom while I go back over to where the EMTs are working on Nate. I sit nearby, praying for all involved, but especially for the young man who, no matter how this turns out, has been through something he will never be able to forget.

Nate’s talking, answering the questions posed to him, but he’s still not making much sense.  The EMTs look at me and say, “Father, we need to take him in. I don’t know what’s going on. It could be drugs or shock or both, but only a doctor can tell for sure. Do you want to ride along?” I nod my head and go to Dan, who’s just emerged from the bedroom.

“I’m going to ride with Nate to the hospital,” I say.

“Sorry, Father,” he says quietly, “I can’t let you do that. I’m not letting him leave here without an officer with him.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I whisper.

Dan just looks at me, then steps over to Nate. “Nathaniel Rodriguez,” he says, “I am placing you under arrest for suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent.”

I stand there dumbfounded by what I’m seeing, but know enough to not interrupt until Dan finishes informing Nate of his rights. “Do you understand what I just read to you, Nate?” Dan asks, gently.

Nate looks at him, then nods. The EMTs move him to a gurney, where  they lay him down and cover him with a blanket. Officer Potter steps up, takes one of Nate’s wrists out from under the blanket, and handcuffs him to the side rail.

I’m about to protest this to Dan when he turns to me and says quietly, “Father, we need to talk.”

I turn and follow him into the kitchen, where he says, “Tom, a young woman is dead in Nate’s bed. She’s nude and bound to the bed by her wrists and ankles. She appears to have had her throat cut from ear to ear with a kitchen knife we found on the floor, not to mention she has other horrific injuries. Tom, it looks for all the world like Nate killed that girl in some kind of crazed rage.”

“That’s not possible,” I say firmly.

“Yes, Tom, sadly, it is. And until I know otherwise, I have to treat him as I would any other suspect.”

“That may be true, but I don’t.”

“It is true, but you are also correct. You don’t have to treat him as a suspect. In fact, I’m hoping now that you will treat him as what he obviously is, a scared young man in big trouble.”

“I’m going to the hospital.”

“Of course, but you have two other stops to make first.”

“What do you mean, Dan?”

“First, I need you to inform Ashley’s parents of what happened. I could go, but with Helen out of town, I need to stay here. And anyway, you’re their priest. Also, someone needs to let Gladys know what’s going on before she tries to reach Nate and begins to fear something is wrong.  Can you please do those two things for me before you go to see Nate? You know as well as I do that the ER is going to keep him pretty busy for the next couple of hours anyway.”

“I’ll be glad to do both,” I say, “but I need to at least let Nate know what I’m doing, and probably even get his permission for me to talk to Gladys first.”

“No, Tom. We don’t have time for that. If he brings it up later, just remind him that she was going to find out sometime from someone and ask him how he’d want the woman he says he loves to learn that he had a dead, naked woman in his bed?”

I take a deep breath. “OK, I see your point. But what about Nate and what he’s going through?”

“One way or another, Tom, he’s the one who’s caused this mess and likely either killed or got that girl killed. He can just cool his heels until you get around to seeing him.”

I want to try to reason with him to make him understand that Nate, too, could be a victim, but I know better than to get into that now. Instead, I just listen as he concludes, “We need to protect Gladys, our living victim.”

“Understood, but I’m heading to the Beckets now.” I pause, then ask, “Do they know she was a prostitute?”

“That,” Dan sighs, “I don’t know. I just wouldn’t mention anything about what she was doing, or where she was killed, or how she was killed. The fact she’s dead is going to be enough of a shock.”

“Agreed,” I say. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way to Gladys’”

Three

AFTER A STOP BY THE Rectory to clean up, change clothes, and explain to Anna why I’m covered in blood again, I’m on my way to the Beckets’ home to change their lives forever.

I’ve called to let them know I’m coming. I didn’t tell them why, but the strained tone in her father’s voice tells me they know I have nothing good to tell them.

After all, a priest doesn’t call asking to see you late at night to deliver good news.

I try to pray for them, to prepare myself for what I am about to do. But instead, I’m preoccupied with the events of the last hour or so and trying to figure out what they mean.

First, Nate is covered in blood, but none of it appears to be his. It all appears to be Ashley Becket’s.

Second, in order to do what he seems to have done, he would have had to have gone completely insane since I last saw him.

What would cause such a thing? I don’t really know, but I’ve heard stories about severe head injuries that change people’s personalities. It seems unlikely that Nate could sustain such an injury without me hearing about it, so I move on to the next possibility: Nate has been drugged, either voluntarily or without his consent. If it is the former, then his actions are his own fault, though most likely in no way premeditated; if it's the latter, then the real culprit is the person or persons who drugged him.

I just cannot believe that Nate would have killed another human being, no matter what his mental state.

I mean, this is Nate Rodriguez we’re talking about. He’s one of the meekest souls I’ve ever come across. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him express the desire to hurt another person.

Except Richard Davenport, but that’s understandable. Nate was enraged by what he thought the older man had done to Gladys.

Which brings up a third explanation, the one Dan mentioned.

Nate was in some kind of incredible rage, rage that was so out-of-control that he slaughtered another person.

But to take his rage out on an innocent young woman like Ashley Becket? Who may not have been all that innocent, but was certainly in no way deserving the fate that befell her?

What could she have done to make him so angry?

Unless he wasn’t angry at her, but himself.

I am, of course, avoiding the other major question.

Even if Nate didn’t kill Ashley, what was she doing in his bed?

Naked.

Tied up.

The obvious answer is the one I’m afraid I’m having an easier time accepting.

There’s been something wrong between him and Gladys ever since she told him about her extensive and varied sexual history. While on the surface, all seemed OK after their initial conversation, there’ve been troubling signs. Like Nate no longer attending Mass with Gladys. Like Helen telling me that he’s cancelled dates and not returned texts and phone calls right away. We all accepted the excuse that he was busy getting his crime scene cleanup business off the ground.

But maybe there was a darker reason.

Right now, it certainly looks that way.

By the time I get to the Beckets’ about 11 p.m., I realize that this may not be the hardest conversation I’m having tonight.

***

I KNOCK ON THE DOOR of the Beckets’ two-story home in one of the newer developments on the edge of Myerton and Frank Becket answers, with Sharon, his wife, by his side.

“Come in, Father,” he says gravely as he shakes my hand. “I have a feeling you have some bad news for us.”

“What is it, Father?” Sharon asks, her fear palpable in the question.

I lay my hands gently on their shoulders. “I think it would be a good idea for us all to sit down.”

They usher me silently into the living room, where the rest of their children are gathered, except for their oldest, Rick, who I remember has been away at school. The two older girls are there too, along with the three younger boys, and the youngest, I believe her name is Emma. She obviously was awakened by all the activity, and is still in her PJs.

The Beckets are what is euphemistically referred to as a blended family. Both Frank and Sharon lost spouses way too young, Frank’s to a sudden brain aneurysm and Sharon’s to combat wounds in Iraq. I can’t remember which children belong to whom, but I know that Rick is Sharon’s oldest son and Ashley was Frank’s oldest daughter. Together, they’ve formed a loving family, very active in the parish.

Except for Ashley.

Sharon takes a seat on the couch with Frank beside her and I sit in a nearby chair. Not wanting to prolong their agony, I say, “Frank, Sharon, I believe you have a daughter named Ashley, she’s about 18 years old?”

They nod their heads, saying nothing. “I am so very sorry, but there has been an incident. Ashley is dead.”

Sharon breaks down at the news, as Frank holds her and keeps his face stoic even as tears trickle down his cheeks. The girls hug each other and then reach out to their younger siblings.

I take a deep breath and say, “I want you to know that I gave her her last rites before I came over here.”

“So you were with her when she died?” Sharon asks. 

“No, I was not with her when she died, but I was able to get there shortly after.”

“I don’t understand Father,” Frank says, confusion now mixing with his grief. “How did you know that something happened to her?”

I choose my words carefully as I say, “I got a call from someone who knew that she had been injured, and I went there immediately in the hope of being able to help.” 

“Then someone was with her? She wasn’t . . . she didn’t die alone?” Sharon asks through her tears.

I decide that now is a good time to redirect the conversation. “Sharon, Frank, kids, I know you have so many questions right now. But the most important thing to understand is that Ashley has departed from this world and will be with Jesus. All the other questions that you have can wait till later. If I may suggest, why don’t we take some time now and pray for her soul.”

Around me, the members of the grieving family drop to their knees, older girls still holding their sisters’ hands. Emma comes and kneels in between her parents and they wrap their arms around her.

Pulling out my phone, I bring up the Breviary app and find the Litany of the Saints, the same prayer Helen and I prayed the night my sister Sonya was found dead.

“Lord, Have Mercy,” I read

Behind me, a mixture of older and younger voices respond, “Lord, Have Mercy.”

“Christ, have Mercy,” I continue.

“Christ, have Mercy.”

“Lord, have Mercy.”

“Lord, have Mercy.”

Back and forth, back and forth, first me, then the Beckets, we recite the ancient prayer to the saints.

“Saint Peter and Saint Paul.”

“Pray for her.”

“Lord, be merciful.”

“Lord, save your people.”

“From all evil.”

“Lord, save your people.”

The voices are beginning to drop one by one, starting with the littlest ones, as each member of Ashley’s family succumbs to the emotions of the moment. By the final verses, only my voice and the elder Beckets are left.

“Christ, hear us.”

“Christ, hear us.”

“Lord Jesus, hear our prayer.”

“Lord Jesus, hear our prayer.”

Taking a deep breath, I conclude, “God of mercy, hear our prayers and be merciful to your daughter Ashley, whom you have called from this life. Welcome her into the company of your saints, in the kingdom of light and peace. We ask this through Christ our Lord.”

Together, with one voice, the Beckets and I say, “Amen.”

No sooner have I finished the litany and we’re standing up than the front door opens and closes. “Mom? Frank?” a young man calls from the hallway.

“We’re in here, son,” Sharon manages to say as she wipes more tears from her eyes.

A young man in his early-twenties enters, a look of confusion on his face. “What’s going on? Why is everyone up at this hour? Who’s car—Father Tom,” he says when he notices me, “what are you doing here?”

“Rick,” Sharon says, “Father Tom’s here because of Ashley.”

Rick Richardson sighs and shakes his head. “Father Tom, I’m afraid I know why you’re here. Unfortunately, none of this comes as a surprise to me. In fact, I’m glad it's happened.”

The Becket parents just stare at him in horror as one of his sisters says, “Rick! What the hell! How can you say that!”

Frank begins sobbing and lunges toward him, screaming, “What is wrong with you? That’s my daughter you’re talking about!”

I quickly step between them and Frank backs off, unwilling to fight in front of a priest. Rick seems taken aback by his reaction and says gently, “Frank, I am so sorry you and Mom had to find out this way, but really, this was inevitable.”

Frank collapses on the couch as Sharon lights into her son. “Rick, I know you two didn’t get along but for goodness sake, Ashley’s dead! Try to show a little respect for us, if not for her!”

All the blood drains from Rick’s face as he says, “What? Dead? What are you talking about?” He turns to me and cries, “Father, what are they talking about?”

Realizing now that there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, I place my arm around Rick’s shoulder and say as gently as I can, “Rick, Ashley passed away a few hours ago. I was able to give her last rites but she is definitely gone.”

The young man just stares at me, uncomprehending. “Rick, do you understand?” I ask. “Your stepsister is dead.”

Rick nods, his eyes glazed over, then  gropes around blindly until he finds the nearest chair. Collapsing into it, he begins shaking all over and sobbing, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

I kneel down by Rick and say calmly, “This is obviously a big shock for everyone, son. We have been praying for Ashley. I suggest that you and I do the same.” He continues to stare blankly at me even as I begin a brief prayer for Ashley’s soul and that God will comfort her family. I finish and make the sign of the cross before getting to my feet.

As soon as I do, Rick lunges for his mother and Frank. “Oh, my God, I am so sorry,” he sobs. “Frank, you must think I’m some kind of monster. But I didn't understand. I . . . I didn’t know she was gone. I’m so sorry.”

Frank takes his stepson in his arms and, crying himself says, “I know, son, I know. It’s OK.”

What Rick says next is muffled, but I swear he says, “If I knew things would end this way, I would have tried harder.” 

With father and stepson comforting each other in their shared grief, I tell Sharon, “I have another visit to make. I’ll be in touch. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“Thank you, Father,” Sharon whispers. She hesitates, then says, “There’s more than you’ve told us, isn’t there?”

I don’t know how to respond, so I just say, “Someone will be by to give you more details. It’s not up to me to say more.”

Sharon opens her mouth to say something else, then just nods. I walk quietly to the door and let myself out.

Standing on the front porch of this house of mourning, one thought swirls through my mind.

How long had Rick known that Ashley was a prostitute?