“Rose, I’ve got something in my eye. Would you mind writing it? I’ll dictate.”
Rose sat at the table, taking the nice piece of white bond that Father offered. “Fathers,” he said, and she began writing in her big round hand. “I’m sorry I’ll miss you. Rose and I are going on a hot date-”
“Father,” she said, clucking with pleasure.
“We’ll be back in time for dinner,” he continued, “but you’ll have to make do for lunch. Father Paul, welcome to San Francisco.” He looked over her shoulder. “Perfect, Rose. Now, just let me sign it.”
He took the pen and quickly scribbled his name at the bottom.
It was an old two-car garage. In the seventies they’d put up drywall, redone the old pockmarked benches and insulated the roof. Since kids from the school had taken to using the garage as a place to sneak cigarettes (and who knew what else), they had replaced the old side door with a new, solid one that locked with a deadbolt. They had never gone for the electric garage-door opener. Cavanaugh had joked that he couldn’t see Jesus using it.
But now the old garage door, while sealing completely enough when it was closed, sagged badly when it was open and occasionally would slam of its own accord after being opened because of its weakened springs.
Father and Rose strolled out across the parking lot. On the other side of the school building children were laughing. They could hear them in their next to last day of school taking their morning recess, and Father flashed Rose the slightly guilty smile of a kid playing hooky. He carried the basket and opened the car door for Rose.
“Whew!” he said, fanning himself with his hand. “A little sticky, isn’t it?”
He crossed behind the car and got in the driver’s seat. “Let’s get some air in here.” He rolled down all the car’s windows with the automatic button. “All right,” he said, and smiled across at his housekeeper. “Ready?”
He turned on the engine.
“Oh, look at that, would you?”
He wheeled halfway around in his seat.
“What’s that, Father?”
“Look at the sag on that door.”
“Oh, it’s always that way.”
“I know, but I’d just hate to have it come down on the car’s roof while we’re pulling out.”
He pulled the keys from the ignition, leaving the car running. “Let me just make sure.
He went outside behind the car and pulled on the door, letting it slam to the ground. The springs resonated inside. He lifted the door slightly, slamming it down again, and again. As the springs rang out, he threw the bolt that locked the door, then pulled against it a couple of times for the effect.
“Rose!” he called out.
“Yes, Father.”
“The door seems to be stuck. Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“All right. Now, just don’t panic. I’ve got the keys to the deadbolt just back in the rectory, and I’ll be right back.”
He turned and began walking slowly across the parking lot. Recess had ended. The kids were back in class.
Father had said not to panic, and she’d resolved she was not going to be an old woman, not today when Father so badly needed some surcease from his cares.
Still, it was a little scary sitting here in the darkened garage, the car’s motor running. But she would not panic. There was nothing to do anyway except wait, and Father would be back within a couple of minutes. She knew where the deadbolt key was, hanging by the back door of the rectory. It shouldn’t take him long.
Well, it must seem like it’s taking longer than it should, because I’m jumpy, she thought. She talked out loud to herself. “Just calm down, Rose. Father said not to panic…”
She forced herself to take deep breaths. There, that was better. Big, deep breaths. She was getting so calm, it was almost silly. She supposed she should be worried a little. But there was no need to worry. Father would be back in just another second, and they’d go on their picnic. It would be a wonderful day, one they both needed.
She closed her eyes.
He really hadn’t any choice. With the other suspects eliminated, he couldn’t have taken the risk that she would have mentioned Monday night to anyone. She was the only one who could tie him in any way to Eddie’s death, and now, or-he looked at his watch -certainly within another ten minutes…
In the kitchen he took the note she had written and carefully tore the paper so that it broke off after her name. He put a period after the word “sorry.” The note now read: “Fathers. I’m sorry. I’m going to miss you. Rose.”
It would do.
He walked back to the library and placed the note on Father Dietrick’s chair. In the bathroom he touched a match to the rest of the note, held it for as long as he could while he watched the good bond curl into black ash. As the name neared his fingers he let go of the corner he held and flushed the toilet. He waited. When the toilet had finished, he wiped down the bowl with toilet paper and flushed it again.
He’d had to think fast when Rose had pulled out the yellow pad. It wouldn’t do to have secondary impressions of the note for someone to notice. The bond had been just the right answer.
There was a slight smell of smoke in the room, and he opened the bathroom window to get rid of it. He looked at his watch. It had only been twelve minutes. Rose was probably still alive.
It was important to establish his whereabouts and his calm. He did not feel like a man who was in the process of killing someone. He went out the side door of the rectory, crossed in front of the church and entered the school. In the office the principal’s secretary, an Indian woman named Mrs. Ranji, stood up to greet him.
He told her his usual joke and said he had just come by to see if there were any last details about the upcoming graduation he needed to know, and if there were any, to have Sister give him a call. Sitting at Sister’s desk, he proceeded to look over some correspondence, then asked Mrs. Ranji when the next period ended. She looked at the clock. Good. Fifteen minutes? No, that was too long to wait. He would check back with Sister later. He hummed loudly as he walked out.
Twenty-six minutes had passed. He went to the garage and opened the deadbolt, held his breath, and walked in. He flipped on the light at the switch by the door. Rose was still sitting up, propped by the door, looking like she was sleeping.
Moving quickly now, he took the picnic basket from behind the driver’s seat. He was running out of breath.
Outside again, with the basket, he stopped by the door, relocked it and looked back toward the school, then at the rectory. No sign of anybody. He crossed the lot.
Three sandwiches. One for him, one for Dietrick, and one for Father Paul. He unwrapped them and put them on a plate in the refrigerator. It was plausible, in character. Rose, planning to kill herself, might just have made sure she made lunch for the fathers first. He put the pickles back in the jar, washed out the Zip-lock bag and threw it in the garbage, scooped the potato salad back into the rest of it.
Breathing hard now, his nerves speaking, he once again began crossing the parking lot. About two-thirds of the way across, he called out Rose’s name. He started running toward the garage, and in what would look like a panic threw back the bolt, the picture of a man making a horrifying discovery. “Rose!” he called again.
Don’t forget to put the keys back in the ignition. He had to do that in any event to turn the car off, which is what he would do.
A final survey of the scene. He put his hand on Rose’s still-warm forehead. She had died peacefully-he was glad of that. He made the sign of the cross over her, giving her his blessing, last rites of sorts. Then he started jogging back to the house. He was surprised to find he was crying. But he didn’t try to stop himself. That was all right. Why shouldn’t he cry? And it would ring very true to the folks at 911.