I walked toward the credenza and pointed at the gap, what looked like fingerprint powder still dusted onto it. “This where Father Riordan kept his computer?”
“When he wasn’t carrying it around in that thing.”
There was a black vinyl case with a shoulder strap slumped into the corner. Crossing to it, I bent down. A couple of small diskettes, pencils, pen, paper clips. The short version of a manual for the machine itself. No paper copies of anything.
Straightening up, I said, “Where would Father Riordan keep his chalice?”
“Generally in the sacristy, but sometimes here, when he’d clean it properly.”
I came back to the desk. “He have an appointment book?”
“Not that I know of. Frank had no head for figures, but a wonderful mind for events and responsibilities. A real people person.”
Usually from someone McNulty’s age that label would be sarcastic. No hint of it, though.
I pointed to a photo on the desktop. It showed the monsignor standing next to a husky man of thirty or so, winning smile under a craggily handsome brow and piercing eyes. Both wore Roman collars, the handsome man’s arm around McNulty’s shoulders. “Is that Father Riordan with you?”
“Yes.”
“Good likeness?”
“Taken less than a year past.”
There was a large, polished seashell next to the photo. In it were scattered coins, more paper clips, a matchbook, some tooth-chewed pencils, and a set of keys on a tag.
I picked up the keys. “These belong to him?”
“Yes.”
On the back of the key tag were handwritten numbers. 219-9256. “This number mean anything to you?”
McNulty squinted at it, angling his face for the light. “What, telephone, is it?”
“Probably.”
“No. Not one of our exchanges here in Meade, anyway.”
“Your area code’s five-oh-eight, right?”
“Right.”
“Can I use this phone?”
“Certainly.”
I punched in 219-9256. The nice lady with the atonal voice told me that my call could not be completed as dialed. I added “1” as a prefix, and tried again. Same message. Tried area code 617 for Boston, 401 for Rhode Island, and 603 for New Hampshire. Same each time.
Hanging up, I hefted the keys. “Can I take these with me?”
“I don’t see why not.”
The matchbook caught my eye. It showed York’s Tavern, with an address in Boston. Not far from St. Damian’s House, as a matter of fact. “You recognize this place?”
Another squint. “No, but Frank wasn’t above a beverage now and then.” A weak smile.
I didn’t get any smell of tobacco in the office. “You said Father Riordan belonged to a health club?”
“That’s right. Meade Health and Fitness, near Route 128.”
“He wasn’t a smoker, then.”
“Never. Wouldn’t even let me smoke my pipe in here. Why?”
“Probably nothing.” I pocketed the matchbook and the keys. “Can I take that photo, too?”
A frown. “Of Frank and me?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“I’d like to be able to show it to anybody I speak to.”
McNulty chewed on that. “Could you have it copied and returned to me?” A sheepish look. “I’m not sure I have another print.”
“Sure.”
As I slipped off the cardboard backing, the muted sound of organ music began throbbing through the wall. I realized I hadn’t heard it on this visit to Our Lady. “Who’s playing?”
“Theresa. Lovely, isn’t it?”
“Her last name?”
“T-U-G-L–I-O. I spell it because people want to pronounce the letters ‘Tug-lee-oh’ but she says it ‘Tool-ee-oh.’ ”
“Did Ms. Tuglio know Father Riordan?”
“Yes.” A welling in the eyes again. “I’m afraid his death has left no one untouched.”
I told Monsignor McNulty that I wanted to speak to Theresa Tuglio without him. The October sun was bright coming through the high windows, creating shafts of light and shadow, and even though I’d taken the short, inside corridor into the church itself, my eyes still took a moment to adjust. The calliope tubes of the organ soared up the altar’s rear wall. From the altar rail, I couldn’t see the person playing.
Moving slowly around the railing, I cleared a stout stone pillar. A woman of thirty or so sat on the organ bench, but just barely. Her hands slashed through the air at the keyboard while her dangling feet pumped pedals like a contestant in the Tour de France. Small-boned, her hair was drawn back and up into a bun, the cardigan sweater, skirt, and shoes sensible rather than stylish.
At a break in the chords, I said, “Ms. Tuglio?”
The woman jumped, hands off the keys and clasped in her lap, turning sideways in fright to face me.
“I’m sorry if I startled you.”
“Who are you?”
“John Cuddy. I didn’t see you when I came in.”
“You’re not supposed to.” A shy smile. “The organ itself is tucked away over here so the priest can cue me but the parishioners won’t notice me.”
Tuglio said the last part as though she were relieved by that. The index finger and thumb of her right hand traced a brass button on the cardigan, a script “T” on it and the other buttons as well. “Can I help you with something, Mr. Cuddy?”
“Monsignor McNulty has asked me to look into Father Riordan’s death.”
What animation had remained in Tuglio’s face from the organ-playing drained from it, and she closed her eyes. “It hurts just to think about Father that way.”
“Were you here the afternoon it happened?”
The eyes opened. “Yes. Playing. Practicing, I tell the Monsignor. But really just enjoying. That’s part of the tragedy. If I hadn’t been making so much noise, perhaps someone would have heard...” She shook her head. “But I love playing.” A hand swept up toward the rear of the altar. “My dad was a metalworker, like his father before him. My grandfather helped cast those pipes, and my dad maintained them.”
“Can you tell me anything at all about Father Riordan?”
A slow intake of breath. “A fine man. Sympathetic, empathetic. Everyone’s dream of a young priest.”
I got something else from Tuglio’s tone of voice. “Any recent changes? Depression, nervousness?”
“No. If anything, just the opposite. What was the word in... Oh yes, ‘ebullient.’ Father was generally in good spirits, but that Tuesday, and even the day before, he’d been excited, as though he’d just discovered the secret to life.” A pause. “I wish he’d shared it with me.”
Secret, or life, I thought. Then, from the look she gave me, maybe both. Reaching into my pocket, I took out Riordan’s keys. “Ms. Tuglio, do you recognize these?”
Her head canted a little. “A set of keys? No.”
“Monsignor McNulty said they were Father Riordan’s.”
“Then they must be.”
I turned over the tab. “Does this number mean anything to you?”
Tuglio read it, moving her lips. “No.”
I tried the matchbook. “Did Father Riordan ever mention this place to you?”
“York’s? No, but my brother has.”
“Your brother?”
“Anthony. He goes there sometimes, to get a better feel for what his kids have been through.”
“His kids?”
“The boys at St. Damian’s. He’s the executive director there.”
3.
It was a toss-up whether to start at York’s Tavern or St. Damian’s House. The tavern came up first, on a street with a closed mill and a limping steel-fabrication plant.