Natasha’s days are spent in the prison law library, drafting her appeal. Her parents, who are really not her parents, never visit. They have completely washed their hands of her — after all, she is not their child — and try to ingratiate themselves with Holly. (There is that thread of Russian ancestry to consider, and Margaret is reluctant to let go of it.)
Holly is not interested. The Singletons gather round Holly. (The 3bd. 2ba. having been sold to a very strange man with voyeuristic tendencies who finds the idea of faint bloodstains on the hardwood reason enough to throw cocktail parties.)
Holly has (wisely) determined herself unfit to work in the field of early childhood education, given her bouts of extreme depression (depressed because her husband is dead? Because he was two-timing her? Shock from finding him with the Santoku sticking out of his chest? Because the parents she has loved all her life are really not her parents? All of the above? I, personally, would suggest counseling.), and wanders aimlessly around the Singleton home, weeping intermittently, while Anita makes quantities of chicken-noodle soup (although she will eat none herself) which Holly sips to please her mother (who is really not her mother and now they both know it).
Anita sobs softly into her pillow at night, thinking of the beautiful, lonely (murderous) girl with the wild dark curls (so like her own. — The picture’s been in the paper often.) and tries to summon the strength to plan a visit to the prison. Johnny just pats her on the back and says, “Shush, shush.”
(As usual, Johnny can’t find the appropriate words. Surely by now he must realize that had he spoken up after the bachelor party, instead of worrying about his huge nonrefundable deposits, probably none of this would have happened. The catastrophe of mum.)
And Lara and Beauty? They are house-sitting at Lara’s parents’ home while her parents, Frank and Tatiana Ivanoff Schuller, are visiting Tatiana’s family in St. Petersburg, Russia.
(There is just a bit of delicious irony in this, don’t you think?)
A Prayer Answered
by David Dean
Real-life police chief David Dean has a new case for his fictional police chief Julian Hall. EQMM has been publishing Julian Hall stories for some twenty years, but Julian wasn’t always a police chief. Like his creator, he’s climbed the ranks of the Jersey shore force to which he belongs. This time Juian investigates alongside his priest, in a case that’s a test of faith. Mr. Dean is an EQMM Readers Award winner, a Derringer Award nominee, and, currently, for his EQMM story “Erin’s Journal.”
Father Gregory hastily parked the old black Buick a half-block from his destination, running it up onto the curb in the darkness. Driving was still a new experience for the priest and only recently learned. In his native India, his diocese had been far too poor to afford such luxuries as automobiles and, he thought with a sigh, he had been much thinner in those days as a result. With a grunt, he slid out of the tilted vehicle. In one hand, he clutched the valise that contained the Sacraments, while the other struggled to keep the white stole round his neck from being blown off in the rising wind.
A young policeman approached him from a cluster of emergency vehicles that pulsed with red-and-white strobe lights that made the young officer appear to shift from side to side like an apparition as he drew nearer. With what seemed impossible speed for a walking man, he loomed ever darker and larger. Father Gregory unconsciously smoothed his black shirt over his plump belly and smiled nervously. “Hello,” he called out. “I am sent for by Chief J, I believe… yes, um… yes, I think so.”
The officer was suddenly in front of the priest, as tall and broad as a tree that had miraculously sprouted forth from the asphalt. How do Americans grow so large? Father Gregory wondered as he awaited whatever the policeman might do.
“Father Gregory?” he asked abruptly, then, not waiting for an answer, said, “Follow me, sir, the chief is inside.” Turning on his heel, he indicated the house surrounded by the police cars and set off once more. Nearby, an ambulance sat idling, its occupants slumped in their seats, bored-looking and unconcerned in the flickering red wash of lights. Next to them, a white panel van sat empty on the lawn, its rear doors thrown wide, revealing nothing but a greater darkness within. On its side were printed the words MEDICAL EXAMINER.
Father Gregory, hurrying to keep up with the striding officer, managed to ask, “Is there more than one person hurt?”
The policeman glanced back over his shoulder. “Nope… just one.”
“Then why…” The priest struggled with both his English and his shortness of breath. “Then why is the ambulance still here, may I ask? Surely the injured should have been taken to hospital by now?”
The officer slowed and turned, and Father Gregory thought he could discern an expression of concern on the young man’s face. “We had an ‘injured’ when we got here,” he said, “but she’s beyond all that now.” He nodded towards the panel van, his face hard and set once more. “The meat wagon is for her; the ambulance is waiting for the go-ahead on her husband… he’s paralyzed, you know… fell down a flight of stairs while giving his wife a drunken beating years ago. The chief is holding on to him until we remove the body… there’s no way he wouldn’t see her otherwise, so we’re leaving him in his bedroom until you… do whatever it is you do.” The sergeant halted uncomfortably, then continued, “I’m not a Catholic, Father, and I don’t really understand why you were needed at a crime scene in the first place, but I’ll let the chief give you the rundown, he’s the one that said you should be called.”
The “chief ” had been amongst the first of Father Gregory’s new parishioners to welcome him to Camelot and invite him into his home. This had gone a long way to breaking the ice with the rest of the islanders. Though the venerable Monsignor Cahill was still nominally the head pastor, his slow, painful demise by cancer was steadily robbing him of his vitality, and his availability had been severely curtailed as a result. Many had found the dark little man with the nearly incomprehensible accent a jarring change from the dour old Irish prelate. But with time, an improving grasp of American idiom, and a sincere devotion that needed no translation, Father Gregory had gradually come to be embraced by the community at large. He had heard it remarked of late that his homilies were nearly completely understood. By his own calculations, the congregation laughed at his jokes at least half of the time and this delighted him, as he felt strongly that he was an inspired humorist.
The house itself was a throwback to the seventies and one of the last of its kind on the island. Most of the older homes and cottages had long ago been devoured by the jaws of the wrecking machines and replaced by four-, five-, and six-bedroom vacation homes that were only used in the summer months and on various holidays. It squatted amongst its silent, dark neighbors like a cringing old dog awaiting a kick or a curse. Even the color, to Father Gregory’s eyes, participated in the allusion, being the mangy yellow of an unwelcome cur.
The priest had not been told who occupied this home, and he could not remember ever having visited it before, but he had assumed that the victim within was one of St. Brendan’s parishioners. Certainly the man standing in the doorway was. Chief Julian Hall was engrossed in a murmured conversation with a thin young policeman who stood beneath the clouded porch lamp. He held in his hands a notebook, and Father Gregory heard his nervous laughter float out from beneath the bug-filled globe above his head. Chief Hall patted him on the shoulder and turned to go back inside, then spotted the little priest.