It’s understated, lovely. Small, dark red berries are clustered in random spots around it and a single matching ribbon is tied in a simple bow on one side. “Where are you going to hang it?” I ask as Harry puts the Jeep back in gear.
“I’m not,” he says. He turns right out of the driveway, heading eastbound again.
“Pete’s is the other way,” I remind him.
“One more stop,” he says, covering my hand with his. “It’ll just take a few minutes. Promise.”
We ride in silence for a short while. Harry takes a left on Old Harbor Road, then a right on Highland Avenue. I was mystified before, but I’m downright stunned now. “We’re going to church?” I ask. “The Catholic church?”
He shakes his head as he parks on the street, just past the main entrance. “Hell, no,” he says. “The steeple would implode if we did. I wouldn’t do that to the good Catholics so close to Christmas.”
Harry takes the wreath from my lap and gets out of the Jeep, so I follow. A few dozen cars are already parked in the church’s large lot and more are pulling in. A lighted sign near the front steps explains. The children’s Christmas pageant begins at eight, fifteen minutes from now. The organist has already begun, though. “O Come, All Ye Faithful” wafts through the air, growing louder each time a churchgoer opens the front doors . Harry sings along as we walk around the side of the church into complete darkness. “Adeste, fideles, laeti triumphantes; Venite, venite in Bethlehem.”
He’s full of surprises tonight. “You know the Latin version?” I ask.
“Natum videte Regem angelorum.”
“All of it?”
“Venite adoremus, venite adoremus, venite adoremus, Dominum.”
I stare at him, astonished. He shrugs and drapes his arm around my shoulders. “High school,” he says. “The Jesuits gave me no choice.”
Harry stops when we reach the back of the church and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the total darkness. When they do, I realize we’re in a small cemetery, the one Monsignor Davis described on the witness stand. Now I understand Harry’s need for a wreath. There are about a dozen graves back here, situated randomly around a stone image of a woman clutching her heart. A crown of thorns is pressed onto her head, which I’m guessing goes a long way toward explaining her chest pain.
We locate Father McMahon’s burial site easily; its headstone looks much newer than the others, even after a year in the elements. Harry sets the wreath at its base and the two of us stand in silence, staring at the grave of a man neither one of us ever met. His simple stone is inscribed with his full Christian name, his dates of birth and death, and a passage from scripture:
Come to Me, all you who labor and are burdened,
and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon
you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly
in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.
For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.
Matthew 11:28–30.
“It’s a damned shame,” Harry says. “Derrick Holliston murdered a good man. And then I murdered his memory.”
“You were doing your job,” I tell him. “You didn’t have any other option.”
Harry shakes his head. “Option or no option,” he says, “my words maligned a man who didn’t deserve it. I’m responsible for them.”
“You don’t know what happened here a year ago.”
“Yes, I do,” he says quietly.
Here we go again. “You don’t, Harry. You have your suspicions, but you don’t know anything about it. Maybe it went down just as Holliston said.”
He arches his eyebrows at me, but says nothing. He doesn’t need to. I’m a broken record. And he’s not listening anymore.
“Christmas visitors!”
I jump a little before I realize it’s Monsignor Davis coming through the darkness. He opens his arms, welcoming us, as he approaches. “As the Magi visited the Christ child in the manger, so you’ve come to visit our Father McMahon.”
“Damn,” Harry says, shaking the priest’s hand. “We forgot the frankincense. And the shops are plum out of myrrh.”
The Monsignor laughs. “Not to worry,” he says. “Frank was never one to covet worldly wealth. He’d be glad just for your visit.”
“Don’t be so sure about that,” Harry says. “If I were Frank, I wouldn’t offer me an eggnog.”
Monsignor Davis looks curious, but apparently decides not to inquire further. “Any word from the jury?” he asks instead.
“Nada,” Harry tells him. “They’ve quit for the night. They’ll be back at work by eight tomorrow.”
The Monsignor checks his watch, then heads for the church’s back door. “The pageant’s just about to begin,” he says. “Are you coming?”
Harry starts to laugh, then catches himself. “Maybe some other time,” he says. “The camels are hungry.”
The Monsignor waves and then turns away from us, laughing as the heavy door slams shut behind him.
Harry drapes his arm around my shoulders again as we head back toward Old Harbor Road. “Who’re you calling a camel?” I ask.
He lowers his head, his expression hangdog. “I knew that was a mistake.” He smiles apologetically, looks a bit abashed, even, but by the time we reach the Jeep, he’s whistling “Midnight at the Oasis.”
If we were to continue in the same direction on Old Harbor Road, we’d eventually come upon the Kendrick estate, where I suspect Honey and Abby are in hiding tonight—from the persistent press; from well-intentioned neighbors; from the prying public. We don’t, though. Harry makes a U-turn instead, heading for Pete’s, and in the dim glow of the streetlights, he looks a little bit sad.
“Remember,” I tell him, “even if you’re right about Holliston, you don’t have a monopoly on lying clients. I’ve got one on my hands too.”
“So you said.” He reaches over and cups my cheek in his palm, another habit of his that warms my heart. “What makes you so sure?” he asks.
It’s a rational question; I wish I had a better answer. “I don’t know,” I tell him. “But I am. Charles Kendrick is lying. He’s taking the rap for a murder he didn’t commit.”
“You don’t know that,” Harry says. “You can’t.”
He’s right, of course. I can’t.
But I do.
Chapter 27
Saturday, December 18
Saturday mornings in our office tend to be busy, particularly for the Kydd. He handles most of the misdemeanors that come our way, and Friday nights—particularly the cold, dark ones—seem to foster misdemeanor mania. He has a full lineup this morning: all the usual suspects and a handful of new recruits. Minor drug busts, barroom brawls, and petty thefts fill our front office, the Kydd meeting with each of the accused in the conference room, first come, first served. The more serious cases—the ones that warrant weekend lockup—won’t surface until Monday morning.
Harry and I pour mugs of coffee, then head upstairs to my office. Neither of us expects to get much work done today—we’re worn out from the week’s events—but we need to be here, ready to race to the courthouse, in case the Holliston jury reaches a decision. Generally speaking, jurors don’t like weekend duty, and they don’t like any duty a week before Christmas. A quick determination of Derrick Holliston’s fate wouldn’t surprise either of us.