“Yes; I knew then where the pearls had gone to.”
“But you never even looked at the mistletoe.”
“I saw it reflected in the black glass floor, and it struck me then how much the mistletoe berries looked like pearls.”
FATHER CRUMLISH CELEBRATES CHRISTMAS by Alice Scanlan Reach
Alice Scanlan Reach is well known in the mystery field for her charming and frequently exciting stories about Father Crumlish. For evidence of her skills, just read on.
“Eat that and you’ll be up all night with one of your stomach gas attacks.” Emma Catt’s voice boomed out from the doorway of what she considered to be her personal sanctuary-the kitchen of St. Brigid’s rectory.
Caught in the act of his surreptitious mission, Father Francis Xavier Crumlish hastily withdrew the arthritic fingers of his right hand, which had been poised to enfold one of several dozen cookies cooling on the wide, old-fashioned table.
“I-I was just thinking to myself that a crumb or two would do no harm,” he murmured, conscious of the guilty flush seeping into the seams, tucks, and gussets of his face.
“It would seem to me that a man of the cloth would be the first to put temptation behind him,” Emma observed tartly as she strode across the worn linoleum flooring. “Particularly a man of your age,” she added, giving him a meaningful look.
The pastor swallowed a heavy sigh. After Emma had arrived to take charge of St. Brigid’s household chores some twenty-two years ago, he had soon learned to his sorrow that her culinary feats were largely confined to bland puddings, poached prunes, and a concoction which she called “Irish Stew” and which was no more than a feeble attempt to disguise the past week’s leftovers.
So he was most agreeably surprised one day when Emma miraculously produced a batch of cookies of such flavorful taste and texture that the priest mentally forgave her all her venial sins. And since it was Father Crumlish’s nature to share his few simple pleasures with others, he promptly issued instructions that, once a year, Emma should bake as many of the cookies as the parish’s meager budget would allow. As a result, although St. Brigid’s pastor and his housekeeper were on extra-short rations from Thanksgiving until Christmas Eve, many a parishioner’s otherwise cheerless Christmas Day was brightened by a bag of the sugar-and-spice delicacies.
Now, today, as the priest quickly left the kitchen area to avoid any further allusions to his ailments and his advancing years, the ringing of the telephone was entirely welcome. He hurried down the hallway to his office and picked up the receiver.
“St. Brigid’s.”
“It’s Tom, Father.”
Father Crumlish recognized the voice of Lieutenant Thomas Patrick “Big Tom” Madigan of Lake City’s police force and realized, from the urgency in the policeman’s tone, that his call was not a social one.
“I’m at the Liberty Office Building,” Madigan said in a rush. “A guy’s sitting on a ledge outside the top-story window. Says he’s going to jump. If I send a car for you-”
“I’ll be waiting at the curb, Tom,” Father interrupted and hung up the phone.
“Big Tom” Madigan was waiting outside the elderly office building when Father Crumlish arrived some minutes later. Quickly he ushered the priest through the emergency police and fire details and the crowd of curious onlookers who were gazing in awe at the scarecrow figure perched on a ledge high above the street.
“Do you know the man, Tom?” Father asked. He followed the broad-shouldered policeman into the building lobby, and together they entered a self-service elevator.
“And so do you, Father,” Madigan said as he pressed the elevator button. “He’s one of your people. Charley Abbott.”
“God bless us!” the pastor exclaimed. “What do you suppose set Charley off this time?” He sighed. “The poor lad’s been in and out of sanitariums half a dozen times in his thirty years. But this is the first time he’s ever tried to do away with himself.”
“This may not be just one of Abbott’s loony notions,” Madigan replied grimly. “Maybe he’s got a good reason for wanting to jump off that ledge.”
“What do you mean, Tom?”
“Last week a man named John Everett was found murdered in his old farmhouse out in Lake City Heights. He was a bachelor, lived alone, no relatives-”
“I read about it,” Father interrupted impatiently. “What’s that got to do-”
“We haven’t been able to come up with a single clue,” Madigan broke in, “until half an hour ago. One of my detectives, Dennis Casey, took an anonymous phone call from a man who said that if we wanted to nab Everett’s murderer we should pick up the daytime porter at the Liberty Office Building.”
“That’s Charley.” Father nodded, frowning. “I myself put in a good word for him for the job.”
“Casey came over here on a routine check,” Madigan went on as the elevator came to a halt and he and the priest stepped out into the corridor. “He showed Abbott his badge, said he was investigating Everett’s murder, and wanted to ask a few questions. Abbott turned pale-looked as if he was going to faint, Casey says. Then he made a dash for the elevator, rode it up to the top floor, and climbed out the corridor window onto the ledge.”
“But surely, now, Tom,” Father protested, “you can’t be imagining that Charley Abbott had a hand in that killing? Why, you know as well as I that, for all his peculiar ways, Charley’s gentle as a lamb.”
“All I know,” Madigan replied harshly, “is that when we tried to ask him a few questions, he bolted.” He ran a hand over his crisp, curly brown hair. “And I know that innocent men don’t run.”
“Innocent or guilty,” Father Crumlish said, “the man’s in trouble. Take me to him, Tom.”
When Father Crumlish entered the priesthood more than forty years before, he never imagined that he was destined to spend most of those years in St. Brigid’s parish-that weary bedraggled section of Lake City’s waterfront where destitution and despair, avarice and evil, walked hand in hand. And although, on the occasions when he lost a battle with the Devil, he too sometimes teetered on the brink of despair, he unfailingly rearmed himself with his intimate, hard-won knowledge of his people.
But now, as the old priest leaned out the window and caught sight of the man seated on the building’s ledge, his confidence was momentarily shaken. Charley Abbott had the appearance and demeanor of a stranger. The man’s usually slumped, flaccid shoulders were rigid with purpose; his slack mouth and chin were set in taut, hard lines; and in place of his normal attitude of wavering indecision, there was an aura about him of implacable determination.
There was not a doubt in Father Crumlish’s mind that Abbott intended to take the fatal plunge into eternity. The priest took a deep breath and silently said a prayer.
“Charley,” he then called out mildly, “it’s Father Crumlish. I’m right here close to you, lad. At the window.”
Abbott gave no indication that he’d heard his pastor’s voice.
“Can you hear me, Charley?”
No response.
“I came up here to remind you that we have been through a lot of bad times together,” Father continued conversationally. “And together we’ll get through whatever it is that’s troubling you now.”
The priest waited for a moment, hoping to elicit some indication that Abbott was aware of his presence. But the man remained silent and motionless, staring into space. Father decided to try another approach.
“I’ve always been proud of you, Charley,” Father said. “And never more so than when you were just a tyke and ran in the fifty-yard dash at our Annual Field Day Festival.” He sighed audibly. “Ah, but that’s so many years ago, and my memory plays leprechaun’s tricks. I can’t recall for the life of me, lad-did you come in second or third?”