Read Online Wages of Sin by Penelope Williamson - Free Book Online
Authors: Penelope Williamson
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surprisingly expensive item, given the spartan existence revealed by the rest of the room.
Rourke flipped through it. Father Walsh's days had been full, so full that he'd made sure to schedule in his book an hour at two o'clock every afternoon for prayer. Alphabetized pages in the back of the book were crammed with names and phone numbers and addresses.
Rourke went back to yesterday's date. The last entry, scrawled through the hours of seven to ten in the evening, was simply the name Flo. Not Floriane de Lassus Layton, nor Mrs. Layton, but Flo. Rourke noticed how the entries from that day had been neatly printed, but “Flo” had been written with a flourish, as if the hand that held the pen had been excited, happy. Or maybe, Rourke thought with an inward smile at his own fancifulness, the hand had simply been in a hurry.
The book was too big for his pocket, and so Rourke tucked it into the crook of his arm. “Anything?” he asked Fio, who had been going through the small rolltop desk.
“Just the usual,” Fio said. “Receipts, stuff like that. And a lot of letters from people who'd read his book. ‘Dear Father Pat, You've changed my life,’ and all that baloney.”
“Let's bring those, too. Maybe somebody's life didn't get changed for the better.”
Leaving Fio to finish up with the desk, Rourke started out the door, but he stopped on the way for a closer look at the crucifix over the bed. The tiny brass nails were driven through the Christ figure's palms, not his wrists.
At the end of the hall a small chapel had been built into a window alcove overlooking the garden. The window was set with beveled glass, and fragile ribbons of early morning sunlight shone through it onto the mahogany altar and bronze crucifix. Rourke looked at the nails.
Through the hands.
He heard a step behind him and he turned. An old man stood in the arched doorway of the chapel, wearing nothing but an old-fashioned pair of long johns. His hair, the color of dirty snow, grew in a circle of wild drifts around his head. His face was thick with sleep.
“You shouldn't be in the chapel,” he said. “You get out of here right now.”
Father Ghilotti appeared beside the old man to slip an arm around his shoulders. “It's all right, Father,” he said, leading the old man away. “Why don't you get dressed and we'll have some breakfast together. I'll fry us up some more lost bread.”
Rourke looked out the window, waiting while Father Ghilotti took the old priest back into his bedroom. The garden below was abloom with hibiscus and blue and pink hydrangeas. A plaster statue of the Virgin Mary sat in a niche in a stone wall surrounded by white blossoms of tea olive. A stone bench faced the statue and was shaded by a mimosa tree whose branches swayed in the wind. On the bench sat Rourke's brother, hunched over and with his hands gripping his thighs.
“Please forgive Father Delaney,” Holy Rosary's pastor said, appearing back in the arched doorway. “He has these bad turns lately. He's long retired, of course, but he was the pastor here for forty years before me. This is his home and I couldn't bear to send him to another.” He genuflected before the altar and then turned to face Rourke. “Don't you think I deserve to be told how my priest was murdered.”
“I haven't said he was murdered.”
“Don't be coy, Detective. He wouldn't have died a natural death in a macaroni factory in the Quarter at two in the morning.”
“The coroner wasn't sure about the exact cause of death. He's doing a postmortem.”
A strange smile—one that Rourke couldn't read—pulled at Father Ghilotti's small mouth. “It's your roll, Detective, so I guess all I can do at the moment is sit back and wait for you to crap out…I see you've found Father Pat's appointment book without any trouble. It was a Christmas gift from me to him, the book. He rarely spent any money on himself, but then he grew up poor and he never seemed to pine for the finer
Rourke flipped through it. Father Walsh's days had been full, so full that he'd made sure to schedule in his book an hour at two o'clock every afternoon for prayer. Alphabetized pages in the back of the book were crammed with names and phone numbers and addresses.
Rourke went back to yesterday's date. The last entry, scrawled through the hours of seven to ten in the evening, was simply the name Flo. Not Floriane de Lassus Layton, nor Mrs. Layton, but Flo. Rourke noticed how the entries from that day had been neatly printed, but “Flo” had been written with a flourish, as if the hand that held the pen had been excited, happy. Or maybe, Rourke thought with an inward smile at his own fancifulness, the hand had simply been in a hurry.
The book was too big for his pocket, and so Rourke tucked it into the crook of his arm. “Anything?” he asked Fio, who had been going through the small rolltop desk.
“Just the usual,” Fio said. “Receipts, stuff like that. And a lot of letters from people who'd read his book. ‘Dear Father Pat, You've changed my life,’ and all that baloney.”
“Let's bring those, too. Maybe somebody's life didn't get changed for the better.”
Leaving Fio to finish up with the desk, Rourke started out the door, but he stopped on the way for a closer look at the crucifix over the bed. The tiny brass nails were driven through the Christ figure's palms, not his wrists.
At the end of the hall a small chapel had been built into a window alcove overlooking the garden. The window was set with beveled glass, and fragile ribbons of early morning sunlight shone through it onto the mahogany altar and bronze crucifix. Rourke looked at the nails.
Through the hands.
He heard a step behind him and he turned. An old man stood in the arched doorway of the chapel, wearing nothing but an old-fashioned pair of long johns. His hair, the color of dirty snow, grew in a circle of wild drifts around his head. His face was thick with sleep.
“You shouldn't be in the chapel,” he said. “You get out of here right now.”
Father Ghilotti appeared beside the old man to slip an arm around his shoulders. “It's all right, Father,” he said, leading the old man away. “Why don't you get dressed and we'll have some breakfast together. I'll fry us up some more lost bread.”
Rourke looked out the window, waiting while Father Ghilotti took the old priest back into his bedroom. The garden below was abloom with hibiscus and blue and pink hydrangeas. A plaster statue of the Virgin Mary sat in a niche in a stone wall surrounded by white blossoms of tea olive. A stone bench faced the statue and was shaded by a mimosa tree whose branches swayed in the wind. On the bench sat Rourke's brother, hunched over and with his hands gripping his thighs.
“Please forgive Father Delaney,” Holy Rosary's pastor said, appearing back in the arched doorway. “He has these bad turns lately. He's long retired, of course, but he was the pastor here for forty years before me. This is his home and I couldn't bear to send him to another.” He genuflected before the altar and then turned to face Rourke. “Don't you think I deserve to be told how my priest was murdered.”
“I haven't said he was murdered.”
“Don't be coy, Detective. He wouldn't have died a natural death in a macaroni factory in the Quarter at two in the morning.”
“The coroner wasn't sure about the exact cause of death. He's doing a postmortem.”
A strange smile—one that Rourke couldn't read—pulled at Father Ghilotti's small mouth. “It's your roll, Detective, so I guess all I can do at the moment is sit back and wait for you to crap out…I see you've found Father Pat's appointment book without any trouble. It was a Christmas gift from me to him, the book. He rarely spent any money on himself, but then he grew up poor and he never seemed to pine for the finer
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