For I Have Sinned a Cate Harlow Private Investigation Page 8

  “I’m sorry that you had to wait,” says a flustered Marie meeting me as I am walking back to the salon. “This was a last minute appointment from a regular customer and I didn’t want to say no.” A brief smile passes over her face as she says, “The fact that she tips really well too is a plus.”

  That tiny smile touches a chord in me and I say, “I understand that, no problem, Marie. Let’s go eat, okay?”

  On the way to the restaurant I deliberately talk about things not related to her brother’s case. Everything is inconsequential and safe; cars, the surprisingly warm weather, and even the price of gas. Finally I pull into the parking lot of The Curry Club and hand my keys to a waiting valet.

  Inside the restaurant, we’re ushered into a room with colorful décor and seated near a large fish tank containing brilliantly colored fish. We order two teas and settle in with the menus. I ask her if she’d like to split two appetizers and we decide on one order each of vegetable samosas, and chicken pakora plus two bowls of lentil soup. As her main course Marie asks for shrimp tikka masala and I get shrimp vindalu.

  After we finish the soup and appetizers I bring out the key from my wallet and place it on the table. Marie doesn’t react. The key doesn't seem to mean anything to her.

  “Marie, this key was found in Josh’s school backpack. Any idea what it’s for?”

  “That was in his backpack? I didn’t know that.”

  “Do you know what it’s for?” I press.

  She picks it up to examine it and then shakes her head.

  “No. I never saw it before. Are you sure it's Josh’s?”

  “Yes, it was in his backpack. The evidence officer thought it was a locker key. Did you have key locks at your high school?”

  “We did, but that’s not a locker key. It’s too small. The keys for the lockers were thicker and longer, almost like a house key.”

  “So you have no idea what lock this would open then.” I palm the key then place it on the table in front of Marie. I want to make sure the key doesn’t jog some memory of her seeing Josh with it before I put it away. But she just looks at it and truly doesn’t seem to recognize it.

  Our conversation is interrupted by the arrival of the main course and I put the key back in wallet. Eating, my mother would have said, shouldn’t be disturbed by anything that isn’t dinner-table conversation. The shrimp vindalu is excellent and I make a point of raving about it. Marie seems to enjoy her dish too and we spend an hour just eating and talking about food.

  Over a shared dessert of fruit kheer and strongly brewed American coffee, Marie tells me about her and Josh’s high school, Roosevelt High.

  “You know, we went to a Catholic elementary school and our parents assumed we’d go to that school’s brother school St. Matthew high school but Josh didn’t want to go there.”

  “Oh? Why was that?”

  “He loved art and science and Roosevelt High had just built a fantastic science wing with all the latest tech stuff. Actually for that time the equipment they had was pretty advanced. Their art center too; it was state-of-the-art. Josh was a real scholar. He convinced Mom and Dad that the advanced courses at Roosevelt High were what he needed if he wanted to get into a good college. So, they agreed to send both of us there as long as we promised that we’d attend CCD classes, you know, classes about Catholicism. I mean, we’re a real Irish-Catholic family; that was a big thing for our parents. We went every Wednesday night even though Joshua told me that he didn’t believe in God anymore. I never told my parents; it would have hurt them. I thought it was just what the priests call a crisis of faith and he’d start believing again but … he didn’t. Still, no one could have been a better or kinder person than Joshua.”

  That little smile flickers across her face again. She looks pretty when she smiles and I find myself thinking that if the case concerning her brother can come to some type of closure, maybe she’ll be able to find things in life that will make her smile again.

  “What about your high school?” she asks me. “Where did you go?”

  “Well, I went to a private all-girls school, but it wasn’t a parochial one. My parents taught at The Brearley School in the city and the tuition was pretty much waived for teachers’ kids. Anyway, it was lowered significantly,so my parents were able to afford it.”

  “Was it a big school? Did you have a lot of friends there?”

  “No, it wasn’t big. I did have a couple of close friends. Some of the girls were snobby but on the whole it was a good experience. The best thing for me was that I was on the tennis team and I was very good. I won trophies for the school. That earned everybody’s respect.”

  “What about college?” she asks me wistfully. “I always wanted to go to college, but after what happened and all, well, you know.”

  “NYU; major in linguistics, minor in Medieval history. I used to be what is called a linguistic forensics expert. Basically, I translated legalese into layman’s terms. Being around lawyers and reading court cases got me interested in investigating. Eventually I got my license as a private investigator and opened my own business. I’ve never regretted it.”

  “You’re brave. I could never do that.”

  “Either brave or crazy.”

  I motion the server over to refill our cups and to bring the check. When Marie begins to ruffle through her handbag, I stop her immediately.

  “This is my treat. I invited you, Marie.” Then, to make her not feel as if she couldn’t afford it, I add, “Next time we go out, you can treat me.”

  She nods and puts her bag to the side.

  As I’m placing my debit card on the little tray with the bill, I ask Marie about her high school experience.

  “Did a lot of your friends go to Roosevelt High or did they go to St. Matthew?”

  “Oh I’d say just about a small group of our friends went to Roosevelt. The tuition at St. Matt’s was steeper than our elementary school had been, so some families just decided to send their kids to public high. We were blue-collar families and money was usually tight. I liked Roosevelt. It was small and I got to know so many of the kids there.”

  “And Josh?”

  “He liked Roosevelt too. He said he was looking forward to starting fresh in a new place. Even though we had some of the same friends there, Josh said that going to a new school was like being given a chance to become a new person. That’s when he began insisting that everyone call him Joshua. He wouldn’t answer to any family pet names.”

  “No nicknames, huh? I know about that. My ex-mother-in-law, who is a very nice woman, will not allow anyone to call her Fran. Her name is Francesca and she politely, but firmly, insists on being called her full name.”

  Marie nods and gives me the ghost smile again.

  While we’re waiting for the server to return with my debit card and receipt, we talk about life after school, working, why people choose certain professions, and finally, men.

  “Are you dating anyone special?” I ask her as I sign the receipt and put cash out for a tip. I hope she is because she seems as if she’s alone too much and she needs distraction.

  “No, not really. Sometimes I feel that I can’t really do anything for me until I know for sure about Joshua. I feel, I don’t know…”

  “Guilty?”

  “Yes! I do. I feel guilty for being alive, even for being here enjoying a lunch when I don’t know if Josh has food or if he’s…”

  I grab her hand across the table.

  “Listen to me Marie. It’s normal to feel this way. You don’t know where Joshua is or even if he’s alive and it’s eating you up inside. You want some answers for what's happened in your life and up until now you haven’t gotten them. You still haven't gotten them but I’m working on it, believe me.

  “I’m not going to tell you to go on with your life as the police did, even though their intentions were good. But I am going to tell you that if you enjoy yourself, if you smile or laugh, it doesn’t mean that you've forgotten your brother or abandoned h
is memory.

  “You’re human and we humans are fragile. You need to get out and live a little, just a little so you don’t keep dying over and over again in your heart.”

  She thinks about what I’m saying for what seems a long time while the server politely waits to get his tip.

  “I did meet someone,” she says shyly, “Someone who just moved here a few months ago. He seems nice but I don’t know. He asked for my phone number and I gave it to him. We talk pretty often on the phone and we’ve met a couple of times at the movies. I want to ask him over for dinner but I feel kind of scared. Like maybe he’ll accept to be polite but then he’ll make an excuse and not come. I’m not very good about dating.”

  I grab my handbag and get up. “Ask him,” I tell her. “You won’t lose anything by asking and you might be pleasantly surprised. Where men are concerned, Marie, it doesn’t pay to be shy. This is the twenty-first century; women are just as much the pursuer as the pursued.”

  “What if he says no? Then what?”

  “Then he says no and you look elsewhere. His saying no is not a big deal; don’t make it one. There are a lot of guys out there, Marie.”

  “Do you have a … a man in your life?” she asks shyly.

  “More like two men,” I smile and am pleased when my statement brings a giggle from her.

  “Wow! I guess, well then … I guess I should say … have fun!” She blushes to the roots of her hair and we both laugh over her unexpected comment.

  Back in the car I ask Marie if she’d mind if I came over to her house tomorrow morning around ten and looked through the house and property. There might be something, some box, something hidden somewhere that the key in my handbag would open.

  “Oh, sure. But I won’t be home. One of the other girls is having her car serviced and I promised her I’d pick her up. She lives a distance from me so I’m leaving really early. You can go over today while I’m at work if you’d like. I don’t have a problem with you looking around the house when I’m not there. I trust you.”

  Trust. Such a simple word but one with one helluva powerful meaning. Who did Josh trust? I wonder.

  “Thanks Marie but I have to do some other work this afternoon. Tomorrow will be much better for me. Is that okay with you? I’ll come pick up the house key at the salon.”

  “Tomorrow is good and you don’t have to come all the way out here for the house key. I’ll leave it with Mr. O’Leary who lives next door, the house on the left side. But listen, when you go to get the key just make sure that you tell him you’re really busy or he’ll talk your ear off. He remembers everything from years ago and he’s very sharp, even if he is ninety-four.”

  She thanks me for lunch and I watch her walk back to the door of the salon and disappear inside.

  As I drive towards the city I’m thinking that, if I’m lucky tomorrow, maybe Mr. O’Leary will remember something important from ten years ago.

  Chapter 10

  The phone number I got for the address in Washington Township rings and rings. Finally a generic, computerized voice says, “No one can answer your call right now. Please leave a message.” So I do.

  “This is Cate Harlow. My number is 212.555.2992. This is in reference to Francis Murphy. Please call me as soon as possible.”

  My next call is to the Paterson Diocese main office. If the diocese owned the apartment where Father Murphy lived that could mean that he was a priest in one of the many churches in the area. The fact that the info Giles gave me has Murphy living in an apartment and not a rectory isn’t necessarily a problem, but it bears checking out. I’m going to say that I’ve lost touch with Father Murphy and want to contact him. It’s possible that they don’t know that he’s dead yet.

  Voicemail picks up and of course I get a menu. I listen to the extensions for various business or church needs until I come to the one for clergy, then press the digit and hear, “One moment please.”

  A man’s voice answers “Rectory. This is Father Richard Boyd, how may I help you?”

  He sounds so boyish. I have a hard time calling him Father.

  “Good afternoon, Father. My name is Cate Harlow and I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for a priest from your diocese, Father Francis Murphy.”

  “Who?”

  “Father Murphy, Francis Xavier Murphy. Do you know how I can reach him? It’s important.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve gotten the name wrong. You probably mean Father Farrell Xavier Murphy of St. Ann’s. I can get his number if you can hang on for a couple of minutes.”

  “No, wait, Father. The person I’m looking for is named Father Francis Xavier Murphy. He’s about seventy-two. I’d like to speak with him if you can tell me what church he’s serving.” Murphy is a very common name for Irish-Catholic priests.

  I hear pages from a book being rapidly turned.

  “You know, I don’t see his name in the diocese listings. Murphy is a common name. Also, I’m in the process of installing a new accounting program in the computer system so I might not have all the names and parishes. I’ve only been here five years so it is possible that I wouldn’t know of him.

  “But, listen; if you give me a minute I’ll get Father Bill, one of the other priests, to help you. He knows all the “old men of the cloth” as we affectionately call them. If this other Father Murphy is still on active service he’ll know and if he’s retired he may be at our retirement home in Ocean County. Hold on.”

  Elevator music plays statically as I hold. You’d think that in a church office they would have some type of religious music playing, but I’m being entertained by Fleetwood Mac on one of those easy listening stations favored by Myrtle.

  Finally I hear, “This is Father Bill Mulcahy. May I help you?” Older, pleasant voice, maybe he knows Murphy. I hear laughter and talking in the background. It sounds busy.

  “Yes, good afternoon, Father. I was told by the priest who answered that you might be able to help me find a clergyman I knew years ago, a man in his early seventies. I’ve lost contact with him over the years.” Then, to enlist his help I charmingly add, “I heard that you know all the old men of the cloth.”

  He laughs and says jovially, “When you've been around as long as I have, you do tend to know just about everyone in the diocese. I’m pretty sure I can help you. Who are you looking to find?”

  “Oh I hope so, Father. I’m looking for a Father Francis Xavier Murphy. Do you know where I might be able to contact him? I would so love to speak with him.” I make myself sound as sweet and innocent as I can but there’s dead silence on the other end. “Father Mulcahy? Hello?”

  “Who is this?” The pleasant voice has suddenly gone cold and has a cutting, straight edge to it. Something’s not right, I can feel it.

  “My name is Cate Harlow and I’m trying to find Father Francis Xavier Murphy.” Then I add a concerned, “Is he alright?”

  More silence, then, “Are you with SNAP?”

  SNAP? I have no idea what he means but I quickly jot down the acronym, s-n-a-p.

  “No I’m not. I don’t even know what that is,” I say truthfully.

  There’s a long pause at the other end. I hear a whispered conversation but I can only make out the words, “no knowledge”, “we can’t”, “don’t say anything…”

  “Look,” I say, “I don’t know about any snap but I do know that I need to contact Father Francis Xavier Murphy. Can you help me or not?”

  “No, I can’t help you. There’s no Father Francis Murphy here and no one knows anything about this, this Francis Murphy. Don’t call again. Good day.”

  “Wait. Just tell me…” A sharp click lets me know the call has ended.

  Two seconds after the priest ends our brief conversation, Myrtle puts a call through from Will.

  “Cate? Are you busy with that cold case or can you take a minute and grab a Timothy’s macchiato coffee with me? I’m two minutes from your office.”

  “I’ve got time. I’ll go right down and wait for you.
”

  I hang up and tell Myrtle I’m going out for coffee with Will and ask her if she wants me to bring anything back for her.

  “No, I’ve got my iced tea.” She smiles at me approvingly. “You look very pretty today. You should dress up more often. It looks professional and attractive.”

  I smile back. “Yeah, well, maybe. I do feel pretty.” I sigh and shake my head. “But I’d hate to go finding a dead body dressed like this and in these shoes!”

  ****

  “What’s up?” I say as I settle into the nice leather seat of Will’s unmarked car. He looks at me. “You look great. I like your hair like that.” He’s got that look on his face that I know so well from the past.

  “Thanks.” I buckle my seat belt and look down so we don’t make eye contact.

  Timothy’s Coffee Emporium is about ten minutes from my office, but with afternoon traffic it takes thirty. Will puts his police light on the roof of his car and parks by a No Parking sign. Of course, I think; he’s allowed to park wherever he wants. We decide to sit outside and I grab an empty table while Will goes to get our coffees. He returns with two steaming large cups topped with whipped cream and drizzled with caramel, and we sit and inhale the aroma. Then he looks over at me and says, “I probably shouldn’t be doing this but I said I’d think about letting you know what’s going on with the murder case, that priest collar one you’re so interested in. I’ve decided to give you the info from the M.E.’s office.”

  Oh goody! I think. Tell me what I already know.

  “Thanks Will. What did you find out?”

  “Well, he is, was, a real priest. Father Francis X. Murphy. Lived in New Jersey. There’s an address, so I’ll be going out there tomorrow. I think he was somehow connected to the Paterson Diocese. Anyway, the diocese owned the place where he lived so there’s some type of connection there.”