Bad Samaritan (12 page)

Almost as if in support of her observation, Al glanced around the graveyard, spotted RJ, and went to where he and Mike stood, still arguing. When Al arrived, Mike threw up his hands in frustration and stalked off. Like two old friends, the boy and Al walked away together, circling the crowd and angling slowly back to where Victoria stood.

Remaining clear of Chuck, who was weaving in and out of the crowd, snapping photos, Sister Agatha worked her way around the mourners. She studied each of the faces she saw, mindful to avoid getting close to either the mayor or his wife.

One small, roundish woman in her late fifties soon caught her attention. She was just coming through the cemetery gate. If she'd intended to attend services, she was late. The woman continued walking toward the grave, then, halfway there, stopped and waited. From the cut of her clothes, she didn't seem to be in the same income bracket as most of those at the funeral. Perhaps she was the boy's teacher, Sister Agatha thought.

Victoria walked purposefully toward the newcomer, exchanged a few words with her, then walked back to join Al and her son, who'd now returned.

As the woman headed back to the parking area, Sister Agatha jogged to catch up to her. Slowing down at the last moment and falling into step beside her, Sister Agatha gave her a tired smile.

“Robert will be missed,” Sister Agatha said.

The woman shrugged. “You're Sister Agatha, aren't you?”

“Yes, I am. Have we met?”

“No, but I've heard a lot about you.”

“I hope that at least some of it was good,” Sister Agatha answered with a sheepish smile.

“It doesn't matter, Sister. I've been told not to talk to you,” she said. “I like my job, too, so please don't make any trouble for me.” As they reached the church, the woman made a quick left turn and went down the front sidewalk.

“Who told you not to speak to me, and why does that have anything to do with your work?” Sister Agatha asked, though she had a pretty good idea what the answers would be.

“Mrs. Victoria Garcia is my boss, and I can't afford to get her ticked off, Sister. The economy's very bad, and jobs are hard to come by,” she said, then glanced back. Assured that the angle was wrong and none of the mourners could see them from here, she relaxed slightly. “I think you worry the Garcias, Sister.”

“I do? Why?”

She glanced back again, then looked at Sister Agatha. “Sister, I was raised Catholic, and I don't mind talking to you, but I don't want to take any chances with my livelihood. How about meeting me in the old section of the cemetery? There are a lot more trees and stone monuments over there, so no one's likely to see us talking.”

Sister Agatha swallowed hard. That was where her parents and brother were buried. With effort, she forced a smile. “All right. How about east of the mausoleum? Is that okay with you?”

“That's fine.” She glanced back to make sure no one had come around the corner, then moved toward her car. “I'm going to drive off just in case, go completely around, and come in from the north.”

Sister Agatha went back through the open gate leading into the new cemetery grounds, then walked past several mourners. Seeing Al looking at her with interest—and disapproval—she avoided eye contract and stopped by a statue of the Virgin Mary. Crossing herself, she bowed her head in prayer. After several moments she glanced furtively over at Al, but he'd lost interest in her and was focused on something else.

Sister Agatha found Sister Bernarda in the crowd and signaled her to wait. Hurrying over, she met her near the statue of an angel. “I'm on my way to talk to someone. When I'm finished, I'll see you back in the parking lot.”

“No problem,” Sister Bernarda answered. “I'll wait for you there.”

Crossing what had at one time been a street but was now only an access road for gardeners, Sister Agatha took the path east, entering the old cemetery from a new direction. The route led her to the mausoleum, a gray pseudo-Greek-temple structure probably a hundred years old.

Sister Agatha took a careful look around, but the woman she'd come to meet was nowhere to be seen. After circling the building twice, Sister Agatha began to suspect that she'd been put off by an expert. She'd just decided to go back when she heard hurried footsteps somewhere behind her.

“Sorry I'm late, Sister Agatha. I wanted to make real sure Ms. Victoria wouldn't see me heading here.”

“You know my name, but I still don't know yours,” Sister Agatha said.

“I'm Crystal Greer, Ms. Victoria's housekeeper and part-time nanny. The reason I was late for the service is that I was back at the house making sure everything was ready for the guests who'd be stopping by after the funeral.”

Sister Agatha felt her heart pumping faster. Very few secrets
could be kept from a good housekeeper, the person who cleaned up the family's messes.

“I've heard the gossip, Sister, and I know you're trying to find someone else to blame for Mr. Robert's death. You don't want your friend Sheriff Green to face murder charges.”

“That's not exactly right—”

Crystal held up one hand, interrupting her. “Sooner or later you're going to find out that Ms. Victoria has what most people would consider a good motive, so that's why I'm here—to tell you to leave her alone and look elsewhere. That woman's a victim, nothing more. She's paid her dues and deserves to get some peace in her life now.”

“I understand your loyalty to an employer—”

“No, that's not it,” Crystal interrupted again. “Loyalty's a two-way street, and to her I'm just the hired help. I understand the life she's lived, though—more so than most people.”

“I don't follow. Tell me what you mean,” Sister Agatha pressed in a calm voice. “You can trust me. Whatever you say will stay between us.”

Crystal hesitated. “I dislike gossip, but you should know that Mr. Robert was far from the perfect husband.”

“You mean he strayed?” she asked.

“No. He had other . . . habits . . . that were far worse.” Crystal paused, looking around to make absolutely certain they were still alone. “I'm never at the house in the evenings, but in the mornings, I'd often see that poor woman putting on makeup and trying to hide all the bruises. They were never on her face where people could see. She'd have black and blue marks around her ribs, her stomach, and her upper arms. I saw her come out of the shower one morning, and I thought my heart was going to stop. She had these red, angry-looking welts on her back and right across her breasts, as if he'd used a belt or a strap.” She took a
shaky breath, then, with a scowl, continued. “Mr. Robert had a very bad temper, but he wasn't stupid. He knew how to hide what he did.”

“Did you ever personally see Robert hitting Victoria?” Sister Agatha asked.

“No, but those bruises of hers weren't from bumping into doors or falling down the steps, Sister. I've seen that kind of thing before. When my dad would get drunk, which was often, he'd take out his anger on my mother.”

“Was Robert in the habit of getting drunk?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “That's what I could never understand. He never had more than a small glass of wine at dinner.” She paused for a moment, then added, “I think Robert Garcia was just plain mean.”

“Why didn't Victoria leave him?”

“Why does anyone take abuse?” she answered. “Fear. It keeps you frozen in place. It takes lots of different forms, too—fear of being all alone in a world that doesn't really care what happens to you, fear of not being able to pay your bills, of failing someone who's counting on you.” She shook her head. “Ms. Victoria's greatest fear went beyond all those. One time I heard Mr. Robert tell her that if she wanted to leave, he wouldn't stop her, but the boy would stay with him. If she tried to take RJ, his lawyers would find a slew of witnesses that would testify that she was an unfit mother. By the time they were done with her, she wouldn't qualify to adopt a stray cat.”

“How long have you worked for the Garcias?”

“Since after Christmas. The reason I took time to talk to you, Sister Agatha, is because I wanted you to understand that Ms. Victoria didn't hurt Mr. Robert. If she'd wanted to kill him, she would have done it at home the next time he started hitting her and called it self-defense.”

Sister Agatha nodded thoughtfully. It was all hearsay, of course, but Crystal's observations certainly opened up a whole new set of possibilities.

Almost as if sensing that Sister Agatha remained unconvinced, she added, “Another reason I know she had nothing to do with Mr. Robert's murder is that, despite the abuse, she liked being the wife of a rich man. She loves her Mercedes and the diamond jewelry he'd buy for her after their fights—once guilt for what he'd done set in. That's also why she never told her friends what was happening. It didn't quite go with the role she liked playing in the community—that of Doña Victoria, the great lady. You get me?”

“She paid dearly for her luxuries,” Sister Agatha commented. “Did Victoria ever get herself a gun for protection?”

“No way. She wouldn't even allow one in the house. She hates the danged things. Last spring there were some break-ins in the neighborhood. Mr. Robert was going out of town a lot on business, and I knew she was afraid at night, so I suggested she buy herself a gun. She looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. She told me that she didn't even allow RJ to own a toy pistol.”

Sister Agatha considered the possibility that Victoria had been putting on an act—but three months ahead of the death of her husband? That didn't seem likely.

“I better go now,” Crystal said at last. “Ms. Victoria asked me to get her clothes ready for tonight's private memorial service at her home.”

As Crystal walked back to the main road, Sister Agatha made her way to her family's grave site. Tears filled her eyes as she crouched by her brother Kevin's small granite headstone. She'd spent months at his bedside watching his body being eaten away by cancer. His death, at the end, had been a mercy, yet a part of her had died with him.

Despite the passage of time, she still missed him terribly. He'd been her best friend.

Her parents had followed years later in a car accident. She prayed daily that they'd all found peace on the other side.

On her knees, bent low in prayer, she acknowledged her faults as a sister and a daughter. Even as a journalism professor, Mary Lambert Naughton had never even been close to a perfect example of anything. Sister Agatha still couldn't explain why God had chosen her to enter the religious life. She'd told her novice mistress just that many years ago.

Mother Monica had then reminded her of St. Paul, whom God had chosen, though no one could have considered him a paragon of virtue at the time. She'd advised Sister Agatha to hold to St. Paul's words—“forgetting all that lies behind and straining toward what lies ahead”—as she worked hard to fulfill her vocation. That simple faith-filled counsel had allowed her to forgive herself and continue serving God.

Sister Agatha stood and brushed the grass, leaves, and dust from her habit.
Serviam
. . . the motto of anyone in His service. She walked down the graveled pathway leading back to the church's parking lot. As she approached, she saw that RJ, Robert's son, was still acting up.

“I don't want to go!” he said, trying to pull his hand away from his mother's.

As Victoria bent down to talk to him, RJ jerked his hand free. Al Russo, who was close by, instantly stepped over and put his hand on RJ's shoulder.

RJ looked up, but Sister Agatha noticed that he didn't try to shrug off Al's grip.

“I don't want to go to my uncle's house. I hate it there,” he pleaded. “You can't touch
anything,
and all they have on TV is the news.”

“Then come stay with me for a while,” Al suggested. “What do you say?”

The boy nodded and smiled. “Cool. Thanks,” he said, then made a fist and bumped it into Al's in the well-known sign of respect.

“We're all set, then,” Al said, mirroring the boy's lopsided grin.

Sister Agatha was struck by the affinity between the two, but before she could give it more thought, Sister Bernarda joined her.

“Chuck said to tell you to drop by his office whenever you're ready. He's got some shots you might like to see.”

Taking one last look around, Sister Agatha noticed a woman in a wheelchair making her way slowly across the hard-packed limestone gravel portion of the parking lot. “Do you know who she is?”

“No, I don't,” Sister Bernarda answered, following her gaze. “She was out by the grave a while ago.”

“Alone?” Seeing Sister Bernarda nod, Sister Agatha continued. “Making her way across the grass would have been hard work.”

Sister Bernarda's eyes narrowed as she looked at Sister Agatha. “So what's on your mind?”

“The sheriff was given a knockout drug—a good weapon of choice for a woman with a disability like hers.”

“What are you saying—that she appeared
after
the sheriff went down, then took his gun and shot Robert?”

“Or maybe she came up from behind Robert while he was trying to figure out what was wrong with Tom, knocked him aside, then shot him with Tom's gun.”

“You're reaching, Sister Agatha. The wheel tracks on the grass would have been obvious.” She pointed to the two lines still visible on the ground.

“You're right . . . unless the woman can walk short distances on her own.” She paused and shook her head. “I'm trying too hard.”

“Take things one step at a time,” Sister Bernarda advised.

“You're right. Let me find out what her connection to Robert Garcia is first. Wait for me here. I'm going to catch her before she leaves,” Sister Agatha said, hurrying across the parking lot.