Lost and Found in Prague (7 page)

BOOK: Lost and Found in Prague
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“Caroline,” Dana said softly, her eyes set on the candles, “what is it you want me to do?”

“Please, we might be watched.”

“By whom?” She picked up the lighter set in a holder on the stand, flicked it, raised the flame, and lit the candle.

“We need your help.”

“We?” Dana asked.

Another worshipper, a small, elderly woman in a dark coat, approached the votives, inserted coins, lit a candle, and knelt on the kneeler in front of the stand. Dana swallowed a deep breath as she lowered her head, feigning prayer. The woman crossed herself, rose, and left.

Caroline placed a final candle in a holder and eyed it carefully. Her gaze flashed toward Dana, then back to the votive stand. Dana could see she had slipped a small paper under the candle cup.

“Sunday?” Dana whispered. “Noon?”

Sister Agnes nodded yes. “Bless you.” She folded the flaps on the cardboard box and backed away, and then, taking the same path by which she had made her way down the side aisle, she moved to the front of the church and disappeared.

Dana looked around. The priest had vanished. Several tourists remained in pews, heads bowed. When they got up and started toward the museum door, Dana lifted the cup, removed the paper, and slipped it into her pocket. She stepped back, about to turn and leave.

“We meet again,” a familiar low, rough voice said, startling her. “You, too, Ms. Pierson, have made your way to the Church of Our Lady Victorious.”


10

They sat at an outdoor café on the Staromestské námesti waiting for delivery of a bottle of Czech wine—produced in Southern Moravia, according to Father Borelli—and going over menus, he offering commentaries as if a food critic for the
New York Times
.

After their second unexpected meeting, this one in the Church of Our Lady Victorious, Father Borelli had glanced at his watch and said, “Do you have plans for lunch?”

Startled, at a loss for words, Dana had replied, “No.”

And so, just thirty minutes later, here they sat. It was quarter past noon and the priest informed her that they had missed the twelve o’clock tolling of the fifteenth-century astronomical clock on the tower of Starometská radnice, the old town hall, reigning impressively over the south side of the square.

“Perhaps we’ll catch the one o’clock show,” he suggested.

In addition to providing the time, the clock presented the signs of the zodiac, astronomical data in the movement of the sun and moon, and an hourly show performed by four animated statues. In the upper tier of the tower’s face, two windows opened to reveal the twelve apostles, turning and gliding past. Father Borelli explained the figures did not properly represent the twelve apostles. The traitor Judas had been excluded, St. Paul thrown in for an even dozen.

A good crowd gathered, many waiting to get into the restaurant, some lingering after the performance, many strolling among the Easter market’s colorful booths overflowing with pink and purple tulips, yellow daffodils, decorated eggs, and intricate handmade toys and puppets. Even without the seasonal market, the square would have been a noisy, active spot in the city, a hub flanked by a collage of Gothic, Renaissance, and Baroque structures. The dark, spiky, double-spired Kostel Panny Marie pred Týnem rose up from behind a row of houses, looking more like the abode of a medieval dragon than a church. Painted facades, Renaissance figures, and saintly kings adorned several of the buildings. The bronze statue of Jan Hus, with its green patina, stood as a monument to a revered Protestant preacher who’d defied the Catholic Church.

After arriving at the restaurant, Dana and Father Borelli had waited in line but a few minutes when a gentleman—the one counting heads—approached the priest, spoke to him, and immediately escorted them to the best available table in a patch of warm sunshine along the outer edge of the outdoor seating, front-row accommodations to watch the activity.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“Who?” the priest replied.

“The gentleman who seated us. What did he say to you?”

“He said, ‘Your table is ready.’”

“You made a reservation?”

He shook his head.

“It’s the collar,” she said, running her finger along her neck. Today he wore a priestly cassock and collar.

“I eat here often when I visit. No, it isn’t the collar. I tip very well, very generously.”

“I thought you priests were required to take a vow of poverty. How do you come up with the big tips?” She knew she shouldn’t have said this, but his reply came in such a puffed-up way, she couldn’t help herself.

He laughed that deep, deep laugh, then casually ran his hand over the top of his balding head. “There’s some confusion among you laypeople,” he said. The way he slid in the word
you
, Dana had no doubt that he included her with those who sat far below the clergy. There was, in general, something irritating in the way he spoke, as if because he said it you had to listen and believe it was true. This was a man comfortable in a pulpit.

“Poverty is a vow often taken by certain orders,” he explained, “religious communities. But no, I do not belong to a community that professes poverty. I am not a wealthy man, but I’ve learned if you want to feel appreciated, you must show appreciation for others.”

“Thus,” she replied, motioning toward the line of people waiting to be seated, a line that seemed even longer than when they arrived, “we get the best seat in the house.”

“Correct.”

“Certain orders?” she queried. “Like the Carmelites? A vow of poverty?”

He nodded.

“Like your friend Father Giuseppe Ruffino, the prior of Our Lady Victorious?”

He nodded again, more a tip of the head, a sign of acknowledgment, which she could see held a hint of admiration. “Yes, my friend at the Church of Our Lady Victorious.”

On the walk from the church, Dana had gathered the facts together and drawn her conclusion. From their conversation on the plane she knew that Father Giovanni Borelli—he had formally introduced himself as they walked—was here to visit a childhood friend. From her reading and Caroline’s letters, she knew the Carmelites came from Italy to care for the Church of Our Lady Victorious. Father Borelli was Italian, as was Father Ruffino. They were approximately the same age. Finding the two men in the church at about the same time, she easily put this together. He’d just acknowledged she’d guessed correctly.

The waiter delivered their wine, poured a glass for Father Borelli, which he tasted and approved, then a glass for Dana. She took a sip. She was no expert, she seldom drank, but it had a nice flavor, not too strong, but nice and smooth. The
man
had good taste, at least in the wine department.

He held his glass up to the light and gave it a little swirl, then took a drink. “I feel I owe you an apology,” he said and paused.

She said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“For our conversation on the flight,” he added.

“For that little game you were playing?”

He nodded. “You knew who I was?”

“The priest sent from the Vatican to Boston.”

He took a slow sip of wine and let it linger in his mouth for a moment. “You did a nice job on the investigation. The articles.”

She knew he was speaking of the articles she’d written about the priests in Boston. “Because I arrived at the same conclusion as you,” she said. “Even though I was given little cooperation or access.”
Guilty as sin,
she wanted to say, but refrained.

He set his wineglass on the table and ran his finger along the base. “Such men give the priesthood a bad name. The Church is served poorly by such—” He shook his head. “It is unjust to judge many on the actions of a few. There are some very good, decent men in the priesthood.”

“I know that.”

“Some good, holy men,” he said. “Devout men, some even saintly.”

“Saintly? Like your friend Father Ruffino,” she replied.

“I’m certainly not referring to myself.” His tone, the shift of his shoulders, his hands raised in an open gesture, dripped with self-deprecation. Very dramatic, Dana thought.

The waiter delivered a basket of bread. He poured more wine for the priest. Dana had taken but a few sips. She asked for a bottle of water. They placed their orders, Father Borelli requesting lamb with rosemary and garlic, Dana a bowl of soup.

“Your friend, an Italian Carmelite,” she said. “Assigned by the Holy Father to care for Our Lady Victorious after the new government took control.”

“You’re an informed traveler,” he said.

“Comes with the job,” she replied, taking a piece of bread as he offered the basket, “doing the research.”

“I thought you were on holiday.” He placed a piece of bread on his plate. “Visiting a friend. You’ve had an opportunity to get together with your friend?” There was a smugness wrapped over his words and she knew he’d figured it out, too. He knew Sister Agnes was the friend she’d referred to on their flight. She wondered how long he had been standing behind them as they conversed in whispers before the votive candles. He couldn’t possibly have heard their words, but he’d conceivably seen Caroline place the note under the candle cup, and Dana retrieve it. She’d yet to have the opportunity to read it, but had fingered the small paper nervously and protectively in her pocket as they walked to the restaurant. She wanted desperately to read Caroline’s note, but with Borelli sitting across from her at the small round table, it would be impossible without his noticing.

Dana thought of Borelli’s taunting her on the flight, the hint of an important summons to Prague.

The priest lathered his bread with butter and said, “You’ve had an opportunity to visit some of the sights in the city?” He took a large bite.

The waiter delivered their lunches. Dana’s large bowl of soup, which the menu’s translation had described as broth with meat and vegetables, looked more like a stew with chunky meat, potatoes, and carrots in thick gravy. The savory scent of rosemary and garlic wafted up from Father Borelli’s plate. He lifted his fork, nodding, obviously pleased with his selection.

They spent the remainder of the meal speaking of the various places to visit in the city, Borelli giving her a rundown on the best restaurants, going so far as to write them down for her on a napkin. They talked about their work. Borelli explained that over the years he’d held a variety of positions, reporting directly to the Vatican. He’d served as Promoter of the Faith, an office in the Sacred Congregation of Rites.

“More commonly known as the Devil’s Advocate?” she asked. “You argued against canonization and beatification of saints.”

“Well,” he said with a sly grin, “there are very few saints.”

He went on to explain how the position had been abolished by Pope John Paul II in 1983, though he considered this a mistake, that the process of beatification and eventual sainthood should never have been streamlined. He told her that since that time he had used his investigative skills in various capacities. Educated in canon law, he’d taught classes in Rome for several years to young seminarians from around the world. He was fluent in seven languages, he told her, barely attempting to contain the arrogance as his chin tilted upward.

“A dry academic, I’m afraid,” he said, and she sensed now a hint of apology. “I suppose that’s why I found such satisfaction in the position of Protector of the Faith. It gave me the opportunity to talk to real people, to take depositions, to experience the world of the common people.”

“Your investigations were successful?” she asked, controlling her urge to ask if he enjoyed working with “common people.”

He smiled. “Yes, in the sense that I prevented several possible canonizations.”

He seemed to take pride in this pronouncement and she wondered how this could give one satisfaction. Wasn’t the Catholic Church all about saints?

Borelli ordered dessert, a Bohemian torte, for both of them. He was a man who obviously enjoyed a good meal. When the waiter delivered coffee, the priest took out a cigarette holder, flashed it at Dana, and asked her permission. As he took his first drag, his shaky hand told her it had been an effort to get through the meal without lighting up.

When they finished their substantial lunch, he insisted on paying the bill, telling her again he owed her an apology. Was he attempting to gain her trust? She was sure he’d seen Sister Agnes place the note under the candle cup.

Father Borelli told her he was taking a cab back to his hotel for a little nap and offered to get one for Dana.

“I have shopping to do. Gifts to take home for family,” she said. “I’ll walk back to the hotel. But thanks for your offer, and for lunch.”

As they stepped out into the square, he extended his hand and said, “Perhaps we will meet again,” with a smile that informed her that he was not unhappy about such a prospect.

After he’d waved down a cab, climbed in, and disappeared around the corner, the clock on the square began to toll as Dana pulled the note from her pocket, opened it, and read Caroline’s words. She gazed across the square up toward the figures on the clock tower as the performance began. Yes, she thought, her pulse increasing, her heart thumping against her rib cage, she would definitely see Borelli again.


11

Though he’d told Dana Pierson he intended to return to his hotel for a nap, as soon as Giovanni Borelli settled down in the backseat of the cab he ordered the driver to take him to the Czech Republic Police headquarters. He had an appointment with Investigator Dal Damek.

Giovanni knew that the Czech police force was notoriously corrupt, and he guessed Beppe had asked him to conduct a separate investigation for this very reason. It wasn’t a secret that bribes and unofficial, personally pocketed fines were common in Prague. Just a few years back, as Giovanni walked down the street, he’d been issued a ticket by an officer for an infraction he still didn’t fully understand. No court summons or invitation to explain himself came attached to this citation. He’d paid the designated fine right there on the spot and watched the officer stuff it in his pocket.

Father Borelli hadn’t shared with Father Ruffino his plan to visit the Czech investigator, but he felt this was the best place to start. He knew enough to tread carefully.

Giovanni replayed over and over again the details of what Beppe had told him, the words the old nun had shared before she died. But Giovanni wondered if they had any meaning. The woman obviously suffered from dementia, if not full-blown Alzheimer’s. She exhibited all the symptoms—night wanderings, confusion, loss of short-term memory, perhaps even imaginary voices. Was the nun pointing to the killer with her words or was this all a grand delusion?

Giovanni had an uneasy feeling, a suspicion that there was more to what had happened at the church that morning than his fellow priest had shared. It had been Good Friday. This thought turned with near audible agitation in Giovanni’s mind, like a rock tumbling in a clothes dryer, adding to his suspicion that Beppe had not been completely honest. Father Ruffino claimed he came early each morning, before his server, to open the church. But Good Friday was the one day in the liturgical calendar in which Mass was
not
offered. Servers would not have been scheduled that morning. Why had the priest come to the church early that morning?

This perplexed and disturbed Giovanni. He did not want to push his friend or suggest he doubted him. Not right away. Eventually he’d have to confront Beppe about this discrepancy. He would do this later, after he talked to the police investigator.

•   •   •

Investigator Damek, wearing an open-collar shirt, which Borelli immediately decided could benefit from a good once-over with a hot iron, invited the priest into his office and offered him coffee. Feeling bloated from his enormous lunch, Father Borelli declined. He’d eaten nearly an entire loaf of bread himself, that dainty Ms. Pierson barely touching it. And she wasn’t much of a drinker. He’d finished the bottle of wine with little help. He’d had a cup of coffee with dessert, a sugary concoction that was much too rich. His stomach turned at the thought of anything more.

“Father Ruffino has asked for my assistance in checking on the progress of the investigation concerning Sister Claire’s death,” Father Borelli told the investigator. A lie. Beppe had not asked him to come and would not be happy to know that he had. “It has disturbed him terribly and I want to do what I can to help.”

“You’ve come from Italy?” the investigator asked.

“Father Ruffino and I have been friends for many years.” Giovanni explained how they had grown up together, and maintained their close friendship through the years, though he had been assigned various duties in Rome, while his friend had joined the Carmelites, working in Italy, at an African mission, then in Prague.

Investigator Damek listened affably, nodding as the priest carried on longer than was probably necessary to establish his credibility as a true confidant of the prior of Our Lady Victorious.

“I spoke with Father Ruffino just moments ago,” Investigator Damek said, “to let him know the autopsy report should be available sometime this afternoon or tomorrow morning. I thought perhaps he had called you to let you know.”

Borelli’s heart jumped. If the investigator had called Father Ruffino, had he mentioned Father Borelli setting up this appointment?

“I was lunching with a friend,” Borelli explained. “I’m afraid I’m rather old-fashioned in that I do not carry a mobile phone. He had no way of contacting me.”

“I see,” the investigator said slowly, thoughtfully. He turned, opened an overstuffed glass-fronted file cabinet, one of many along a faded green wall, and pulled out a file. Boxes were stacked about the room as if someone had just moved in or was preparing to move out.

“As soon as the report comes in,” Damek said, “we should be able to release the body. At the present time there is no reason to believe there was any criminal wrongdoing.”

“Nothing suspicious discovered in the church?” Father Borelli asked, trying to calm his voice, attempting to get a closer look at the file. Upside down, he could not read the report, other than the date and time. Early the morning of Good Friday, just as Beppe had told him. He could see the file contained several pages.

“Nothing missing, no damage,” Investigator Damek replied. “I myself, along with Father Ruffino, did a thorough search of the building.” His fingers combed quickly through his thick brown hair, which Borelli observed could use a trim. “As I told Father Ruffino when I came to the church, I suspected Sister Claire died of natural causes.”

Beppe had said nothing of this, Giovanni was sure. He had most definitely led Giovanni to believe the nun had been murdered. Yet, was the investigator now telling Father Borelli that he suspected from the beginning there was no murder?

Investigator Damek unceremoniously unbuttoned one cuff, then the other, and pushed his sleeves up to reveal muscular arms, which he rested casually on his desk. “It is my understanding that the prioress would like the funeral services and burial to take place Saturday.” He glanced at a calendar on his desk. “This request shouldn’t present a problem.” He closed the folder. The finality of this action seemed to say,
Case closed
. “May I help you with anything else?”

Giovanni wondered if Beppe had shared with the police
anything
about Sister Claire’s speaking to him. She was dead by the time the investigator arrived at the church.

“I’ll be staying several days. I’d originally scheduled this visit to the city as a holiday, but this . . . unfortunate loss of Sister Claire . . . has come up unexpectedly. I just want to be here to assist Father in any way that I can.”

“Everything has been taken care of,” the investigator said as he rose and reached across the desk for Father Borelli’s hand. He towered at least four inches over the priest. “I’ll make sure the body is released. This should give Father some peace. As well as the nuns.” He walked around the desk to escort his visitor out.

Giovanni wasn’t sure now if the inspector was lying to him, if Beppe had lied to him, or . . . “I’d hoped to reconnect with a friend during my stay,” he said as they approached the door, “but I’m having some difficulty locating him. Do you know a person named Pavel Novák?”

“Pavel,” Investigator Damek said slowly, thoughtfully. “Novák. Both common Czech names.” He shook his head. He glanced back at the file on his desk. “Do you have other concerns about Sister Claire’s death?”

Giovanni had a very clear feeling now that Beppe had not shared the name Pavel Novák with the investigator. A name Sister Claire had spoken just before she died. But why had Beppe withheld this information? Was it because he did not trust the police? It almost seemed as if Father Ruffino was playing the two men, one against the other. Sharing and withholding information as he saw fit.

“Do you have reason to believe,” the police investigator asked cautiously, “that it was anything other than an accident?”

“I’m confident you did a thorough job,” Father Borelli replied, wondering why the man referred to it as an accident when he had just said that he told Father Ruffino he believed the nun had died of natural causes.

The investigator opened the door.

“I have some free time in the city,” the priest added, turning back to Investigator Damek. “As I said, my original reason for this visit, a little holiday, though this unfortunate turn of events, Sister Claire’s passing . . . certainly sad news.”

“It’s kind of you to avail yourself to your friend. Perhaps you will still have time to enjoy your holiday. You weren’t personally acquainted with Sister Claire?”

“I never met her,” Father Borelli said. “I understand she had been a member of the order for many years.”

“Very elderly.” The investigator nodded and stared down at the floor. A line of small ants moved across the worn linoleum. Investigator Damek squished one, then another, with a casual rotation of his foot. “No reason not to enjoy a little holiday.” His eyes rose, as did Borelli’s. For a moment they locked. “Please, let Father Ruffino know that arrangements will be made to release Sister Claire’s body.”

“Thank you.”

“Yes, surely not a problem.”

“Is there anything you would personally recommend in the city?” Father Borelli asked, lingering just inside the doorway, the bulk of his body preventing the investigator from closing the door without giving the priest a shove. “For a visitor on holiday?”

“The usual,” the investigator replied, showing little interest, as if he had other business to attend to. “The castle, the museums, and churches.”

“I’ve heard the performance at the Laterna Magika is quite good.”

Investigator Damek smiled. “We, my wife and I, have never been, but, yes, I’ve heard that it’s a wonderful performance. Living here in Prague . . .” He laughed. “We tend not to take advantage of what the city has to offer. You know how it is.”

“Yes, yes,” the priest replied lightheartedly. “I’ve lived in Rome for over thirty years, and, you know, I’ve never toured the Colosseum.”

“We do have to make time for such things in our lives, now don’t we.” The investigator glanced back at the file on his desk again as if about to say,
Before we run out of time
.

BOOK: Lost and Found in Prague
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