MASS MURDER (44 page)

“Do you know what those changes were?”

“He wasn’t allowed to talk about them, but I remember he was asked to make some kind of internal adjustments that threw everything off.
He had to practically start over
,
and yet the deadline for the drawings wasn’t changed.
Neither was the fee.
We needed
the money and so he completed the work.”

“But you don’t know what those adjustments were?”

“I’m afraid not.
He was good to his word and didn’t share anything with us.”
She punctuated the reply with a deep, throaty cough, which triggered a series of smaller coughs.
Her daughter stepped in to pull up an afghan.

“
I’m afraid you’ll have to go,” she said.

“No!” the old woman almost choked out the word.
“Please, don’t leave.
I want to help.”
She had trouble getting the words out, but her face was set with determination.

“Would you know who did the construction work during the time your husband was the architect?”
He asked the questions now with a growing sense of guilt.

“Not the name of the company,” she almost whispered, her head
dangling to the side
weakly.
“But I do know they were from out of town.
Joseph commented on it a number of times.
He joked once that even the Catholic Church knew how to be deceptive.”
She started to cough again, but put up a hand telling him to wait a moment.
When her lungs relaxed, she whispered, “Please, go on.”

Giorgio admired her.
She reminded him of his Grandmother who had fought right up to the very end, finally succumbing to the cancer that destroyed her liver.

“You wouldn’t happen to have copies of the original drawings would you?”
He asked this as much to the elder woman as to the daughter.

“No,” the daughter replied.
“We got rid of everything when my father passed away.
I’m sorry.”

Giorgio was disappointed. “Well, thank you Mrs. Applebaum.
I appreciate your time.”

She smiled warmly.
“Not at all, detective.
I’m happy to help.”
She was wheezing now and her voice faltered.
“Joseph was very proud of the work he did up there.
I was surprised he ever worked for them again.”

Giorgio stopped at the door.
“Again?
You mean he did additional work at the monastery?”

“Yes,
it was
around the time of the war,” she paused trying to remember.
Her eyes fluttered briefly before she continued.
“A Father Wingate asked him to do the work.”

“Do you know what he was asked to do?”

“He was asked to separate the monk’s quarters from the boy’s quarters, but something about it made him very angry again.
He said they’re all alike.
He was disgusted enough to say he’d never work there again.
In fact, he’d never work for the Catholic Church
, period
.”

Giorgio turned an inquisitive eye to the daughter.

“He said the monks were no better than
the
sinners
who confessed to them,
and that he was no engineer.”

“Interesting,” Giorgio mused.
“Thank you both very much”

He left the room and Elvira Applebaum walked him to the door.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help.”

“You’ve helped quite a bit.”
He pulled out his card and handed it to her.
“Please, call me if you think of anything else.”

She put up a hand to make him pause and faded back into the house, returning with her own business card.
It read,
“
Elvira Applebaum, Executive Dir
ector, The Childcare Consortium”.

“I have a healthcare worker who stays with my mom during the day, but I can be reached at work.”

“Thanks.
I appreciate that.”

He left her at the door and strolled down the cement walkway thinking about what might have been contained in those original plans.
He knew there were secret tunnels.
If there was a secret passage between the two halves of the building, it could have provided a means for murder.
But only a thorough search of the premises would answer the question
,
and it might take weeks
. A
nd he had a feeling he didn’t have that much time.

It was almost seven o’clock by the time Giorgio arrived home.
The children bombarded him at the doorway, herding Grosvner off to the living room.
He poked his head into the kitchen and spied a plate set off to one side covered with aluminum foil.
The
tangy aroma of fried chicken was too great
,
and he pulled the plate off the counter and sat at the table before seeking out his wife. The mashed potatoes
were cold,
so he shoved them into the microwave
and was standing at the counter
ripping the flesh off the chicken bone when Angie appear
ed at the arched doorway.

“You find food like most huntin
g dogs find game,” she sneered.

He turned to her with a greasy smile.
She passed behind him and went to the refrigerator to pour him a glass of milk.
He retrieved his potatoes, quickly smothering them in rich butter.
She placed the glass of milk on the table and started to leave without another word.

“Angie, we should talk
,” he said, swallowing quickly.

She turned with a look of restrained patience.
“We don’t talk, Joe.
I talk.
You whine.
You complain.
You lecture.
But you don’t talk.”

He stood motionless, plate in one hand, drumstick in the other.
Slowly, he set them both on the table
, wiped his hands
and sat down.

“C’mon, Angie.
I can’t stand being mad at each other.
I’m sorry.”

She continued to stand in the doorway, arms folded across her chest.
He lowered his eyes kno
wing it made him look pathetic.

“Did you really think the dog would make things okay?” she asked with only slightly more warmth.
“He’s just one more slob for me to clean up after.”

He looked up at her while a sly smile crept across his face.
“Yeah, but if you put dish towels on those ears of his, he could sweep the floor.”

In spite of her anger
,
she smiled and he felt the ice begin to break.
She came to the table and sat across from him.
There was a long pause before she spoke.

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you, Joe.
Really, I didn’t.”

He reached out a hand and clasped her fingers.
“And I didn’t mean to yell.
It just scares me, Angie.
We don’t save enough now.
How are we going to feed another mouth, save for college, and plan for our own retirement?”

She lifted those soft brown eyes and placed her other hand over his, turning his heart to mush. “We’ll manage, Joe.
We always do.
God wants us to have this child.”

Her faith was so complete, so unwavering.
He’d never been able to match her in that department
.
As a young boy, he’d wondered if somehow God had passed him over
−
sprinkled the fairy dust on everyone but him.

Looking at Angie now, he knew there was no argument to win here.
They would have this child
,
and it would warm his heart as it had twice bef
ore.
A cold nose pushed up against his elbow
,
and Grosvner laid his long snout across Giorgio’s lap.

“Do you want me to take him back?” he asked without much conviction.

She stood and walked around to his side of the table.
Grosvner looked up with his droopy, pathetic eyes.
She smiled.

“I think God meant for us to have this dog, too.
I’m not sure why,” she said, reaching out a hand to pull at one ear, “but there’s a reason.”

She bent down to kiss her husband when they both wrinkled their noses and p
ulled away, looking at the dog.

Giorgio exclaimed.
“Christ, what did you feed him?”

“Phew, he’s worse than you!” Angie backed away, waving her hand in front of her fac
e. “Maybe he has to go outside.”

She called the kids and ordered them to take him outside.
They did so willingly
,
and Angie left the room laughing while Giorgio moved to the counter to finish his dinner
.

That night, the couple sat together watching TV, and later, in bed, Giorgio played his favorite role
−
that of ardent lover.
Although there would be no curtain call or applause, there was at least one repeat perf
orman
ce
,
making him feel perfectly cast for the part.

Chapter Thirty
-One

When Giorgio arrived at the station the next day, he couldn’t hide th
e smile.
Even Grosvner seemed to walk with an extra spring to his step.
Giorgio stopped to get coffee at the vending machine and then sauntered the rest of the way down the hallway humming.
Swan looked up and seemed to as
sess the situation immediately.

“Angie
change her mind about the dog?”

The sly smile told Giorgio to be careful.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“It just took some time.”

“And a little nookie?
Glad to see yo
u’ve still got it in you, Joe.”

“So, what do we know about Father O’Leary?”

Swan’s smile hung loosely on his face another few seconds and then he let it fade
.

“The coroner’s report came in early this morning.
O’Leary suffered a blow to the left frontal lobe and one to the crown, but that’s not what killed him.
He
was
drowned.
There was quite a bit of pond water found in his lungs.
One tooth was cracked and his lip was split.
It appears someone held his head under water until he stopped breathing sometime between eleven
o’clock last
night and four a.m.”