Pious Deception (14 page)

“No.”

Patsy laughed. “They all say there’s no one else. Then one night you’re at your local having a beer and there he is with some blonde. And you don’t need a crystal ball to tell you that they haven’t just met, right?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh, a cult, huh? I had a friend whose old man got hooked up with a cult. He went off to the swami’s and they didn’t let him out for months, and then the guy was so wiped out from getting up at four every morning that he couldn’t get it up anyway. Even if he’d had the urge, and he didn’t. He was too spiritual.” Patsy laughed. “Was what happened to your boyfriend like that?”

Beth laughed. “Yeah, a cult. Just like that except with his cult they go off and don’t come back ever. And no women allowed.”

Beth pulled the van into the right-hand lane. They passed a motel with a neon saguaro cactus, a boarded-up store, an abandoned car wash.

“Come on,” Patsy said, “you can tell me about it. You listened to my problems. You took me in.” She paused. “But maybe you don’t think my listening is worth anything. I mean, I don’t have any degree in social work from a college like you do.”

Beth shrugged. “It’s the old story. The guy was using me. It took me a long time to realize it, but the important thing is I did realize it, and the whole thing was over. And I’m a lot more aware with the guy I’m seeing now.”

“What’s this guy like?” Patsy cringed as she spoke. She hated boyfriend talk. It was almost as bad as listening to women carrying on about their kids. God, to have anybody think
she
was interested in this kind of stuff … But she wasn’t going to get any more on the priest, that was for sure. She’d better at least find out about the new boyfriend.

Beth veered back into the left-hand lane. “The drive is going to take another hour. You might want to catch a nap.”

From the back seat came the gummy smell of small children. One of the mothers was humming softly. Patsy gritted her teeth. She hated the smell, the sound, the van, everything about this assignment. But dammit, she was not going to come up empty on this trip. Even if she had to look like the biggest wimp in Maricopa County. She said, “Your boyfriend, what does he look like? I mean will he be up there at the place we’re going?”

“I doubt it. He comes sometimes, but he’s not going to bother you. Don’t worry about that.”

“But if I see a man up there, how will I know it’s him and not someone else?”

Beth nodded. “Look, you don’t need to worry. He’s a nice guy. Besides, no one else knows where the house is. That’s why I’m so fussy about keeping it a secret.”

“But how will I know it’s him?” Suddenly, the note of desperation wasn’t phony.

“He’s about six foot, dark hair, no beard or mustache. He’d be wearing cowboy boots, jeans, work shirt.”

“That could be anyone.” Patsy swallowed as loudly as she could. “I know you’re trying to protect us, but my husband would kill me if he found me. And some of these other guys must be just as bad. If one of them followed us and broke in, how would we protect the kids?”

“Patsy, everyone’s in the same boat you are—”

Patsy cringed.

“Trust me. The phone’s locked. No one can call out. I’ve got protection. The place is on a hilltop; we can see for a mile in any direction.”

“But—”

Beth caught her arm. After a quick glance at the women in the back she shook her head and said in a low voice, “The one man who used to be a problem … No one’s going to be a problem.”

So someone had bothered Beth, but it wasn’t the dead priest. A dead man, a past threat Beth could have explained. Patsy sighed in relief, genuine relief. There would be a gun there. There would be a phone, with a lock that she could handle. And she would have something to report.

T
HE IDEA OF GOING
back to her own motel and showering had crossed Kiernan’s mind, but she shoved it on out. Philip Vanderhooven’s motel in Phoenix was on her way, and for what she had to say to him, rumpled and sweaty was good enough.

She left the Jeep in a white zone at the curb and ran—fueled entirely by anger—along the walk to room 107. Steam rose off the macadam in the parking lot. Did this city never cool off, she wondered as she knocked on Vanderhooven’s door.

No answer.

She knocked again, although she knew the effort was futile.

Furious, she checked the cocktail lounge and the restaurant, mirror-image rooms divided by a long stair-step waterfall. Each held plenty of potted palms, plenty of men in bolo ties and seersucker Bermuda shorts and women in white slacks or sundresses, but no Vanderhoovens. And they had left no word at the desk.

Kiernan walked slowly back, keeping to the covered walkway. The Jeep was sitting in the sun; no need to question how hot it would be inside. It was hard to say which was getting to her most strongly: the heat, the headache, or the fact that she had won barely one round in this game. She turned and banged hard on the Vanderhooven’s door.

To her surprise, she heard footsteps behind it, shuffling footsteps. Then it opened.

Grace Vanderhooven looked awful. It was obvious she had been sleeping. Her eyes were still half-closed; streaks of mascara made thin arcs down her cheeks.

“Kiernan O’Shaughnessy,” Kiernan said. “The detective from last night?”

“Oh, um, yes.” She took a step back.

Gratefully, Kiernan stepped into the cool. “Is your husband around?”

She looked slowly around the room. “I don’t think so.”

Kiernan shut the door. “Would he have left a note telling you where he was or when he’d be back?”

“A note? No.”

“Have you looked?”

She shook her head stiffly. “No need. Philip wouldn’t do that. He knows I’ll wait.” She gazed around the room more slowly, mechanically, as she had surveyed her son’s room the previous night. Vaguely Kiernan wondered what had caused this habitual reaction in moments of stress. It was as if Grace were searching the blue brocade sofa, the mauve armchairs, the wet bar, the arrangements of irises and day lilies, for some sign of why she herself was there.

“Let’s sit down.” Kiernan took her arm, led her to the couch and sat next to her. She started to remove her hand, but Grace grabbed it with fingers so cold that Kiernan started. Grace’s hand shook, and Kiernan expected to see tears welling in her eyes, but her expression hadn’t changed. And Kiernan realized that the welling sorrow was her own—sorrow for this woman and the grief she hadn’t yet faced. She left her hand in Grace’s, thankful that, despite her lack of bedside manner, she could convey some comfort this way.

Grace’s eyes moved slowly downward, as if the effort of holding her head up had become too great. Her pale blue silk robe reinforced the pallor of her skin. Whatever sedative she had taken, it was too much. And she was in no shape to be left alone.

Kiernan sighed, eyeing the wet bar across the room. She could use a scotch. It was the one thing that might improve this wretched evening, the one thing she couldn’t have, not next to a woman who had swallowed who-knew-how-many downers.

But shielded by her half-drugged state, Grace Vanderhooven might find it easier to answer some questions now than she otherwise would. Starting with the least threatening issues, Kiernan said, “Mrs. Vanderhooven, do you remember five leather-bound books your son had in his bookcase?”

“Books?”

“Big leather books. The titles were in Latin.”

“In the bookcase?”

“Right. The first four books were real. But the fifth book, Mrs. Vanderhooven, was hollowed out. It was a place to hide things.”

Grace nodded. She had turned her head to face Kiernan, but there was no change in her eyes.

“Mrs. Vanderhooven, had you seen those books before last night? Were they family heirlooms?”

Slowly she shook her head.

“Had your son mentioned them to you?”

“No. There were a lot of things Austin didn’t talk about. Very … private, that’s the word he used, private. Always kept secrets, even as a little boy. I told him, ‘Austin,’ I said, ‘it’s like you think if you open your mouth, I’m going to stick my hand down your throat and yank out your soul.’ ”

“What did he say to that?”

Grace laughed a weak laugh. “Nothing. He was very
private
.”

“Private with everyone, or just you?”

“Not with
her
.” Her fingers tightened on Kiernan’s hand.

“Her? His girlfriend?”

“Her.”

“What about his other friends?”

Grace stared blankly.

“Did Austin tell his secrets to his other friends?”

“His friends!”

“Did he mention a friend here named Elias Necri? Dr. Necri?”

Grace snorted, issuing a sound that would have appalled the public Mrs. Vanderhooven. “Him! Austin talked about him. Elias, the doctor. Austin envied this Elias his freedom, his vacation trips, the parties, the women. He never said so—secretive!—but a mother knows. Austin missed that type of thing, but of course he’d never have admitted it.” She swallowed but it was too late to dam up the emotion. A tear wavered at the corner of her eye. “Poor Austin. He died before he had a chance to know what he wanted. How could he die? How could he?”

Kiernan still held Grace’s cold hand in her own. “Mrs. Vanderhooven,” she said when Grace’s tears had subsided, “is it possible that Austin might—”

The door banged open. Philip Vanderhooven strode in, pushing back a clump of damp blond hair. His eyelids were puffy, his eyes red and watery. The clenching of his jaw created thick pouches at the corners of his mouth. He was halfway across the room before he reacted to the women on the sofa. “Grace, do you realize what you look …” His voice softened. “If you’re going to stay up, why don’t you put some clothes on?”

“You want to talk to her, don’t you?” she said, pulling her hand free of Kiernan’s.

“Yes.” Keeping his gaze on his wife, he waited. But Grace Vanderhooven made no move. Finally, Philip shrugged and said, “So, Miss O’Shaughnessy, what have you found out?”

“That Joe Zekk called you in Maui.”

Vanderhooven’s eyes widened. “Zekk? Austin’s friend from the seminary? Why would he call me?”

“You tell me.”

“He didn’t.”

“Fine!” she snapped.

“Miss O’Shaughnessy—”

Kiernan stood up. “I don’t know what your game is here, but the biggest impediment to this investigation is you. You barge ahead and annoy Beth Landau so much that by the time I’m ready to interview her she’s primed to snap at the simplest question.”

“You’re a professional, I’m sure you—”

“This isn’t a proficiency test! You didn’t recommend me to Bishop Dowd to see how many hurdles I could jump. Then there’s the sheriff. As of noon there was no sign the sheriff had been notified.”

“Bishop Dowd was handling that. He said, Miss O’Shaughnessy, that he would contact his parishioner at the sheriff’s office this afternoon. I’m sure he did.”

“Well, you have more faith than I do. Or maybe more contact with Dowd. I haven’t been able to reach him all day. He was to give me some important photographs this morning.”

“I’m sure,” he began in the same tone he had used with his wife, “that the bishop—”

“Look, I agreed to try to find the facts of your son’s death before Monday. I can’t do that if I have to plow through the roadblocks you people are throwing up. Either you want your son’s death investigated or you don’t.” She picked up her purse and slung the strap over her shoulder.

Vanderhooven spoke quietly. “What exactly have you discovered, Miss O’Shaughnessy?”

“Are you prepared to cooperate—”

“You have a contract.”

“A contract with Bishop Dowd.”

He turned and walked quickly to the bar but made no move to pour a drink. His cheeks were flushed—with anger? Sorrow? Both? Turning he said, “The stress is getting to us all. I had no intention of undercutting your investigation. It’s not my policy to interfere with the person I recommend. Now let’s decide exactly what we’re talking about here.”

Kiernan glanced down at Grace Vanderhooven. Her expression revealed nothing other than her medicated state. The desperate sadness of a few minutes ago had faded. Kiernan walked over to the bar and said, “There are the things I need to know if I’m to continue the investigation. First, the sheriff. If I don’t have proof he was notified today, that’s it.”

Vanderhooven nodded.

“Second, Zekk. Why was he calling you? I want to know all about this man, and what his relationship with your son was.”

Now Philip did make a drink, picking out a handful of ice cubes, unscrewing the bottle, and pouring the pale liquid well up the glass. Making no move to offer her a drink, he took a long swallow. “Miss O’Shaughnessy, I sympathize with your complaints. I will speak to the bishop. He will get in touch with you.” His tone left no question. “As to Joe Zekk, he did call me there. He said he was concerned about Austin, that Austin had become increasingly withdrawn.”

“Withdrawn? Specifically, what did Zekk say?” she asked, thinking of Vanderhooven’s death, the kind a depressed person might come to.

Philip shook his head. “I don’t know more. I wasn’t about to pay some guy for his opinion about my son’s behavior. Particularly, Joe Zekk.”

“So you know Zekk.”

Vanderhooven took another quick swallow of his drink. The ice cubes clacked back in a half-empty glass. “I only met the boy once, shortly after Austin entered the seminary. Grace and I were in New York. We took them both to dinner.” Fingering the lip of his glass, he said, “Zekk was a complainer, a kid out to cut corners, the type of boy who giggles at smutty words. Hardly seminary material.”

“Why would Austin keep in touch with someone like him?”

Vanderhooven shook his head.

“When Zekk called you he must have had an angle, some theory about why Austin was depressed, perhaps?”

“I didn’t let him get that far. As soon as he mentioned spying I cut him off.”

Kiernan watched as Philip took a long swallow of his drink. Hiding behind that glass, she thought. And what was he concealing about the Zekk exchange? Had he agreed to pay Zekk? Had he merely considered the offer briefly, but nonetheless felt compromised? Or had Zekk hit on suspicions he held himself but he couldn’t face? “Mr. Vanderhooven, Zekk was making you a business proposition. What did he offer to find out?”