Sweet Poison (24 page)

“He told a man in my congregation that he thought all fags should be forcibly castrated with rusted barbed wire. I’m not sure the man disagreed.”

“You’ve been through a lot. I admire your courage.”

His eyes remained on her with that same unsettling stillness she’d first noted in the church.

“You know I’m gay, too,” she said.

“Yes, I’d heard that.”

“I’m not religious—”

“Is this … some kind of game with you?”

“A game?”

The man in the distance began waving at him again. “The lunch reception starts in fifteen minutes,” he called.

Cornish checked his watch. “I really have to go.”

“It was good to meet you.”

As he walked away, he muttered, “It’s been surreal.”

She had no idea what he was talking about.

Looking around, she saw that everyone was leaving, getting in cars and driving off—with the exception of two grave diggers who were standing about a hundred feet away, up on a hill, leaning on their shovels. They couldn’t start the real burial process until everyone had left.

Turning back to the grave, Jane noticed a man in a dark blue raincoat sitting with his back against the coffin, sipping from a silver flask. It was Gabriel Keen. She remembered that he’d been unsteady on his feet when he’d come into the church. She wondered how much he’d had to drink.

Stepping up to the grave, she put her hand on the coffin, trying to decide what tack to take with him. This might be her only opportunity to talk to him one-on-one. Unlike a cop, she couldn’t just demand that he answer her questions.

“You must have loved her a lot,” she said, keeping her hand on the coffin, not looking at him directly.

He eyed her. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

“I don’t think so.”

He nodded, took a another hit off his flask. “Charity meant everything to me.”

Jane waited a moment. She didn’t want to make this seem like an interrogation. “Were you friends?”

“Engaged.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“She broke it off,” he said, covering his eyes with his hand. He was on the verge of tears but seemed to want to talk. Strangers brought that out in people sometimes, especially if the one doing the talking
had been drinking too much. “And then … then I made every stupid move in the book.”

Stepping over to a tree, Jane crouched down, rested her arms on her knees. “It’s easy to do.”

“Boy, you’re telling me.” He stared at the flask. “I lost it. I mean, when she first broke it off, I thought, give her some time. She’ll come around. But when she didn’t, I started calling. Sometimes late at night. But she wouldn’t talk to me. She said I scared her.”

“Did you do something to frighten her?”

He ground the heel of his hand into his forehead. “I spray-painted a word on her car.” He looked up, said, “cunt.” Nobody was around now but the grave workers. Not that in his current state he would have cared. “She acted like one. Taking that fag’s word over mine.”

“Cornish?”

“Yeah, Cornish. And then, last Tuesday, I see her with this new guy. He said he was a cop. Gave me his name, so, hell, I checked him out. Charity wanted to be with a man she could trust. She told me that. Someone she felt safe around. So she hooks up with a convicted rapist. Boy, I nearly laughed myself silly when I found out who he really was.”

“Did you want to get even?”

“Yeah. With both of them.” He tipped the flask back and finished what was left inside. He wasn’t slurring, but he wasn’t far from it. Lifting a small, orange plastic bottle out of the pocket of his suit coat, he unscrewed the cap and popped a couple of pills.

“What’s that?” asked Jane.

“Vicodin.”

“Pain pills?”

“Yeah. I’m in pain. The antidepressants don’t work. Nothing works.”

“You shouldn’t mix those with liquor.” He glanced over at her. “You my doctor?”

She wasn’t sure why she cared. There was no reason she should, other than human connection. “Don’t take any more, okay.”

“What’s it to you? Hell, my life is so screwed.”

“I know something about pain.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He straightened up, squared his shoulders. “Bet you never killed your brother.”

The admission caught her off guard.

Keen pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, choked back a sob. “God, I’m a useless piece of shit.” He didn’t move for a few seconds. Suddenly, he threw back his head. “I was sixteen,” he said loudly, as if talking to an audience. “My brother was twenty. We were sailing off Bayfield, up on the South Shore. We were drinking, you know? My dad made us promise never to drink on the boat, but that day, it just seemed … Andy brought this bottle of rum.”

He got up, stumbled around behind the casket. “It was a windy day. I didn’t see the boom move until it hit Andy square in the back and sent him over the side. I tossed him a life preserver, but we were moving too fast. He never got to it. I dropped the sail, tried to start the outboard so I could turn around, get back to him fast, but I flooded it.” He tossed his arms in the air. “I flooded it, okay! By the time I got it started, I couldn’t find him. He was lost. We never even found the body. I killed him, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Might as well have put a bullet in his chest.”

“It was an accident,” said Jane.

“No.” He shook his head. Looked down. Kept shaking it. “No. Because of me, my family didn’t even have a body to bury.” He pointed, drawing his arm across the gravestones. “One of those should have
my
name on it.”

Jane stood, watched him lean over the coffin, rest his arms on the polished wood.

“Charity always said I had a sad life. In and out of hospitals. Poor Gabriel. He’s depressed. Poor Gabriel. He can’t get out of bed in the morning. Can’t sleep. Drinks too much. Feels way too sorry for himself. Poor, foolish, sad, pathetic Gabriel.”

Keen was a horrible, predatory man with a traumatic past. What
was cause, what was effect? Jane wasn’t sure she cared. Certainly not after what he’d done. And yet, some part of her did feel sorry for him. She looked down when she felt something hit her chest and drop to the ground. It was the bottle of Vicodin.

“For
your
pain,” he said, pushing away from the coffin and weaving off into the trees.

L
uke waited in the church library for Christopher to say his good-byes to stragglers who were the last to leave the funeral luncheon in the church basement. Christopher had started the day in good spirits, but Luke could tell that as the day wore on, he was working harder and harder to do his pastoral duty and comfort the bereaved. Luke was counting the minutes until he could get Christopher alone so they could talk about the day, about Keen’s sudden, unexpected appearance, as well as Christopher’s brief conversation with Jane Lawless.

The church library was closed on Mondays, which made it a perfect place for Luke to wait while everyone else was downstairs eating. He cooled his heels, reading
Time
magazine until Christopher came through the door shortly after three. He was still wearing his clerical robes.

Leaning on his cane, he chose a chair directly across from Luke and sat down with a grimace.

“How bad does your leg hurt?”

“Bad enough. Boy, I’m glad that’s over,” he said, resting his head on the back of the chair and looking up at the coffered ceiling.

“Did you get many comments about coming out last April?”

“A few. Most of them positive. Doesn’t change anything.”

“Maybe one day it will.”

What concerned Luke most was the effect Gabriel Keen’s appearance had had on Christopher’s mood. “Were you surprised that Keen showed up?”

“Oh, Lord,” he said, his hands gripping the handle of his cane. “That really twisted me around. It never occurred to me that he’d have the guts to come.”

“He was drunk.”

“Yes, I know. At one point, he walked past me and whispered that I should watch my back. That the sky was about to fall.”

Luke’s body tensed. “What did he mean?”

“No idea. But I’m sure I’m about to find out.”

“The guy’s like a mad dog. Someone should put him down.”

Christopher’s gaze came to rest on a painting of Jesus across the room. “He’ll have to answer for his acts one day. We all will.”

“What did Jane Lawless have to say to you?”

Christopher gave a sharp laugh. “She’s something else.”

“Tell me about it.”

“She made it sound like she knew nothing about what Keen did to me until today.”

“You’re kidding.”

“And get this. She’s working with some private investigator, looking into Charity’s murder. I told her Keen was responsible. She says she’s trying to prove that Corey Hodge is innocent, but I don’t believe a word she says. The only thing that woman cares about is her father’s campaign. She’s not the least bit interested in what’s moral or right.”

Both men turned at the sound of a knock on the door. The gray-haired woman who worked the office poked her head inside. “I thought I saw you come in here, Reverend.” She looked uncomfortable. “There’s a policeman outside who wants to talk to you. I wasn’t sure if I should bother you, but—”

“It’s fine,” said Christopher. He pulled himself to his feet. “Did he say what he wants?”

“No, Reverend. Just that he needs to speak with you today if possible.”

Glancing at Luke, Christopher said, “Please, Carla, tell him to come in.”

A few moments later, a barrel-chested, sandy-haired man in a dark gray suit entered the room. When he saw Luke, he frowned. “I’m Sergeant Tom Emerson, Minneapolis PD,” he said, standing just a few feet inside the door, his chilly eyes locked on Christopher. “I’m a homicide investigator.” He flipped them his badge. “I was hoping to talk to you, Reverend Cornish. Alone.”

“I’d be happy to speak with you,” said Christopher, “but I’d prefer that my partner stay.”

“It’s your call. Do you mind?” He nodded to the chair next to Luke.

“Make yourself comfortable,” said Christopher.

Luke could see the deep apprehension in Christopher’s face. Realizing that the cop was looking at him, he introduced himself but didn’t go beyond his name.

Opening a small notebook and removing a pen from his shirt pocket, Emerson shifted his gaze back to Christopher. “I understand that you and Charity Miller were close friends.”

“We were,” said Christopher, sitting back down, holding tight to his cane.

“You talked to her a lot?”

“Yes, we talked.”

“In person?”

“She came to our condo fairly often, and we also talked on the phone.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Mainly the problems she was having with Gabriel Keen, her exfiancé.”

Emerson studied Christopher a moment. “I understand that you think Keen was the one who attacked you some months ago.”

“I know he was. Before he beat me senseless with a baseball bat, I saw him.”

“You were the only witness.”

“That’s right. But the police found the bat in the back of his bedroom closet. It had been cleaned, but there were small bits of my blood and tissue still embedded in it. Unfortunately, the search was thrown out so Keen was never indicted.”

Emerson scratched his head, leaned back in his chair. “I talked to Mr. Keen yesterday. He denies he had anything to do with the beating.”

“He’s lying.”

“I tend to agree, except here’s the thing. He said that you’d made sexual advances toward him on more than one occasion.”

All expression died on Christopher’s face. “Are you serious?”

“He also claimed there were other young men, minors, you’d propositioned, but that none would come forward because either they didn’t want to get involved in a police investigation, or they had sex with you and were too ashamed to admit it.”

“I’ve never done anything like that.
Never.”

“He went on to say that you were doing everything in your power to destroy his relationship with Charity Miller.”

Luke could tell Christopher was drowning. “Keen was doing a pretty good job of that himself.”

Emerson switched his gaze. “You were a friend of Ms. Miller, too?”

“Sure. We were both good friends of hers. Keen threatened her. He sent her dog shit in the mail disguised as a birthday present. He punctured her tires. He hounded her after she broke off their engagement until she was so frightened that she got a restraining order.”

“Yes, he mentioned some of that. He said he regretted his actions, but that he was deeply frustrated because Charity believed everything Reverend Cornish told her. He said he tried to get her to listen to his side of the story, how the reverend would get him alone, shove his hand between his legs—”

Christopher pushed to his feet. “This is insane.”

“He said that you had a ‘thing’ for him, Reverend Cornish. That if you couldn’t have him, you didn’t want anyone else to have him.”

“It’s … inconceivable.”

Luke felt the accusations hit his body like darts. He had no doubt at all that Keen was lying. But there was no reason the cop would take Christopher’s word over Keen’s.

Emerson eyed Christopher like a bird eyeing a worm. “How many times a week would you say you talked to Charity?”