Coldwater Revenge, James Ross [books for 9th graders txt] 📗

I didn’t see him. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a regular. I understand Dr. Hassad’s mix of house guests is somewhat eclectic. As for the letter…, I haven’t seen it. But we’re talking about someone found trussed in a sleeping bag fished from the bottom of Coldwater Lake… not some cherub-cheeked seminarian. Someone whose parents died in a boating ‘accident’ that even his friends find unlikely.”

“What are you saying?” Marchetti demanded.

“That you’re taking at face value what common sense ought to tell you not to.”

“Arrogance.” The Bishop’s emissary turned the envelope over in his hands and frowned. “Your answers leave His Eminence little room for permitting you to resume Holy Office.”

“They don’t leave him anything, as far as I can see.”

“Just you in a pornographic photo taken by a murdered homosexual.”

“And a letter the bishop doesn’t want me to see?”

Marchetti glared at the priest and, with equal irritation, the running fountain. He no longer attempted to hide the anger in his voice. “I’ve spoken with your housekeeper.”

“What now?”

“She says that you knew this Billy Pearce better than you’ve let on.”

“Does she?”

“She listens in on your phone conversations, Father. And on your ‘counseling’ sessions. She also reads your email.”

“I’ll have to have her say a penance when I return.”

“You’re not returning anywhere, Father.”

“Really?”

“This housekeeper says that Pearce called you the evening before he was found murdered.”

Gauss clasped his fingers behind his head.

“That she heard you yelling into the phone and using foul language.”

Gauss closed his eyes.

“That you left the rectory in a hurry and didn’t come back before she’d left for the evening. But that when she returned in the morning there was a pair of wet trousers and a wet tee shirt in the laundry.”

“Coldwater’s own Miss Marple.”

“And she wants to know what to say to that persistent sheriff who’s been to the rectory twice now and who was on the phone with me this morning demanding that we produce you for questioning.”

“I didn’t ask to be hustled away in the night, Monsignor.”

“We’ll have to produce you sooner or later.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“And our attorneys advise that it would be better if you talk with Sister Dion first.”

“I have. But we seem to have run out of new material.”

“And that you undergo a general examination of conscience.”

“With you?”

“There are legal as well as spiritual advantages.”

“I’d rather have my tooth drilled.”

* * *

At Dr. Dwyer’s direction, the Coldwater Hospital put Joe through a vigorous gastric decontamination followed by several rounds of magnesium citrate cathartics. After two days of torture, there was nothing left to come out and nothing inside that wasn’t raw. The hospital doctors said he was ready to go home.

Mary came with her geriatric boy toy, Herbert to bring her son home. Joe thought she looked like hell. There was a weariness about her that had not arrived with her fall or in the days afterwards. She had lost weight. Her eyes were rheumy. When he kissed her cheek, it felt chilly and clammy. He reached his hand to her forehead.

“I’m not sick, Joey,” she snapped, pushing it away. “I’m worried sick. There’s a difference.”

He didn’t need to ask about what.

“It’s a good thing you’re getting out of here. Because your brother’s about to do something stupid, and you need to stop him.”

As the originator of several large and recent stupidities, Joe withheld condemnation. But she pressed. “You need to talk to him.”

“About what?”

“Don’t be thick. About the Pearce girl.”

“You’re a pyromaniac, Mom.”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “Your brother doesn’t know whether he’s coming, going or been there with that girl. That’s going to get him and you into serious trouble.”

Joe could think of nothing he might say or do to respond to his mother’s directions. He wasn’t even sure he understood them. He said so.

“Your confused older brother seems to think he’s a Pearce. That family didn’t adopt him, they used him. It’s time he understood that.”

“I’m not following you, mom.”

“Didn’t you and your father ever talk?”

“About the Pearces?”

“About what they were doing with your brother.”

“The only thing Dad ever said to me about Susan Pearce was that there was nothing wrong with Tommy’s eyesight.”

Mary snorted. “For a man who didn’t speak much, your father could pack a lot in a few words.” She turned to Herbert. “Be a dear and get me a lemonade from the cafeteria. I need to take my pills.”

“There’s some water in that pitcher, Mom.”

“I need lemonade,” she said firmly.

Herbert nodded. “Sure thing, Mary. Mind if I stop and chat with that pretty candy striper while I’m at it?”

“Knock yourself out.” When he had gone, she resumed, “There’s something I need to tell you. Then you need to talk to your brother.”

“Something you don’t want Herbert to hear?”

“Family business.” She took a breath. “The Pearces’ didn’t care for your brother. But they were happy to use him. The mother especially. The rich don’t like to be reminded of how they got that way, and Tommy was a walking road map: cop’s kid who doesn’t know which fork to use, but as smart as any of them, and a go-getter with it.”

He leaned back into the pillows. His mother was launched.

“Mrs. Pearce was from the South… some part where they don’t have Catholics. Having your brother mooning around her daughter—right after that foreign exchange student… it made the poor woman take to her bed with the vapors.” She paused. “Your father never told you any of this?”

Joe shook his head.

“Just before Tommy showed up, the family had the son of some foreign diplomat living with them for the school year. He went to Coldwater High at first, but some of the boys there gave him a rough time. Pushed him around. Shaved a swastika on his head. That sort of thing. He refused to go back to school, and he just hung around the house. I’m sure the Pearces didn’t know what to do with him.”

“I heard something about that,” said Joe, “at a parole bash for one of the