The pub-style clock on the office wall read three-forty-five: my usual time to stand in front of the tiny back-office mirror. I’d comb my salt-and-pepper hair and make my five-o’clock shadow regress by a few hours before meeting with a late afternoon client. But I had no client appointments that autumn afternoon, so I remained at my desk, staring at the “Jackson Smith, PI” sign flanking the entryway outside my window. Several early frosts had assaulted Indianapolis, and the almost-bare branches did little to filter the harsh afternoon sunlight. The undisguised flakiness of the black paint made my first name look like “Jackso”, but I wasn’t going to repaint it until I had enough cash to pay the November rent. I needed to close my 2002 books in the black.
A staccato knock at the door got my attention. I barely had time to say “come in” before a slim man strode into the room. He looked to be about 40, clean shaven, crisp shirt, gelled hair. I guessed he was used to having his orders followed, maybe a doctor. I wasn’t far off; he told me he was a hospital administrator. He introduced himself as Mitchell Clemson. His problem? “My wife’s told me that she wants to get a divorce because she’s going to become a nun.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. I swiveled in my chair to face the guy in my office. “Can a woman become a nun if she’s divorced?”
“Turns out that she can. I can give you the website for verification, if you’re interested. Lisa’s pointed it out to me enough times.”
“Okay, okay. So, she wants a divorce? And you want to hire me to…?”
“Follow her. I don’t believe the nun story. She must be having an affair. I want you to find out what’s going on.”
“You want me to tail her.”
“Correct. I need to know what she’s up to. I’m a busy man. I think Lisa is getting away with something while I’m at work.”
I agreed to follow Lisa. I wasn’t wild about tailing an unhappy wife, given my own disintegrating state of marital affairs. But it was a job, and I needed one. And I had to admit, Mitch’s proposal intrigued me. What wife tells her husband that she wants to leave him to become a nun? I wondered if he’d had an affair or two of his own. Or if he was too domineering, maybe even abusive, on the home front. The nun detail might’ve made divorce sound more acceptable in her mind. However, Mitchell’s appearance oozed the good life and a lot of wives won’t leave that kind of situation. Like I said, I was puzzled, and intrigued.
Most of these tailing experiences are boring for a while. You invest some time; then, you hit pay dirt. The patience pays off and you catch someone at something. But with this woman, there was no pay dirt. I followed her for two weeks and she led the tamest life of anyone I’d ever followed. Lisa went to Holy Name Church about every other morning. She worked two days a week at Shady Glen Nursing Home. She went shopping, for food mostly. She bought healthy stuff, too; no booze, even. The rest of the time, she was at home. Like her husband, she was trim and attractive. She wasn’t a fashionista, but she was always well dressed and well groomed. They appeared to be living the good life. What could be going on with this woman, making her want to leave a life of comfort to become a nun?
After I’d tailed Lisa for two weeks, I arranged to meet Mitchell for coffee, near his office.
“Look,” I told him. “Your wife is living the most upstanding life I’ve ever seen. I have absolutely no evidence of anything going on. Are you sure she hasn’t already taken her vows?”
My attempt at a joke met with silence, so I went on to my questions. “Does Lisa have a cell phone? I’ve never seen her use one.”
Mitchell winced. “She does. But she really doesn’t like using it, she thinks of it as something for emergencies only.
“How about a personal computer?”
“We have one, of course. We share it, mostly because she doesn’t use one enough to justify buying one of her own. I guess I could try and look at her history, but I’d probably just find multiple hits on that religious order site.” He shrugged. “Lisa really doesn’t spend much time with technology.”
“Listen, Mitch. I think you might be throwing your money away on surveillance. Maybe you should have one of your medical colleagues look at Lisa. Maybe she has some kind of disorder.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Most people with serious mental conditions don’t hold down jobs and go to church. Plus, I do think Mitch would’ve recognized signs of mental illness.
“I don’t think so. We hang around with physicians, including psychiatrists, and their spouses. No one has ever said anything negative about Lisa. She’s sociable and fun to be around. The group likes her.”
“Well, if you want to continue this investigation, I have a suggestion. I don’t think tailing Lisa is going to help you at all. I want you to do a little introspection. Take some time with it. Think about the time when Lisa first approached you with this nun idea. What else was going on? Were there any family incidents? How about items in the news? Has Lisa ever said anything about any childhood traumas when she was Ashley’s age?” The Clemsons had no children by choice, but Lisa was active in her twelve-year-old niece’s life.
Mitch sat back in his chair and looked beyond me, out the window. “Hmm. Okay. Nothing comes to mind immediately, but I’ll try and piece some things together. I’ll call you if I come up with something.”
Mitch went his way and I went mine, and my instincts told me that I’d never hear from him again. I’m rarely wrong, but this time I was. A week later, he was sitting across from me in my office. He placed a small manila file on my desk.
“You gave me some great advice.” Mitchell looked pleased with himself, a giant grin plastered on his face. He was the kid who just knew he would get an A on his homework, plus extra credit. “At first, I couldn’t think of anything unusual. But you were right, I just took my time with the process and tried to remember what was going on when Lisa first presented me with her divorce and nun idea. And then I had to go back further still. But I think a picture is starting to develop.”
I fought the urge to sit forward in my chair. My curiosity about Lisa Clemson had just increased tenfold. I twirled a pencil in my fingers and put on my lazy voice. “Are you starting to connect some dots?”
Mitch nodded. “I think so. Lisa has only recently become interested in the church. She became a Catholic about six months ago. We’ve both regarded ourselves as Christians, but we didn’t attend church much. Both of us were raised in Presbyterian homes. I think one of her friends got her interested in Catholicism. I thought, fine. But after a few months of churchgoing, she presented me with her nun idea. That’s one dot.
“About the same time she got interested in religion, there was an article in the paper about Mary Ware. Do you remember that case?
Indeed I did. I’d been in the PI business for years. Mary Ware’s death had the entire town talking over a decade earlier. She and her husband, Reginald, had been wealthy, but after his death, she claimed to be penniless. She divided up her large home into apartments, living in one herself. The rest were rented to students who attended Riley University, four blocks south of her home. Then, a few days before Halloween, she was found with a broken neck at the bottom of her basement stairs. The question was: Did she fall, or was she pushed? No one was charged in her death, but many felt she was murdered. Mitch reminded me of the local magazine cold case story in the fall issue a year ago and produced a Xeroxed copy from the manila file. He said Lisa came up with her nun idea a few weeks after the story appeared.
“So, Lisa saw the magazine story. You think that’s when things started to get a little crazy?”
Mitchell nodded. “I do. Lisa was one of the students living in Mary’s house at the time of the murder. Or accidental death. But whenever she talks about it, which isn’t often, she uses the word ‘murder’.”
“That’s interesting.” I tried to sound nonchalant, but my pulse picked up. “What has she told you about it? I’m thinking she’s probably said some things over the years.”
“Yeah. When it happened, we were dating. Engaged actually. I’d finished my graduate degree and was doing a stint in the army. I was stationed stateside, at Fort Hood. Lisa was still working on her undergrad program, in her senior year. Anyhow, she called me the day before Halloween and sounded hysterical. She’d come back from buying cigarettes for Mrs. Ware and couldn’t find her when she got back to the house. Three people ran out of the front door just as she entered after running the errand. The people leaving were all wearing masks. Lisa assumed they were college kids; they all wore jeans threadbare at the knee. She called out for Mrs. Ware and walked through her apartment on the ground floor. When she got to the kitchen, she noticed that the door to the basement was ajar. She looked down the stairwell and saw Mrs. Ware at the bottom.”
“Do you know what happened next?”
“She said she called the police and they came. They verified Mrs. Ware was dead and called for an ambulance to transport her to the morgue, I guess.”
“She gave a statement to the police?”
“Yes, I imagine she did at the time. I know they had her go to the station the next day.”
“Did she tell you anything about that?”
“Yes, she was a little rattled. She realized they considered her a suspect and had been afraid that the police would get rough with her, accuse her of the murder. But they never did.”
“What do you think? Did she do it?”
“Of course not! I married her, didn’t I? Do you think I would marry a murderer?”
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking when I asked.” Mitch’s face was turning a shade of purple not often seen on people’s skin. I was telling him the truth. I hadn’t phrased the question the way I should have. I wouldn’t ask it again on that afternoon. But I wanted to ask what Mitch thought now. After all these years, did he think his wife could’ve knocked off the old lady? I’d wait, though, before I brought up the subject again.
Mitchell exhaled noisily and sat back in his chair. I looked away in order to give him a little more time to regain his composure and to give myself a chance to think. My mind was trying to tie points together and develop a pattern. I’d certainly known my share of clergy, mostly men, who had entered the religious life over a sense of guilt. I was wondering if Lisa was operating under a similar motive. Maybe she lost patience with the old lady, pushed her down the stairs, and called the police. She made up the story about the intruders in masks. In my experience, the person calling the police is your guilty party almost fifty percent of the time. I also found it interesting that she didn’t think of calling an ambulance first.
I turned back to face Mitch again, and his chin was sagging toward his chest, his eyes gazing toward the floor. When he heard the squeak of my chair swiveling, he sat up straight for a minute, before leaning forward, putting his forearm on my desk. It was an odd posture, I wondered if he was bracing himself. He looked down at the desk surface.
“You know, I just thought of something,” he said. “When Lisa’s parents died, they didn’t leave us much money.”
I didn’t see the connection and told him so.
“Well, I never really saw them go through any amazing ups and downs, financially. They seemed comfortable through their retirement, but not wealthy. But what makes that stand out now, is our wedding. We had a lavish reception, and I assumed Lisa’s parents paid for it all. Champagne, seven-course dinner, two hundred guests. Lisa even had a designer gown before that became more common. I know my parents didn’t contribute at all. I’d assumed Lisa’s parents were loaded. But they must’ve spent all of their money before they died. Only a few thousand dollars in the bank, and their four-bedroom house in the suburbs had a reverse mortgage on it. There wasn’t anything left after their funerals.”
“Okay…” I wasn’t sure what Mitch was driving at.
“Well, old lady Ware, you know–it was rumored from time to time that she had all of this cash stashed away in the house. She didn’t trust banks. Some people said she wrapped wads of bills in tin foil and put them in flour canisters and cereal boxes. She was kind of a packrat, according to Lisa. Stacks of newspapers and magazines in her living room and on the dining table. So, if the rumors were true, maybe Lisa took the money. And that’s where the wedding money came from.” He continued to gaze at my desktop.
“Hmmm.” I crossed my arms and looked at the top of Mitch’s head since I couldn’t see his face. “You think that’s true? Lisa kills Mrs. Ware to get the money? Or Mrs. Ware catches her taking money, so Lisa kills her?”
Mitch sat up and his face started to take on the purple shade again. I watched him rearrange his features and take a deep breath. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to believe anymore. The whole world seems kind of nutty when your wife tells you that she wants a divorce because she’s going to become a nun.”
I chuckled. Mitch’s comment tickled me a little, but I also wanted to lighten the mood. Mitch may be on to something, but his mind could be forcing the dots to connect. If he slept on it a couple of nights, I think I’d have a better idea. In my experience, the next two days would reveal whether Mitch would stick with his recent interpretation of events or reject them.
“Was Lisa her parents’ only daughter?” I asked.
“Yeah. Only child, actually. Born when they were well into their forties.”
I shrugged. “Maybe that explains the extravagant wedding.”
Mitch shrugged, too. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
We arranged to meet for coffee again in two days. In the meantime, I wanted to refresh my memory about the Ware case.
First, I found the original newspaper articles about Mary Ware’s death. There were several columns to the original report in the Star. As Mitch said, she’d had been found at the bottom of the stairs leading from her kitchen to her basement, face down. Her apartment, which had been the original parlor, dining room, and kitchen of the old house, remained relatively undisturbed, even though she had piles of newspapers and old clothes strewn around. The only fingerprints found were hers and Lisa’s.
The rumors about Mary hoarding cash were correct. Wads of wrapped bills were found in her dining room buffet–in the soup tureen, antique canisters, and pitchers. However, the amount wasn’t huge, about twenty thousand dollars. A lot of money, but not a fortune. The buffet itself did not appear to be disturbed. To all appearances, her apartment had not been ransacked. And the only fingerprints on the buffet were Mary’s. Cause of death was ruled accidental by the coroner.
Next, I opened Mitch’s manila file for a copy of the cold case story in last year’s fall edition of the Circle City Monthly. The article stated that additional cash was found in the kitchen, under the flour in the canister, under the silverware in the drawer near the sink, and in an empty oatmeal carton. The second cache of bills totaled just under five thousand dollars. But the Monthly asked the question, had there been more money on the day of Mrs. Ware’s death, and did someone make off with it? They pointed out that Mrs. Ware usually left her apartment door unlocked, although the main door to the house was locked most of the time and every tenant had a key. At the time of Mrs. Ware’s death, five tenants resided in the converted mansion’s apartments, two males and three females, including Lisa. Mrs. Ware did have bank accounts; rents were paid by check, and she did deposit them. A couple of tenants had already paid their November rent, but several had not. Lisa had not paid her rent yet according to the article. Neither had the two male tenants. A lot of small details, but the Monthly article didn’t tie them together into any significant picture. I wasn’t impressed with the investigative reporting.
Next, I drove south from downtown Indy, ending up on the boulevard that once showcased the homes of Indianapolis’ wealthiest southside residents. As a kid, I could remember riding in the back seat of the family sedan, looking up at the arches of tree branches overhead on this very street. The trees must’ve been elms, there were no arches now. Instead, flower beds tended by high school youth during the summer lined the boulevard. In the frostiness of autumn, no one was readying the beds for next spring. Dead flowers and crispy leaves collected on the slightly raised mounds of earth.
Back in the heyday of the neighborhood, the Ware estate was known as The Hedges. Another estate across the boulevard was known as Brookside. When Brookside’s wealthy owners died, they left the property to the local historical society. Tours were offered Wednesdays through Fridays, and in October, they added an occasional evening “haunted” tour. College students frequently played the roles of the spirits. Could some of the actors be the masked people Lisa saw leaving? That is, if her story was true.
After Mrs. Ware’s death, her house was sold to settle the estate. The new owners converted it back to a single-family dwelling. It looked pretty respectable now, but the lawns and landscaping were rather ordinary. The surrounding neighborhood was lower middle class. Brookside was still run by the historical society but it was looking slightly rundown, too. Older buildings are expensive to keep up.
I continued down the boulevard, past the university that Lisa attended almost two decades previously. I traveled another two miles down the road and pulled into the Inverness neighborhood, where Mitch and Lisa lived. They must like the south side. Mitch’s workplace was even farther south, in the Greenwood area. I’d been on their residential street before, but I wanted to get a good look at their home. I judged it to be a four-bedroom ranch on a half-acre lot. The exterior was in good condition, the landscaping was attractive. Nice, but not huge. No cars in the driveway as I drove by just before 11 AM.
I continued on to Holy Name Church, where I hoped to ask the local pastor a few questions. I parked in the small lot in front of the sanctuary; there appeared to be a bigger lot next to the school. I entered the hall connecting the church sanctuary to a smaller building, which I guessed was the rectory. A small desk was tucked in an alcove just inside the rectory building. A red-headed woman wearing a royal blue cardigan sat behind it. “Can I help you?
“I was just hoping to catch the pastor for a few moments.”
“Well…Father Barnard is with a parishioner now. If you’re willing to wait, he might have a few minutes. He’s due to speak at a meeting within the hour.”
“Sure, I’ll wait.” I sat in a folding chair across the hallway from her desk.
I didn’t have to wait long. About five minutes later, the pastor’s door opened and a fresh-faced young woman came out. “Thanks, Father,” she said. “See you Sunday at the baptism.”
The redhead and the priest conferred briefly. “Yes, sir,” he said, looking in my direction. “Come in, come in.”
I nodded at him as I entered his office. It was small, but extremely neat and orderly. The priest himself was short, blue-eyed, and he had a shock of thick white hair. He wore silver-rimmed glasses and smiled at me. I had the feeling that we’d met before. Yes, we’d both been advisors on the Indianapolis Youth Council, when we’d both been a lot younger.
“My name’s Jackson. Do you remember me? From the Youth Council?”
Father Barnard thought a moment before nodding. “Yes. I thought you looked familiar.” He gestured toward a chair. “Well, what can I do for you today?”
I sat before showing the priest my ID. “There’s a parishioner of yours, Mrs. Clemson, who is causing her husband a great deal of concern.”
“Hmm.” The priest looked puzzled and uncomfortable. I guessed he didn’t know where I was headed. “I know Mrs. Clemson, but not well. She’s just recently joined our congregation. Perhaps her husband is unhappy because she’s found faith to be important in her life?”
“Well, no, that’s not it. I can’t go into a lot of detail, but it may be that Mrs. Clemson is not your usual churchgoer. I can’t say much more. And I know about confidentiality, and all of that. But, I was hoping you could share some of your impressions of her with me.”
Father Barnard’s discomfort increased. He shifted in his chair. “Well, she’s cordial. Interested in becoming involved in the church’s mission. Helped with the clothing drive last month.”
“Has she been to confession?”
“Well, yes. Once, I believe. She’s only recently joined the church after taking the classes. And of course, I can’t tell you anything about what is said in the confessional.”
“Of course. I understand that. But let me share a concern with you. Mr. Clemson is convinced that his wife intends to leave him.”
Father Barnard’s eyes blinked behind his lenses. “I had no idea.”
“Well, according to her husband, that’s her plan. After obtaining a divorce, her goal is to become a nun.”
“What!” The volume of the priest’s voice had tripled. “That doesn’t make sense. True, there are some orders that accept divorced women. But no order would condone a woman breaking up her marriage for the purpose of becoming part of the religious life.”
I shrugged. “What you say makes sense to me, Father. But Mr. Clemson is very worried.”
The priest looked down at his desk. “I can understand that.” He paused. “Maybe I should call them both to my office. For some counseling.”
“Maybe not a bad idea. But, I would wait, Father. At least a week.” I wanted to conclude my investigation first. “Thanks for speaking with me. I understand you have a meeting to go to.”
“Yes, that’s correct.” He looked down at his watch. “I will consider what you’ve told me. And yes, I cannot divulge what I learn in the confessional. But there’s nothing prohibiting me from giving you one impression I have of Mrs. Clemson. I think she’s under a lot of pressure of some type, like a dam that is going to give way at any moment.”
“How so?”
“She’s still building a relationship with me as her pastor. But once she feels she can trust me, I have a feeling that everything she’s holding onto will come flooding out.”
Back in my aging Buick, I headed north, retracing my route. When I approached The Hedges, I turned before reaching the front of the property and went down the alley running behind it. The three-car garage was at the back of the property. There appeared to be rooms above it, and the back view of the main house revealed a sizeable structure. I wonder if parts of it were unoccupied at the time of Mrs. Ware’s death. Could a vagrant have hidden out in the garage or even within the house itself? Maybe scaling a wall, opening a window?
Two days later, I was sitting across the table from Mitch again, at the coffee shop. I had been anticipating this meeting. Mitch’s expression would tell me whether he’d discounted his conjectures made at our last encounter, or whether they had become a new lens to the past. His face told the story, all right. Brows knitted, corners of his mouth turned down. Even his usual polish, not a hair out of place, crisply ironed shirt, was lacking that day. He wore a faded long-sleeved tee and a pair of worn jeans.
“You look worried, Mitch.”
“You got that right.” Mitch slouched lower in his seat. His appearance and behavior made me wonder if he was trying to disguise himself. “When I hired you, I thought my biggest problem was a wife who might leave me. Now, I’m thinking my spouse might be a murderer.”
I nodded. “Okay.” I leaned forward and didn’t have to wait long.
“I should have put it together. The expensive wedding, not long after a wealthy woman died under mysterious circumstances. The lack of corroboration about her story of the people running away. People conveniently wearing Halloween masks. The friendship she’d built with Mary. Running errands for her. Probably slowly gaining her trust.” He sat back and shook his head. “You know, I never doubted her faithfulness to me with the long-distance engagement. But that probably left her lonely. So, she likely spent more time talking with Mary than she would have if I’d been living in Indy.”
“So, you’re thinking she befriended this little old lady with money hidden all around, for the purpose of killing her?”
Mitch shuddered. “No! I don’t think Lisa is capable of a premeditated crime like that. I think she gradually befriended Mary, maybe out of loneliness. Then, she saw a chance and she took it. Now, she’s feeling guilty. The story in the newspaper last year, that’s what brought it on.”
“It does seem that the timing goes beyond the coincidental.” I paused for effect. “Maybe it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time for me to meet Lisa.”
***
Thursday was one of Lisa’s days to head to church, first thing. I planned to beat her to the parking lot at Holy Name.
I stopped by my office just before seven. My instincts told me to check my voicemail. One message, from Mitch, timed just after six-thirty AM. His voice sounded choppy, not like his usual smooth delivery.
“Lisa’s gone off the deep end. She told me she’s committed two terrible sins. She said ‘I gave in to temptation twice, two urges I couldn’t resist. I need to get right with God first. Maybe I’ll tell you someday’.”
I needed to get to Holy Name ASAP.
I spotted Lisa’s blue sedan just as I pulled in the parking lot. She was sprinting toward the door between the sanctuary and rectory. I parked in the first vacant spot I found and jumped out of my car. I began a rapid stride, then started jogging, which would have made anyone watching me laugh out loud. But I needed to reach Lisa before she reached that door.
I flashed my PI identification at her and tried not to pant. “Lisa Clemson? Name’s Jackson. I need to ask you a few questions.
Her face went white. Like many people did, she assumed I was a cop. A cop with the last name of Jackson. I wasn’t about to correct her impression.
“A few questions?” she repeated. “What about?”
I categorized her reaction as suspicious. Most people, approached in that manner, would assume that something might have happened to a loved one. But not Lisa. Yes, I was assured that our conversation would be very interesting.
“Let’s take a seat in the entrance area of the church, here.” I knew the door was unlocked this time of day, and there were a few folding chairs in the entry area, outside the sanctuary itself. I didn’t think that it would hurt to talk with Lisa in the church, and I didn’t want the receptionist to see her, yet. Mitch’s phone call indicated Lisa was ready to unburden her soul.
She followed my lead, entered the rear of the church, and sat on the metal chair I indicated with a gesture. Amazingly docile, I thought. I pulled up a chair, leaving a space between us. She turned to face me. “What is this about?”
“Well, I’ve been doing some research into a cold case, of sorts. It seems that you were the last person to see Mary Ware alive.”
She looked me in the eyes with an expression of composure that lasted all of two seconds. Then, after a garbled choking sound, she began to sob. Father Barnard’s assessment had been on target. The dam had burst. She looked away from me, as if trying to gain a little privacy in order to collect herself. It took her at least two minutes to do so. She found a wad of tissues in her purse, then blew her nose about ten times before facing me again.
“I knew this day would come.” She spoke in a husky whisper.
“I don’t understand. What day is that?” My Columbo impression wasn’t really very good.
“The day the police accused me of murder. I expected it fifteen years ago. Now, it’s finally happened.”
“No one’s accusing you of anything. But I’m interested in hearing your version of what happened.”
“What I told the police, back then, was the truth. But not the whole truth.”
“Do you want to tell me the whole truth now?”
She bit her lip, then let out a pent-up breath. “Yeah. It’s time.”
“Mrs. Ware died around Halloween, right?”
“Yeah. The day before Halloween that year was cold, cloudy, and windy. The leaves that had fallen were blowing all over the place. I walked home from my afternoon class, same as always. Then, I stopped to see Mary in her apartment, before going up to my own. I did that often, too.”
“Why? Why stop and see Mary?”
Lisa shrugged. “I liked her. She was lonely. I was, too. Mitch and I were engaged, and he was down in Texas. I didn’t fit in with the undergrad crowd any more. Besides, I could help her out with small things. I ran errands for her several times a week. I stopped in that day to ask if she needed anything.”
“And did she?
“Yes, she wanted a few food items. And cigarettes. She smoked like a chimney.”
“What happened then?”
“I went up to my place to grab my umbrella. I saw Dave, one of the other tenants. He was coming down the stairs as I was going up. He asked what I was up to, and I told him I was going to the store for Mary. Then, I went to my place, put my school stuff on my desk, and grabbed my umbrella. I had the twenty-dollar bill that Mary gave me in my pocket. I walked to the convenience store three blocks away. Bought two packs of Virginia Slims, a can of baked beans, and some Velveeta cheese. The change was few dollars and some cents. And, on a whim, I bought something for myself with two dollars. I told myself it was my payment for running these errands for Mary.“
“Did you typically use some of Mary’s money to buy something for yourself?”
“I’d done it once before but paid her back immediately.”
“Sounds like you were not planning to pay her back this time, though.”
“No, sir. I was not.”
“Then what happened?”
Lisa shifted in her seat. “I went back to Mary’s place.”
“And?
“And the three people in masks were coming out of the front door. I heard them laughing, but not talking. They were all tall. I assumed they were all men but can’t be sure of that. They were carrying pillowcases, too. I wondered if they were trick-or-treat bags.”
“Was the front door locked when you got there?”
“No, it was swinging shut, so I didn’t need to use my key. I saw the door to Mary’s apartment was ajar, which was strange. It wasn’t locked, usually, but it was always closed.” Her shoulders shook.
“Did you go in?
“I did. I went through the door and called Mary’s name. No answer. She usually sat in a chair near the doorway, but the chair was empty. I thought maybe she was making dinner, so I went back to the kitchen and said her name a second time. I put the groceries and cigarettes on her kitchen countertop and saw that the door to the basement was open.”
“How did you know the door led to the basement?”
“One time, when I’d been there just talking with her, she told me. She said she had some trunks down there filled with old clothes and papers.”
“What did you do when you saw the door open?
“I went to the doorway and saw her sprawled out on the basement floor. I knew she was dead.”
“How did you know for sure?”
“Her, head, her body…everything was at such crazy angles. She must’ve broken many bones. I turned on the light at the head of the stairs. I could also see blood near her head.”
“So – you turned on the light.”
“Yes, sir. That’s how I knew she was murdered. If she’d been going down there to get something, she would have turned on the light.”
I had to admit, that last bit was logical. “So, what’s the part that you never told anyone?”
“The part about the lottery tickets. That’s how I spent the two dollars. I stole money from her.”
“You stole two lousy dollars, right?”
“Yes, and I was robbed of the chance to pay it back”
“So, that’s what’s been eating at you?”
“Partly. But there’s more. One ticket was a winning one. I won $100,000.”
That explains the wedding, I thought. But I asked, “What did you do with the money?”
“I spent some on my wedding and honeymoon. The rest is still in a bank account. I feel like it belongs to Mary, but she’s dead! And, if I hadn’t spent those few minutes choosing numbers, I might have prevented Mary’s death.” The dam broke for the second time. Another episode of sobbing overwhelmed her, followed by more vigorous nose blowing.
“Or, you might have been killed, too.”
Lisa stopped crying and hiccupped. “I never thought of that. You could be right.”
Could a person be wracked with guilt over a couple of bucks? Well, a couple bucks that multiplied many times over. I pondered the question while Lisa blew her nose. Good fortune that began with a petty theft, and a fatal accident or murder followed within minutes. Mary Ware, the person she’d just been talking to a half-hour previously, was dead. I could appreciate that Lisa found herself stuck in a moral quagmire. I knew from the newspaper article Mary Ware had no direct descendants. Some people could have made their peace with the petty theft and moved on with their life, but Lisa had used the memory to torment herself. I felt the turbulence in my chest settle. I believed her.
“Look, Lisa.” It seemed she had exhausted all her tissue supply, so I offered her my handkerchief. She used it to mop up a few tears and dripping mascara. “You do have a unique moral dilemma here. I’m no authority on forgiveness. But Father Barnard is. I think you can put this situation to him and ask for advice. I have no doubt he’ll get you on the path to reconciliation. I’m not a Catholic, but I do think reconciliation is one of the best things your church has to offer.”
“Yeah.” Lisa sniffed. “I didn’t think of my recent faith searching in those words. But I do think you’ve summarized what I’ve been looking for.” She tried to smile. “I think I can do that.”
“I think so, too.” I stood and she followed my lead. I patted her shoulder, then walked toward my car, leaving her with my rumpled handkerchief in her hand. I saw her manage a feeble wave in my rear-view mirror.
I left Mitch a message at noon, telling him I’d completed my assignment. He called me the next morning, saying Lisa had seemed a changed person the previous evening. More cheerful, sociable. He’d even found the convent print-out in the kitchen wastebasket.
In my line of work, I’d encountered thieves, cheats, and even murderers, many of whom felt completely justified in their actions. Some even confessed to enjoying the commission of their crimes. But I’d never met anyone at the other end of the continuum, the person who felt guilty over the smallest infraction and used the guilt as a means of self-torture. Lisa’s crime wasn’t even worthy of junior high detention, in my book.
My interaction with Lisa was far different from any I’d had before. I was the first person she’d confessed to, and the power of the process was not lost on me. I believed her story, her improved interactions with her family were the confirming factor. Lisa was not a murderer. But someone else was. Maybe I’d spend some time trying to gather information on the Ware case.
A couple of stolen dollars. A half-hour of luck, both exceedingly good and horrifically bad. Years of guilt. A woman I’d patted on the shoulder. The quiet feeling of peace in my chest.
I wouldn’t forget following Lisa. Her case was unusual, and I appreciated being a part of its solution. And thanks to her, I’d be using my spare time to work on the Mary Ware murder. I’m sure I’d earn some notoriety if I solved that cold case.
My first order of business was to find that upstairs tenant named Dave.
Bio
C.L. Shore began reading mysteries in the second grade and has been a fan of the genre ever since. Maiden Murders, (2018), a prequel to A Murder in May (2017), is her most recent release. Her short stories have appeared in Sisters in Crime anthologies and Kings River Life Magazine. Shore has been a member of Sisters in Crime for over a decade. A nurse practitioner and researcher, she’s published numerous articles on family coping with epilepsy as Cheryl P. Shore. She enjoys travel and entertains a fantasy of living in Ireland for a year.
