An Unspeakable Mission (Olympia Brown Mysteries) Page 13

  “Then you do know where she is. Is she okay? Why didn't she tell us?”

  “Tell me, Bridget, why do you think she left?”

  Bridget looked at the floor for a moment and then sat back and folded her arms across her chest and looked squarely at her priest. “Probably because she'd finally had enough. My father's an alcoholic. He's been beating her up for years. It's awful. I don't know how she stood it or why it took her this long to get out. I know we're supposed to honor our parents, Father, but …” Bridget looked like she was on the verge of saying something else but stopped herself.

  Jim waited to see if she was going to say more. He never expected to hear even this much. “I can tell you she's safe, Bridget, but I can't tell you where she is. And you can come back and talk to me anytime. In a situation like this, it's not just the wife that has been abused. When something like this happens, the whole family is damaged.”

  Jim thought it strange that Bridget suddenly looked flustered, like she didn't know how to respond.

  “What I can do is take a message to your mother and ask her to call you.”

  “I, uh, yes, Father, you can tell her to call me at the dorm, but tell her not to worry if I don't answer. Tell her to leave a message. I'm going to be here and there this weekend.”

  “You're not going home, then, I take it?”

  Bridget shook her head and reached into her purse. “No, Father, I've, uh, got something for my mother I'd like you to give her, um, after Easter. Is that okay? I know you're busy now, but sometime next week? There's no rush.”

  The priest took the sealed envelope and set it down on his desk. “Of course, Bridget, I'll be happy to.” He paused and looked at the girl seated across from him and hoped to God that he was about to say the right thing.

  “Bridget, is there anything you'd like to talk to me about? If a man beats up his wife so badly that she finally leaves, it has to be pretty awful for the rest of the family to see and listen to. It affects everyone involved. Did he ever strike you?”

  Bridget hesitated and looked away before she answered. “He never hit me, Father.”

  “Sometimes people can hurt you in other ways, like always saying mean things and putting you down or yelling at you all the time, or …”

  “It was bad, Father,” said Bridget, interrupting him, “but my sister got out, and I went off to college, and now, thank God, my mother is out. We'll be okay now.”

  Bridget started to get up but sat back down again.

  “Father, I do have one question. If a person does something bad but does it for a good reason, is it still a sin?”

  “I think God has more understanding than human beings give him credit for, Bridget. Did you have something specific in mind or maybe an example of what you mean?”

  Bridget avoided Jim's gaze and seemed to be searching for words. “Well, like my mother leaving my father. Catholics can't divorce. She won't go to hell, will she?”

  “Bridget, don't tell the bishop I said this, but I can't believe a loving God would ever torture someone for all eternity for anything. We are told that God is all forgiving, and that's what I believe.”

  Jim leaned back in his chair. “As I said, God understands more than we think he does, and I believe he forgives everyone, not just Catholics.”

  This time Bridget did get up. “Thank you, Father, that makes me feel better. And don't forget to give my mother the envelope, okay? After Easter.”

  “Where will you be on Easter Sunday?”

  Bridget shook her head. “I, uh, don't want to run into my father. There's a church near the college, Saint Peter's? I'll be going there this weekend.”

  The conversation was at an end, and Father Jim had no choice but to stand and hold up his hand in blessing.

  Bridget made the sign of the cross, bowed her head, and whispered. “Thank you, Father.”

  Twenty-One

  * * *

  Thursday, May 31, 1860

  I have given little thought to house and garden of late. I can only think of going to Cambridge and presenting myself to Harvard. If I am accepted, perhaps my dear Auntie will offer me a room for the duration. I understand there are no living accommodations for women, and Aunt Louisa is of somewhat modest means and would likely welcome the extra coin in her pocket.

  This would be so much easier had I been born a man. I could travel where and how I wished, attend any college and pursue any field of knowledge I chose. But no matter, it is my rare good fortune to have the brains and wit of any man and the means to do as I wish and a friend like Jared to advise me. And in the privacy of these pages, I do confess I am glad he is a married man, for if he were not, I fear I might not spurn his attentions should he be so inclined. So it is more than good fortune that he has a wife to tend his hearth, and I am free to tend my own.

  More anon, LFW

  * * *

  Olympia gave up on the children's sermon and decided to go shopping. It was just too nice to stay inside, and she simply couldn't concentrate. She wanted to get in some groceries for the weekend and see if she could find a suitable outfit for church and for welcoming Frederick. She had been successful on both counts and was now back home, enjoying one of her rare gardening spurts. These came on twice a year, spring and fall, and usually lasted no more than an hour; but for the time being Olympia was in compost heaven lifting, turning, and inhaling the scent of the dark crumbly gardener's gold. She turned over a trowel full of earth and watched an earthworm twisting and squirming, frantically looking for cover. She reached down and covered it with a handful of potting soil. While she was out she had picked up a couple of half-price pots of tulips. They were the last of the Easter potted promotionals, and Olympia was now setting them into the ground. They had been wilting outside the supermarket from lack of water. A good drink and a healthy dollop of compost would revive them, and they would delight her each time she looked at them.

  She was just packing dirt around the last one when a delivery van from a local florist turned into her drive and parked. She stood, wiping her hands on her dusty jeans, and watched as a woman got out of the vehicle carrying a basket of pale pink roses and yellow star lilies. On closer examination she would find an oversized white chocolate bunny wedged into the center.

  “Olympia Brown?”

  “Ces't moi.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, I was practicing my French. I'm Olympia Brown. Are these for me?”

  “They are indeed. Looks like you have an admirer.”

  The delivery-lady handed over the flowers, smiled, and wished her a Happy Easter while Olympia stood in delighted astonishment. In all her fifty-something years, nobody had ever sent her flowers. She turned toward the front steps, holding them as though they were made of glass, and carefully squeezed through the front door so as not to snap a stem. Once inside, she set them on the kitchen table by the window and slipped the card out of its plastic holder. They were from Frederick.

  “Happy Easter, enjoy the chocolate, I miss you. Love, Frederick.”

  Olympia grinned, pulled the cellophane-wrapped rabbit out of the arrangement like an eager child, and ripped it open.

  She turned the confection over in her hands, trying to decide whether to start on the ears or the tail. Later, she would give Bridget a call to see if she was still planning on staying in Cambridge for the weekend and ask if perhaps her plans had changed. Lovely as they were, the flowers and the chocolate were not enough to dispel Olympia's growing anxiety concerning Bridget.

  And Miss Winslow has been trying to get my attention all week. What is she trying to tell me?

  Later in the afternoon Olympia tried to call Bridget but got no answer. She told herself that the girl was young and probably out with her friends. Kids her age can find plenty of things to do on a long weekend. But when a second and a third call went unanswered, Olympia dialed the number of the security office, explained who she was, and asked for the number of the residence director, Zoë Rogers.

  When t
he woman picked up, Olympia again explained who she was and said she was trying to reach Bridget O’Mara, and did she have any idea where the girl might be? Ms. Rogers didn't but offered to leave a message on her door.

  “Please do,” said Olympia. “I really need to talk to her.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Uh, have you seen her today?”

  “Twice. This place is almost empty, so I know who's in and who's out.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “This morning, she said she was going out for a while. She said she'd be back by lunchtime, so I asked her if she'd like to go for a sandwich with me, but she said she'd be going to church.”

  “It's almost suppertime; shouldn't she be back by now?”

  “They don't have to sign in or out anymore, Professor Brown, so God only knows when she'll be back. Students are pretty savvy these days. She's a good girl. She's quiet, but she gets out and about when she wants to. I wouldn't worry. She's probably gone off to someone's house for the night. It is a holiday weekend, after all.”

  Olympia did not want to raise suspicion before she had any real reason to do so.

  “You're right. I would appreciate it if you'd leave a note on her door.”

  After she hung up the phone, Olympia went on to consider which part of the remains of chocolate rabbit she would have for dinner and what kind of wine would best complement it. Anxiety never failed to make her hungry.

  Bridget called to wish Olympia a Happy Easter and explained that she'd gotten the message, but she had been out later than she expected after the Good Friday service. She added that she hadn't changed her mind about staying at the college, that it was quiet in the dorm, and she would likely spend Sunday in Cambridge as well. Then she thanked Olympia for her call and said good-bye.

  After that, Bridget began her preparations. She showered, washed her hair, and put on clean clothes. Then she tidied her room, hid her purse along with her identification under the extra blanket in the closet. She would take only the pills and the bottle of rum with her. She knew eventually she would be identified, but this way she would save her mother and sister from finding out until after the holiday.

  The air outside was warm for April, but Bridget felt chilled as she walked up the wide granite steps to the entrance of the church. She slipped into the slow line of penitents shuffling along to confession on that Holy Saturday. Once inside, Bridget went down one of the side aisles, genuflected, and took a seat near one of the dark-curtained confessionals. She would stay there until people began to leave, and when the place was almost empty she would move to the back of the church. When she saw the priest leave, she'd slip into an empty confessional and wait until all was quiet before beginning her final task.

  Now, sitting in the hushed interior of the church with the familiar musky scent of the incense combined with the waxy smell of the flickering candles, Bridget prayed to a God she hoped would understand and forgive her. Didn't Father Jim tell her that that God forgave everyone? She was irreparably damaged goods and no longer had the will to fight or to live with all the pain and the shame dammed up inside her. She had written everything in the letter to her mother, confident the explanation would stop her father once and for all and spare her mother and her sister any further humiliation. She had worked it all out in her mind, and she was ready for what came next.

  Bridget fingered the crucifix hanging around her neck and then looked at her watch. Not much longer now.

  On that same Saturday afternoon, Father Jim was sitting in a curtained chamber in the nave of St. Bartholomew's, hearing confessions. He had put all thoughts beyond getting through five masses the next day in the hands of God and was doing all he could not to get overtired. He would be no good to anyone if he got sick.

  Margaret O’Mara was desperate to talk to her daughters and was asking permission to call them, but Sister Myra told her that it was probably best not have too much contact with anyone in the family just yet.

  “It could put too much of a strain on the girls if Terry finds out they know where you are and starts to pressure them.” The nun had a way of tilting her head and smiling when she wanted to be convincing, and she was doing it now. “What they don't know, they can't repeat.”

  “I know you're right, Sister, it's just, well, with it being Easter and all …”

  “Please believe me, Margaret. I know it's hard, especially around a holiday, it's natural to want to be with your family.”

  Margaret nodded in wordless agreement. The trip back home had been so much harder than she thought it would be. The minute she set foot inside the apartment, she felt her world spinning out of control. She knew if she could talk to both daughters, actually hear their voices, maybe she could make it stop.

  As if she could read her mind, Sister Myra put her arms around the unhappy woman and gave her a hug. Then she begged her to hold on until after Easter when they'd sit down together and work out a plan for contacting the girls.

  “Holidays are tricky, Margaret. Everyone's supposed to be having a good time, but we both know it doesn't always work that way.”

  “I know what you mean, Sister, but for some reason, Easter's always been the worst.”

  On Saturday afternoon Terry sat alone in the empty apartment. It was almost time to leave to go to confession. He was hungry, angry, and in desperate need of a drink. The place was a disaster. His daughters had left home, and however stupid and aggravating she was, Margaret was gone, too. He thought about having a can of soup before he left but decided on having a drink and a smoke instead. The soup could wait until later.

  The next morning Terry had one Godawful hangover but was determined to go to church. He couldn't receive Holy Communion, because somehow he must have fallen asleep and missed confession on Saturday. He had never done that before. But looking and feeling like hell, he dragged himself out of bed and went to an earlier mass than he usually did, in part because it was of shorter duration and in part because fewer people he knew went to that one. He was back home by eleven and dead drunk by shortly after noon.

  After the Fire

  Twenty-Two

  It had been well over an hour since Olympia heard the news about the fire, and neither Jim nor Bridget had returned her calls. She was becoming more concerned by the minute. The implications of what she'd heard on the news, coupled with information only she and Jim were privy to, were weaving themselves into a dreadful and tragic scenario.

  Hoping there might be more information available by now, she stepped over a sleeping cat and turned up the sound on the TV. At least that would help to fill the time until one or the other of them called.

  The woman reporter on the news report had called the fire suspicious. What in God's name did that mean, that the fire might have been set and therefore, the victim, very possibly Terry O’Mara, might have been murdered? That simply could not be … or could it?

  Olympia stared at the television. The news program was repeating the clip of the earlier story of the fire along with the allegations that it might have been arson. Hearing no new information, Olympia was about to click the set off when a somber-faced studio reporter interrupted the scheduled programming with more breaking news.

  “Police have still not identified the young woman found unconscious and near death yesterday evening at St. Peter's Roman Catholic Church in Cambridge. As of noon today, a white female in her late teens or early twenties, average height, with short dark brown curly hair remains in grave condition at a nearby hospital. A late worshipper discovered the comatose girl in one of the confessionals just after six yesterday evening and called 911.”

  A telephone number flashed on the screen.

  “Authorities are requesting that anyone having any information at all which might lead to her identification please call the number you see at the bottom of the screen.”

  Olympia clapped her hand to her mouth and stared at the set. This couldn't be happening. The description fit Bridget. Olympia grabbed a pen
cil and wrote the number on the edge of a crumpled napkin, then picked up the phone and dialed the college.

  “Meriwether Security Office, Officer Bagley speaking.”

  “Charlie, this is Olympia Brown, the college chaplain.”

  “Happy Easter, Reverend, what can I do for you? Forget something in your office?”

  I only wish.

  “I need to get in touch with a student, Bridget O’Mara. She isn't answering her phone, and there's been a family emergency. Is there any way you can find out if she's on campus?”

  “It's a long weekend, Olympia. The kids are everywhere. She probably hasn't come back yet. I'll call Zoë Rogers, the residence director. I can ask her to leave a message on the student's door to call you. What's your number?”

  Olympia was trying to control her mounting fear and impatience. “She stayed on campus for the weekend. Look, I'm really concerned. I think something might have happened to her.”

  “Okay, I'll go over there. If she's not here, she's not here. You can't call the police yet. It hasn't been that long.”

  “Thanks anyway, Charlie, but I think I'll call her myself. She knows me.”

  Olympia could taste the fear at the back of her throat as she dialed the number for Bridget's dorm and asked the residence director if she'd seen Bridget that day.

  “Funny you should ask. After you called yesterday, I kind of kept an eye out for her. She never came back last night, and I wouldn't have thought anything about it except her roommate just came in here and told me she found Bridget's purse hidden under a blanket in the bottom of the closet. Why would she do a thing like that?”

  Oh shit!

  “I think Bridget may be in trouble, Zoë. If she does turn up, will you ask her to call me immediately? She has my number. Meanwhile I'm going to call around, I'll let you know if I find her.”