An Unspeakable Mission (Olympia Brown Mysteries) Read online

  Olympia threw up her hands. “Margaret feels responsible. She thinks that if she'd stayed and cleaned up the mess around the chair, it might not have happened. She doesn't know how exactly he died, but if he wasn't burned, then nobody murdered him, and it was an accident.”

  “It's possible somebody tried to murder him, Olympia. We have to ask Margaret if she knows anything about the lighter fluid cans before she talks to the police again.”

  “You don't think for one minute …” Olympia was wide-eyed.

  “Of course not, but consider this. Here's a woman who's just lost her husband and her house in a fire, and her daughter attempted suicide. She's not thinking clearly, and she could accidentally incriminate herself under the pressure of the interrogation.”

  “Interrogation?”

  “The fire is officially considered suspicious, Olympia. Terry was known to be a wife beater. The investigating detective is a childhood friend of mine. I told him about the sexual abuse.”

  “Do you think that was wise, Jim.”

  “It's going to come out eventually.”

  “But it makes a stronger case for a murder-suicide.”

  Jim clamped his hand over his mouth. “Sweet Jesus! I never thought of that.”

  Olympia held up three fingers and counted off. “Both Margaret and Bridget have valid reasons for wanting to be rid of Terry, but I don't think for a minute that either of them had anything to do with the cause of the fire, and we don't know anything about Eileen.”

  Jim was looking more troubled than ever.

  “You're right, of course, but do you think they'll be able to prove it in a court of law, God forbid it should ever come to that?”

  “Let me see what I can find out about the lighter fluid cans, and then you tell about your time with Bridget this morning. You must have the number of the shelter.”Olympia lowered her feet to the floor and tucked the cell phone in her pocket.

  “This isn't looking good,” said Jim. “One of us has got to get to Bridget before the police do. I think you're the better person for this.”

  Olympia crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow. “Which one of your saints is the one I call upon in time of crisis?”

  “You really are getting desperate. St Jude is the one for dire situations, but word has it that Saint Rita is the one for impossibility.”

  Olympia took her phone back out of her pocket and winked. “You'd better give me her number as well, just in case.”

  Jim stood up. “Did I see a men's room back there? I have a long day ahead of me.”

  “It's a women's college, Jim, we only have one kind. Just make sure you put the seat back down.”

  The first miracle was that Olympia did not get stopped for speeding on the way to the hospital. It was only a few city blocks away from Meriwether, but she might well have gotten a running ticket as she bolted through the double glass doors and raced up the stairs to the ICU. She was out of breath and panting when she recognized Margaret O’Mara walking down the hall toward her.

  “They've moved her, Professor. She's two floors down in Room 210. I'm just going down there with her things. What are you doing here?”

  “Margaret,” gasped Olympia, still trying to catch her breath and falling into step beside Bridget's mother. “Has anyone approached you since this morning about Bridget or the fire?”

  “No, Professor, why should they?”

  “Listen to me. You already know that the police are going to want to question you again, and they are going to question Bridget as well. I don't know any easy way to say this, but the fire is looking more and more like arson. And because Terry died in a fire that could have been set—do you see what I'm getting at?”

  “Mother of God, Professor, I told you that I should have cleaned up that mess. You see, I did kill him.”

  Olympia stopped and grabbed Margaret by the arm and spun her around to face her.

  “Margaret, not cleaning up after a brutal slob is not, I repeat, not, the same as killing him. But I do have a couple of questions I need to ask you about something we haven't discussed yet.”

  “It can wait, Olympia, I need to be with my daughter.”

  Olympia was struggling with her own mother instinct, fully understanding the need to see a wounded child, and her warrior woman instinct, knowing that if the police got to Bridget or Margaret before she and Jim had a chance to fill them in on the dynamics of what was happening, the situation could go from desperate to dire in minutes.

  “Margaret, I'm sure you haven't thought about this, but we might need to engage a lawyer.”

  “Olympia, I need to see my Brigie …now.” Her voice was rising. As the two women turned the corner and approached Bridget's room, Olympia was the first to spot the uniformed policewoman at the far end of the hospital corridor walking toward them.

  “Just keep walking,” hissed Olympia, grabbing Margaret by the elbow and propelling the woman ahead of her. “She has no idea who we are. Just walk like you're heading toward another room, and don't make eye contact. Look down.”

  “I've got to see my daughter.” Margaret's voice was a guttural hiss. Olympia knew she would not be put off for long.

  “You can come back after she goes. Once we get past her just keep on going, and I'll stop and talk to her. Wait for me in the visitors’ lounge, and don't talk to anybody.”

  “What are you going to say?”

  “I have no idea.”

  When the two women made it past the police officer, Olympia gave Margaret's elbow a quick squeeze and a firm push forward. Then she turned and looked into the solemn face of Officer Louise Stafford.

  “Officer? May I have a few words with you?”

  “Who might you be, ma'am?” The woman moved in such a way as to block the entrance of the room.

  “I'm Bridget O’Mara's minister,” said Olympia, feeling fractionally more confident in a believable persona. “My name is Reverend Olympia Brown. I've come to offer spiritual comfort to a child in need. Is there some problem? I'm the one who identified her in the wee hours of yesterday morning. I heard the Jane Doe story on the TV and thought I might know who it was, and it turns out I was right. I've just come in to talk to her. They told me she had regained consciousness. I want to pray with her … now.”

  The officer looked wary. “I have to ask her some questions, but I can't discuss them with anyone; not even her minister. Uh, do you have any identification, ma'am, uh, Reverend?”

  “Of course I do,” said Olympia, pasting her most engaging smile on her face and fishing around in her disorganized bag for her college chaplain ID card. She was never so grateful that she had worn her clerical collar for the photograph.

  She held out the card, and the officer took it, looked at both sides, mumbled something that sounded like, “I guess so,” and handed it back to her.

  Olympia smiled again and put her hand on the woman's uniformed arm. “Officer, more than anything, this young woman needs to know that God is in that room with her. I do understand that this is a very, uh, complicated situation, and of course you have a job to do, but surely a few minutes alone with her isn't asking too much? Certainly ten or fifteen minutes one way or the other isn't going to make a difference.”

  She was gaining ground. Officer Louise was wavering. “I suppose not, Reverend, but no more than ten minutes. I've got a schedule to keep. I'll be right outside the door.”

  “Do you have children, Officer?”

  “One daughter, Reverend.”

  “Then you know how it is when they're confused and need help. Uh, you do understand that I'll need to shut the door.

  “I suppose, but no more than fifteen minutes, and I'll be right outside the whole time.”

  Olympia smiled a grateful thank you.

  Bridget was leaning back on a pile of pillows with the remains of a snack on the tray table in front of her. Her lips twitched when Olympia entered the room. There was no visitor chair in evidence, so Olympia pulled up the commode and sat down.
/>   “I've only got fifteen minutes, Bridget. I need to talk to you.”

  Later she found Margaret in the visitor's lounge, sitting with her back to the door, holding her rosary beads, and slipping them through her fingers one at a time. Her lips were moving, but she made no sound. Olympia stood for a moment, then touched her on the shoulder and whispered, “It's me, Margaret.”

  Margaret turned and caught Olympia by the arm. “Brigie?”

  “I've seen her and talked with her, and she is definitely improving. Mostly she hurts from the vomiting and from the intubation performed when the EMTs found her. The police officer is in there with her now. It's a woman, and she has a daughter of her own. I talked to her a little about this situation, just in general terms. You need to stay away right now. I'd like to take you back to Martha House.”

  “But…”

  “I can't force you to come with me, Margaret, but I can say that you might make it worse for yourself and your daughter if you go up there. When I talked with her she was pretty rational for someone who's been through what she's been through.”

  “I'm not leaving till I see her. Does she know about Terry yet?”

  “Father Jim thought it best that we wait. I'll tell you everything on the way back. Let me run down to her room and see if the coast is clear, then I'll come back and get you.”

  Margaret didn't stay long. Bridget was grateful to see her mother and Olympia, and anyone could see she was definitely improving, but it was clear the girl was exhausted and wanted to sleep. The attending nurse assured the two women that this was a good thing. Bridget had put her body through hell, and sleep was nature's most curative tool.

  Margaret leaned over and kissed her daughter and allowed herself to be escorted out of the room, down the two flights of stairs and to Olympia's legendary van.

  “I can't believe you drive something so big.”

  Olympia thought back to Jim's disparaging comments about her beloved vehicle. “Well, I do, and I love it. It's probably a throwback to my hippie-wannabe days in the sixties. Need a hand up? There's a grab-handle just inside the door.”

  Margaret grabbed as instructed and swung herself up. She landed somewhat awkwardly in the seat beside Olympia.

  “I like being up high where I can see everything.” Olympia snapped her seat belt into place and held out Margaret's.

  “Olympia, why in God's name would my daughter do such a thing?”

  “When I visited her this morning, we really didn't talk about what she did or why she did it. I thought it was more important to try and give her a reason to live and to convince her not to do it again. You and her sister Eileen are that reason. Terry's dead.”

  Margaret gasped. “But she should think of herself, not me.”

  “Right now, Bridget is so empty inside there's no self to think about. But her love for you and her sister, you in particular, might be able to transcend that. Anything we can do to give her a reason for living is what we have to concentrate on. We can worry about the details later. She's still on suicide watch, but that's a good thing. She'll have to see a psychiatrist when she's up to it, and they'll make recommendations for follow-up care after that. But for now, it means they are checking in on her all the time. ”

  “Thank you, Professor,” whispered Margaret, “you've done so much for us, for my Brigie.”

  “I've come to love her like my own daughter.”

  When the two were back at the Martha House having a cup of tea, Olympia went over Margaret's story with her one more time. Jim would be taking her to the police station the next morning, and the more confident she was about what she was going to say, the less likely she was to say the wrong thing. Not that there was anything wrong to say, so far anyway.

  Olympia chose her words carefully. “There is one thing we haven't talked about, and it could be a problem.”

  “What's that?”

  “When Terry's body was discovered, there were some empty lighter fluid cans near where he was found. Do you know anything about that?”

  Margaret let out a long breath and slumped down in her chair. She looked utterly defeated.

  “I bought him a can of lighter fluid last week, Olympia. He was always running out or losing it. Never remembers, uh remembered, to get it when he buys his cigarettes, so I offered to pick some up.”

  “And did you?”

  “I just told you I did.”

  Olympia leaned forward and put her two hands flat on the table between them. “How many cans did you buy?”

  “One.”

  “Only one. You're sure of that?”

  “What are you getting at, Professor?”

  “Margaret, when Terry's body was discovered there were several empty lighter fluid cans under his chair. Are you sure you only bought one?”

  Margaret dropped her eyes and took a long breath.

  “Are you beginning to think I did kill him?”

  “Of course not! But the investigators are going to be asking questions that anyone in their position has to ask. I don't think for a minute you had anything to do with it, but look at the big picture. You are a viciously battered wife; the man repeatedly molested your younger daughter; he's an alcoholic and a chain-smoker. On the day he dies you go over to the house to get a few personal things without a witness, even though Sister Myra offered to go with you, and two days later your husband dies in a house fire.”

  “Saints preserve us. With God as my witness, Olympia, I only bought one can. I remember the man in the store asking me if I wanted more because they were on sale, but I didn't have enough money, so I only got the one. I told you when I went back to the house I started to clean up around his chair, but I stopped. I didn't see any cans on the floor then, but then, I wasn't looking, was I? What are you getting at?”

  “When you were there you started to pick up around his chair and then you stopped. You didn't notice a can of lighter fluid then, but more than one were discovered near where he was found the next morning.”

  Margaret pushed back in her chair, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief. “Oh, Olympia, this is awful. I'm not sorry he's dead. I'd be lying if I said I was, but I didn't lay a fire so he'd burn himself to death. I couldn't do that to anybody.”

  “There's more.”

  “There can't be.”

  “That's why I needed to talk with Bridget before the police did. People can sometimes do unmentionable things when they believe they have nothing to live for. Bridget is a terribly wounded young woman in desperate emotional straits.”

  Olympia brushed back an imaginary wisp of hair and cleared her throat. This next bit was going to be even more difficult.

  “Unfortunately for both of you, Margaret, murder-suicide is under consideration as well. It's not uncommon under these circumstances. But until the reports are released, no one is going to make any accusations or press charges.”

  Margaret covered her face with her hands and began rocking back and forth. She was beyond speaking.

  “Margaret, look at me. Where did you buy the lighter fluid?”

  “There's a news and tobacco shop on Adams Street. It's on the way to the supermarket. Why?”

  “Nothing, really, but the shopkeeper might remember if somebody else bought a bunch of cans of lighter fluid. I might just go over there and check it out. No one knows who I am. What's the name of the place?”

  “Lucky's Smokes and News.”

  “That's original,” said Olympia, wrinkling up her nose and then covering a yawn.

  “You're tired, Professor. You need to go home and get some rest. There's nothing more any of us can do for now, and Father Jim will be here tomorrow. Maybe by then he'll be able to tell us something. I wonder when they'll release his, uh, I mean, when do you think we can start making the funeral arrangements?”

  Twenty-Six

  Olympia was worried that Bridget would have no way of proving where she went or what she did after she saw Jim on Good Friday morning or that she was in her dormitory room on Satu
rday up until the time she left for the church.

  And then there's the issue of the lighter fluid cans. I can only deal with one aspect of this mess at a time, and right now I'm so tired, I can't think at all.

  Olympia stumbled through the front door of her Brookfield home and went through the feline greeting and feeding ritual on autopilot. Even though they had been alone for less than twenty-four hours, the two beasties were howling as if they'd been in a concentration camp. She looked around for signs of abandoned-cat-revenge but found nothing more than an extraordinarily ripe litter-box. The flowers that Frederick had sent her were wilting, and so was she, and it was far too late to call England.

  Olympia was surprised to discover that she missed the man far more than she had expected. She wanted the comfort of feeling his arms around her and the reassurance of hearing him tell her that she was not alone in this. He'd been a total brick when he came over at Christmas, and all hell broke loose with the cult business. She missed the sex, too, but she was too tired to even consider that aspect of it, lovely as it was. Besides, she was hungry.

  Olympia was reluctant to admit to herself that she was frightened. She was afraid that two women, both victims of years of abuse at the hands of a malicious and violent pervert, might now be held responsible for the death of the man who had spent most of his life destroying theirs. There seemed to be a tidal wave of evidence building in favor of a murder charge, and Olympia felt as though she and Jim were standing directly in front of it, trying to hold it back with a butterfly net. And dammit—the upstairs bathroom light is on again. What the hell is going on here anyway?

  Olympia was just about to start up the stairs when she heard a double chime from the clock that didn't work. Then she understood. Leanna was trying to get her attention. Did it have something to do with the bathroom?

  She ran up the stairs and looked around for something that might provide a clue or message. Nothing was broken or out of place. Then she saw it. The door of the medicine cabinet was open, and the bottle of Percocet was gone. Olympia looked at her watch. It was too late to call Jim.