An Unspeakable Mission (Olympia Brown Mysteries) Page 18

  The next morning, after sleeping almost nine hours and halfway through her first cup of industrial strength coffee, Olympia called Jim.

  “I know what happened to Bridget, Jim. She took my leftover Percocet and God knows what else. Now I feel partially responsible for what happened.”

  “Don't go there, Olympia. If she hadn't taken what she found at your house, she would have found something else.”

  “It was my house-ghost, Miss Winslow, who got me to look in the bathroom. She's been trying to get my attention for the last couple of days. Well, she did it last night. She got me to go up there by turning on the light. That's how I discovered the pills were gone.

  Jim made a noncommittal harrumph.

  “We can talk about that later. I'm going to call Frederick in a few minutes and tell him what's going on. Shall I send him your regards?”

  “By all means, Olympia, do you know when he's coming back?”

  “Certainly by the end of the month, maybe sooner, I hope. I really miss him.”

  “Do I detect a glimmer of something serious developing here, Reverend Doctor Professor person?”

  “You'll be the first to know, Jim, but don't hold your breath. I've got one or two things to clear up in my life before I take on anything new. We'll talk about that later as well.”

  Olympia could feel her heartbeat quickening as she dialed England. Jim may be right, she thought, there may be something serious developing here. But what do I do about it? That's the real question.

  “Good news,” blurted Frederick when he recognized Olympia's voice. “I was going to call you later today. The coast is cleared, the red tape is cut, and I'll be there in ten days. I've already booked my tickets and ordered the wine. White for you, red for me, and champagne for the two of us.”

  Talk about ambivalent feelings. Olympia didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. There was nothing more in the world she wanted than to have Frederick there with her with all of this going on. His presence certainly would complicate things even more, but in a most delightful way. Whether he read her mind or caught the hesitation in her response, he knew at once something was amiss, and she could hear his disappointed concern.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Just tell the truth, Olympia. “There is, but it's not with you. This is wonderful news, but telling you about the problem is going to take a while.”

  “If it concerns you, then it concerns me. I have all the time you need.”

  Olympia looked at her watch and for a brief moment wondered how long this conversation might take on prime-time telephone. Then she threw her concerns about expenses to the wind and began to tell Frederick the whole ugly, convoluted, tragic story.

  When she finished, Frederick naturally asked how he might help, and did she want him to try and change the tickets and come sooner.

  Olympia thanked him for his consummate consideration and Frederick assured her that he would do his best to be consummate in all of their relations henceforth. He also said, when Olympia stopped laughing, that he would give the whole tangled mess some thought and call her back if and when he had any ideas or insights that he thought might be of value.

  Despite the immense gravity of the situation, Olympia was grinning like a Cheshire cat and humming “God Save the Queen” all the way to the hospital.

  Jim and Olympia were having a cup of coffee in the hospital cafeteria. “How did Margaret do this morning at the station house?”

  “Nothing we didn't expect. Sister Myra took her over there, and I joined them right after mass. Jerry O’Brien was pretty good, considering he had a tough job to do. He told her that the autopsy and the arson reports should be in by the end of the day.”

  “What else?”

  “He asked her a lot of questions about her marriage and about Terry; what he was like, how much did he drink and how often did he beat her up? He actually came out and asked why she didn't she leave sooner.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “Pretty much what they all say in these circumstances … she was afraid, she had no money, where would she go, what about the girls, what would people say? She admitted that he had threatened to kill her more than once, but she was even more upset for her daughters having to witness all of it. After the girls were out of the house, she still had no money or place to go. But you changed that for her, Olympia. You got her started. Thank God she called you. That's all I can say.”

  “True enough, Jim,” said Olympia, “but you're the one who actually went there and physically got her out. What else did they talk about? Did he ask her about the sexual abuse?”

  “Well, that's where it gets sticky. Like I said, Jerry's good, but he has a job to do. He asked Margaret if she could tell him about anything else, like how Terry was as a father.”

  Olympia winced. “Oh, the poor woman. That must have been awful for her. Bridget once said that the Irish don't talk about personal matters and especially if it has to do with sex. What did she say?”

  “Well, at first she said nothing, just looked at the floor and twisted her handkerchief, but Jerry prompted her and asked if she'd like to speak to a woman instead. I've got to hand it to him. I never knew he had such a sensitive side. Anyway, they called a woman named Louise Stafford, and that's when I left. I guess it all came out then. Margaret was vague about that part when we talked afterward, but she did say that the Stafford woman was a perfect saint.”

  “She still feels guilty,” said Olympia.

  “Guilty and angry.”

  “Murderously angry, Jim?”

  He hesitated. “I honestly don't think so, but we both know of instances where people simply snap after years of abuse like that. Finding those pictures could have been the trigger, and if it was, who could blame her? She's definitely a woman on the edge.”

  Olympia shuddered. He's right, she is on the edge.

  “What then?”

  “Jerry told her that at this point in the investigation; both she and her daughters were considered persons of interest. As such, they were not to leave town, but they were free to go about their business.”

  “Does Bridget have any idea about the persons of interest thing?”

  “I don't know that either, Olympia. There's no way of knowing what she might have said to that police officer yesterday or what she said to her. As far as I know, nobody at the hospital knows about the sexual abuse. Not yet, anyway. They just think it's a suicide, not that that isn't bad enough. Look, finish your coffee, and let's go see her for ourselves.”

  Bridget was sitting up in bed, and she had a bit more color in her cheeks, but her eyes were vacant, and her lips were pinched in a thin, flat line. When Olympia and Jim entered the room, Margaret was hovering next to her, and standing just inside the door was Sister Myra.

  “Eileen coming? Hi, Sister.”

  Olympia was dabbing at her damp forehead and wiping the back of her neck with a wadded tissue as Margaret responded.

  “She's on her way. She had to make arrangements to be off work until after the funeral. You okay, Professor? You've gone all red in the face.”

  “Bridget Mary met with the psychiatrist this morning,” said Sister Myra. Bridget made a face and nodded in agreement, then looked across the room at the nun. “If he approves, she can be released. I suggested that she come back to Martha House and stay with her mother, at least until after the funeral.”

  Olympia had thought of making the same offer herself but realized at once that this was a far better solution. Sister Myra knew how to nurture and heal wounded women, and Bridget needed the strength and support of her family.

  “Will they allow that?” asked Olympia.

  “Bridget's over eighteen. She can go where she wants. They can't keep her here if she wants to leave.”

  Bridget looked up at her mother, who was still fussing with the sheet and blankets on the bed, and then over to the tough, no-nonsense nun and smiled her gratitude. Sister Myra stepped forward and stood at the foot of the be
d.

  “Actually, would you all mind if I have a few minutes alone with Bridget? I want to hear what she wants to do next without the rest of you here.”

  Olympia turned and led the others out of the room, where they formed an anxious huddle in the corridor.

  “I think we could all use a breath of fresh air. Come on, all of you, let's get a bite of something and take it outside.

  Jim caught hold of Olympia's arm and pulled her to a halt. “One last thing before we do. I finally got hold of the Archbishop, and he's agreed to hear Bridget's confession.”

  “But she's out of the woods, isn't she?” Olympia looked puzzled.

  “Physically, she's going to make it, but if Bridget doesn't believe she is truly absolved of her sins, she might make another attempt.”

  “You're the priest,” said Olympia.

  That afternoon Olympia went off to do a little investigating on her own. The first stop was Bridget's dormitory at Meriwether. She knew there wouldn't be any students there, but with any luck, she might find the residence director, Zoë Rodgers, and see if she might be able to add anything to the picture.

  Ms. Rogers was in, and when Olympia explained the situation, she said she was more than willing to be of help. She recalled seeing Bridget on the Saturday before Easter.

  “I remember telling you that I asked her to join me for breakfast because we were the only ones left on campus. But she was acting like she was really out of it. I asked her if she was all right, was she sick or something, but all she said was she had a lot on her mind and apologized if she had made me worry. She was here at lunchtime, but she stayed in her room. I asked her if she wanted me to bring her anything from the dining hall. She thanked me but said she wasn't hungry, that she was going out later. She's always been so polite. I even tried to call her house to see if she'd gone home. By then I was getting worried.”

  “You called the house? What time? Anybody answer?”

  “I was having a bad feeling, although I can't explain why. When I called the number, I got a static crackle, so I hung up. I thought I might have dialed wrong, so I tried a second time and got a busy signal. Then I was really getting nervous, so I tried one more time just to make sure and got some guy babbling something about Holy Saturday and his little baby. He sounded drunk. I didn't know what to do, so I hung up. I suppose I might have called the police, but what would I have said? The students come and go as they like. It's not like she left a note or anything.”

  “What time did you make the calls, Zoë”

  “Mmm, sometime after supper, maybe about eight or so. Why, is it important?”

  “It might be. You're sure of the time?”

  “Yeah, I wanted to be off the phone before my favorite game show came on, so I know it was just before nine o'clock.”

  “Thank you, Zoë, this is really helpful.” Olympia explained as much as she could and told the young woman that she would get word to the Dean's office herself. Bridget would likely be on a leave of absence for a while. She also said that if Zoë could recall anything else that Bridget might have said or done, she should please call Olympia at home.

  The next stop was Lucky's Smokes and News, which looked and smelled exactly like what the sign advertised. There, Olympia learned that no one in recent memory had bought up a bunch of cans of lighter fluid.

  “Business is tough all around,” said the gnarled old man behind the counter. “Nobody smokes anymore. I got a coupla regulars, but they don't keep me in business. I been thinking of selling, but who'd buy it?”

  “That man who died in the fire, Terry O’Mara, was he one of your regulars?”

  The man was instantly on guard. “Why you askin’?”

  “I'm a friend of the family. Actually, I'm a minister, and I might be speaking at the funeral. I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I might get a better picture of the man if I talked to people who knew him. If he was a regular here, you might be able to tell me something about him from a different perspective.”

  “Why'd you come in here?”

  “I just told you.”

  “Terry picked up the paper every night on his way home. He was a mean, two-faced bastard. Oops, sorry, Reverend. He won't be missed.”

  “Did Margaret ever come in here? Olympia was doing her best to look and act like the exchange was little more than neighborhood tidbits.

  The man behind the counter shook his head. “Not too often. Like I said, Terry come in for the paper. Sometimes she would come in for cigarettes if he ran out.”

  “Did she ever get lighter fluid?”

  He was looking suspicious again. “Sometimes.”

  Olympia thanked the man, bought a local paper and a candy bar, and left. The headline read Murder Suspected in Barrett Street Fire. She thought about going back to the hospital but realized she was virtually brain-dead. Best to go home and let everything sit in the gray matter for a while and see if any new ideas bubbled to the surface. Olympia turned the old van south toward the nearest entrance to the expressway and trusted it would find its way home.

  When she walked through the door, the phone was ringing.

  “Olympia, this is Jim. I just got a call from Jerry over at Dorchester PD. The reports are in, and they want to bring Margaret and both girls in for questioning as soon as Bridget's out of the hospital.”

  “Oh, no. How come he called you?”

  “Because I know where they are, and I think he's doing me a favor without being explicit.” Jim sounded weary and defeated.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think he told me as much as he did so I can soften the blow. It's not looking good, Olympia. The fire is suspicious, and everything points to someone who was very familiar with Terry's habits having arranged things in such a way that sooner or later he would start a fire and do himself in.”

  “How so?”

  “Jerry couldn't tell me everything, but it doesn't take too much to figure out that an alcoholic chain smoker who uses an old Zippo cigarette lighter and drops sparks and ashes into newspapers piled up around his feet, might, while loaded, try to fill his lighter with lighter fluid, spill some and then drop sparks and ashes into the spill and be so drunk he couldn't get out of the way fast enough. It's not a new scenario. A lot of drunks kill themselves with carelessly disposed smoking materials. Nasty way to go, though.”

  Olympia was trying to make sense of this, but it didn't add up. Empty lighter fluid cans and newspapers around the body, but the man died of smoke inhalation. He was not burned. There was no actual flame anywhere near him. A passing neighbor saw smoke and called the fire department, but it was too late to save him. There's a piece missing somewhere. What is it? And where is it? Murder? Attempted murder? Intent to murder followed by an aborted suicide? None of the above?

  She couldn't, or wouldn't, bring herself to believe that either Margaret or Bridget could ever do such a thing, and yet, everything pointed to a well-thought-out, carefully orchestrated accident. And what about Eileen? She hated Terry as much as anyone. Was she the dark horse? How come no one was asking about her?

  Jim's repeated question snapped her out of her reverie

  “You there, Olympia?”

  “Sorry Jim, I was thinking. What exactly did the autopsy reveal?”

  “That's strange, too. The preliminary results indicated that he died of smoke inhalation. I forgot to tell you, his face was almost black. I've seen heart attack victims before. It's possible he had a heart attack, and it wasn't actually the smoke.”

  Olympia shuddered at the gruesome image forming in her mind. “It could make a difference. Maybe we should ask?”

  Now it was Jim's turn to say, “How so?”

  “Don't you see, Jim? If he died of the heart attack, then whether or not somebody arranged for an accident, his death would be from natural causes and not murder.”

  “All that does is change the murder and arson charges to attempted murder and arson, Olympia. There was evidence of carbon monoxide poisonin
g in his blood and smoke in his lungs.”

  “Terry was a chain smoker, Jim. That would make him a prime candidate for a heart attack. You told me that Bridget came to see you on Good Friday morning. Tell me again how she was acting.”

  “Distracted, but considering what she had on her mind, who wouldn't be? I couldn't know that, of course. I knew she was a terribly troubled young woman. I had to be careful what I said. I attributed her preoccupation to her personal situation. I suppose I should have been more observant, but I was distracted myself. Holy Week is exhausting, and I was already tired.”

  “Do we know where she went after she came to see you?”

  Jim thought back to the day, trying to remember the exact words of a woman about to embark on a suicide mission.

  “I recall asking if she would be coming to St. Bartholomew's on Easter, but she said no, that she didn't want to run into her father. I remember now, she knew that her mother had left home and asked if I knew where she was. She said she'd be going to a church in Cambridge. Well, we all know which one that was now. Wait a minute, I do remember something. Bridget made a point of telling me that her father always attended the Good Friday vigil at St. Bartholomew's, and he always stayed for the entire three hours.”

  “So he would be certain to be out of the house during that period of time.”

  “I'm afraid so,” said Jim, “and he was there in his usual seat for the entire time. But he was really jittery, and he wouldn't make eye contact with me. I remember that, too.”

  “So she could have gone over there while he was in church. Oh, Jim, what are we going to do?”

  “I don't know. I'm going over to Dorchester in a few minutes. Maybe you should come.”

  “Good idea, Jim. And another thing, what about Eileen?”

  “She says was with her roommates all weekend.”

  “Anybody verify that?”

  Twenty-Seven