Jackson rose to show him to the door. “I don’t know that there is anything more I can tell you, but I promise to let you know if I do.”

  As Ross walked once again along the garden path that Ethel had landscaped so many years ago and had come to splendid fruition, he could not ignore the insight pressing in on him from the conversation with Jackson. It was a well-known fact that the Kohls were devout Catholics, particularly Ethel and King. Why then this sudden and vociferous attack on the church by Jackson? Was it generated by his profound grief over what had happened to his family, or was something else involved? Of one thing Ross was certain: He would run the development past his Wendy, the better to stimulate her savant, puzzle-solving gifts. There was no mistaking that Jackson Kohl had sounded and looked like he wanted to burn down the basilica with a thousand torches but without a scintilla of regret.

  * * *

  Over glasses of Rosalie muscadine wine at the kitchen table that evening, Wendy and Ross were comparing notes—with Wendy holding forth first.

  “You and Daddy should put this much behind you regarding the case: Ethel Kohl believed she killed her son because she was suffering from a delusion that she did the deed. Unfortunately, it was part of her disease and her ongoing deterioration. Jackson did the right thing in entrusting her care to Seabreeze Place. It had to be done. So, let’s once and for all dismiss the idea that Ethel Kohl killed King. It never happened, except in Ethel’s troubled brain, the poor woman. I wanted to get that out of the way before we went any further.”

  “I’ll go along with that,” Ross said, raising his glass before taking a big sip. “I take it you came to this conclusion because of your visit with Dr. Pevey. He’s a pretty persuasive and authoritative man, and I’d be inclined to abide by his advice and counsel.”

  “Yes, I view him the same way.”

  “Anything else?”

  Wendy seemed hesitant at first but finally dove into a monologue. “Well . . . it’s just that . . . I’ve been trying to figure out how Jackson is getting through all this tragedy; but then, Dr. Pevey mentioned how devoted the Kohls were to their church and that Jackson’s faith was probably serving him well now. It was a nice thought to send me on my way, don’t you think? I’ve never considered myself all that religious, but I know that some people are to an extent I never could be. I’m just too curious about the universe to settle for dogma. Daddy’s always encouraged me to question and then listen cautiously.”

  Ross put down his glass as his face clouded over. “Okay, I understand that part, but I think we may have a problem.”

  “What do you mean? A problem with what I just said?”

  “No, I mean that far from singing the praises of his faith, Jackson went off on a tirade against his church. He seemed to be blaming them for what had happened to his family, not whoever it was who killed King. I coudda sworn that he was ready to ram his fist through one a’ their stained glass windows. How can you possibly blame a church for all that’s happened? It doesn’t make sense. That is, if he really meant it, and in my opinion, he wasn’t faking his diatribe.”

  Wendy looked startled. “That is peculiar. Even if it’s a form of grief, it’s peculiar.”

  “That’s what I thought. The more I think about it, the more I come to the conclusion that Jackson just wants someone or something to blame, and since we haven’t arrested Marcus Silvertree—or Jimmers Tyson, who he did remember a little bit, by the way—he’s lashing out indiscriminately.” Ross then further explained the exchange he had had with Jackson about Jimmers Tyson.

  “It was secondhand, maybe even third-hand, information at best,” he concluded. “That kinda stuff is not all that helpful, especially when it comes from someone under the influence. I’m just thankful Jackson wasn’t driving around in that sort of foul mood.”

  “You’ve given me a lot to think about,” Wendy told him, as they both finished off their wine and together began fixing their dinner.

  But that night in bed, Wendy decided upon her next step, this time without the excess of waking Ross. Tomorrow, she would once again seek the counsel of Father LeBlanc at the basilica.

  CHAPTER 15

  It was clear to Wendy that Father LeBlanc regarded her presence in the rectory with a certain amount of skepticism, maybe even a hint of disdain. She was certain she could read his mind: I wonder what she wants now. Did I not make church doctrine clear enough last time?

  No matter. She intended to maintain her focus. She could also spot a forced smile and demeanor a mile away, but she was driven by the conviction—perhaps even some sort of premonition—that something urgent was afoot, and she intended to see it all through to what she hoped would be a salvageable result. As she had on her previous visit, she followed him into his office, took her seat, and began her story.

  “As you know, Father, I’m not Catholic, but I have my concerns for a man who is very much so, Jackson Kohl.” She let her opening statement sit there for a short time, noting that the lines in Father’s face softened somewhat before she continued.

  “I think he is having a definite crisis of faith and needs your help. My husband tells me that on a recent visit to the slave quarters behind Kohl Place where Jackson is living, he attacked his church verbally—your church as well—in no uncertain terms. Ross said he’d never witnessed such a bitter outburst in his life, and he’s seen his share during his career in law enforcement, believe me. It appears Jackson’s almost blaming his son’s death and his wife’s medical confinement to a memory-care unit on you, in a manner of speaking. I guess I mean the generic you—as in you and the church taken together. I thought you ought to know all of this, just in case you didn’t already.”

  Father sank back in his chair and made a temple of his fingers—almost, but not quite, a prayerful gesture. “No, I was not aware of that at all, Miz Rierson. The last time I saw Jackson was at his son’s services, where he was very much in crisis, as you know. He has not been to confession or church since, though I encouraged him at the services to call on me if he needed me. Offhand, I’d say that these tragedies in his life have gotten to him, as they would anyone with a heart and soul. But those are the times when he should seek consolation from the church the most, not lash out with a vengeance. It’s very concerning for me to hear this, and I’m glad you brought it to my attention.”

  Wendy’s smile was on the tentative side. “I imagined you would say something like that, but I wanted you to have all the information so you could decide what, if anything, you should do next.”

  Father averted his eyes briefly and then said, “The reaIity is that I can’t force Jackson or anyone else to seek me out. They must come to me and the church of their own accord without being coerced. Our communicants must want to participate and not be dragged screaming into what we offer. Heavy-handedness doesn’t get the job done.”

  “That’s an interesting way of putting it,” Wendy added, surprised at how committed she was to pleading on behalf of a man she really did not know all that well, his wife and son being the ones who had had the more meaningful impact on her. “But if you knew one of your parishioners was physically ill and needed your comfort, you would go ahead and visit them then, wouldn’t you? Why would this be any different? Maybe it’s not my place to say so, and I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds here, but being proactive might be a good idea.”

  Father actually broke into a genuine smile, a far cry from the forced one he had generated upon greeting her. “Miz Rierson, have you ever considered becoming a practicing Catholic? Your generosity of spirit moves me greatly. I know a few of my communicants who could follow your example.”

  “Thank you for that compliment, Father, but for now, I think I’ll stick with being a somewhat lapsed Presbyterian. But you’ll be the first to know if I change my mind.”

  Father had obviously entered his comfort zone, because he started laughing out loud. “Understand that mine is an ecumenical laugh, and I appreciate your honesty.” He sat with that for a moment and then leaned forward. “And in this particular case, I agree with you. I don’t think it would hurt at all for me to pay him a visit and see what pastoral care I can offer him. It might be an advantage for me if I could, but I simply don’t read minds long-distance. You’ve acted as a spiritual helper here, and I’m grateful.”

  Wendy managed a soft sigh of relief. “Good. Glad I could help. I feel a little better now.”

  “So Detective Rierson really feels Jackson is at a very low point, does he? Sometimes, people get so confused or turned around that they forget to ask for help anymore. Or they think they don’t deserve it when they fall on bad times. They think they’re being punished for something real or imagined. I can only hope that he’ll be willing to see me, whether I go there or he comes here.”

  “Well, don’t worry,” Wendy added. “I know there are certain things you can’t divulge to me. You’ve made that clear. But would you at least let me know that you’ve seen him and tried to help him through this crisis he’s having?”

  They rose together, and Father shook her hand. “I will do that, Miz Rierson. You know, I’ve long admired your father as our chief of police. There’s no better a public servant in Rosalie. Well, maybe your husband’s also right up there, from what I’ve heard and seen. In any case, I believe I see where you get that admirable character of yours.”

  Wendy found herself blushing, something that most people found utterly endearing in a redhead with a few freckles here and there. “What a sweet thing to say to me, and I can only hope I’ve ordered up just the tonic Jackson needs.”

  “I’ll keep you posted to the extent I can.”

  “Thank you. I’ll look forward to that.” It was then that she noticed a small picture of Father on his desk that she had failed to spot before. He was dressed in martial arts garb, striking an aggressive pose. “By the way, that’s a very impressive shot of you. Is karate a hobby of yours?”

  “Not so much anymore,” he told her. “When the spirit moves me, so to speak. You see, I had a previous life before I decided to go to the seminary. Not everyone is born knowing where they belong and where they can do the most good. I actually had a little martial arts studio—Emile’s Disciplines and More, I called it—and I was going gangbusters with my classes. More people than I could handle, really. Then, I came to the decision that I needed something more fulfilling in my life, so here I am. Don’t ask me why it happened, but I had a shift in priorities and switched from disciplines to disciples. The upshot is that I can defend myself quite well in most circumstances, although it hasn’t come up since I changed professions.”

  Wendy offered up a brief but genuine laugh. “I don’t doubt that for a second. I’ve found in my line of work that the best way to understand anyone is to learn their backstory. That’s always the ‘meat and potatoes’ of who they really are.”

  “Believe me,” Father added. “I’m in the business of hearing backstories, right and left.”

  * * *

  Wendy was sitting in her cubicle back at the paper later that afternoon when the call came through.

  “I wanted you to know that Jackson agreed to see me at Kohl Place, and I was delighted,” Father LeBlanc told her. “As you can see, I’ve wasted no time based on what you told me. I’m going over there in just a few minutes to see what I can do for him and perhaps put him at ease. I promised I’d let you know about any breakthrough to the extent I could, and I believe it’s come sooner rather than later. Again, I want to thank you for telling me about his crisis. You’re a good person, and there need to be more people like you in this world.”

  Wendy blushed again, as she had earlier in the day in his presence, and thanked him. She sat with her endorphins for a while after the call officially ended. Unfortunately, she knew from personal experience that that kind of feeling usually didn’t last forever. Some other mundane business often butted in.

  Shortly thereafter, she came out of her glow and happened to notice that she hadn’t called up Elsie McMichael about the Billy Caspian piece she’d done a little while ago. The note that Lyndell had handed over to her was still pinned to her handy “to-do items” corkboard over her computer that featured restaurant takeout menus, as well; but with everything else going on, and her mind on King’s murder more than anything else, she had managed to ignore the note. Truth to tell, she didn’t want to contact this woman and listen to what surely amounted to journalistic pabulum. Reluctantly, however, she braced herself and made the call.

  “It was somethin’ my grandmother, Tootie Lee, told me when I was just a little girl,” the thin, high-pitched voice at the other end was saying after manners were made.

  Stoically, Wendy said, “Yes?”

  “Well, that Lacework House on Broad Street belonged to Mayor Lindsey Hoskins back then. He’s no longer with us, of course. He’s gone to his reward. If there was one waitin’ for him, that is. That’s the thing, you know. Tootie Lee told me that she heard that Billy Caspian was havin’ an affair with the mayor’s wife, and when the mayor found out, he just exploded with rage and killed Billy and then buried him in the basement. She swore by the story, and I believe it, too.”

  Slightly more interested, Wendy said, “Did your grandmother go to the police with it?”

  “No, she said she didn’t wanna get involved.”

  “That’s all your grandmother knew? Through hearsay?”

  There was a pronounced sigh of disgust at the other end. “I wondered if you’d react thataway, but Tootie Lee said the person who told her this was a church-goin’ woman who never lied about anything. She was practically a saint, everybody said. The other thing Tootie Lee said to me was that what happened to Billy Caspian was like Daniel bein’ led into the lion’s den—only nothin’ of a higher nature saved him. And furthermore to that, he didn’t know what hit him when Mayor Hoskins lured him down into that basement and then whacked him with a shovel. It made sense, ’cause they did find a shovel down there buried with him, though it seems kinda stupid to me not to just throw the murder weapon away somewhere completely so it couldn’t be found.”

  “That sounds like a blow-by-blow description—almost like it was recorded on camera. Is there some sort of film or picture available?”

  The remark clearly went over Elsie’s head. “What? Film? You mean like Kodak or Polaroid? Do they even make ’em anymore? I don’t think they do.”

  “Never mind. That’s all very interesting and colorful,” Wendy said, trying to be as diplomatic as possible. “But what I’m getting at is that I don’t suppose there is any proof of any kind? This happened so long ago that the authorities will need evidence to look into this any further.”

  “None that I know of. Just word a’ mouth. But I believe it.”

  “Why are you coming forth with this now?”

  There was an awkward pause. Then, a frantic flood of words. “Well, part of it was that article you wrote about the bones they discovered. Like to have made me faint away to the floor just picturin’ ’em. Skeletons, they creep me out no end. Never did like Halloween like the other kids. ’Course, I wudd’n that crazy about candy anyhows. I tended to put on weight back then, and then the dentist told me I had too many cavities and all. And then there was that awful murder of that handsome King Kohl. That made me shudder the same way. I just thought . . . well, what’s wrong with doin’ your civic duty? If nothin’ comes a’ what I just told you, so be it. But I leave it in your hands at this point.”

  Wendy desperately wanted to end the call, so she lied. “I see I have another line lighting up, Miz McMichael, so I thank you for the information. We’ll get back to you if we need anything further. We have your number. Have a nice day. Goodbye.” And she hung up.

  Wendy took a deep breath and then shook her head slowly. It was just as she had figured: hearsay and gossip that went back almost eight decades. No room for that in journalism.

  On the heels of her disdain, however, something of a savant nature clicked inside that unique brain of hers. Merleece, Lyndell, Wyvonne, Bella, Patrice, and now this gossipy woman looking for her fifteen minutes of fame, had all led the way and massaged her gift. Words and phrases appeared on her front burner like enormous screen credits:

  Rage

  Daniel

  Lion’s den

  Bad genes

  Explosions

  Power of suggestion

  To hell with the church

  Bleach

  Time running out

  Single hairs

  And just as suddenly, she knew. She knew in a way that conventional law enforcement could not know. Not quite everything yet, but the urgent part. Inadvertently, while thinking she was doing the right thing, she had set in motion a resolution that might have fatal consequences. At the moment, she did not know which was racing faster—her heart, or her thumbs as they texted Ross:

  Send patrol car to Kohl Place asap; case going down fast;

  Father LeBlanc & Jackson Kohl in slave quarters

  Ross’s response was nearly immediate: where are u? r u okay?

  fine; at paper; savant at work; could be possible life & death situation there

  Pike & I headed over now

  Hurry

  That much was done. There wasn’t time to go into conjecture and hunches and all the rest of it with Ross. Wendy headed briskly to Lyndell’s office to tell her where she was going, but her trusty editor wasn’t there; tracking her down in the lunchroom or bathroom didn’t seem like a great priority at the moment. So she quickly scribbled a note and left it on Lyndell’s desk:

  Breakthrough in Kohl case—headed over there now—Ross notified—get in touch with Daddy for more info. Wendy