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“How long has Ned worked here?”
“Um . . . maybe six months, possibly a little longer. I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask Father Anthony.”
“So Father Anthony hired Ned Zavala?”
“Yes, yes, I think so. I mean, yes, Ned started working after Father Anthony became the priest here. But that’s all I know about it.” She twiddled the cross dangling from the chain at her throat.
“How long have you known Father Anthony?” he asked, having already checked. The priest had come to Our Lady of the Grove nearly six years earlier, after nearly five years in Dallas, Texas.
“As long as he’s been here. We had an interim priest after Father Lucas left, but he only lasted a few months. Father Anthony has been here for . . . about five years, I think. Yes, that’s right, it’s going to be six years in February, I think. Yes, that’s right, he came right as my Harold was passing, gave him last rites,” she said, and her eyes looked past Bentz to a spot in the middle distance only she could see.
“I thought you lived in Florida.”
“Oh.” She came back to the present. “We did—you know, vacation home.”
“And your car, the Alero, was registered there?” he asked, and checked to see that Ned Zavala was still raking leaves in the cemetery. The man in the flannel shirt was farther into the crypts now, but still visible.
“Yes, yes, bought it from a dealership in Tallahassee. Got a good deal on it, as it was a year old, used as a demo. Harold was proud of that, rest his soul.” She crossed herself.
“And now you’re a full-time resident?”
“Yes. Oh, yes. I couldn’t keep up two places.” She nodded. “After Harold passed. It was hard. He loved it there so, the fishing you know. But Father Anthony encouraged me to sell.” She brightened at the mention of the priest. “He helped me through a hard, hard time, you know. Father Anthony is as fine a man as I’d ever want to meet.” Bentz withheld judgment until he, too, met the parish priest in his office a few minutes later.
Father Anthony Creswell was seated at his desk, computer open, reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose, earbuds visible. His brown hair flopped over a high forehead and he looked up quickly when Bentz appeared in the open doorway. “Oh.” Off came the bifocals, out came the earbuds, all dropped onto the desk. “I—uh—wasn’t expecting anyone. Can I help you?” Closing his laptop in one swift motion, he stood, a tall, lanky man in jeans and a faded T-shirt, who looked more like an outfielder for the Atlanta Braves than a parish priest in his faded, ripped Levi’s and T-shirt.
“I hope so.” Bentz introduced himself and took the chair that Father Anthony had cleared for him.
“Sorry. Didn’t expect anyone today,” the priest said as he put the backpack and several books that had been on the folding chair onto a stool near the closet. His office was cluttered, books and papers scattered over the desk, a huge crucifix mounted on the wall behind the desk, a large window offering a view of the parklike grounds. A bookcase climbed one wall and opposite was a closet, the door hanging open, a long black cassock on a hanger and clerical collar hung on a hook just inside the door. “Now, Detective, what can I do for you?”
Bentz had the priest’s full attention. Father Anthony sat, leaning forward, elbows propped on the scattered pages upon his desk, hands clasped together, eyes intent, expression earnest.
Bentz went through the same questions he’d asked Opal Guidry and offered up the same pictures, which the priest studied.
“Wow. Never seen this guy.” Father Anthony was much more firm about it than Mrs. Guidry had been. He handed the iPad and pages back to Bentz. “Sorry.”
“You’re certain?”
“I know every parishioner, every traveling priest, and am usually aware when someone new comes into the church.”
“But you don’t have cameras on the parking lot or the porch or”—Bentz motioned with a hand to include all the surroundings—“anywhere.”
“That’s right.” Father Anthony flashed a quick, almost humble grin. “We aren’t a rich parish here, so we don’t spend much money on frills—or extras. Besides, this is a house of worship, a sanctuary where everyone is welcome, no one is judged, and a place of peace. We don’t need cameras or alarms.”
Bentz wasn’t sure of that, but changed the subject to Hugo Laroche. “His family belongs to the congregation.”
For the first time since he’d stepped into the office, Bentz saw Father Anthony flinch a bit. “I’m sorry, Detective,” he said, “but I really don’t discuss my parishioners.” He smiled. “We kind of have a private thing going, you know. Confidential.”
“I saw a bench donated by the Laroche family.”
“That was before my time here.”
“Did you know Helene Laroche?”
“Of course.” He was nodding, eyes guarded.
“And you know what she did on the side, that she was . . . seeing other men.”
The warm smile had faded. “What I discuss with the parishioners is confidential, Detective. I’m sure you know that. What is said in the confessional, stays in the confessional, so to speak. Only God and I can hear.”
