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Bentz noted how the priest fiddled with a letter opener on his desk—a stubby knife, then suddenly aware of it, set the knife down on a stack of unopened mail next to the wide ink blotter. Bentz leaned in closer. “You’re a young man, Father. Good-looking.”
The start of a smile again, but it froze as Father Anthony became aware of what was coming.
“Did Helene Laroche ever come on to you?”
“What?” He appeared shocked, but a telltale blush stole up the back of his neck, invading his cheeks.
“You know what I mean. It’s kind of every Catholic girl’s fantasy, right? Young, good-looking priest.”
A muscle worked in Anthony’s jaw. “I don’t like what you’re intimating. If you’re asking if Helene Laroche ever flirted with me. Maybe. Probably. It happens.” One shoulder lifted in a shrug as if it didn’t matter, but his eyes turned steely. “That said, if you’re asking if anything, and I meananything inappropriate happened, sexually or emotionally or whatever, I assure you that line was never crossed. Never. I take my vows very seriously.”
“But she might not have,” Bentz said, seeing he’d hit a nerve.
Anthony scraped his chair back. “I have a meeting, with a sick child at St. Ada’s Hospital.”
“What about Teri Marie Gaines?”
“Who?”
Bentz slipped a picture from his pocket and handed it to the priest.
Anthony studied the photo and shook his head, hair falling over his forehead. “No . . . I don’t think so.” He handed the snapshot back. “Should I?”
“She was killed recently. Same manner as Helene Laroche.”
“Maybe . . . maybe I read about her, but I don’t think we ever met. Not that I recall. Now—I really have to run.” The priest stood abruptly, extending his hand.
Bentz shook it as he realized he’d run up against a brick wall, but he still had one more question. “You hired Ned Zavala?”
“I did.” Father Anthony gave a quick nod, then went about shoving some books into his backpack.
“You’re aware that he’s an ex-con?”
Anthony zipped his backpack. “Yes, Detective, but again, in the Father’s House I don’t judge.”
“His mother asked you to give him the job?”
Pausing, he let out a breath. “Eileen mentioned it when the previous gardener, Del Olsen, couldn’t do the job any longer.” He forced another one of his plastic smiles. “It turns out Ned is not only an excellent groundskeeper, he has all kinds of knowledge about local plants, but he’s also a handyman. Which really works out. When it comes to fixing things, I’m afraid I have to admit that I’m all thumbs. A major disappointment to my father, who never met a leaking faucet or a broken gate that he couldn’t repair.” He flashed a grin. Again it didn’t touch his eyes. “We’re lucky to have Ned here at Our Lady. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really do have to get going.” He walked to the closet and opened the door more fully, exposing the hooks where his clerical collar and cassock were hung, then waited as Bentz walked out, and the office door was shut firmly behind him.
But Bentz wasn’t finished. He made his way to the cemetery gate and walked through. He didn’t see Zavala at first, but as he made his way through the graying tombs and crypts, carved angels and images of the Madonna, and Jesus himself visible in the crumbling marble, he heard the scrape of metal against cement or rock over the soft sigh of the wind.
He rounded the corner of one tall crypt and found Zavala raking around a fountain where an angel stood, wings widespread, head turned heavenward. No water flowed at this moment, but the dark stains running from the angel’s eyes made it appear as if she were actually crying.
“Hey.” Zavala stopped moving, the tines of his rake no longer scratching the area around the fountain’s pool. “What’re you doin’ here? I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
“I saw you working. Thought I’d ask you a few questions.”
“I got nothin’ to say to you,” he said warily. He was a mountain of a man, probably six-three and well over 250 pounds, Bentz guessed. Zavala’s face was weathered, his eyes slits in a deeply lined face, his jaw covered in a blond stubble that matched the stringy strands of hair visible beneath his red hat. His plaid shirt was used as an open jacket not quite covering a hole-riddled T-shirt that had once been black but had faded to a dingy gray.
“Did you know Helene Laroche?” Bentz asked.
Zavala started raking again. “No.”
“She was married to—”
“I know who she was married to. But I never met her.”
“Not even at mass?”
