Holy Terrors Read online

  “Easy does it,” said Mark, as a grateful Sandy slumped onto the nearest chair.

  “Oh, they’re gorgeous!” Judith exclaimed, lifting each lid. One cake was done in white icing with a bunny carrying a basket of colored eggs. The other was frosted with chocolate, a spray of Easter lilies on the diagonal. Sandy—and Begelman’s Bakery—had outdone themselves. Judith looked up at the big wall clock next to the stage. “It’s almost eleven. In my opinion, Lent is history.”

  Father Hoyle came over to admire the cakes with Wilbur Paine hopping and flopping behind him. “Praise the Lord and pass the paper plates,” said Father Hoyle. “Do we have to wait for the kiddies?”

  “Yes,” asserted Judith, planting herself in front of the table like a Beefeater guarding the Crown Jewels. “They’ll be here any minute, and they have to find the eggs before we cut the cakes. Have a crab ball.”

  Father Hoyle scrutinized the hors d’oeuvres tray that Kate Duffy had just set out. “Haven’t I seen these somewhere before?” he asked with a twinkle.

  “Waste not, want not,” retorted Judith, taking Sandy by the arm. “Ogle the cakes Sandy brought, Father. They’re a thing of beauty and a joy for about an hour and a half. Then they’ll turn not to dust, but to crumbs.”

  “Splendid specimens,” agreed the pastor with a big smile for Sandy. “Your generosity is much appreciated.”

  Sandy’s sallow complexion darkened under her heavy makeup. She was an attractive woman, Judith supposed, though her use of cosmetics seemed to conceal rather than enhance her features. Mid-forties was Judith’s guess, with a complexion victimized by New York City’s filthy air. Yet if her appearance gave her a hardened aspect, Sandy’s manner was girlishly uncertain.

  “I’m just glad to help,” insisted Sandy, who now stood by the table, fidgeting with the ties of her camel-hair coat. “With no children in the school, we haven’t been very active in the parish. Aunt Emily urged us to do more, to sort of take her place, you see.”

  Since Judith couldn’t recall Emily Tresvant ever lifting so much as a Shrove Tuesday pancake, the counsel seemed strange. But Emily had certainly contributed financially to SOTS, both in life and in death. And if Father Hoyle was showing remarkable restraint in alluding to the fact, his assistant pastor was not.

  “Mrs. Frizzell,” said Timothy Mills with unfettered fervor, “I want to make sure you’ll be at the Parish Council meeting Tuesday night. We’re going to talk about how we can put Miss Tresvant’s money to best use.” The young priest blinked and paused, his enthusiasm visibly ebbing. “That is,” he stammered, “Father Hoyle and I felt…” His index finger ran nervously inside his clerical collar. Tim Mills glanced at his superior. “Not the time or place, maybe. Excuse me,” he said, with a series of ragged nods, “I forgot something in the sacristy.”

  Under the scrutiny of several pairs of curious eyes, Tim Mills beat a hasty retreat. Father Hoyle smoothed his silver hair back from his temples and twinkled at Sandy. “Our Timothy’s youthful gusto carries him away sometimes. He will learn that the Mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceedingly small.” Judith noted that the play on words diverted Hoyle’s audience from Father Tim’s precipitous departure. The pastor took up the original topic of discussion without missing another beat: “Kurt Kramer feels we ought to invest it and use only the interest. Personally, I’d like to call a meeting of the wizards at the chancery to see what they think.”

  “They think the moon is made of green cheese,” declared a spare, balding man with a jaw like a bear trap. “Those chancery people are all alike—no sense of reality.”

  Judith, Father Hoyle, Mark Duffy, and Sandy Frizzell turned curious gazes on Kurt Kramer. Kurt was as opinionated as his wife, Eve, and just as abrasive. He was also extremely shrewd.

  Wilbur, whose ears were drooping over his eyes, bumped into Judith and excused himself in a muffled voice before addressing Kurt. “Therd’s a codzel, you bow,” he said, whiskers twitching. “Emiwy spedifibed thurch onwee.”

  “Wilbur,” admonished his wife, “take off your silly head. We can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  Dutifully, Wilbur began to tug on his ears, but at that moment, the first contingent of children erupted into the hall. Fluffy tail abob, and hopping with all his might, Wilbur went to greet his squealing audience. Father Hoyle followed him with a welcoming smile, but Kurt Kramer was watching the scene with a distinct scowl.

  “He’s referring to a codicil.” Kurt’s sharp blue eyes rested on Sandy. “You know of it, I imagine. Your husband’s aunt specified that her money should be used only for the church. Not the school or the gym or any other of what she considered frills.” Kurt’s mouth was still turned down, evidence of his disapproval.

  Sandy nodded anxiously. “She loved the building. It was put up when she was a child. Her class was the first to prepare for Holy Communion here.”

  “Then you’d think she’d have remembered the school, too,” Kurt said in his abrupt manner.

  But Norma eyed him coldly. “Emily hated it when lay people began teaching at SOTS. She saw no point in Catholic education without nuns in charge.”

  Kurt snorted. “Where did she think she’d find nuns these days? Or priests. If you ask me, Emily Tresvant lived in a fantasy world.”

  “Don’t we all,” remarked Judith, trying to lighten the mood. “You were just talking to a rabbit.”

  But Kurt’s ill humor wasn’t so easily dispelled. He glared at Judith, even as Sandy responded with surprising equanimity. “Aunt Emily was like most older people. She didn’t want to acknowledge that the world was changing and there was nothing she could do about it.”

  While pleasantly surprised by Sandy’s outspokenness, Judith understood Emily’s reaction all too well. Gertrude’s image clumped through her mind’s eye, but she thrust it aside and excused herself to assume her duties as general factotum. Father Hoyle and a subdued Father Mills had joined Mark Duffy in organizing the children by ages for the egg hunt. As they trooped outdoors, the youngsters’ squeals and shrieks reverberated off the parish hall walls. More parents had arrived, too, sidling up to the buffet. Mark, whose experience with his film company automatically designated him as the official parish photographer, was hoisting a sleek black camcorder and capturing the Easter frenzy for posterity. Eddie La Plante circled the hall on stiff legs, making threats to would-be tramplers of his flower beds. Sandy had been pressed into service as nursery supervisor, watching over the children too young to participate in the hunt. During the next hour and a half, Judith was busy refilling platters, cutting cake, and consoling empty-handed egg seekers.

  At last the din began to die down and the crowd trickled away. The serving plates were virtually empty, and the cakes had indeed been reduced to crumbs. The two punch bowls, one marked Tox and the other Detox, to distinguish which contained alcohol and which did not, were all but drained. Judith was thankful that only a minimal amount of rum had been used. She hadn’t much liked the idea of her fellow SOTS driving around Heraldsgate Hill like a bunch of drunken bunnies.

  Mark Duffy, Kurt Kramer, and the two priests cleared the tables while Eve bagged garbage. Norma manned the dishwasher, and Kate helped Judith clean up from the buffet. When she was done, Judith went to look for Sandy in the gaily decorated nursery room, located off the hall leading into the school.

  “You survived,” Judith said to a frazzled Sandy. “How are your eardrums?”

  Sandy winced as she brushed bits of colored construction paper from her black slacks and matching turtleneck sweater. “It was incredible! The Paine grandson ate three pieces of chalk, the Kramers’ niece bit the Dooley baby, then that crew of little savages I’d never seen before took all the stuffing out of Pooh Bear! Who are they, anyway?”

  Having seen Arlene arrive with three toddlers and two older children, Judith could guess. “Visitors. A delegation from the Omaha Nation.” Quickly, she changed the subject: “It was just as well that kids under three couldn’t take p
art in the hunt, but they probably felt left out. Maybe next year Norma can arrange some special event for them, too.”

  Sandy shook her head, the shaggy golden hair spilling over her shoulders, nervous fingers still plucking at her slacks. “It was nerve-racking. I’m just not used to it.”

  Judith, in the process of putting Pooh’s stuffing back, glanced at Sandy. “How old are your own kids, Sandy?”

  “Oh—they’re grown.” Sandy’s stone-gray eyes blinked dazedly at Judith. “It’s been a long time since they were in the terrible twos category. You tend to forget.”

  “I figure you don’t dare remember.” Judith gave Pooh a final punch in the paunch and sat him on a tiny chair. “Here,” she offered, amassing a pile of large plastic blocks, “let me help you pick all this stuff up.”

  “Oh, no,” Sandy protested. “I’ll do it. Just give me time to catch my breath. Chores always restore my equilibrium.”

  Judith didn’t argue. She still had to go grocery shopping for the Easter dinner, stop at the liquor store, drop off some books at the library, and pick up Gertrude’s prescription for crankiness, as Judith termed her mother’s hormone medicine. Wishing Sandy well, Judith stopped at the women’s room across the hall. On her way out, she paused for a critical look in the mirror. Steve’s expert touch hadn’t been matched by Judith that morning, but her new hairdo was definitely quite becoming. Her bangs, which she now wore swept to one side, accentuated her dark eyes and gave her face a more rounded look. The deep green eyeshadow Ginger had recommended, as well as the dark mascara, added a hint of drama. And there was no doubt about the Sable Satin—Judith looked ten years younger. Again, she visualized the date on the calendar: April 14. Less than two weeks to wait. It occurred to her that Friday the thirteenth had passed without incident. Judith took a deep breath, smiled to herself, and walked out into the corridor. She called a greeting to the rabbit, who was just going into the men’s room. Wilbur was definitely looking the worse for wear.

  The parish hall was restored to order. Out of habit, Judith checked to make sure the stove and ovens were turned off and the freezer door was tightly shut. The kitchen crew was almost finished, and a grim Eddie La Plante was heading out the door, carrying a rake. He all but collided with John Frizzell, who was just coming in.

  “Hi,” Judith said, taking a quick inventory of what was left of her belongings. “You missed all the fun. Want a crab ball?”

  John Frizzell shook his dark head. He was a good-looking man, tall and lean, with refined features and a reticent manner. “I’m here to pick up Sandy.”

  “Oh?” Judith glanced around the hall. The only people left were the Kramers and the Duffys, who were talking to each other in earnest tones at the edge of the stage. “She’s in the nursery, just down the hall.” Judith hoisted a shoulder, indicating the door at her back. “She’s slightly bowed, but not quite bent.”

  John gave Judith a thin smile. “Sandy’s high-strung sometimes. That’s why she doesn’t drive. Of course you don’t need to when you live in Manhattan. A car is no asset.”

  “So I hear.” Judith gave the hamper a boost with her knee. She was anxious to be off. “Thank you both for the beautiful cakes. And have a happy Easter.” With a bright smile for John Frizzell, Judith headed for the door that led to the parking lot. Only a half-dozen cars remained, including John Frizzell’s aging Peugeot, its black paint dappled with cherry petals, giving the car a polka-dot effect. In the next spot sat Father Hoyle’s dark green BMW, the generous gift of a former parishioner who owned an East Side dealership. Norma was commandeering the steering wheel of their big sedan from Wilbur, who had finally shed the rabbit costume and somehow seemed to have shrunk in the process.

  It was just beginning to rain. Judith scanned the dark clouds, found at least two promising patches of blue, and shrugged. Anything could happen with the weather by morning. Easter might bring sunshine and clear skies, which certainly would be fitting for the sake of symbolism. As she slid behind the wheel, Judith looked up once more at the tall church steeple.

  It still looked crooked.

  She was inside Falstaff’s Market examining a crown roast of lamb when she heard the sirens on Heraldsgate Avenue. Stupid out-of-towners, she thought. Don’t know how to drive on wet streets. She returned to making a decision on her entree, and opted for a Virginia ham.

  The stop at the liquor store proved uneventful, though Judith had to wait in line, musing over the fact that far too many people seemed to associate even the most religious holidays with getting blotto. At Holiday’s Drugstore, she chatted briefly with Mrs. Dooley, who was consulting with the pharmacist about the danger from human bites. Judith feigned ignorance.

  Her visit to the library took longer than she’d planned: The temporary behind the desk turned out to be a fellow graduate of the university’s school of librarianship whom Judith hadn’t seen in years. She emerged with a stack of books and a flood of memories, humming to herself as she went back to the car.

  She arrived home just as the Dooleys’ eldest son came racing through the hedge that separated Hillside Manor from their neighbors to the south and east.

  “Hey, Mrs. McMonigle!” shouted Dooley, whose given names of Aloysius Gonzaga had been dropped in kinder-garten for obvious reasons. He waved his arms like a windmill. “Stop!”

  “What’s wrong, Dooley? Don’t tell me you’ve got hydrophobia?” said Judith, referring to the act of cannibalism practiced by one of the Kramers’ kin on Dooley’s little sister. “Or are you giving up the paper route?”

  Dooley shook his head vigorously, the fair hair sticking out like straw. At fifteen, he was shooting up in height, but not acquiring much width. For the first time, Judith realized he had gotten almost as tall as she was. With one hand clutching his Hard Rock Cafe-Hong Kong T-shirt, Dooley stopped to catch his breath. “What happened? Who did it? Did you see anything?”

  Mystified, Judith stared at Dooley. “See what? Dooley, are you hallucinating? Here,” she said, gesturing with the grocery bag that contained the drugstore parcel, “take some of Gertrude’s hormones. They’ll set puberty back about ten years.”

  But Dooley wasn’t deterred by teasing. “Hey, Mrs. McMonigle, don’t be so dense! Weren’t you up at church this afternoon?”

  Judith brushed the rain from her bare head. A typical native, she abjured the use of umbrellas as both unnatural and unnecessary. “Sure. And part of the morning.” It finally dawned on Judith that Dooley was deadly earnest. She felt fear envelop her like a cold, clammy hand. “Why?”

  “You know how I joined the Explorers police auxiliary for kids last year?” Dooley asked, speaking even more rapidly than usual. He saw Judith give a quick nod; Dooley had earned his spurs by nosing around during the fortune-teller investigation. “I got a CB, too. I heard it on the emergency band.” His eyes darted up and over Judith’s head, as if he could catch a glimpse of Our Lady, Star of the Sea from where they were standing halfway down Heraldsgate Hill. “There was a murder up there today, less than three hours ago.”

  Judith got an extra grip on her grocery sacks. “What? Who?” she demanded, her heart thumping like mad.

  Dooley seemed to sway slightly before Judith’s mesmerized eyes. “That new lady. Mrs. Frizzell. She was stabbed to death in the church nursery.”

  FOUR

  JUDITH’S DUTY WAS to return to the church and assist in any way she could. After all, she’d had a similar ghastly experience under her very roof over a year ago when a fortune-teller had been poisoned. Then, on a brief vacation in the fall, she and Cousin Renie had managed to find a corpse in the elevator of their hotel. Judith knew something about police procedure, about homicide investigations, about casually interrogating suspects and drawing logical conclusions to goofy questions.

  But Sandy Frizzell’s murder hadn’t occurred at Hillside Manor or outside the cousins’ hotel suite. Now that she’d made it into some of the guidebooks, Judith was averse to potentially damaging publicity for the b
ed-and-breakfast. Though, in fact, the fortune-teller’s demise had helped, not hindered, business. Cousin Renie had been right: Notoriety was an excellent marketing strategy.

  But that was then, and this was now. Judith wanted no part of another murder investigation. She hadn’t even been around when the body was discovered. If the police wanted to talk to her, they knew where to find her. At least, she thought with a sudden sense of something that bordered on panic, one of them did…

  With Dooley’s help, Judith unloaded the car, called a greeting to her mother, got no answer, and took a can of diet pop out of the refrigerator. “You want some, Dooley? I’ve got the real stuff in here.”

  “Sure.” Dooley sank down on a chair next to the dinette table, but he was clearly on edge. “Hey, Mrs. McMonigle,” he said, lanky legs sprawled out across the floor, “I think I’ll volunteer to work on this case. I met Mrs. Frizzell once, and I know him, too.”

  “Volunteer?” Judith handed Dooley his pop, then began putting the rest of the groceries away. “To do what?”

  “I don’t know.” Dooley frowned, then undid the black sweatshirt he had tied around his neck and pulled it over his head. “When you join the Explorers, you get certain privileges, though. So far, I’ve just helped with crowd control stuff, like a couple of rock concerts. But sometimes, like after you’ve proved you’re reliable and stuff, you can help with serious crimes. What was that homicide detective’s name? The guy with red hair and the pot belly?”

  In spite of herself, Judith blushed. “That is not a pot! Joe’s just spread out a bit. It comes with time.” She gave Dooley a withering glance. “Frankly, you could use some meat on that frame of yours. Doesn’t your mother feed you?”