Blood on a Saint (13 page)

“Yeah.”

“We’ll mark it Exhibit One. Do you remember this letter?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Please take the time to read it over again.” She bent over it, her lips moving along with the words. “Does anything strike you about that letter?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you see anything wrong in it?”

“Like what?”

“Any words spelt wrong?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Except that name. The singer. I just guessed.”

“You guessed that was how the opera singer’s name was spelt?”

“He dictated it. So, like, how was I supposed to know how to spell her name?”

“Who dictated it?”

“Father Burke.”

“He didn’t tell you how to spell it?”

“He told me to look it up.”

“And did you?”

“I didn’t know where.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I couldn’t look it up because I didn’t know how to spell it.”

“I see. Why didn’t you just ask him?”

“Because he left. So I just guessed at it.”

“Right. And you don’t see any other mistakes?”

Silence

“Spelling? Punctuation?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

If English was her first language, Befanee, like so many others these days, was not even unilingual.

But, for the record, he had better check.

“What is your first language, Ms. Tate?”

“First language? I only know, like, one.”

No, you don’t.

“What is your education level?”

“Um, high?”

“How far did you go in school? What grade did you attain?”

“You mean, like, pass?”

“Yes.”

“Grade twelve.”

“You graduated from high school?”

“Of course!”

“Did you take any English courses in high school?”

“Yeah. We had to.”

“How about before that? In elementary school or junior high?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you find the English courses you took in school?”

“They were easy.”

In Monty’s opinion, it was time for the ministers of education from all across the continent to be in the witness seat somewhere, to be grilled about the easy English courses that allowed people to graduate from high school sounding like Befanee Tate.

“Do you have any post-secondary education or training? Any college program or course?”

“I took business at community college. Or I started to, but I didn’t need it, because I got the job at Nova Sun Glow.”

“All right. So you would occasionally prepare letters for Father Burke.”

“Yeah. Like I said, he was away when I started in the office. New York or somewheres. When he came back it was really hard to work because he didn’t write things out for me like Monsignor O’Flaherty did. Father Burke just dictated it all out loud, and I was supposed to figure out how to spell everything! Then he’d blame
me
if it was wrong.”

“So, returning to the letter to the opera singer, Kiri Te Kanawa. You sent it off like that? The way we see it here?”

“Yeah. I had the address, so I knew she’d get it anyway.”

“All right. Would you turn to tab eight of your list of documents? Tell us what that is.”

“It’s photocopies of my day timer. My schedule.”

“We’ll mark it Exhibit Two. You used this at the office?”

“Yeah, to remind myself if I had to go somewheres or what I had to do. Like send the receipts out for the big school.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“People come from all over the world for the adult choir school. Priests and stuff. They pay money and we send them a receipt.”

“What other kinds of notes did you make to yourself?”

“If I was getting my hair done, I’d put the hair appointment in my book. Or if I was meeting friends for lunch the next week, I’d write in the time and place.”

“Okay, now let’s look at page fifty-six of the list, one of the pages in your day book. What’s written there?”

“It’s just an initial.”

“What initial?”

“S.”

“And what does S stand for?”

“Sick.”

“Meaning you were sick that day?”

“Yeah.”

“Could you flip through your book there and count up the S entries for me?”

“Uh, okay.”

She went through the pages, counting under her breath. She had to restart a couple of times but in the end she found twenty-seven entries.

“And you worked there for four months, which came to eighty-five work days in all?”

“I don’t know.”

“So, twenty-seven out of eighty-five. That’s almost a third of your time. One or two sick days every week.”

“No, I was there more than that.”

“Perhaps so. Let’s look again.” Monty made a show of turning the pages. “What was your last day in the office at St. Bernadette’s?”

Her eyes darted to her counsel, but Underhill’s face was without expression.

“Never mind your lawyer, Ms. Tate. You have to answer the questions yourself. What was your last day on the job?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Would it refresh your memory if I showed you the termination letter at tab one of your list?”

“August twenty-eighth.”

“You were let go on that date.”

She answered in a voice barely audible. “Yeah.”

“And yet you had a sick day marked for Friday, September eleventh?”

No reply.

“Ms. Tate? A sick day entered in your book in advance? Could you go ahead to Friday, September eighteenth? Another S there? And ahead again to Monday the twenty-first?”

Still no response.

“How do you account for those entries?”

Silence and squirming.

“Ms. Tate? Did you plan ahead to take so-called sick days?”

She did not supply an answer, but Monty did not need one. He let her experience the discomfort for a couple of minutes, then resumed his questioning.

“Did Monsignor O’Flaherty ever criticize or make any complaint about your work?”

“No! He was really nice. Not picky, picky, picky.”

“Did Father Burke ever criticize you for anything, other than the spelling and punctuation errors in your correspondence? And all your . . . sick time?”

Her expression was that of a child of ten. “He was mean! He’s not a very good priest!”

“Oh? Why do you say that?”

“He growled at Gary!”

“Who is Gary?”

“My fiancé.”

“What happened with him?”

“He would come and pick me up after work or, like, at lunchtime. And Father Burke was rude to him!”

“In what way?”

“He would say he had to leave.”

“Where was Gary, that Father Burke told him to leave? Was he waiting in the doorway?”

“He was, like, with me.”

“In the office?”

“Yeah.”

“So what would Father Burke say to Gary?”

“He’d say, ‘Get out of the office.’”

“I know you can’t put yourself in Father Burke’s mind — ” God knows “ — but what was your impression of why he said that? What do you think he objected to?”

“He thought Gary was looking at stuff on the computer. But he wasn’t.”

“He wasn’t at the computer?”

“Well, he just used to sit at it when I was doing other stuff.”

“Did he use the computer?”

“Not to spy on the church’s stuff, or the money records, just to . . . he likes computers.”

“I see. So that’s what Father Burke took issue with.”

“And he thought Gary was looking through the file cabinets. But he wasn’t! He was just leaning on them, and if they were open that wasn’t Gary’s fault.”

“That would be your responsibility, wouldn’t it? Keeping the filing cabinets closed and the records private?”

“I was busy! And anyway, that’s not all of what he did. One time Gary was outside, and he swore at him! Burke did.”

“Is that right? What did he say?”

“It’s too rude to say it here.”

“Say it anyway. We don’t mind.”

She looked to her lawyer again, and received a slight nod.

“He said to Gary, ‘Get the fuck out of my churchyard or I’ll boot your arse from here to the fucking harbour.’ It was unbelievable, a priest talking like that! I was so upset! I told Monsignor, and he tried to cover it up by saying people in Ireland use the F word a lot and it’s not as bad as here. But that didn’t make me feel any better.”

She had informed on Burke to O’Flaherty; it was a wonder she still had her kneecaps. Aloud, he asked her when this last incident had happened. The open conflict between Burke and the boyfriend was news to Monty.

“It was after.”

“After what?”

“After I stopped working there.”

“So that incident does not form part of this lawsuit.”

“It should!”

“Those are all my questions, Ms. Tate. Thank you.”

The fact that the plaintiff’s lawyer was in no hurry to examine Monty’s clients till some date to be agreed on in the future told him what the lawyer thought of Tate’s case; Monty could expect an offer to settle before too long. There was no case, and the church’s offer of one month’s salary was more than she would ever get from a court.

†

Monty dropped in on Brennan Burke that evening to fill him in on the proceedings.

“Well?” Burke asked, when Monty had made himself comfortable in one of Burke’s chairs. “How did it go?”

“It went as expected. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it if I were you.”

“I haven’t been. What did she say?”

“She said you never called her Befanee.”

“Nobody should call anyone Befanee. Sounds like baby talk for Bethany, which I assume it is. The parents couldn’t spell it, or pronounce it properly.
Befanee, did you type that fing for me yet? It has to be done by Fursday, for the Feology Conference, on the Summa Feologiae. Ah, thuck it!”

“I have to say I was a little surprised at the letter you sent out to Kiri Te Kanawa.” Burke’s lips pressed in on each other. “First of all, what’s the story on her? I know she’s coming to the Cohn, and I’m hoping to get tickets. But, Brennan, this letter. Hardly up to the standard I’d expect of you . . .”

“Never mind it.”

Burke looked as if he were going to be sick. Monty knew he was a great admirer of the brilliant New Zealand soprano, and his admiration encompassed more than her work.

“I’d as lief be picked up by the Blessed Mother, levitated from the churchyard, carried through the skies, dropped over New York City, and left impaled on the Empire State Building, as to imagine Kiri Te Kanawa receiving such an abomination in the mail. With my name on it. Now fuck off about it.”

Time to let up on him. “What was Tate’s boyfriend doing in the office?”

“Reading files and financial records on our computer and in our cabinets. And some notes I made in connection with my ministry to the inmates at the correctional centre. No doubt recognized a name or two. One time I caught him looking at the tallies of our Sunday collections.”

“No wonder you were mean to him.”

“Mean to him. That little gurrier. I put the run to him.”

“What happened later on? She says you told him to get the fuck off the property.”

“He was taking money off people at the statue. People devoted to St. Bernadette. I told you that before.”

“Right. You did. So it obviously didn’t end when Befanee lost her job.”

“I’m sure it intensified after the claimed apparitions, to make up for the lost family income.”

“Tell me what else you know about this.”

“He had a scheme going. He was approaching people in the churchyard, offering some kind of service or favour; I don’t know what it was. I threatened to do him grievous bodily harm if I ever saw him at it again.”

“What kind of scam was it?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. I’ve been keeping an eye out for him. Which I imagine he has copped on to, because he’s never there when I am. Yet I have spoken to people, and they’ve said he’s pestered them for money. What a pair. So, back to the point, what is going to happen with the lawsuit?”

“Nothing. They’ll settle it. They should have taken the offer in the first place. Now we cut it down, and they’ll have to take it as is. But Befanee may be on her way to a more exalted status than ex-employee of the parish of St. Bernadette. Right?”

“What?”

“The Church is taking this seriously. I could scarcely believe my ears when Michael O’Flaherty told me about the expert from Rome, someone from the investigation arm of the Vatican. Michael says these investigations are rigorous and take a long time to complete. That’s the last thing I expected in a case like this one. So, what’s the story on this priest from Rome?”

“He’s taking part in a conference in Ontario. Decided to stop in here.”

“What is he, some kind of psychic detective?”

“Hardly.”

“Well, what kind of investigation does he do? How detailed is it? O’Flaherty suggested that it would be quite elaborate and could go on for a while.”

“It’s over and done with.”

“What?”

“He did his investigation, and he’s already left town.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

“Well, what did he find out?”

“What’s there to find out, Montague?”

“He must have interviewed Befanee Tate, for one thing, considered the statement she made on television, examined the site, and — ”

“Why in the hell would he do any of that?”

“What else would he do? Is there some kind of ritual he would perform at the site?”

“No rituals. He came into the office. Asked about the Tate girl. I told him she’s suing us for wrongful dismissal. He saw the poster of the movie about St. Bernadette across from the secretary’s desk, and noted the fact that the actress achieved great fame and an Academy Award. And that was it. All he said was ‘Where do you drink?’”

“Drink? Does that mean he’s . . .”

“He’s
what
, Mr.
Collins
?”

“Um, not a native Roman?”

“Donal O’Sullivan, from Dublin.”

“I see.”

“We went out, had a few scoops, talked hurling and football, enjoyed some laughs, caught up on the news from Rome, and he flew out this morning.”

“So this ‘investigation,’ instead of taking days or even weeks, took only — ”

“Seconds.”

Brennan