Blood on a Saint (35 page)

“No, no, I won’t.”

“Please? Sing one of your songs for us.”

He decided on something short and simple, one of the most beautiful melodies this side of heaven: the Easter plainchant “Alleluia.”

“Wow, that’s really good!”

“Yeah,” Celia agreed, “it is.”

“Sing us another one.”

“Well,” he said, “this is a sad one but you can make up your own ending. It’s about a cat that got sick. So if you don’t want to hear it, I’ll understand.”

“No! No! We want to hear it, don’t we, Cel?”

“Yes, please.”

“All right. It’s an old folk song I used to hear when I was a little boy in Ireland.”

“Cool!”

Departing far from his standard repertoire, he launched into “Pussy Got the Measles.”

“Pussy got the measles on the first day of spring, the first day of spring, the first day of spring. Pussy got the measles on the first day of spring, the poor, the poor, the poor wee thing.” He revised the lyrics as he went along, so in this version the poor creature survived the ordeal.

“That is a great song! The other kids will be jealous ’cause I’ll know it and they never heard it before. I want to learn it!”

“I’ll send you the words and music.”

“Great! Oh, here’s the paper and pencils in case we need them to make a poster. Now I’ll play you a song on the guitar.”

“Lovely. What are you going to play?”

“What’s the name of it, Celia?”

“‘My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.’”

“It’s got three chords in it. I know them all.”

Florrie plunked herself down on the floor, cross-legged, and bent over the guitar, her face about three inches from her left hand as she formed her first G chord. She struck the strings and it sounded like hell.

“Oh, no! That’s not it!” She looked crossly at the instrument, and tried again, louder this time. Same result. “But my fingers are right!”

“It’s out of tune,” Brennan said.

“Oh, no! That guy at the store said it was good!”

“He said we could bring it back if there was something wrong with it, Florrie.”

“And there is. It’s no good!”

“It’s second-hand,” Celia explained.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Brennan assured them. “Second-hand guitars are often the best. I’ll tune it for you.”

“Can you do that?”

“Sure, I can.” He gently removed it from Florrie’s grasp and played each string. He noticed she had her name printed on a yellow sticker on the back, Florrie Nelson. Then he closed his eyes for a second, found E in his head, and tuned the first string. He did the others in sequence, strummed it a bit, was satisfied, and handed it back. “Nice sound. It’s a good guitar.”

“Is it?” Florrie’s eyes lit up.

“Take good care of it now. Don’t drop it or bang it around.”

“I never do!”

She got herself into position again, then played “My Bonnie,” and her sister and guest applauded.

“Now let me ask you about this friend I’m looking for.”

“Okay,” they said in unison.

“His name is Ignatius.”

“Wow!” the little one said. “Nobody at my school has that name!”

“No, I suppose not. He has grey hair that’s a little bit wild-looking, and he usually wears a light tan-coloured coat. He may have — ”

“That’s the guy that was here,” Florrie said.

“Yeah, that’s him,” her sister agreed.

“Oh, good, then I don’t have the wrong house after all.”

“No, this is the right place,” Florrie agreed, “but he doesn’t live here. He just came to see my sister.”

Brennan looked at Celia, but she shook her head. “Not me. Our other sister.”

“Older sister?”

“Oh, yeah, she’s way older. She’s like a mum.”

“And this man came to visit.”

“Yeah.”

“Does he come here often?”

“No,” Celia replied, “only a couple of times. But that was the first visit in a long time. I think she sees him other places, though. Even if he’s old.” She looked at Brennan, and a blush spread over her cheeks. “You’re not as old as him. I don’t mean old is bad.”

“No, no, I understand.”

The phone started ringing in the apartment, and Florrie leapt up to answer it. “I’ll get it!”

Celia laughed. “I don’t know why she says that. She always gets the phone. Nobody else even tries anymore.”

“So who lives with you? Florrie, and your older sister? Anyone else?”

“No. Nobody else now. Our mum is in a special place. For wheelchairs.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear it. What’s your big sister’s name?”

“Maggie.” Celia leaned towards him. “She works with rats.”

“Ah.”

“Celia!” Florrie called from inside. “It’s Maggie. She’s gotta work late.”

Celia said, “Sometimes she works late because the rats — ”

Florrie came out then and relayed the rest of the conversation: “Maggie said to eat the rest of the waffles. They don’t have to be heated up or anything. And she’ll do the dishes when she gets home. And she said . . .” She glanced at Brennan, then looked quickly away. “She said we can’t, uh, have anybody over. To visit. So we have to go in and lock the door.”

“Good advice,” Brennan agreed. “I’ll be running along. Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome,” said Celia.

“Maggie said you have to leave,” Florrie told him, “but I told her you weren’t bad and that you were looking for somebody. Except I couldn’t remember how to say his name.”

“Oh, that’s all right. What did she say to that?”

“That’s when she said we couldn’t have anybody over, and we have to stay inside by ourselves. And she’s going to make up some new rules about us answering the doorbell.”

“I understand. She sounds like a very good big sister.”

“She is!”

“All right, Florrie and Celia, I’m going now. It’s been lovely to meet you. God bless you.” He made a little, unobtrusive sign of the cross in their direction.

“Okay, bye, Brennan!”

“Bye!”

He went down the stairs and looked into the open door of the downstairs flat. Mrs. Lewis was standing just inside, making no effort to pretend she had not been listening. That came as a relief. Brennan was glad the little ones had somebody paying attention to the comings and goings in the house.

He nodded to Mrs. Lewis. “Thank you,” he said.

Monty

Pike Podgis had made yet another appointment to see Monty in his office to ask yet again what progress he was making on the defence. Monty gave him a quick overview of the information he had uncovered, including the helpful evidence of Richard Campbell, who had heard male and female voices on Hollis Street the morning of the murder. Less helpful, in fact a dead end, was the information about Befanee Tate’s boyfriend; he had not been out there knocking off Befanee’s rival at the shrine of the saint. He had an alibi, as did Befanee herself. Much more promising was what Monty was learning about Jordyn Snider. It seemed she had more than one unsavoury acquaintance. Monty did not mention the letters she had received from the unidentified prison inmate. He wanted to know a lot more about that relationship before going public with it. And anything shared with Podgis tended to go public. If the letter-writer was still in prison, the correspondence was irrelevant to the murder case. Except for the light it would shine on the victim’s character, and on the unsuitable male companions she might take up with after dark. But this category of person might have included Podgis himself. So Monty tried to reassure his client with “We are making progress.”

Monty hoped Podgis would take a hint from the wrap-up: “Nothing more we can do in here this morning.” But he suspected that his client had never taken a hint in his life. And sure enough, Podgis did not budge. Then the phone rang, and Darlene told Monty Father Burke was here. Should he wait or come back later?

“Send him in.” Burke’s presence might motivate Podgis to shove off.

Burke looked as if he had seen the dripping fangs of a serpent from hell when he caught sight of Podgis, but he took the other of Monty’s two client chairs and sat down.

Monty did not let on that he was aware of any reason the three could not have a pleasant time in the same room together.

“Hi Brennan. What can I do you for?”

“I thought we might have a word.”

“Sure.”

“But I can wait.”

Monty could almost feel a live current of hatred pass between the two men. All out of proportion on his client’s part, surely. So out of proportion that he was planning to sue Burke for defamation. None of his lawsuits, against Burke or the Crown or against Monty himself, would see the light of day, but that was not the point. What Monty did not understand was the animosity Podgis displayed towards the priest. There was no question that Burke’s testimony put Podgis in a bad light, suggesting he had a date planned with the victim, and making him look like a gross, ill-mannered boor. Humiliating for Podgis, certainly. But it seemed there was more than the resentment one might expect. As for Burke, well, Podgis was just the sort of ignorant, abrasive lout that would set Burke’s teeth on edge. But the expression on the priest’s normally impassive face was one of intense loathing, his dark eyes like death rays boring into the other man’s soul. Monty wondered fleetingly whether Burke knew something about Podgis that Monty did not know. But how could he? Burke would not have any more information than these few strained encounters and the news stories provided. He had never even seen the television show until the night he made his brief appearance on the program himself. So that would not explain it. And it was not as if Podgis was one of Burke’s parishioners.

Burke smouldered in silence but, true to form, Podgis had to hear the sound of his own voice and inflict it on everyone else.

“What would the Bar Society say, Collins, about my lawyer palling around with a key witness against one of his own clients?”

“Why don’t you ask them? Give them a call.”

“You’re always such a smartass. Hard to believe you have any friends at all. Maybe that explains why you think you’re stuck with this guy.” He jerked his chin in Burke’s direction. “Nothing to say, Burke? It’s okay, you can speak freely here.”

Again, nothing but eternal damnation coming from the eyes of Burke.

What was going on between these two? It was as if Podgis was needling Burke about something. Well, whatever it was, it was not doing anyone any good.

“All right, gentlemen, let’s adjourn this convivial meeting
sine die
.”

“What does that mean, smart guy?”

“It means ‘without day.’ We’re adjourning, and no date has been set for another meeting amongst the three of us.”

“That’s not quite right, is it? We’re going to meet again at my trial. Where the jury will catch on that this guy is out to get me, just like the police and the prosecutors. No surprise there, when you think about it. Church and state coming down on me, to silence me for good. Well, it’s your job to make sure that doesn’t happen, Collins. It’ll be kinda hard for you to find clients if you fuck up and let them convict an innocent man.”

“I’ll never work in this town again, eh, Podgis?”

“You’re an asshole, Collins.”

“To respond in the words of our former prime minister, Mr. Trudeau, I’ve been called worse by better people.”

“Mark my words: both of you will be laughing on the other side of your faces when this is all over.”

Podgis heaved himself out of the chair and left the office.

Monty turned to Burke, but he too was out of his chair. “Where are you going? What did you want to see me about?”

“Nothing. Just lunch. But I’ve remembered something urgent, and I have to go.”

“Where?” No answer. “Brennan, what is going on with you and him? You know what he’s like. He’s obnoxious to everyone he meets. What’s so personal about this for you? You look at him as if he’s the devil incarnate. I told you he’s pathetic; he’s not worth all this hostility on your part. So what is it?”

Burke did not say another word but left the room in Podgis’s wake. Monty got up from his desk but sat down again when the phone rang. It was Tina. “Monty, Mr. Podgis just left. Does that mean you can see the insurance guy earlier than scheduled? I know he was wanting an earlier appointment if he could get one.”

The claims handler for one of Monty’s motor vehicle accident cases. “Sure, Tina, give him a call. I’ll be back in five.”

He went out through reception and pressed the down button on the elevator. When he arrived at the ground floor, he looked out the glass door and saw Podgis and Burke nose to nose on the sidewalk. Well, Podgis had his pugnacious face turned up, and Burke was looking down his nose, but it was a face-to-face confrontation any way you looked at it. Monty could not hear what they were saying, and he suspected that they would go quiet on him if he got in the middle of it. After a few seconds of this, the dynamics changed. Burke leaned down to the shorter combatant and unleashed a torrent of words at his adversary. Burke was turned away from Monty so he could not lip read what was being said, but it was heated. The response from Podgis was strange. Rather than his regular mode of real or feigned outrage and loud remonstrance, he had affected an expression of amused incredulity. It was as if he were saying, “What on earth are you talking about?” In fact, Monty could read his client’s lips at the end. He said, “What? No, of course not.” His expression turned to one of pity, and he reached out and gave Burke a patronizing pat on the arm. Monty saw Burke tense up, and he half expected the priest to ram a fist into Podgis’s gigantic mouth. But Burke restrained himself. Good thing for Podgis. If Burke chose to, he could reduce the man to rubble. Instead, Burke turned and walked away. The gloating expression returned to Podgis’s face.

Monty went back to the office and met with the insurance man and other civil-litigation clients for the rest of the day. But one part of his mind was still on Pike Podgis. What was he up to?

Chapter 18

Brennan

Saturday, February 6, felt like a morning in spring. Brennan had it in mind to pay a visit to Maggie Nelson and see what he could learn about her acquaintance, Ignatius Boyle. He drove to Yukon Street and parked, then saw the two little ones playing on the sidewalk. They both had on white ankle socks, black patent shoes, and cotton dresses. Florrie’s was red plaid and Celia’s all white. Celia’s material had holes in it, but it was supposed to. What did Brennan’s mother call it? Georgette? Something-et. Eyelet, he believed. Both girls looked as if they had been dressed by a grandmother from forty years ago, or had perhaps got their outfits at a second-hand clothing shop. Whatever the case, they looked sweet. They were drawing pictures on the pavement with coloured chalk. When he got closer he could see that the pictures were rooms in a house. Smartly dressed dolls sat on the sidelines, waiting for their new home to be completed.