Blood on a Saint (36 page)

“Hello, Florrie. Celia.”

Two pairs of big brown eyes gazed up at him, then there was a simultaneous “Hi!”

“How are the girls today?”

“Great! We’re drawing a doll’s house, but I had to erase part of what Celia did.”

“How come?”

“Don’t tell, Flor!”

“She drew a toilet and put a rock in it for poo, and a boy came along! So I scratched it out and told her off.” Brennan tried to keep a straight face. “How would you like it if your sister did that, and a boy saw it?”

“I have sisters who I suspect would do much worse, if they could get away with it.”

“Really?” Florrie asked. “Are they bad?”

“My mother had to take their chalk away from them. So you get the idea. Is your own sister home today? Maggie?”

“Yeah, she’s in there.”

“Do you think she might come out and talk to me for a minute?”

“I don’t know,” Florrie said. “Probably.”

“I could ask her,” Celia offered.

“All right. Would you do that?”

“Okay.” She started towards the house, then turned to her sister. “Don’t erase anything else.”

“There’s no more poo or toilets, so I don’t have to.”

Satisfied, Celia headed inside the house.

Florrie appraised her work, then filled in a barely noticeable gap in the deep blue walls of the house.

Celia appeared again. “Come on!” she urged the unseen person behind the door. She lowered her voice, but Brennan could hear. “He’s really nice. He’s not bad or weird.”

He knew all too well that any man could come by the girls’ home and pretend to be nice, and be very bad indeed. He hoped he would be able to reassure Maggie Nelson that his intentions were honourable.

Maggie stepped out from the doorway. In her late teens or early twenties, she had cropped brown hair and deep-set dark eyes in a face that would have been lovely if she were not so very thin. She wore a shapeless grey sweater that hung below her narrow hips. There was nothing remotely welcoming in her unsmiling face or her posture.

“Hello, Maggie.”

“Hello,” she said in a tone that did not invite further conversation. “Girls, here’s a couple of Loonies. You can go up to the store, but only if you promise not to cross over to the schoolyard.”

“Okay!” Celia agreed.

But it wasn’t enough for Florrie. “Aw! Let us go play in the schoolyard. That’s what it’s there for on Saturdays — a playground!”

Their big sister thought it over. “All right. If things look okay there.”

“She means if there’s no weirdoes or bad guys hanging around,” the child explained to Brennan.

“Not just guys, Florrie.”

“Or big mean ladies with guns and holsters!” Florrie made a gun shape with her hand, then pretended to comb her hair with it.

“It’s not a joke, Flor. You have to be careful when you’re out by yourselves. We’ve talked about this.”

Florrie turned to Brennan again. “Maggie thinks there are some girls who are as bad as boys!”

“She’s taking good care of you; that’s all,” he replied.

“Okay, get going. I’ll join you in a few minutes. This won’t take long.”

The little sisters took off at a clip, and Maggie faced Brennan.

“You were here on Tuesday. You’re here again. What do you want?”

“Well, I’ll introduce myself and — ”

“Go ahead, introduce yourself. But you could be anybody, and I wouldn’t know the difference.”

“My name is Brennan Burke. Father Burke, from St. Bernadette’s church. Here, I’ll show you my driving licence with my name on it.”

She was looking at him closely. “No. I recognize you now. You were on the show with Asshole.”

He laughed. “Right. That was me. And that was him.”

“You walked off.”

“Yeah. It wasn’t long before I’d had my fill of him.”

If he thought he had built up a bit of rapport with Maggie Nelson, he had jumped to conclusions a little too quickly.

“And now I’m going to walk,” she said. “Whatever it is you want, I can’t help you. Goodbye.”

“Maggie, could I just ask you a couple of questions? I know Ignatius Boyle came here.”

“And that’s your business why?”

“Because I think he’s in trouble.”

“He’s been living on the streets or in homeless shelters much of his adult life, as far as I know, so yes, you could say he’s in trouble.”

“Is he a friend of yours? A relation?”

She brushed past him and started to walk away.

“Maggie, please listen for a second. Then I’m gone.” She turned to look at him with an expression that told him just how much of a nuisance he was.

“I saw a Polaroid photo of Ignatius.”

She reacted as if she had been struck, but she quickly formed her lips into a sneer in an effort to cover it. “Yeah, right. He was a photographer’s model in an earlier life.”

“He was lying down. With Jordyn Snider.” Her eyes widened; her lips parted. The fact that Ignatius Boyle had been photographed with the murder victim had come as a shock. Was there more than one photograph in play here? But again, Maggie recovered.

Her voice was strained, but she let Brennan know in no uncertain terms what she thought of him and his intrusion into her life. “You’re sick. If you’re not out of here in ten seconds, I’m going to go in and call the police.”

“Why would Pike Podgis have that photo?” There was a quick intake of breath. This was clearly another unwelcome revelation. “Why would he have your street address?”

But Maggie had only one message that she wanted to reveal to Brennan: “I don’t know what your problem is, but take your sick fantasies and get out of here. I don’t want you near me or my sisters ever again. Or I’ll have you arrested.”

The only good thing about this scene on a public street in Halifax was that little Celia and Florrie were not there to witness it. The fact that their older sister considered him to be some kind of a pervert and a stalker was more painful than Brennan would ever have imagined. But her bravado was masking something else. There was something going on. And Maggie was in the know. And she obviously lumped him in with whatever other negative elements were at work in her life.

Brennan was not cut out for this. And he knew he could not come by and pester Maggie again; it just was not in him to persist with a woman who did not want him around. He had no idea how to proceed from here.

He got into his car and tried to banish the excruciating scene from his mind because he would be attending a much-anticipated concert that afternoon with his choirs, a recital by his favourite soprano in the world, Kiri Te Kanawa. He got nerved up just thinking about sitting there in her thrall. But a pang of mortification assailed him when he recalled what the infamous Befanee Tate had done with a letter he had dictated to the singer. The ghastly letter Tate had typed, with its horrendous spelling and punctuation. The memory caused his stomach to seize up with pain and embarrassment. Fortunately, the great soprano would be on the stage and he in the audience and, in the unlikely event that she had actually received the disgraceful document, she would not know that the man whose name was on it was sitting in the auditorium hanging on her every note.

Monty

Normie was nearly beside herself with excitement as they all took their seats in the Rebecca Cohn Auditorium for the Te Kanawa concert. All of the Collins-MacNeil family were in attendance except Dominic, who was with Maura’s friend Fanny for the day. Tommy Douglas and his girlfriend, Lexie, were both musicians. They had a growing interest in opera, so they were in the right place today. Monty already thought of Lexie as his daughter-in-law but was wise enough never to let that slip out in conversation. The entire membership of the St. Bernadette’s Choir of Men and Boys and the choir school were present in a block of seats at the front of the house, reserved early on through Maura’s efforts. The schoolchildren wore their uniforms of blazers and white shirts, dress pants on the boys and kilts on the girls. The men were in suits and ties. This was an official outing. Brennan Burke was the only person present whose excitement approached that of Normie, though he seemed to have a case of the nerves as well. Immaculate in his black clerical suit and Roman collar, freshly shaved and scrubbed to perfection, he sat and stared at the curtain, willing it to part and reveal the heavenly vision. He was oblivious to everything and everyone around him.

Monty took the seat beside him, one in from the aisle. “That’s not going to survive a case of the sweaty palms, Brennan,” Monty said, looking at the concert program clutched in the priest’s hands. Burke either did not hear him or did not care to respond.

At long last, the master of ceremonies came on and gave his introductory spiel, lauding the singer’s achievements, and asked everyone to welcome Dame Kiri Te Kanawa, and the show was on.

She opened with “Dove Sono” from Mozart’s
The Marriage of Figaro,
and she was in splendid form. Her voice was warm and lyrical, and, as if her talent were not enough, she was possessed of a radiant beauty that was even more pronounced in person than in her publicity photos. Monty kept sneaking glances beside him. Burke looked about eleven years old, so open and innocent and enthralled was his expression. His hands moved slightly, as if he were conducting every perfect note.

After two or three arias, Te Kanawa would address the audience with little explanatory notes or remarks in her soft New Zealand accent. About an hour into the show, she announced that she would be doing Mozart’s “Laudate Dominum.” That was a favourite of Burke’s and of Normie’s. Monty looked over at Normie, and saw her getting to her feet. The other students got up too, along with the men and boys.

Monty was so nonplussed that he realized he had not been listening to the singer’s words. He tuned in and heard, “So please come up and join me.”

What?

Then Maura was up too, motioning to him. “You’re on too. That’s why you’ve been rehearsing it.” He joined the others as they scrambled from their seats. Maura leaned over. “Father Burke!” He looked at her, stunned. “Surprise! It’s all arranged. You’ll be given the sheet music when you get up there.” This was happening, and Burke hadn’t known about it! From the triumphant look on the faces of his wife and daughter, Monty concluded that they were somehow responsible for the arrangements.

Next thing Monty knew, he and the St. Bernadette’s choristers were all onstage with the Mozart scores in their hands. Last to come was Father Burke. He looked as if he had ascended bodily into the heavens. And when Kiri Te Kanawa looked at him and smiled and said, “Father Burke, I presume?” he was no longer looking through a glass darkly but had come face to face at last with the Absolute. All he could do was gape at her. “Will you conduct us, Father?” He stood there nodding like an automaton, then snapped out of it and got to work.

The orchestra started up, and Ms. Te Kanawa sang the solo part of the exquisite composition.
“Quoniam confirmata est super nos misericordia ejus.”
The choirs came in for the four-part harmony under her soaring lines, and the performance was superb.

The ovation was warm and sustained.

“Thank you for this, Father,” the soprano said.

“I . . . I . . .”

“I wasn’t led to expect you would be so bashful, Father!”

Laughter from the audience, and from the choir school members on the stage.

“Now would you be kind enough to sing this with me?” She produced a sheet of music and handed it to Burke.

His eyes were riveted on the page as if he could not believe what he was seeing. Then he cleared his throat and stood next to his idol and, taking their cue from the orchestra, they sang the “Sanctus” and “Benedictus” from Burke’s own
Missa Doctoris Angelici
. She flew solo on the “Benedictus.” The rest was a duet, and their voices were heavenly together.

When they finished, and the applause died down, she handed the music to him and announced that the piece was part of a Mass composed by Father Brennan Burke. Then she turned to him and said, “This is magnificent, Brennan. May I call you Brennan?”

“Oh, yes,” he vowed, as if she had asked whether she could make love to him and only him every night for the rest of their lives.

The audience loved it.

“I’d like to sing this again someday, Brennan, and perhaps the rest of the Mass parts? I’ll see what I have to do to acquire the performing rights.”

He handed his music to her with a gesture that said, “It’s all yours.”

She looked out at the audience and said, “He needs a manager.”

But he just shook his head.

“Thank you,” she said then, “to all the talented singers from St. Bernadette’s. Thank you, Ms. MacNeil. And thank
you
, Brennan.”

She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and he floated from the stage, to affectionate laughter from the crowd.

When it was over, Monty and family and the slipped-the-surly-bonds-of-earth Brennan Burke all met back at the house on Dresden Row to celebrate.

“I have never seen you so happy, Brennan,” Maura said. “
Have
you ever been this happy?”

“Did I even exist before now?” he asked, still looking like a young, fresh-faced boy who had given his heart to his one true love.

“All right, fill us in,” Monty said to Maura as he poured wine for one and all, including his ten-year-old daughter. They stood in a circle in the living room and basked in the glory.

“I couldn’t have done it without Normie,” Maura said. The child grinned from ear to ear. “She tricked Brennan into practising the piece, saying it was for a sick friend. But going back a few steps, Monty, you showed me a copy of the mangled letter that Brennan’s former secretary had sent off to Kiri.”

“Oh, God,” Burke said, his voice a wail of anguish.

“I did some research and confirmed that the address was the only correct thing in it, so it might actually arrive.”

A mewling pained sound emerged from Burke.

“So I got in contact with her publicity person and explained what had happened. That Father Brennan Burke runs the choir school and the schola for traditional music. But that, unfortunately, he is functionally illiterate, can’t even spell ‘cat,’ and has to be reminded to bathe once in a while — ”