CHAPTER 21 - Rita

CHAPTER 21RitaSATURDAY MORNING IS COLD AS A WITCH’S TEAT, AS MY GRANDMOTHER used to say. Chase and I are in our Sunday best as we file into St. Mary’s church. We stand along the back, and our eyes go over the crowd as people pass and find their seats. Redolent with incense, the church is old, with soaring stained-glass and blazing candles. I find myself examining the saints depicted in the colorful windows. It’s cloudy outside, but occasionally a stray sunbeam sets a halo or red robe ablaze. It takes me back to my childhood in a not unpleasant way. When Grandma would come down from Maine for a visit, Ma would be on pins and needles, hoping for a good showing, especially at church.Like most of the other families in our Boston neighborhood, Sunday mass was a tradition in the McMahon household. It took two hours of fighting over the one bathroom to get us all presentable. By the time we were squished into a pew in the back, my sisters were angry, my older brothers annoyed, and I was pouting, sitting between Danny and Jimmy. During the most sacred part of the mass, when the priest elevated the host, they would poke me in the ribs to try to make me laugh until Dad would smack them in the back of the head. Despite the monumental task of keeping nine kids quiet, we went to church like clockwork. Ma didn’t intend to raise heathens.Chase clears his throat, brings me back to the task at hand. We’re here to pay our respects and to observe, based on the age-old cop tenet that a murderer often likes to take part in the aftermath of his deed. The trip out to see Tyler White didn’t yield anything helpful except to confirm the fact that Dr. Bradley had started interviews for his book, and if what Tyler told us was true, he didn’t get very far. I glance over the congregation. Maybe there’s a killer in this church somewhere.Mrs. Bradley sits in the front pew with her sister, brother-in-law, and parents. She’s a thin figure in a black dress and long dark coat, her hair tied back in a ponytail. The casket rests up front and is covered with an impressive spray of white flowers. The priest and his attendants are busy, and the organ, upstairs and behind us, roars to life with heart-pounding resonance. The congregation stands. It’s a big crowd. Dr. Bradley was a popular man.The priest’s deep voice echoes through the church as my eyes search the people standing before him. The Bradleys’ friends, the ones we’ve interviewed, are all accounted for. I try to figure out who the others might be. It’s just a guessing game, of course, but one that could, possibly, provide a smidgeon of insight into what appears to be a totally senseless murder.When the service is over, the family leads the exiting mourners up the center aisle. Mrs. Bradley catches my eye, but her sister hurries her away. Chase and I remain in our seats, allowing us to observe the faces of the people leaving the church.Once the place is empty, save the priest’s attendants working up front, Chase turns to me. “You notice anything interesting?”“No. You?”He shakes his head.I’m reluctant to leave and wander slowly down a side aisle past tapestries that hang between the stained-glass windows. They depict the twelve stations of the cross. While St. Mary’s is a beautiful church, I remember the comfort of our parish church in our old neighborhood. It was where my siblings and I had our First Communions. Where my two oldest sisters got married and where my brother Ricky’s funeral was held. I was just a kid when Ricky was killed in Vietnam. The memory sweeps over me and fills me with an aching sadness. It was an early lesson in the unfairness of life. To my child’s mind, it was inconceivable that the big, strong brother who used to carry me piggyback was never coming home again. For months, I listened for the front door, for his booming voice in the hall.I still have the last letter he wrote me from Vietnam. He was already dead by the time it arrived, so Ma grabbed it from the stack of mail. She kept it tucked in the pocket of an old cardigan she wore. Even though it was addressed to me, Ma kept it with her until she died. She’d sit at the kitchen table, drink her tea, and slip her hand into her pocket periodically and run her fingers over the envelope. It was the one thing I wanted when Ma died. My sister Maureen, the oldest girl in the family and by far the bossiest, was in charge of doling out Ma’s few possessions. Maureen made a stink about it until Danny and I cornered her in Ma’s kitchen and she handed it over. Maureen never liked the fact that I was the youngest and, in her eyes, a spoiled brat, but Ricky had sent the letter to me, and as Danny told her, Ma would have wanted me to have it.I sigh, shake my head.“Want to head back, Rita?” Chase says.“What? Yeah, in a minute. You think the perp was coming back for that necklace?”“Could be. Dr. Bradley hid it, and recently, for a reason.”I sigh. “Who knows? But we need something to pop.” I stand still by the altar. The scent of flowers is sweet and pungent. “Let’s go. See if Lauren’s got anything.”