A Fatal Romance Read online

  “Me, too.” Eve dropped a kiss on the other side of her face.

  We bid the ladies goodbye, though some might not have heard. Eve and I waited until we were outside the building to speak.

  “Should we tell Detective Wilet what we heard about Zane having affairs with two women?” I asked.

  Her eyes, like mine, looked inside. Twin vibes connecting, searching ourselves.

  “I don’t think so. Mom’s friends are interesting, but they don’t always have their facts straight.”

  “I agree. I believe we need to investigate whatever we can on our own about what was said. If we bring the police false information about the Snellings, it would make us look like we’re only trying to tarnish the other women’s names.”

  “Then we’d look even more suspect.”

  I heaved a sigh. “We sure don’t need that.”

  “I have to get home. Somebody’s coming from the burglar alarm company to check wires in the attic. It won’t be Dave.” Eve’s lips tightened, their edges aimed down.

  “Talk to you later. Remember, the offer’s still good for you to come and stay with me.”

  We separated toward our own vehicles. I sat in my truck, considering what to do with the information we’d received in the retirement home and wondering whether it was truth. I had seen a few people I knew slightly in church for Zane Snelling’s funeral but didn’t feel I could call any of them to ask if he had been cheating on his wife. The police knew how to find needed information. What I knew how to do was build things and make repairs, courtesy of our father creating interest and talent in me and my sister for so many years.

  Starting my motor, I pulled out my phone and called Angela Stevens.

  “Leave a message,” is all her answering machine said. She might be still on vacation.

  “Hi, Angela, it’s Sunny. We have your ceramic tile. Give me a call, and we’ll discuss when would be a good time to install it. Thanks.” We had other jobs lined up but nothing major. A few teachers wanted to wait the handful of weeks left until their summer vacation for us to start projects at their homes. We would need to build up our clientele soon for us to have a chance at having the town council seriously consider bids from us. I needed more steady income to remain in this business.

  I tried to work on ideas for increasing our production but found considerations about the Snellings shoving ahead in my mind. My one meeting with Daria had taken place in St. Gertrude’s Church. I pointed my truck toward it. If I checked without any emotional turmoil in the building, maybe I could locate some clues about what really did happen that day. And possibly who caused his death or hers.

  Chapter 9

  Gravel and oyster shells crunched under my tires while I pulled in at St. Gertrude’s. I parked out front, admiring the old wooden structure. The church stood near the highway a few miles south of town. Cars and trucks sounded extra loud, sweeping past. I’d only been inside once before the would-be funeral and that was some time ago for a wedding.

  The structure was a comfortable size, nowhere near as large as the cathedrals in some cities. The biggest majority of churches in South Louisiana were Catholic. These long-standing country churches were the exception. I’d been raised in this religion but gradually let the practice of entering a church fall by the wayside.

  Concrete made up most of the front yard, which would have remained more inviting if they had left trees and grass. To the left of the church stood the priests’ small brick house. Rose bushes and half-bare short palms filled much of its front yard, where the two priests from Zane’s funeral were planting a cypress tree.

  I was glad they didn’t look at me while I stepped away from my car. Out of their line of vision, I took my time checking around the sparse grass near the front parking lot. Somewhere out here was probably where a person from the funeral parlor had handed Daria the urn right before she walked inside.

  The only item appearing out of place was a plastic cover from a water bottle. I picked it up, spotted a tall trashcan, and dropped it in. The ping when the cover hit made me consider that a possible clue to what happened to Zane may lie inside. With the receptacle almost empty, I could make out crumpled bulletins, a half-filled water bottle, and bits of paper. Unable to see quite everything, I tilted the can.

  “Did you lose something?” a man asked.

  Startled, I jumped. My hands jerked off the can, and it dropped on its side. Wet papers spilled out.

  “No, I—uh, thought I did,” I told the young priest. “I’ll pick that up.”

  With dirt on the knees of his black slacks, he grabbed the trash and had it disposed of in the can he set upright before I could.

  Relieved because he hadn’t asked what I wanted, I considered what he and the other priest planted. “Oh, y’all do know that cypress trees will grow hard knees that are actually roots sprouting above the ground to breathe, right?” I asked. “The knees can grow two feet tall and cause problems with cutting grass.” And might trip and drown someone, although right here that person wouldn’t have a pond to drown in.

  “Thanks for that information. I’ll tell Father Prejean.”

  I stood an awkward moment in which he didn’t go away. “While I’m here, I’ll just go inside a minute. Say a few prayers.” I didn’t tell him I almost never went in a church. I certainly didn’t say I’d look for anything tied to a murder.

  He smiled as though I was doing something really good, forcing a twinge of guilt to crimp inside my chest. “I’ll unlock the door for you.” He trotted up the stairs to the narrow wooden porch and unlocked the church’s front door.

  “Y’all lock the church? People can’t just stop by and pray?”

  His lips tightened with his frown. “It’s a shame things have gotten this way. Most churches are locked now when scheduled events aren’t taking place. Too many people broke into them and stole or broke valuables.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” And relief made me breathe deeper when he scooted down the steps and returned to the other priest. I would be alone inside.

  I stepped into the church, the heavy cypress door creaking while it closed behind me. An old wood smell brought up images of Model T’s and barefoot children walking miles to school and made my sinuses say Wait a minute. Faded statues of saints guarded walls right inside the doors, and wall-mounted glass cups held holy water for more protection. Stuffiness engulfed me. I dug for a sinus tablet from my purse and dropped it in my mouth where it melted.

  A tiny table held fliers and stacks of folded bulletins. The comforting oak floor had developed a patina through the decades. The same type wood created a stairwell to the left. I couldn’t imagine anything upstairs causing a person to trip down here. Standing at the rear of the church, I found nothing hinting of foul play in the area.

  And what was I doing, believing I could discover something police didn’t? I’d overheard a high school classmate say I wasn’t the sharpest tack in the box. Just because I’d been kicked out of a club for top students and an honors class. Also she didn’t know, but later I’d been thrown out of a nightclub when Kev and I were married and he started feeling me up soon after he’d made me disgusted with sex, and I belted out a chorus of “Frosty the Snowman” that drowned out the band.

  Shaking my head, I dumped the cruel girl’s words from my thoughts. Intelligence came in many forms. Just because I’d needed fewer multiple-choice items on a test than the rest of the class and other tests read to me didn’t mean I was mentally deficient. A wonderful teacher explained that meant my brain didn’t work the same as most others. She’d also let me know up to fifteen percent of the world’s population was dyslexic, including Alexander Graham Bell, Churchill, da Vinci, Thomas Edison, and Einstein. Probably nobody read tests to them or called them names. With a smile, I bolstered my spirits with a remembrance of this esteemed group to which I belonged.

  I ambled around the back of the church, snooping. A black umbrella, faded red one, and two wooden
rosaries on a shelf probably made up their Lost and Found. Squeaking sounded from a section of the floor I walked on. A one-inch wide wooden threshold piece held down the end of the worn green carpet that ran down the central aisle.

  Squatting, I eyed the carpet. As I’d suspected, back here it lay flat with no bumps. The slim piece gripping the carpet to the floor would not have made Daria fall. Besides, she’d already walked past that when she pitched forward. I was sure of it. Otherwise, Zane’s ashes wouldn’t have flown where they did, and none would have landed in my pocket.

  Had she waited to get into this section of the church before dumping him?

  Uneasy with a twinge of guilt nudging me for believing a murdered woman had killed her husband, I decided I’d better pray. Besides, I didn’t want what I’d said to a priest to be a lie. Returning to the holy water, I dipped my fingers in and crossed myself. Sliding into a pew, I knelt on a padded kneeler.

  The altar up front appeared small. The statues looked aged. Small rotating fans were mounted on square posts on both sides of the church. Sunlight danced through one of the exquisite stained glass windows.

  I lowered my head, needing to concentrate on prayer instead of building design. My first prayers were general, a couple I used to recite by rote. And then I asked for guidance, knowing I shouldn’t point the finger of blame at anyone. But I silently asked whether someone murdered Zane Snelling.

  “Can I help you?”

  I snapped my eyes open and jerked my head up. No, not a quick answer from God. The older priest, Father Prejean, stood next to my pew. He was tall with an angular face, extremely long eyelashes, and a shiny bald head.

  “Sorry if I frightened you.” He gave me a tight smile.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “I wondered if you wanted to go to confession or needed to talk to a priest.”

  “Oh, no, thank you, Father. I just…wanted to stop in a church to pray.” Ugh, now I was surely going to hell.

  His calloused fingers touched my hand. “I understand.”

  I sat back on the pew. “But I was surprised that a church might be locked.”

  “It’s a sad comment on the day. You can still come any time, and we’ll unlock it for you. We live right next door.”

  “Thank you.”

  He took a few steps away. Then he stopped and came back. “Oh, and I know about cypress knees. My family’s from down here. There are different kinds of cypresses. The one we’re planting doesn’t grow knees. That type cypress grows mostly around water. That’s why their roots need to come up for air.”

  Darn, why didn’t the Snellings have the type without knees? And did one of those knees near the seating area we created trip Zane?

  “I’ve seen a lot of those with knees in the swamps,” I said.

  “Yes. Anyway, thanks for telling us. You can stay as long as you like. I’ll start hearing confession in a few minutes.”

  The second the outer door shut behind him, I hopped up. I didn’t want to remain much longer and didn’t want to confess anything. Retracing my steps toward where Daria tripped, I stooped to see beneath pews and kneelers. A candy wrapper lay under a nearby pew. A bulletin, light film of dust, and tissue lay under others. I walked around the rear and inspected pew seats.

  The one across the aisle from where I determined we’d sat for what was supposed to be a funeral held what could be a few ashes in the seam where the seat met the back. Uneasiness shifted through me. Were those parts of him? Should I try to scoop them up? I had those ashes that were definitely his in my pocket back home and had no idea what to do with them. If I took more, what might that accomplish? Then suppose these weren’t bits of a man but cookie crumbles? I could be inviting mice into my clothes.

  Women’s voices neared, growing louder. The front door opened, and three women walked inside. We told each other “hi” like people do when someone looks familiar, but no one remembers the others’ names, and I headed out.

  Sunlight from the open door struck a shiny item lying flush against the threshold piece that held down the end of the carpet. Past the women, I lifted that item. It was an ordinary silver metal nail file. What didn’t appear ordinary was the thick, dry, tan substance on its pointed tip.

  I slipped the file into my purse. Sound registered of cars stopping. More people were coming to confess sins. Were any of the women going to admit they had been with Zane Snelling?

  I glanced back into the church. Grayish-white bits appeared ground into the nearby short section of carpet. Zane, lying in its fibers? A flash came of my oldest sister lying on our driveway.

  With trembles running from fingertips of one hand to the other, I roared out a lyric and shared frowns with people entering the church while I ran outside beneath the darkening sky.

  Chapter 10

  I called Eve from my car and told her about what resembled ashes in the church. “And I found a fingernail file someone dropped at the edge of the carpet. I think there’s dried glue on the point. Daria could have used this file to pry the urn open while she walked into the vestibule.”

  “Don’t you think those priests and altar boys would have seen her do it?” Eve’s skeptical tone deflected my idea, but only for a moment.

  “She was walking ahead of them. She might have started working the file around the glue as soon as she got hold of the urn, which she probably did outside.”

  Eve mulled over my idea only a moment. “You probably won’t bring those guesses to the police, right?”

  “No, but it would help if they found Daria’s fingerprints and urn glue on the nail file.”

  “Your prints might be covering hers. If that file really did belong to her.”

  I sighed. I was no good at police work. Remodeling jobs were coming in slowly. Maybe I should try to go back to selling double-D bras and thongs.

  “Dave’s company started putting a burglar alarm system in my house. I don’t know if he’ll come back.” Disappointment tainted her tone.

  I envisioned the muscular Dave Price—then pictured his hair dripping to his face once I sent him into the rain. “Sorry I ruined his visit to your house. I’m horrible at trying to be you. Remember that.”

  She exhaled a loud breath. “That’s okay. If he doesn’t come around for the work, I’ll catch up with him someplace else.” Leave it to my sister when it came to being with men.

  “I want to learn more about burial urns,” I said. “Maybe I can find out when Daria got Zane’s in her hands.”

  “Good idea. Oh, you know Royce next door. He told me he noticed a strange man wearing a hat skulking around my house this week.”

  “Skulking?” Excitement swelled inside me. “That sounds like the burglar. Royce must have seen him.”

  “Maybe so.”

  My enthusiasm dulled. “Oh, it was probably just Dave taking measurements.”

  “No. I asked if it was raining. It wasn’t.”

  The streetlight in front of me flipped to red. I stopped. “Let’s take that information to the police tomorrow, and they can question your neighbor’s son. While we’re at the station, I’ll give Detective Wilet this nail file.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “Sure. We might be solving his cases, so he should be pleased. And, Eve, you need to come and stay at my house.”

  “I want to be here when the alarm people come back in the morning.”

  “Call if you need me,” I said, and she clicked off. Satisfaction swirled through my chest like when I’d scored an A on a reading test near the end of fourth grade. Suppose I was right, and Daria did pry that urn open and purposely dump Zane? What if her fingerprints and dried urn glue remained on that file? I would need to be careful to lift it from my purse without covering any more of them with my own prints.

  Possibly Daria was in cahoots with the guy who snooped around Eve’s place, and together they planned to kill Zane. Then that man broke into Eve’s studio and smashed her pai
ntings and wrote on her wall because he wanted… What?

  My positive musings ended. The story building inside my head developed so well and slammed at a wall at this point. But the police could fill in any parts I missed.

  In the morning, Eve called to say her alarm people wouldn’t perform any more work at her house until afternoon, and she had phoned the station. Detective Wilet would see us, although briefly.

  Parking at the police station, I waited for her in my truck. She drove up minutes later. Inside the office, two female officers hustling past turned to give us double takes, likely realizing, yes, the tall redheaded women heading to Detective Wilet’s office were identical. A fresh coffee smell met us in the next hall, coffee spills staining the gray rug beside the pot, along with a small piece of chocolate someone’s shoe squashed.

  “You said you had new information.” Wilet didn’t waste time when we entered.

  We took chairs anyway, and Eve told him about her neighbor’s son visiting her and saying he’d seen a man wearing a head covering near her house. He hadn’t described this man except for saying he wore a cap, so maybe Detective Wilet could get more information from him. Wilet looked serious while he took notes.

  “And I have this.” Using a tissue, I grabbed the nail file from the small inner compartment of my purse and held it out.

  “Tissue?”

  “No, what’s important is the fingernail file.”

  His forehead creased while I told him my theory about how the file had been used, my throat tightening and words softening by the end of my ideas that didn’t seem as convincing as when I’d said them to Eve.

  “The woman who was just killed. You think she murdered her husband?” he asked.

  I sucked in a breath and considered poor Daria. Someone just killed her. I peered down, feeling the detective’s and my sister’s stares. My face warmed like it did back in school after I was called on and gave some answer that made sense to me but nobody else.

  I faced the detective. “It’s possible. And what’s on the tip of that file might be dry glue.”