“I’m looking for information about a family in your parish,” said Lucy. “Do you have a few minutes?”
“I surely do,” said the priest, with a shrug. “And I wouldn’t mind getting off my feet for a bit.”
“I’m Lucy Stone, from the Pennysaver newspaper in Tinker’s Cove, Maine,” said Lucy, extending her hand.
His grip was warm and strong. “I guess you know who I am. Formerly parish priest and now gardener.”
“A very fine gardener,” said Lucy, eyeing the basket of ripe, red tomatoes. “Those are gorgeous. What’s your secret?”
“I talk to them,” said Father Keenan, a twinkle in his eye. “They say they like the carbon dioxide in your breath but I prefer to think plants enjoy a bit of company. As do I.”
“I’m afraid this goes back quite a few years,” began Lucy. “I’m looking for information about a family named O’Toole. They had a daughter named Mary Catherine and a son named Thomas Preston. I think they may have lived in Jamaica Plain.”
She was surprised to see a spark of recognition in the old man’s eyes. “I remember them well. They were adorable children. She was the older and she took great care of her little brother. I always thought what a wonderful mother she would make.” He sighed. “It was a great tragedy, what happened to their father. It was in all the papers at the time, I’m sure you’ll remember it.”
“I didn’t grow up around here,” said Lucy. “I was raised near New York City.”
“Even so, it made national news. It was that shocking. Their father was a police officer, one of Boston’s finest. He was shot attempting to stop a bank robbery. Shot and killed. His wife, a lovely woman but very fragile, never got over it. She took her own life shortly after.”
“Who raised the children?”
“They went into foster care, I believe.” He shook his head. “Like I said, it was very sad.”
“Were the robbers caught?”
“I believe so. There was a trial, I remember. Very sensational. It was during the last years of the Vietnam War, you see, and they had some crazy idea of robbing the bank to finance some sort of protest against the military-industrial complex. They were defended by a prominent leftist lawyer from Harvard, his name escapes me right now but it will come back to me eventually.” He smiled apologetically. “Usually it does, but sometimes it takes a day or two. Funny, I can remember his long, curly hair but I can’t remember his name.”
“I know the feeling,” said Lucy.
He smiled. “Now it’s my turn to ask the questions. Why do you want to know about the family O’Toole?” A faint trace of an Irish brogue crept into his speech.
Lucy hesitated before answering. It was warm on the stone bench and the garden was peaceful and quiet. The only sound was the hum of cicadas and she could smell the peppery scent of the tomato leaves. She didn’t want to bring violent death into this lovely place.
“I’ve heard it all before, you know,” he prompted her. “I have heard things in the confessional that would curl your hair.”
“I can well imagine,” said Lucy. “They’re both dead. Mimi, I mean Mary Catherine, was stabbed in her kitchen. Her husband has been charged with the crime. Her brother was homeless but somehow he heard about the funeral and came to Tinker’s Cove but they found his body in the harbor, drowned.”
Father Keenan picked up one of the tomatoes and stroked its silky skin with his callused thumb. “Did Mary Catherine have any children?”
“Yes,” said Lucy, eager to give him some good news. “Two boys. Preston is eighteen and Tommy is fifteen.” She saw no need to mention Tommy’s suicide attempt or Preston’s threats. “Nice boys.”
“It must be a very difficult time for them.”
“Yes.” She watched as a praying mantis made its cautious way along a leafy tomato branch. Its green color was perfect camouflage. She would never have noticed it if it hadn’t moved. “I’ve tried to help but they’re very…private.”
“I will pray for them. And for the souls of Mary Catherine and Thomas Preston.” He turned to her. “Are you Catholic?”
Lucy shook her head.
“Do you pray?”
Lucy considered the question. She didn’t pray regularly, but there were times when she did. “Occasionally.”
“Ah,” he said. “I find prayer very helpful. You should try it more often.”
“Thank you for your help,” she said, getting to her feet. “You’ve been the answer to a prayer.”
His face reddened. “I try,” he said, tipping his hat.
As she meandered through the hills of New Hampshire toward the Maine border and home, Lucy thought over what Father Keenan had told her about the O’Toole family. Fred had been truthful when he told her that Mimi had no family. Their parents dead, they had been raised by foster parents. Lucy wondered if they had been placed together in the same home, or if they’d been separated, as was often the case.
It seemed a cruel twist of fate that Mimi’s sons were close to being in the same situation, though Preston at least was older than Mimi and her brother had been. How old were they when their father was killed? How long after that did their mother take her life? Father Keenan had said she was “fragile.” Did that mean their mother suffered from mental problems even before the shooting? Lucy found that the information she’d gotten from Father Keenan was creating more questions than answers. She couldn’t wait to get back to her computer and put Google to work.
She had just passed the “Welcome to Maine” sign when her cell phone rang. Normally, Lucy didn’t like to talk on the cell phone when she was driving; she’d seen too many near misses by drivers who were completely oblivious to the cars around them as they engaged in a fascinating conversation. But today she practically had the road to herself and she would make it brief, tell whoever was calling that she would get back to them as soon as possible.
“Mo-o-om!” wailed Sara, when she answered
Lucy felt the car swerve a bit. “What’s the matter?”
“I wanna go ho-o-me.”
“Calm down and tell me what’s the matter,” insisted Lucy, pulling into a convenient rest stop.
“I just wanna go home.”
“Are you sick?”
Sara produced a sound that could be taken as either affirmative or negative, Lucy couldn’t decide which. Whatever it was, it was clear Sara was in some sort of distress and needed her.
“Where are you?”
“Lake Wah-wah-wingate.”
Lucy pulled a map out of the glove compartment and discovered she was only about 25 miles away. “I can be there in about half an hour,” she promised.
“Hu-u-urry,” wailed Sara.
“Just take it easy,” said Lucy, ending the call and peeling out of the rest area with the gas pedal pressed to the floor. This was definitely one of those times that called for prayer. “Lord,” she said, raising her eyes skyward, “please let there be no state troopers for the next 25 miles.”