In Like Flynn (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #4)

Nineteen

Sunday. Fifth morning of this even more complicated saga. I was nowhere closer to proving the Misses Sorensen were frauds. I was nowhere closer to finding out the truth about Bertie Morell. Theresa Flynn wanted to take me to Europe with her and Barney Flynn wanted to take me to bed. Then there was a man staying next door who would have me arrested if he found out the truth about me. Why on earth hadn't I chosen a simpler profession? And if I was bent on being an investigator, why on earth had I not stuck to divorce cases? I was tempted to take the next train home, until I realized that I had no way of reaching a station without being ferried across the riverfirst.

I came down to find Clara already in her severe black crepe bonnet. Youll be coming to church with us, I trust?” she asked. “I presume that Barney’s relatives are good Catholics?”

“Catholics. I'm not so sure about the good part.”

“No?” Her look of disapproval made me wonder if she was the one who had peeked from a bedroom yesterday evening when Barney had attempted to seduce me. To my surprise Bamey appeared in a dark Sunday suit with hair well parted and slicked down. Theresa had announced that she was not up to the boat ride, so it was Clara, Belinda, Bamey and myself, plus little Eileen and her nurse, who made the trip across the river and attended mass at the church in Peekskill. After mass Bamey was waylaid by well-wishers and friends. He made the rounds of handshaking like any good politician should. Eileen had been very good all through mass but I could see that she was getting bored with holding her nanny’s hand.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s you and I go for a little walk. Maybe we can see birds and squirrels in the park.”

The nurse frowned but Eileen took my hand happily and skipped along beside me. A path led into the little cemetery behind the church. It was so peaceful and green up there, surrounded by trees, with a view of the river.

“Is this where dead people are buried?” Eileen asked, studying the tombstones.

That’sright. But just their bodies. Their souls have gone up to God in heaven.”

She looked thoughtful. “My brother isn't buried here, is he?” “No.” It was better that she didn't know that her brother’s grave had never been found. “But he’s an angel in heaven himself now and he’s watching down on you.”

“Look, there’s a squirrel.” Eileen was off at a great pace, discussions of heaven quite forgotten. I ran after her, determined not to let her out of my sight for a second. At the far end of the cemetery, where the grass had not been cut and odd gravestones were dotted among pine trees, I spotted a boy, a little older than Eileen, dressed in his black Sunday best, climbing on a large grave monument. Eileen saw him at the same time and made a beeline for him.

“Hello, boy!” she called.

“Eileen, wait for me,” I called. At that moment I noticed a woman who had been bent over a grave in the unkempt area. She rose hastily to her feet at the sound of my voice, grabbed the boy and yanked him down from the marble cherub. Then she shot me a glance, gathered up a bunch of dyingflowersand dragged the protesting child away in the opposite direction.

“Why did he have to go so quickly?” Eileen demanded. “I could have played with him. We could have played hide-and-seek among all the lovely angels.”

“His mommy must have been in a hurry, I suppose,” I said. Intrigued as to why she needed to rush away from what must have been a Sunday morning ritual, I made my way over to the grave. The small rectangle of granite bore the words ALBERT JOSEPH MORELL. I couldn't read the dates because there were now fresh flowers lying across it. Handpicked flowers from somebody’s garden. I noticed rosemary and forget-me-nots among them. Somebody still remembered Albert Morell fondly apart from Annie Lomax in New York.

I took Eileen’s hand to rejoin my party. As we made our way back to the boat, we had to pass under the railway to reach the river. A train was just pulling in from New York City. I looked up at the slamming of doors and saw what looked like the same woman getting into a carriage at the far end of the train.

We came home to find Theresa up and lying propped on a wicker chaise on the veranda, wrapped in a rug, although the morning was already warm. Roland Van Gelder had arrived and was perched on a chair beside her. A breakfast tray, hardly touched, stood on a round table and Roland was drinking a cup of coffee.

“Look who’s here, Bamey,” Theresa called as we came around the side of the house. “Roland has been kind enough to keep me company.”

“It’s good to see you up again, my dear.” Barney went up to her and kissed her forehead. “How are you, Roland?”