Sam’s brows pinch together, his brown eyes clouded with concern. “If there’s anything I can do to speed things up on my end, rest assured I’ll do it, of course. Usually family members like to make sure they give enough notice to acquaintances of the deceased, so they can make travel arrangements, though. And florists, caterers, staff… these things all take time to arrange.”
I don’t know what staff Sam thinks I’m going to need for this thing, but it sounds like he’s expecting a considerable amount of fanfare. “What do you mean, morgue releases his body?”
“Well, if your father had died of something straight forward,” he shrugs, “like a heart attack or pneumonia, it would be pretty cut and dried. Since he was murdered—”
A strange buzzing sound starts ringing in my ears. I can see Sam the Priest’s mouth moving, but I can’t hear a damn thing over the buzzing; it’s so intense and violent that it feels like it’s about to rattle the insides of my head into soup. I hold up one hand, stopping Sam in his tracks. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that? The murdered part.”
Sam’s eyes grow fat and round, white showing everywhere. “You didn’t know?”
“I got a phone call. I was told he’d passed. He’s been an alcoholic as long as I’ve been alive. I just assumed…”
Sam pinballs his head from side to side, looking a little gray all of a sudden. “Malcolm’s been sober the past ten years, Coralie. I mean, I’ve only been here for three, so I can only vouch for those years, but that’s what he told me. He showed me the chip they gave him at AA. No, I’m afraid Malcolm was stabbed to death. They found him face down on the road out by Palisade Bridge with a kitchen knife sticking out of his chest.”
“Palisade Bridge?”
Sam nods gravely. “Sheriff Mason said he hadn’t been out there long. Maybe a couple of hours. They’re still looking for the perpetrator. Or perpetrators. Malcolm was a big man. Might have been that a few of them for all we know at the moment. I’m so surprised the police didn’t call and tell you. Surely that must be standard procedure?” He looks genuinely perplexed, and I almost feel sorry for him.
I was experiencing a flutter of similar emotion, right up until he told me where my father’s body was found. Palisade Bridge. The exact same bridge where my mother died. It would be too much of a coincidence for my father to have been attacked and brutally murdered at the exact same spot where my mother died. Which can only mean one thing: he killed himself. He stuck that knife into his chest himself, hari kari style, and the police haven’t said anything to poor, unsuspecting Sam the Priest for a very good reason. People who kill themselves aren’t allowed a catholic burial. People who kill themselves aren’t allowed to be interred in consecrated ground. For one fleeting, awful moment, I think about spilling the beans to Sam. Ruining my father’s funeral plans will hardly make up for the years of misery he put me through, but it might make me feel a little better. My lips are parting, my brain already stringing the words together, but then I remember my meeting with Ezra, the clause where I don’t get my mother’s belongings if I don’t give him this ridiculous service he so badly wanted. I’m willing to bet that clause still counts if Sam refuses to oversee this midnight mass of Malcolm’s.
“Wow. I really had no idea,” I mutter. “I’ll make sure to stop over at the station after I’m done here with you.” I’m not very convincing in trying to convey surprise, but Sam still places his hand on my shoulder and gives it a comforting squeeze.
“He’s at rest now, Coralie. There’s no need to worry about him anymore.” Sam doesn’t realize that my father’s probably dancing on hot coals somewhere south of the theological border; I’m sure Malcolm never confessed the nightmare he put my mother and me through before he found Jesus and quit the bottle. If he had, Sam would be a little more aware of my couldn’t give a shit attitude. I make a mental note to call Ezra and ream him out for not telling me about the suicide thing.
Sam hugs me when he bids me farewell, which makes me feel a little uncomfortable, and I leave feeling completely unsatisfied. So much for tying this thing up in a neat bow and getting the fuck out of here. Looks like I’m going to be stuck here for at least a week, even if I do manage to hurry things along. I open up the rental, toss my purse onto the backseat, and then freeze, suddenly gripped by an all-consuming, paralyzing fear. The rear of the lot where I’ve chosen to park the car overlooks the cemetery to the rear of the church, and in the sun-filled cemetery, Callan Cross is sitting Indian style in front of a pale gray marble headstone.