“Yes. Beneath one of the pews.”
“When was this, Father?”
“Back in June. I was working on a homily and had gone there to write. I do that sometimes, and it was cold in there, you know how stone floors can retain the chill, and I remember wishing I had brought a sweater.”
“What was it you found?”
“A toy figure. Of Yoda. Then I happened to have it with me when I was visiting with her father. You know he’s painting the saints for the new cathedral?”
“Yes,” she said. “And he thinks it’s hers?”
Father Gervase nodded. “At the time I couldn’t remember how it came into my possession, and then several days ago, during the small ceremony for the Medeiros family, I was sitting in the chapel and it came back to me. Since then I’ve been looking for Will Light to tell him, but he’s nowhere to be found.”
“But how did the toy—what did you say it was?”
“A little figure of Yoda.” He recalled how the toy fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. “You know it? The little Jedi from the Star Wars movie.”
“Well, how did it end up in the chapel? June, you say? And she was killed in—let’s see—the fall it was, wasn’t it? September? October?”
“Yes. October.”
She went straight to the core of the matter. “Well, you must go tell the police.”
“The police?” His voice trailed off. The police? The whole thing was spinning out of his control. What on earth had possessed him to confide in Mrs. Jessup?
“Of course.”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“Shall I go with you?”
“With me?” he said, unable to keep the horror out of his voice. “No. No. There’s no need of that.”
She picked up his empty glass, took a last swipe of the table with the paper towel, and rose. “You should go right now. While it is all clear in your memory.” She waited for him to get up.
Feeling bullied into action—Mrs. Jessup was getting to be as bossy as Lena MacDougall—he left for the police station. Recognizing it as a delaying tactic, he detoured by the harbor in hopes that he would find Will, but the building was still closed tight. Behind him, the day boats headed out of the harbor. He sighed in resignation. Might as well get it over with. No doubt Mrs. Jessup would be waiting for his report.
On the way up the steps, he met Michael Callahan exiting the station.
“Father Gervase,” the officer said. “What brings you here? Someone stealing pennies from the alms box?”
“Oh no. No,” the priest said before he realized that Michael, like Will Light’s neighbor earlier that morning, was joking. It pained him to think he was completely losing his sense of humor. “Nothing like that. In fact, it is probably nothing at all, but I thought I should tell someone.” Callahan held the door for him. A wave of cooled air bathed him as he entered the lobby. “It’s about Lucy Light.”
The patrolman’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Lucy Light?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. You surprised me there, Father. Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll notify the detective in charge of her case.”
“It’s probably nothing,” he repeated, but Callahan had already disappeared down a hall. Before he could gather his thoughts, he found himself ushered through the metal gate that separated the lobby from the inner rooms and sitting across a desk from a tired-looking man who introduced himself as Detective Gordon.
“Officer Callahan tells me you have some information about Lucy Light.”
The feeling of foolishness increased, and he regretted not waiting until Will had returned from wherever he had gone. Let him decide what to do with this information. “Probably nothing,” he said for the third time in minutes. The officer waited in silence for him to continue. In spite of his dry mouth, the priest found himself babbling on about the toy and how he’d first found it and how when Will Light had seen it, he had been convinced it had belonged to his daughter.
Gordon shifted forward in his seat. “And where is it now?”
“Will has it. He took it from me.”
“And exactly when did you find it?”
“In June. The first week in June, I think it was.” Again Father Gervase was unable to stop the flow of words. “I had gone to the chapel to work on a sermon—one on confronting despair—and saw something under a pew and thought I was seeing a piece of trash. We’ve had problems with kids using the place. And that’s why we keep it locked. Hate to do that, of course. Hate to do that. The idea was to have it available day and night for anyone who might feel the need to sit in a place of prayer. But then we started finding trash in there—” He could not bring himself to mention the used condoms on the floor of the chapel, could barely stand to think of it himself. “And so it is now kept locked.”
“I see. And how many people have keys?”
“Well, I have one. And Father Burns. And Wayne Jervis. The part-time custodian. He comes in each Saturday to clean.”
“So there are only the three keys?”
“Well, there is one more. We keep it in the rectory office in case Father Burns and I are unavailable and someone wants to use the chapel. You just have to sign the register noting the time you take it and when you return it. We didn’t use to bother with that, but we found people would forget to return it, and we would have to have another made up. You know. Over at the hardware store.”
“So actually anyone can have access to that key?”
“Well, yes.” As the conversation—the interrogation—went on and on, Father Gervase couldn’t escape the sense of guilt, as if he had done something wrong, been negligible, which was ridiculous of course. “But as I said, you have to sign out for it.”
“So you keep a register?”
“Yes. In the rectory office.” He was back on solid ground. “A clipboard with spaces for the date, names, and times.”
“I’ll need to take a look at that.”
“At the register?” Should he refuse?
“Yes.”
Was this a matter of privacy for the parishioners? Would he be betraying them to turn over their names to the police? Should he check with someone first? A confusion of questions spun in his head.
The detective waited. “Father?”
“I guess so.”
“Give me a minute to finish up here, and I’ll drive you over.”
A second wave of doubt swept over the priest. Perhaps he should check with someone about giving the register to the police. But who? Bishop Kneeland? No. Best to just go ahead and get it over with.
He was relieved to find Father Burns in the rectory office. When he explained the situation, the younger priest took over and Father Gervase was happy to turn the entire matter over to him.
“No problem. I’ll just make a copy of the register pages you need,” the younger priest said. “How many weeks do you want to cover?”
Gordon prodded Father Gervase to check his calendar and pin down the exact week of his sermon and when he had gone to the chapel.