Bitter Recoil

Chapter 8

Estelle and I ate dinner without her hubby. Francis called from the clinic just about the time Estelle had to turn on some lights so we wouldn’t trip over the furniture. He’d been about to leave for home when an Indian woman walked through the door with a sick youngster.

The stoic little kid had been flinching from a middle ear infection for several days, and the infection had bloomed. When his temperature spiked through 104 degrees, the mother decided herbs weren’t enough. The kid had himself a fine case of infectious meningitis.

Estelle sighed with resignation when Francis told her he wouldn’t be home much before midnight. After the youngster was transferred to Albuquerque, Francis wanted to follow up with a visit to the pueblo to see with whom the kid had come in contact.

The two chatted for a few minutes, and when Estelle hung up I smiled. “Marry a doctor and you starve to death.”

“Usually, it’s me who gets called out at all hours,” Estelle replied.

I leaned against the refrigerator and watched her cook. The kitchen was as tiny and cramped as the rest of the house, and I took it in at a glance. The row of bottles on the narrow windowsill above the sink surprised me-a whole alphabet of vitamins, minerals, and human fuel treatments. I reached over and picked up the largest, a collection of vitamin E capsules.

“I thought you always said that green chili cured all,” I said. She glanced my way and I put the bottle back.

“Francis wants to make sure the baby gets everything he needs,” she replied as offhandedly as if she’d remarked on the weather.

She laughed at the blank look on my face and went back to chopping onions.

“Well, congratulations,” I said. “When?”

“When what?”

“When’s it due?”

She took a deep breath. “February 10.”

I laughed. She even had that event pegged to the day. “That’s great. Does Sheriff Tate know?”

Estelle shook her head. “Francis and I agreed that I’d go on leave in October. That’s soon enough.”

“Then what?”

“We’re not sure. I don’t think I want to work.” She grinned widely. “I don’t think I want to face the wrath of mi madre. She’d never speak to me again if I left her grandson in a day-care center.”

“You two will work it out I’m sure,” I said. I picked up a loaded plate and carried it over to the table. She’d called it frijoles con something, and the food was so damn hot I accused her of serving it with a sauce of lit gasoline. But the spices-and the news about the pending kid-perked me up.

As we ate, our conversation kept circling back around to Cecilia Burgess and her boyfriends. Estelle wanted me to visit Father Nolan Parris, and there was no better time than that evening.

Shortly before nine, feeling fat from too much high-octane dinner, I arrived at the retreat complex just north of the village. As the crow flies the place was less than a mile from Estelle’s home.

The center included several small buildings clustered around a large three-story house. Monstrous cottonwoods shaded the complex and blocked out what little light there might have been from passing traffic, the moon, or even starshine.

Estelle hadn’t needed to worry about being seen by the wrong folks if she visited Parris. It was too dark for starting rumors. I parked the Blazer behind an older model Fairlane station wagon. A single bulb beside the double front door of the main house illuminated enough of the siding and porch to show that the facility was well maintained. I opened the door of the Blazer and listened. The compound was stone quiet. Maybe the clergy were in the middle of their late evening services.

The three raps of the brass knocker were loud enough to make me flinch. I formed a mental picture of a row of bowed, maybe even shaved, heads snapping up at the sound and nervous hands clutching rosaries.

The retreat was for clergy who had strayed from the straight and narrow. Some may have nipped the bottle too often…maybe a few dallied with members of the fair sex-or even with their own sex. “I think it’s sort of a second chance house,” Estelle had said and that made sense. If a priest couldn’t concentrate on his prayers here, he was probably out of luck.

The right-hand side of the double doors opened and an elderly cleric peered out at me. I shouldn’t say elderly…hell, he was about my age, maybe a year or two younger. He wore basic black, without the Roman collar.

“Good evening,” I said and held my identification up so he could see it through the screen door. I adopted my most accommodating tone. “I wonder if it would be convenient for me to visit with Father Parris?” The priest squinted at the badge and commission card, and I wondered if he could read it well enough to see the county name.

His watery gray eyes flicked from the identification to my face, and I put the wallet away. “Well,” he said and placed one hand on the screen door like he was preparing to push it open for me, “this isn’t the best of times.”

“I won’t need much of his time,” I said. “And it would really be a help.”

He started to push open the door, then asked, “You may have to wait a moment or two. May I tell him who’s calling?”

The doorkeeper had just flunked the reading test. I could just as easily have held up my Sears card. “Undersheriff Bill Gastner.” He’d forgive a minor sin of omission. I opened the screen the rest of the way and stepped inside.

“If you’d care to wait here, in the front room?” the priest said, indicating a small parlor crowded with overstuffed furniture and a small upright piano. “I’ll fetch Father Parris.” He touched my elbow lightly as he guided me into the room and then left.

I thrust my hands in my pockets and gazed around. I stepped over and perused the titles in the single bookcase. Most were Reader’s Digest chopped editions. If the good fathers had a theological library, this wasn’t it. I turned at the sound of footsteps.

“Father Parris will be down in a few minutes,” the priest said and smiled. “Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee or something?”

“No thanks. Appreciate it though.”

He nodded and left. I sat down in one of the chairs and found that it supported me in all the wrong places. I perched forward on the edge of the cushion, clasped my hands together, rested my forearms on my knees, and waited. After about two minutes, I noticed that there were no ashtrays in the room. I took a deep breath and occupied my mind by trying to imagine what Parris looked like. In another minute, I had my answer. My guess hadn’t been close.

Nolan Parris stepped into the doorway of the parlor and stopped. He rested a hand on the jamb. He was short, no more than five feet five and handsome in a well-oiled sort of way. His black hair was carefully trimmed with the part just off-center, and he kept the sideburns short. He wore gold wire-rimmed glasses, and his brown eyes glanced around the room when he first came in as if I might have company hiding behind the furniture.

I guessed that he was no more than thirty-five, just beginning to soften around the edges and expand at the gut. And he was pale, like a man just risen from bed after two weeks with the flu.

“Good evening,” he said cautiously.

I rose and extended my hand. “Father Parris?”

“Nolan Parris, yes.” He entered the room and limped to the center of the carpet, where I met him. His perfunctory handshake expended two pumps. “Do I know you?”

Once again I pulled out my identification. Parris looked at it and a muscle in his jaw twitched. He nodded and gestured toward a chair. “Please.”

“Father Parris, I’m assisting Deputy Guzman with an investigation of a pedestrian accident earlier today up the canyon.” A pained look swept briefly across his face. He was wearing slippers, and his right sock was bulging around what was probably an elastic bandage. I didn’t know if the grimace was because of the ankle or my announcement. “Perhaps you heard about it.”

He nodded. Something was interesting in the pile of the old purple carpeting in that room, because that’s all Parris was looking at. “I heard about it, yes.”

“Would you take a look at this, please?” I held out the picture of Cecilia Burgess, and Parris took it. With satisfaction I saw his thumb clamp down on the bottom margin of the photo. “Do you know the young lady?”

“Yes, of course, Cecilia Burgess. I’ve known her and her family for years.” He took a deep breath, held it, and slowly let it out with a slight shake of his head. He handed the photograph back.

“Her family? She has relatives in the area?”

Parris shook his head. “No longer. Her parents died when she was quite young. For a time she was living with her brother in Albuquerque.”

“Where’s her brother now?”

“Richard’s dead. About five years ago.”

“How did that happen?”

Parris took his time collecting his thoughts before he said, “He was riding his motorcycle on Central Avenue in Albuquerque. A pickup truck ran the red light at Washington. Richard wasn’t wearing a helmet. It probably wouldn’t have done any good even if he had been.”

I grimaced. “Hard luck family. And he was her only brother? No others? Sisters?” Parris shook his head. “What did the brother do?” Parris glanced up at me, puzzled. “His line of work?” I added patiently.

“He was a priest.” Parris hesitated and watched me pull a small notebook out of my hip pocket. When my ballpoint was ready, he added, “We attended seminary together.”

“He was older than Cecilia?”

“Yes. By about twelve years.”

“What was your relationship with Cecilia?”

Parris eyed the carpet again. “We were good friends. As I said, we’d known each other for years.”

I paused and stuck the pen in my mouth. “Father Parris, are you aware of what happened last night?” Parris nodded. His eyes were closed. I waited until he opened them and looked at me. “Would you tell me how you found out?”

Parris slumped back in the chair, and his left hand strayed to his pectoral cross. He toyed with it for a minute, then clasped his hands together. “I heard all the sirens, of course. And then this morning I had occasion to drive into the village. I sprained my ankle last night, and I needed an elastic support. Orlando Garcia, at the trading post, saw me and asked if I’d heard.”

“And what did you do then?”

“I called the clinic immediately.”

“Do you remember what time that was?”

Parris pursed his lips and glanced at his wristwatch, as if the hands might have stopped at the moment in question. “Mid-morning. It was shortly after I’d finished mass here.”

“And then?”

“They told me that Cecilia had been transferred to Albuquerque. To Presbyterian. I drove into the city immediately.”

“So you were aware of the extent of her injuries?”

Nolan Parris stood up with a grunt and limped across to the bookcase. He rested both hands on the top shelf for support. I waited. Finally he said, “I administered last rites. I was there when she died.” He turned and looked at me without releasing his grip on the bookcase. “I made arrangements. A friend of mine at Sacred Heart will say rosary and mass, probably tomorrow. I did all I could. And then I drove back here.”

“Father, are you aware that Cecilia was pregnant?”

“Yes.” His lack of hesitation surprised me.

“Do you know who the father was?”

“I’m not sure I understand how that is relevant to the investigation of the accident,” Parris said without much conviction.

“Do you know?”

He pushed away from the bookcase and sat down on the only straight-backed chair in the room. “I can’t imagine what good these explorations into Cecilia’s private life can do now.”

“Father Parris, a hit-and-run is homicide.” Parris’s face flushed, and his shoulders sagged a little. “So you see, information of any kind might be helpful to us.”

Parris bowed his head, and for a moment I was afraid he’d sunken into one of those hour-long prayers. Eventually, he looked up at me. “Yes, I know who the father was. Or I should say, I know who she said he was.”

“And who’s that?”

“A fellow by the name of Finn.”

“First name?”

“I’m not sure. They’re just initials I think. H.P. maybe. Something like that.”

“Are you aware of where Mr. Finn lives?”

“Oh, he lives around here, all right.” Parris almost chuckled, the sound coming out like more of a snort. “Up at the hot springs. He and a friend camp out there.” He stressed the word friend.

“Do you know the friend?”

“No. But I’ve seen him once or twice. And Cecilia mentioned him now and again. A younger man, I believe.”

“And so you think Finn is the father?”

“Cecilia said he was. She said he paid one or two of her bills at the health clinic.”

“Did Cecilia Burgess have any other children?”

The question seemed to catch Parris off-guard. He watched the rug patterns for a long minute, then settled for a simple shake of the head. A very small shake.

“So the little girl who’s staying with Finn-Daisy, I think her name is-isn’t Cecilia Burgess’s child?”

“No, not as far…” Parris stopped abruptly. His face was anguished. “No, I’m not going to do that.” He was speaking more to himself than to me, and I remained silent. His features twisted with some internal struggle, and I thought for a moment that the young priest was going to weep.

He closed his eyes again for a while, then got out of the chair, limped to the door, and gently closed it.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Forgive me. This is hard.” He made his way slowly to the chair nearest mine. I said nothing, letting him take his time. He surprised me with a faint grin. “I feel as if I’m in the confessional.”

“Some different laws apply,” I said gently.

He nodded sad agreement with that. “The girl living with Finn is my daughter.”

“And Cecilia’s?” I prompted.

“Yes,” Father Nolan Parris said. He looked relieved.