Unholy Shepherd by Robert Christian (rooftoppers txt) 📕

continued to stay in this town, she had to know she had at least one sure way out.

“But,” she said aloud as she scooped her clean clothes into the now empty pillowcase and headed back down to meet Manny, “we’ll just keep that as a last resort.”

TWENTY-NINE

“You’ll call me as soon as you’re done, right?” Manny asked as they sat in his truck in front of the red-brick Cape Cod that served as St. Mary’s rectory.

Maureen sat in the passenger’s seat, staring at the house and wondering why she had ever agreed to have dinner with Father Patrick. The days had passed uneventfully since she had last seen him on the steps of the church. She and Manny had continued to run down the church parishioners day in and day out with no success. She hadn’t had a chance to think about tonight until just before leaving the detective’s home less than half an hour before. Now that she could reflect on her position, she was sure she was in for an evening of the priest’s ceaseless positivity and friendly conversation. She honestly didn’t feel in the mood for that, but she had made a promise, and for some reason, she couldn’t go back on it.

“Yeah, we’ve been over it. I’ll call.”

“And you have the phone, right?”

Forget the damn thing on the coffee table once, and the guy can’t let it go. Refusing to reply, Maureen simply gave him a sideways look, pushed her door open, and hopped out, smoothing her shirt as she walked up the sidewalk toward the front door. She turned around to see Manny watching from the car. She shooed him with her hand, and he drove off down the street. She turned back to the house, walked the last few steps to the door, gathered herself, and rang the bell.

The door opened almost immediately. As usual, Father Patrick wore his friendly smile, along with dark slacks and a button-down shirt with a sweater vest over it. Maureen felt instantly underdressed in her jeans and flannel shirt, but she tried to push away the thought.

“Right on time,” the priest chirped as he held the door open for her and motioned with his hand for her to enter. “Please come on in.”

The dark wood of the crown molding and baseboards swallowed some of the light from the two antique lamps that were in the front room, causing the house to have a dim glow. Maureen could smell what she thought was furniture polish mixed with the certain smell that told her a person over the age of sixty lived there. It reminded her of her grandmother’s home in Massachusetts when she was a child. She was actually relieved, thinking that maybe the inside of priests’ homes smelled like their church office, and that smell would uncover memories she couldn’t handle while sober.

Father Patrick led her past the staircase and through a hallway toward the rear of the house. Though she couldn’t see it, she judged by the smell of hot oil and rich spices that the kitchen lay to her right. The priest opened a door at the end of the hall. It opened into a carpeted den that was decorated like a reading room or library. One full wall was taken up by an enormous bookshelf, filled to capacity with an array of leather-bound tomes, paperbacks of contrasting size, and other hardcovers placed on the shelves in whatever order they would fit. On the wall opposite this, there was a drink cart with several glasses and several decanters holding various liquids. Whiskey, wine, and either vodka or gin, Maureen guessed. Either Father Patrick liked his liquor, or he was eager to impress his guest.

A round card table draped with a plain, white tablecloth took up the middle of the room. Upon it was a basket filled with a loaf of bread wrapped in a linen napkin, a tray of butter, two plates with another napkin folded on each, and two sets of silverware. It looked like the type of setup she imagined a fancy restaurant would have. She began to wonder if the old priest saw this as some kind of date. It was an uncomfortable thought.

“Would you like a drink?” Father Patrick asked.

“Uh, sure, what do you have?” said Maureen, turning to find him standing next to the drink cart.

“Plenty of choices,” he replied indicating each bottle with his hand. “I’ve got vodka, gin, and vermouth if you’d like a martini. I’ve got a nice port, though I might recommend that as a dessert drink. If you’re a wine drinker, there’s other wine, both red and white. I’ve got scotch, and there’s beer in the refrigerator.”

“Scotch, I guess,” she said. He sounded like a man who actually knew a thing or two about the finer things. Maureen felt out of her depth, but scotch was whiskey and whiskey was always her choice, so she went for that.

Father Patrick nodded and pulled out the stopper from the decanter and grabbed a short glass. “Do you like it on the rocks or neat?”

“What do you recommend?” she asked.

“It’s a fair scotch, but I like this particular one better on the rocks.”

Maureen waved her hand at him, indicating that he should go ahead and pour.

Father Patrick plunked a few cubes into the glass and poured the liquor halfway up. He swirled it and handed it to Maureen.

She tried not to frown at the stingy pour and took a small sip. “Smooth,” she said, giving the priest her best smile.

Father Patrick fixed himself his own drink, a gin martini by the looks of it, and set it on the table next to one of the plates.

“I have to excuse myself for a few minutes,” he said to her. “The main course is ready to go whenever, but I decided I wanted to make some lumpia for an appetizer, and it’s best served hot, right out of the oil. I’ll be back shortly, and then we can