The Saintmaker

By Mary Carroll Patrick

When Janet Reed takes the job as pastoral assistant for a Catholic church after the death of her son, she hopes the job will bring her peace and healing. Instead she becomes a keeper of secrets, a murder suspect and a dead man’s last hope for making restitution for the sins of his past.

For readers who miss Ralph McInerny, Andrew Greeley and William Kienzle, Mary Carroll Patrick is a fresh new voice in Catholic genre mystery. The Saintmaker is her debut novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Carroll Patrick
• Release date: Oct 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466175914

Mary Carroll Patrick

Mary Carroll Patrick is employed in the religious communications field as a writer and journalist. The Saintmaker is her first novel. She lives in Texas with her husband and family.

Book preview

Mary Carroll Patrick

The Saintmaker:

A Catholic Genre Mystery Novel

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Cover by Rita Toews

Photo attribution: Nick Macneill Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license.

Ebook Formatting: Matt Buttsworth

In loving memory of my mother, Catherine Patrick, my most caring, toughest and most feared critic. You always insisted I do my best. I miss you every day. See you in eternal life.

Prologue

Out of habit Jim Graham parked his black Mercedes under a light in the chapel’s parking lot. If he’d been thinking rationally, he’d have realized that the chance of somebody vandalizing his car at the 24 hour chapel was almost non-existent, and given the gravity of his situation, irrelevant.

The thunderstorm of an hour ago had transformed itself into a moderate drizzle. Dawn was a few hours off. The street light cast a blurry, grotesque shadow on the pavement, making his fit body a blob of misshapen slate as it glided toward the chapel entrance, as nebulous as the solution to his problems. Inside he gave a quick nod to the chapel’s other occupant, who quickly genuflected, made the sign of the cross and left. Now it was Jim’s turn for an hour of the night vigil.

He approached the votive candles, lit one, knelt on the prie-dieu and raised his eyes to the huge statue of the Virgin. Instead of peace, feelings of guilt, regret and unworthiness, wrapped up in a sense of chaos, permeated his being.

As he passed judgment over himself, his head seemed to float above his body. How had things gone so wrong so fast? What had started out as an easy way to make some money with nobody getting hurt now threatened his reputation, his life and his soul. His wife’s too.

All those decisions had been made before he had believed in God. Now that he believed, he wanted to make things right. But, that couldn’t be—some things couldn’t be undone. Even if he could find the courage to make amends and accept punishment for his crimes, others would be unwilling dragged into his atonement, suffering consequences they didn’t deserve.

How could he ask Renée to put her life on the line along with him, especially after his betrayal? And even if he could square things with her, there was somebody else, well two somebodys, to consider.

Jim rested his elbows on the prie-dieu and put his face in his hands. As he prayed, he inhaled the scent of the burning candle, time marked by a quick whiff of smoke as the fire reached the end of the wick and died. The quiet of the chapel began to settle into his being. He wasn’t thinking. He just was. Time stopped. A sense of calm had completely enveloped him as the chapel door opened. Jim turned to see who had come in—the last person he would have expected to find in the chapel in the middle of the night.

I’m glad you’re here, he said.

There was no response. Jim inhaled while saying a quick prayer for the right words. I’d like to pray awhile. When my relief comes in, we’ll go get some coffee. I still don’t know what to do.

Pray away, the intruder of his peace commanded, sitting down in the pew nearest the prie-dieu, arms folded.

Jim bowed his head but couldn’t quite summon the tranquility he’d experienced a minute before.

For a few moments he struggled to calm the desperate thoughts floating through his brain. He was vaguely aware of a rustling behind him.

Jim turned just in time to duck a blow aimed for the back of his head. As he tried to jump up and grab his attacker’s arms, he felt his body enter a woozy ballet where his limbs just wouldn’t do what he wanted. Instead, he tripped on the kneeler and ended up on the floor. The chapel’s other visitor used the opportunity to land a kick to his side, air swishing in the follow-through.

The pain was intense. Flailing his own legs, Jim managed to land a weak kick throwing his adversary off balance for a few seconds. Grabbing the side of the prie-dieu, he hoisted himself up. Almost regaining his balance in the reeling room, he faced his attacker but was too winded to step out of the way of a body block.

His brain registered a mighty yell before the upward thrust to his chest propelled him into the Virgin, pushing the statue into the wall, which in turn bounced the statue onto Jim’s back, knocking him to the ground. He landed face down on the floor. For an instant the statue seemed to balance on his body, but it continued its fall, shattering into chunks.

All ability to move gone, Jim could feel warm liquid trickling down his face. As it reached his nose, the smell of blood communicated that his last moments were upon him. For the second time that night, time once again stopped as his brain formed a silent wordless plea to God. The last sound he heard was somebody praying softly beside him. His last conscious feeling was coolness flowing over his head.

CHAPTER ONE

Two Months Earlier

So many zeros before the decimal point!

Have you set up the trust? I asked, while signing ‘Janet McNally Reed for deposit only’ to the back of the check, and listing my account number.

Yes, I followed your instructions, John Clarke, my lawyer, said. But again, there’s no need to do this right away. Why don’t you think about it for a few weeks and get back to me?

No. This is blood money.

The lawyer gave me a sad and practiced smile. "Feeling that way now is normal. Families don’t want to profit off of the death of one of their own. The money won’t bring your son back, but it may make your life easier and the lives of your daughters. What if they want to go to graduate school? When they get married, this money could help them buy their first house. Knowing of my intent to donate the money to Habitat for Humanity and other charities, he continued, I’m just advising you to think about it."

We’ve given this a lot of thought. I said. Everybody agrees. We don’t need the money. Everything about Sammy’s death was wrong, so we want something good to happen in his memory.

Okay. That’s all I need from you for today. The wrongful death case of Reed versus Winstonville, Texas is now settled.

I walked back to the car in silence. As I drove home along the Bypass, the colors of a Texas spring passed in a blur. Wild bluebonnets and wine cups adorned the medians, along with Indian paintbrush, whose orange somehow managed to compliment rather than clash with the maroon of Texas A&M University, another color displayed in abundance throughout the city of College Station.

Even the beautiful spring day couldn’t dispel the emptiness in my heart. I had hoped that settling the case would let me move forward in my grief. Yet as awful as the lawsuit had been, it had given me something to hold onto and a reason to postpone dealing with the other problems caused by Sam’s sudden, violent death.

Sammy had been crushed to death in a car wreck, caught in the middle of a high speed chase. While pursuing a speeder who got away, a police officer had run a stop sign, demolishing the car my son’s best friend was driving.

They had been coming home from a basketball game passing through a two bit town with a two bit police force that hired cops who had barely made it through high school and had joined the force to drag race legally.

Sammy’s friend and the cop died in the wreck too. The mayor, town council and citizens tried their best to pin something on the boys and make one of their finest a local hero, but even small town Texas justice couldn’t make that dog hunt.

After turning into the cul de sac, I parked in the driveway and went inside my four bedroom, three bathroom empty house. Five years ago my husband had died of a heart attack. Two years ago my son was killed. Last year my youngest daughter left for college. My nest was as empty as my heart.

The aroma of coffee made earlier that morning and still warming pricked my nostrils, keeping me from bursting into tears. I poured a cup, walked into my home office and pulled out the file of newspaper clippings that I kept about Sammy’s death. I refused to refer to such blatant carelessness as an accident.

The clippings were in chronological order. One last time, I promised myself, as I paged through. On each clipping, either in the margins or stapled on an extra sheet of paper, I had added my own notes.

Police Killed by Teens in High Speed Chase. My note: Cop killed two teens and himself while driving recklessly and without regard for the safety of citizens.

Police Suspect Teens Under the Influence. My note: When the speeder got away, somebody had to pay.

Austin Medical Examiner Clears Boys, Cop Under the Influence. My note (University of Houston law library): In Texas, cities of less than one million people do not have medical examiners. The Justice of the Peace has the legal responsibility for determining the cause of death and it is at the JP’s discretion whether to order an autopsy.

My note (conversation with our lawyer): Because of police department allegations of the boys being under the influence, the JP was forced to order the autopsy—better if police had kept their mouths shut. Autopsy done in Austin, no reason for medical examiner to cheat—thank God!

Mother Files Lawsuit. My note: Nobody kills and falsely accuses my son and gets away with it!!!

Lawsuit Settled. My note: The lawyer said that we’d never get a fair trial in that town. Take what the insurance company offers, add some conditions to make sure it wouldn’t happen again, and get on with life. Much easier said than done!

While I was putting the clippings in an envelope and back into the file folder, the phone rang.

Janet, Alex here. Can you stop by tomorrow? I need your help.

Alex was Father Alex Martin, pastor of St. Ignatius of Loyola Catholic Church in College Station, my family’s parish. We had met in grad school. I was working on my MBA with the ambition of taking my rightful place in the family business. Alex had been puttering around putting off the inevitable decision to enter the seminary. Our paths crossed a couple of times at graduate student events. A few dates convinced us that we weren’t meant for each other, but we did develop an easy, off-and-on camaraderie that has lasted over twenty years.

When my son died, Alex once again proved himself to be a good friend. He didn’t spout pious platitudes about God’s will, but joined me in cursing the stupidity of the dead cop. When it became obvious that the town was trying to pin something on the kids, he immediately issued a press release expressing his sorrow for the loss of such good honorable boys. If Alex prayed for the dead cop, and I was sure that he did, he had the good sense to do it out of my hearing.

What can I do for you? I asked.

Tell you tomorrow. Can I count on your help?

Alex was up to something. As much as I owed him, I wasn’t going to make any blind promises. In my experience, every priest, even good ones like Alex, has a bit of a God complex. They don’t appreciate being questioned and don’t like it when their plans are challenged. What time?

How about sometime in the morning? I’ll be around.

See you then.

As I drove north on Route 6, also known as the Bypass, on my way to talk to Alex, I saw yet another strip mall being built, taking over the grazing land that used to extend almost unbroken from the university toward Navasota, the town fifteen miles to the south.

College Station, like its name suggests, is a college town. Founded as a land grant, Texas A&M opened in 1876, and the town grew up around the university, a train station, and not much else. For the record, A&M used to stand for agricultural and mechanical, but now the initials are just a nostalgic link to the past. Back then, non-university people lived and worked in Bryan, a few miles to the north.

With A&M evolving into one of the five largest universities in the nation, College Station became one of the fastest growing cities in the United States. Aggies are the most loyal alumni on the planet. They fueled College Station’s growth by settling here after graduation, moving back during mid-career, or retiring in Aggieland. A few hours drive from Austin, Dallas, San Antonio and Houston, College Station has also become a popular location for businesses to set up shop.

St. Ignatius of Loyola Church, known to the locals as St. Iggy’s, is situated on the southbound access road to the Bypass. It had been founded thirty years ago to meet the growing number of Catholics in the area. In contrast to St. Mary’s near the campus, which serves the over thirteen thousand Catholic students, most of St. Iggy’s parishioners are suburban families.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I couldn’t help anticipating the pinks and whites that the crepe myrtles along the Bypass would shortly display. Noticing and judging landscape was an occupational hazard. Until recently, I had owned a landscaping business along with my brother. I sold my share to him shortly after my son was killed.

The nameplate on his office door read Father Alejandro Martinez, Pastor. Martinez? Something was up. I walked in, shut the door and melded into a padded leather chair across from his desk.

"Buenos dias Padre."

Buenos dias. I want to be a bishop when I grow up.

I enjoyed a rare laugh. That explains the sign on the door. Believe me, there is no way Ithaca born Alex Martin can pass for somebody out of the Rio Grande Valley.

Martinez is my family name. The EZ was dropped to fit in up North. The church is changing, Janet. He waved his finger at me. It’s getting a Hispanic makeover.

Tell me about it. The Irish and Italians are annoyed with the ‘take over’ of their parishes. Trouble is brewing. What does this have to do with you?

Alex had the good grace to grin. The Irish priests are retiring off, and Irish boys aren’t entering the seminary. It’s in to be Latino, especially if you are a priest.

Affirmative action meets the church.

My Spanish teacher tells me I’m developing the proper accent. In a few months I’ll be ready to hear confessions in my mother tongue.

Your mother tongue is English. You’re already bilingual with Texas twang.

The truth is that Alex will be a good bishop, and it didn’t bother me that he changed his name to look more qualified. As a former business owner, I knew the value of packaging. A scandal-free Hispanic priest complete with fluency would be very marketable to the church hierarchy.

My master plan hinges entirely on your help. I need exposure to make the list.

The list? I asked.

The list is the names of candidates recommended to the pope. Bishop Donnelly wants me to serve on a couple of national committees and lead up some visible projects in the diocese.

There is much that the Catholic Church has in common with the Fortune 500. He’s behind your campaign?

I’m his protégé.

That’s nothing to be proud of, I said referring to the recent scandal involving the bishop. On several occasions in the past fifteen years he had assigned priests with allegations of sexual abuse attached to their names to work in various parishes.

He did apologize, and unlike some of his brother bishops, he never allowed the lawyers to go after the victims. The diocese settled quietly, and Bishop Donnelly did what he could to help those who were abused.

True, but I don’t see him doing any public penance either.

Alex shrugged and remained silent.

You do have the reputation of being an able administrator and a good priest, but I never thought you craved upward mobility.

Yet, Alex was in the perfect position to make a move. He had solid experience as a pastor. Each new assignment had been to a bigger and more complex parish than the previous one. While he didn’t make waves, he was no pushover. He had good ideas, was a strong, but compassionate leader, and kept his dissent to himself. Also, Alex was the right age and even looked the part. Angular features made him ruggedly handsome, and salt and pepper hair gave him the look of experience. Add crosier and miter, a bit of seasoning, and Alex could be a force in the church. After ten years or so, the cardinal’s red hat would perch nicely on his then gray head.

Alex continued, And thanks to the priest shortage, I get to rise to these challenges while still holding the reins here. If I can show a well-run, active parish and do a good job on these other assignments, then I’ll make the list.

Good luck. What does this have to do with me?

I’m going to be away a lot. I need you here to run things.

You forget, I’m not a priest.

I don’t need a priest, I need an administrator. Father Dan from St. Mary’s will do most of the priestly stuff. The other guys in town will rotate sick calls. I’ll be home most weekends for Sunday Mass. The monastery will send a priest over for daily Mass. I need you to make sure everything runs smoothly—you know, budget, religious education, staff. I won’t be around much, and I need somebody I can trust.

Translation: Keep the collections up and keep the parish out of the newspaper unless something good is happening.

Sorry, I’m just not interested in keeping this place running in your image and likeness. Thanks, but no thanks. I sold the business because I didn’t want to deal with the daily grind anymore. And no place has more daily grind than a large Catholic suburban parish.

His affable grin hardened. Isn’t it time for you to enter the land of the living?

Tasting sourness, I replied, I didn’t make an appointment for counseling. You called me here.

You play in your garden all day. I hear the girls are doing okay in college, thank God. What are you going to do with the rest of your life? It’s time to get out of your cloister.

Enough. I felt tired, numb and not up to dealing with my future. Although pastoral sensitivity isn’t a requirement, it would be nice to see some in a future bishop.

Yeah, well I’m in training, he said. That was as close to an apology as I was going to get. Besides, you have great people skills. Leadership won’t go to your head. You can balance a budget and manage expenses. You get things done, and I suspect you have some vision about how a parish should serve its members and the community. Hell, once in awhile you even show understanding and respect for the pastor.

Nice words, but what you really mean is that you want me to make you look good and keep the diocese happy.

Not happy, merely content.

Your bishop-speak needs a lot of work.

You’re my friend, Janet. Maybe I was out of line, but I don’t think so. You’re the best person for the job. My first choice. If you don’t take it, I doubt that I can accept the committee assignments in good conscience. Do me a favor and pray on it.

Much better. Invoking guilt and prayer.

I owed Alex a lot. Even if I wasn’t crazy about this idea, he was right. Whatever healing needed to be done wasn’t going to happen in my backyard, but would it happen working for the parish? Taking his advice, I said a quick prayer. Of course, God didn’t appear to me and tell me what to do, but I sensed that I was being nudged in the direction Alex was proposing. What could it hurt to try? It was just a job. If it didn’t work out after a few months, I’d quit.

I don’t need to think about it. I’ll do it. But I’ll only commit for a few months, I said.

Great! He jumped up and clapped his hands together.

It would set a bad precedent to give in so easily. Whoa! You didn’t hear my conditions.

A big smile lit up his face. Conditions? Your church is calling on you. I can’t imagine any of the saints dictating conditions for service.

Never mistake me for a saint. One, I am the boss. Queen Bee. I’d say high priestess, but that would be pagan. I’ll be a benevolent dictator, but make no mistake, I will be the dictator.

You’ll have a great Parish Council to work with.

No, the Parish Council will have me to work with. I’ll listen to their advice and do my best not to ruffle feathers, but what I say goes.

That was a test. One thing a family owned business taught me was that decisions made by groups could be fraught with problems.

Fine. When can you start?

I was no pushover. Two. Ditto the Finance Council. You better sign whatever checks I put in front of you. And leave a signature stamp in my possession when you’re out of town. Another test. If I can’t access the purse, then I’d just be a babysitter.

Alex raised his eyes just a little. Okay.

Three. This is temporary—six months at most. If you aren’t bishop-able by then, that’s your problem.

Understood. Anything else?

I thought for a minute. If anybody runs to you with any complaints, your one and only response is ‘Janet has my full support.’ If you stick your multicultural nose into my decision making or ever overrule me, I’m out of here.

Alex was uneasy. You’re tying my hands too much.

No. I’m just making sure that I have the authority to do the job. Don’t worry, the last thing I want to do is make waves. You either trust me with your parish or you don’t. There is no middle ground.

After a few minutes of no response, I got up to leave.

Alex sighed. Okay.

Turning, I met his stare. Now we talk money. The first thing I’m going to do is figure out what the church scale is for the job. Of course I’ll be getting top dollar. Then I’ll let you know what the parish will be paying and what kind of office space and staff support I’ll require.

Alex nodded his agreement.

In a church the majority of the work is done by volunteers and lowly paid staff. I’d never take this job for the money, which I didn’t need and wasn’t much anyway. However, money talks and a higher-than-average salary would show the parish, whose contributions would pay my salary, that Alex was behind me. Besides, St. Iggy’s, as Catholic parishes go, was pretty well-off.

Gracias, Father Martinez. I’ll start the day after tomorrow, so get busy. Oh and don’t worry, I’ll always call you that in public.

De nada.

At the Chinese restaurant shortly after noon, I glanced around. No sign of Carolyn. Studying the lobby’s framed photographs of the owners with their more famous guests killed some time.

Yes, there it was. President George Bush, the elder. When College Station became the home of his presidential library, The President Ate Here photos started appearing all over town. Only the newer establishments and the chains were missing his picture. My brother had tried to dream up ways to get 41, the former President’s local nickname, to visit the nursery. I pointed out that is wasn’t likely he’d agree to pose hugging a tree.

Dr. Carolyn Hamilton, M.D., my best friend, entered from the parking lot. Heads turned. Carolyn had that effect on people. Her shoulder-length blond hair, tall, slim build and long legs gave her the appearance of a middle-aged but well-kept supermodel.

I waved her over. On the surface, we had little in common. While I always tried to keep a bit of lipstick on my lips, and my weight and the roots of my chemically enhanced brown hair in check, I didn’t spend much time on my personal appearance. Carolyn was always made up, matched, coifed, coordinated and properly accessorized.

While I had enjoyed a good, but certainly not perfect marriage where until dead do us part happened a bit earlier than I’d planned, Carolyn divorced her cosmetic surgeon husband when she discovered that a few patients were paying in trade. Her ex was a partner in a discreet practice in Houston. Clients checked in, had their tucks and implants, recuperated in luxury, and then resumed their jet-setting lives, images adorning the latest blockbuster movie billboards. I happened to know that part of the divorce agreement included use of the facilities for life. Although Carolyn had never taken advantage of that part of the settlement, she wanted to keep her options open.

We were friends because her self-absorption was merely a flaw in an otherwise decent person. After her divorce,