Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [26]
“What caused her to finally confide in you?”
“My mother isn’t well, Mr. Brixton. I believe that she wished to unburden herself of this before answering her final call.”
Brixton nodded. It was as good a reason as any. He noticed for the first time since entering that the house, and particularly this room, was relatively cool even without an air conditioner running. Maybe it was a perk of being close to God. If so, he might consider stopping in at a church from time to time, at least until fall arrived.
Brixton wondered just how ill Eunice Watkins was but didn’t ask. Stick to the reason you’re here, he silently reminded himself.
Sounds of a happy commotion from outside interrupted their conversation. “Excuse me,” Watkins said, standing. “The boys are about to leave for their game and I have to see them off. The church sponsors the team.”
Brixton followed him to the front porch and stayed there as Watkins went to where the team stood alongside a school bus. The youngsters had now been joined by a handful of adults, presumably their parents. When they saw Watkins approaching, conversation died. The moment he reached them, the boys and their parents lowered their heads in prayer, with Watkins leading. When their heads came up, Watkins shouted, “Play hard but fair! You carry God’s name with you.” The whooping and hollering resumed as the team scrambled onto the bus and the adults retreated to their cars parked in driveways up and down the street.
“I’m impressed,” Brixton said when Watkins rejoined him on the porch.
“With what, Mr. Brixton?”
“With the respect they obviously have for you.”
“To be more accurate, sir, it’s the respect I have for them. Are we finished?”
“Yes, unless you can remember something that will help in my investigation.”
“Might I ask you a question?” he said.
“Sure.”
“I know nothing about you, Mr. Brixton, except what my mother has told me. She says you seem like an honest, honorable man. My mother is prepared to pay a large sum of money to you in the hope that truth will prevail.”
“The ten thousand your sister gave her.”
“She told you that?”
“Not to worry, Reverend. I’m not out to spend your mother’s money beyond what it’ll take to find out the truth.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that you were.”
“But the implication was there. Look, anytime you or your mother wants to call this thing off, let me know and that’ll be that. In the meantime, I’m working as best I can, considering how long ago this all went down.”
Watkins extended a large hand. “I see why my mother has put her faith in you, sir,” he said. “Please call on me at any time.”
Watkins went inside the house, leaving Brixton on the porch. He walked to the street and gave a thumbs-up to the kids as the school bus pulled away. Their parents’ cars left their driveways and fell in line behind the bus. But Brixton’s attention went to one car in particular. It had been parked at the curb a few houses removed from the church and was driven by a white man who cast a fast glance at Brixton as he joined the parade. He didn’t look familiar to Brixton, a nondescript sort of man with a pinched, elongated, ferretlike face.
The way Lazzara had described the man who’d been looking for him the preceding day.
CHAPTER 9
Brixton got in his car, made a U-turn, and headed in the direction the bus and entourage had taken. But by the time he caught up with them a few blocks away, the last car in line, the one driven by Ferret Face, had veered off and was gone.
As he drove to Eunice Watkins’s house he reflected on the conversation he’d just had with her son. He had to give the padre credit for not commenting on his battered face. He’d never even winced. Aside from that, Brixton had been uncomfortable meeting with the minister.
That feeling was nothing new. He’d been ill at ease around ministers and priests going back to when he was an altar boy in his family’s local Brooklyn parish. He’d been baptized like all good Catholic babies, and confirmed in the faith, attending