Chapter 3
Wednesday Noon
Why is everyone except those nuns dressed like they walked off the set of Downton Abbey? Griff slipped into a pew at St. Nicholas’ Catholic Church just as the funeral Mass was starting. It was a small church, but it was packed. Beside him, a woman wearing a Nile green Victorian style dress, with matching hat and gloves, handed him a service leaflet. Griff smiled his thanks and gave his attention to the people around him.
It had stopped raining, and the weather had turned unexpectedly warm for November. A good day for hiking in the nearby Smoky Mountains or canoeing down the Ocoee River. Maybe when this mission was complete, Griff could borrow his buddy Parker Evans’ cabin in Townsend and do a little of both. It would be winter soon enough, but the weather in East Tennessee–the place Griff called home–was famously unpredictable and temperatures could rise and fall without warning, bringing mild days or deep snows.
But it was cool inside the church, the air scented from flickering votive candles and the lone floral arrangement near the chancel steps. A quick look at the service leaflet showed Sister “Bernie” had requested that in lieu of flowers, donations be made to local animal shelters or food banks. There was no coffin, the leaflet noting her ashes would eventually be placed in the church’s columbarium and he made a mental note to check and see if the autopsy–if there’d been one–was finished.
But it was the people gathered here and their finery that had Griff’s curiosity running at full tilt because it was the most colorful funeral he’d ever attended. Men wore striped trousers and frock coats with orange and white carnations for their boutonnieres, top hats or bowlers in their laps. Women’s outfits ranged from brightly colored slim skirts and shirtwaists and boaters to elegant gowns in prism hues with picture hats of varying sizes, festooned–his costume designer sister’s favorite word–with flowers, birds and who knew what else covering the crowns. All races and ethnic groups appeared represented, and Griff heard whispered snatches of Spanish and what he thought might be Russian. This is how people dressed for a nun’s funeral?
The service proceeded with its lovely formality and beauty until the celebrant, Father Daniel Ryan paused and came forward.
“I want to take the time to thank everyone who came today,” he began. “Sister Bernie’s family–” he gestured at an older couple and two men around Griff’s age seated in the front left pew–“are especially grateful for the kindness you’ve shown them since she died. You all know how dedicated Sister Bernie was in her work as a nurse and as a nun. Talent like that is a gift from God and she used it to help others. She was always on my case about eating healthy and getting more exercise as I’m sure she was with many of you.”
Soft laughter rippled around the church, and Griff watched the smiles and nods. Hastily produced handkerchiefs were applied to more than one tear-streaked face and anger stirred in him that such a life as Sister Bernie’s could be ended by scum like Big Daddy and The Cadre. Hunting them down would be a pleasure as well as an honor and a privilege.
“Sister Bernie’s family has asked that her friend and colleague, Elaine Prescott of the Families United agency to say a few words.” Father Ryan stepped back.
A woman in an enormous white hat covered in matching net and silk flowers stood from the pew behind Sister Bernie’s family, went to stand on the chancel steps and for a moment, Griff forgot how to breathe. Her shockingly pink Edwardian gown was simple, but elegant and showed off every curve she possessed, while still giving Elaine Prescott an old-fashioned modesty that some women of Griff’s acquaintance could learn from.
“Sister Bernie would be stunned to see so many people here today,” Ms. Prescott began, her clear, well-modulated voice easily carrying around the church. “Those of you who didn’t know her and are with us today, may be surprised by our various ensembles. Sister Bernie was crazy about period costume dramas, especially Downton Abbey and said for years that she wanted people to dress like that at her funeral, but only in bright colors. Did we get it right, Mr. and Mrs. Nolan?”
People laughed and Griff could see the older couple smile and nod, as did the men beside them. All wore Edwardian and Victorian garb and had the determined expressions of those who would get through what had to be the saddest thing in the world–burying a beloved child and sister.
“I knew her before she was Sister Bernadette,” Ms. Prescott continued. “We grew up together and I remember her saying even when we were in kindergarten, that she wanted to be two things. A nurse and a nun. She said she was so incredibly blessed, she had to give back to those who had nothing. And she always gave everything. No stinting or hesitation. That wasn’t Bernie’s way.”
Ms. Prescott’s lips curved into a wide smile and Griff noticed the tiny beauty mark on the left side of her lips. “That’s not to say Sister Bernie was a saint. She could swear like my Marine grandfather–right Mother Winnifred–?had a temper like an Irish banshee and her gift for mimicry bordered on the sacrilegious. She admitted her most confessed sins were her pride in thinking she could do it all, her impatience with those she considered fools–who were usually those who didn’t listen to her–and not being able to convince more people to give what she needed for those who had so little. Continuing her work is the best way to honor her memory. That’s not only what she would want us to do, it’s what she would expect us to do. She–”
Ms. Prescott stopped, and tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. She bowed her head for a long, silent moment, then looked at the gathering. “That’s what she’d expect us to do,” she repeated. “I’ll miss her.”
She returned to her pew and the Mass continued. When it was finished, Griff followed the flow of people to the parish hall where oversized photos of Sister Bernie at all stages of her life rested on easel style stands around the room. Several he noted were of her and Ms. Prescott, one of them in baseball caps and uniforms for an Inner-City softball League, the other in what must be their high school or college graduation robes.
Ms. Prescottstood with Bernie’s family, her features set in a mask of contained sorrow while receiving hugs and handshakes from the assembly. Nuns in white habits and blue aprons stood behind food-heavy tables, filling plates while a jazz trio played softly from the small stage in the front of the room. After several minutes, Ms. Prescott turned her head and her dark gaze found Griff. Her eyes widened, and when Griff nodded, she spoke to the couple and then made her way across the room. Rather than draw attention to their meeting by joining her, Griff waited for her. “Lieutenant Griffin Tyler?” she asked, standing before him.
“Yes ma’am,” he acknowledged with a slight bow. “You are, of course, Elaine Prescott.”
She offered her hand and beneath her glove he could feel long slender fingers, but her grip held a firm strength. Standing this close, her pale hair shimmered like finely woven gossamer and his sisters would tell him that only a woman with Elaine Prescott’s bone structure could wear her hair that short and still look utterly feminine.
“Would you like coffee?” Ms. Prescott offered. “Tea? Or perhaps some whiskey? Wouldn’t be a proper Irish wake without that spirit.”
“Coffee would be fine,” Griff said and followed her to a long white draped table with large urns. “Was Sister Bernie’s family Irish?”
“If you go back seven or eight generations,” Ms. Prescott said, filing the cups and handing him one. “But Bernie still liked to play the ‘Irish lass’, especially when she needed to convince someone to do something. There’s a vacant table in the corner over there. Shall we–?”
He followed her and when they were seated, he said, “This is a probably a dumb question, but how are you holding up?”
“A bit tired,” she admitted. Setting aside her cup and saucer, she carefully pulled what looked to be a long slender needle from her oversize hat and put it aside. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked.
Her smile lent a sparkle to her eyes. “It’s a hat pin,” she confirmed, taking off her hat as well. “Ladies of fashion at the turn of the nineteenth century and up until just after the first World War used them to be sure a sudden breeze wouldn’t lift their hats right off their heads. Considering how much they must have cost they couldn’t afford to lose what they invested in their wardrobes.”
Griff laughed. “I remember the hats Eliza Doolittle and the women wore in the Ascot Races scene in My Fair Lady.”
She reached for her cup. “Not to sound like I’m stereotyping you, but I don’t know a lot of men who know that movie or remember those hats.”
“My mother is a retired professor of drama at UT here in Knoxville,” Griff explained. “We children grew up watching all kinds of movies and learning how to critique them. My sisters loved that movie because of the clothes. They both work in fashion, so it was hard not to have learned stuff by listening to them.”
Her deep laugh was a soft, sexy sound and something shimmied down Griff’s spine. “When Bernie and I would watch costume dramas, we always wondered, who did those women’s laundry? Even the everyday dresses, let alone all that lace and satin must have been a nightmare to keep clean.”
Griff shared in her laughter and said, “Judging by the number of people here, it seems Sister Bernadette was well loved.”
“That she was,” Ms. Prescott agreed and drank some of her coffee, her gaze locking with his over the cup’s rim. Around them, voices rose, and Griff watched glasses being filled from a large bottle of Bushmills Irish Whiskey being handed around.
“You mentioned sisters,” Ms. Prescott said. “Do you have brothers?”
“Yeah, twins,” and pride surged through him. “They were ‘surprises,’ born when I was eighteen. I’m the oldest. It’s lots of fun spoiling them when I’m home even if they’re almost twelve.”
“I’ll bet,” Ms. Prescott chuckled. “Lucky boys.”
“I’ve read the statement you gave to the police about the attack,” he said. “Since we’re probably going to be spending a lot of time together, is there anything else you can or want to tell me?”
“I’d like to know what’s going to happen next and what your part in it will be,” she said, and he recognized the caution in her voice. Many of BP’s clients often balked at having their lives put on hold while their situations were being resolved.
“You called us after you spoke with Anne Hamilton, so you obviously know about Brotherhood Protectors and what we do,” Griff said gently. “No doubt, my boss Hank Patterson sent you my bio and photo.” At her nod, he added, “I think the plan is to keep you safe while the police track down who killed Sister Bernie, mistaking her for you.”
Her face paled. “You know about that?”
“You told the police her killer said, ‘she’s wearing your jacket.’ Griff reminded her. “Since the killer knows he got it wrong, and probably left that note, he–or whoever sent him–will probably try again. Do you think it was Obadiah Collins?”
She chuckled and at his raised eyebrows, said, “It’s hard to remember Big Daddy has an actual name. But yes, I’d say so.”
“Did Anne Hamilton mention The Cadre to you?” If Anne hadn’t, then Ms. Prescott needed to know as soon as possible.
“She did,” Ms. Prescott said slowly, putting aside her cup again. “Could they be the group Bernie said might be working with Big Daddy to bring in young women to act as hostesses while possibly serving as prostitutes for the upcoming conventions?”
Unease knotted Griff’s stomach. “I think this conversation would best be done at BP’s local safehouse and headquarters around the corner,” he suggested. “Just in case.”
Her eyes widened again, but she nodded. “Let me change clothes,” she said, putting on her hat and fastening it with the pin. “I left my others in Mother Winnifred’s office. Give me a moment.”
He rose with her and asked, “Do you need me to come with you?”
“I’ll be fine,” Elaine assured. “I won’t be gone long.”
Darn you, Anne. You should have warned me that Lieutenant Griffin Tyler was knockout gorgeous.I’m going to get you for that. Elaine moved as quickly as the long skirt would permit. Slate grey eyes kissed with a touch of blue, short, slightly curly dark blond hair and the lean physique of a man who worked out often, made Griffin Tyler a very nice package.
Behind her, the conversation in the parish hall turned to boisterous singing, voices rising and falling, some not quite in tune. Glad to get away from the noise, Elaine followed the familiar way to Mother Winnifred’s office and found it unlocked.
Inside the room was neat and well organized with French doors, curtains drawn, facing a small courtyard lined with flower and herb beds. Elaine went to the cupboard in the corner next to the garden door where she’d stored her street clothes, grateful she’d worn modern shoes. She had the distinct impression Lieutenant Tyler wanted to leave as soon as possible and unlacing the high boots of the Edwardian era would take far too much–
“Nice hat,” a guttural voice commented.
She pivoted and saw the drapes fluttering against the French doors as a man wearing ski goggles moved to block them. From where she stood, it was a good ten feet back to the door leading to the hall.
“This time you won’t get away so easily,” the man chuckled, taking out a long, wicked-looking knife from inside his heavy leather jacket. “All those folks in there, singing and drinking that whiskey will never hear you scream.”
He lunged, holding up the knife, but Elaine jumped to the side, grateful for the gown’s fuller skirt. “Help!’ she shouted, jerking to one side. “Someone please, help!”
“No one to hear you,” the man mocked. “By the time they find your carved-up body, it will be too late. I’m gonna take that hat with me. My girlfriend will love it.”
He stepped in, clutching the knife in his upheld fist, but then instinct and years of training kicked in and Elaine’s hands took on a life of their own. She jerked the hat pin from its place, stepped in a fencer’s lunge and raked the pin across his left cheek, just below his goggles. The blood spatter hit Elaine’s eyes, soaking her dress, but she kept her arm stretched out, prepared to strike again. “Help!” she screamed again. “Someone help!”
“Bitch!” The man’s scream answered hers. He ripped off his goggles and dropped them and his knife to slap a hand over the gaping wound. Blood seeped through his fingers, and he stumbled to yank open the courtyard door. A motorcycle started up just as running feet in the corridor announced help had arrived.
The office door pushed in, and Griffin Tyler bolted into the room, followed by Mother Winnifred. Her breathing coming in short bursts, Elaine staggered to the chair behind the nun’s desk and sat, still clutching the hat pin.
“Merciful heavens!” Mother Winnifred declared as Lieutenant Tyler charged into the courtyard. Taking a handkerchief from her habit’s pocket she gently wiped Elaine’s face. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Elaine gasped as Tyler returned, his mouth tight with anger.
“Gone,” he reported. “His partner must have been waiting in the service alley.” His blue-grey gaze narrowed. “Are you sure you’re all right, Ms. Prescott?”
“I think so,” Elaine answered, trying to slow her breathing. “Do you think Eliza Doolittle would approve, Lieutenant Tyler?”
The Marine frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“Using my hatpin like a fencing foil to stop him.” Elaine held it up. “Remember what she said at the Ascot Races? I don’t know if he was trying to ‘pinch’ my hatpin or my hat, but I’ll bet it’s going to be a long time before he comes after a woman wearing both.”