Chapter 7
Once Shana got past feeling foolish for not asking outright about what the man sounded like, she realized this was very useful information. It helped confirm that they were looking for a short wiry Russian or Eastern European with a very distinctive tattoo.
“Let’s go talk to Marian.” She indicated to Sister Anne with a sweep of her hand that she expected to be led to the woman in question.
Sister Anne looked reluctant, but she turned and led Shana to another door, one that blended into the paneling.
Shana had noticed it before, but figured it was a closet or maybe a bathroom.
Sister Anne opened it and they stepped into a dark hallway.
No way that guy knew his way around this place without doing some homework. He’d never have found Sister Anne without running into someone. Then something occurred to her.
“How do you suppose this man knew you had the baby? He couldn’t have been wandering the halls looking for the nursery—he must have had some idea where he was going and who he was looking for.” She didn’t expect an answer from the nun, but she got one.
“He must have been watching us.”
“Yes.” It was the same conclusion Shana had come to. It was Shana and Dane’s assumption that whoever it was might still be watching. Hopefully only from the outside.
“Have there been any new employees hired lately, Sister Anne? Among the day help you mentioned?”
They walked down the dark hall, which was lit by candlestick-shaped lamps, presumably to give the space a solemn feel.
But Shana’s overriding feeling was of medieval doom and it was not comforting—the opposite of comforting, in fact.
Solemn in a creepy way. She could see how the place might intimidate a visitor—even an intruder. Even a seasoned Russian thug.
*****
“Maybe we should let Father Donahue know we are going to talk to Marian—and Mr. Blaise as well?” Sister Anne stopped in the hall after a few steps.
Shana figured the door they’d just passed was a door to the den—another secret door.
There were a lot of doors and halls and connecting ways to get around in this house.
By her innate sense of direction, Shana calculated this was a back hall running parallel with the main hall where they’d entered before.
She wondered what was on the other side of the house, but didn’t ask.
“We don’t need to—” Shana was saying when the offending door opened.
Dane stepped into the hall. If he was surprised to see them, he showed nothing. Father Donahue, stepping through the door and closing it behind them, was another matter.
Even in the dim lighting, Shana could see his surprise and embarrassment and saw his eyes dart from Sister Anne to her. He said to Sister Anne in a tone like he had a right to know, “Where were you going, Sister Anne?”
Shana noticed the past tense. She looked at Dane. He lifted one brow about a quarter inch. She saw it because he did it all the time when he wanted to communicate with her without saying. She agreed with him.
“They’re probably going the same place we are, Father D.
Let’s all go talk to Marian, shall we?” Dane swept them along with a wave of his hand like he was a tour guide—like he knew where he was going in this labyrinth.
He probably did. She didn’t bother keeping the half-resentful-half-admiring feelings at bay. It was no use.
The four of them trooped back to an opening in the hall—not quite a lobby—where Shana could see the kitchen to the right and another less dark hallway to the left. Straight ahead was the hall where they came in with the stairway. They entered the room opposite the parlor.
Marian, she presumed, sat behind a desk, which could be described as the feminine version of Father Donahue’s desk. Ornate and old world but in a more delicate way, not as heavy or dark. The rose-toned wood panels were solid but less thick. It was exactly as she’d expect in this place.
Marian, on the other hand, was nothing like she expected. I ought to make an effort to not be so influenced by stereotypes, she thought. She would be less so after today.
The woman stood, looking at Father Donahue, and smiled at them all. She was not the motherly type, nor old, as Shana would have predicted. If Marian had been widowed and around for twenty years, she must have been a teen bride.
A lovely graceful beauty greeted them with a flashing smile of perfect pearly teeth and a Shirley Temple dimple.
She had auburn hair and green eyes and a very lithe figure.
Father Donahue must be nuts about her. Maybe this explained his succumbing to temptation—and his insistence that he wasn’t so bad.
He might have seduced his own girl Friday after all.
It also explained Sister Anne’s reticence.
Shana knew womanly competition when she saw it.
It was genetic. They couldn’t help themselves—even if they were pure of heart.
Sister Anne and Marian were in competition for Father Donahue’s attention.
*****
Maybe it was the distinct, uncomfortable undercurrent, the kind inspired by feminine jealousy and the only rise in hostility by a female he was both amused by and a little frightened of, but Dane sensed the up-spike in a disturbance all around him—including from his own girl.
He decided it was time he took over in earnest.
“Marian?” He said with an outstretched hand as the shapely, impeccably dressed woman rose. She wore Kelly green in a perfect complement to her coloring. She was a bright anomaly in this otherwise dark, oppressive place. Father D was doomed with a dish like her greeting him every morning.
“Yes. Marian Dollie.”
Dane’s smile was far more gracious than his thoughts. Father D harrumphed behind him. No wonder they all referred to Marian by her first name. That was one mystery solved.
“We need to see your records for visitors in the past, say thirty days. We also need to ask you a few questions. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” She sat back down, picked up a pair of stylish black-framed glasses that made her look like a cat woman, and competently opened to her old-fashioned handwritten logbook to a specific page. She handed it to him.
“Would you like a seat?” She looked around at the rest of the crowd and added, “I only have one chair. Should we all go into the anteroom?”
Another anteroom. Every goddamn room had a sinister small twin lurking behind it, it seemed. He loved this place.
“Yes. We should,” Father D spoke up. Carrying the substantial leather-bound logbook that looked like something out of a midcentury hotel, Dane followed Father D, Marian, Sister Anne, and Shana toward the paneled door at the back of the small reception room.
The private space in back commanded more square footage than the public face out front.
There were plenty of places to hide a baby here. If Father D really wanted to.
They all took seats in the back room, the feminine and friendly version of Father D’s mini man cave.
This room expected visitors. There was plenty of comfortable seating.
No leather in sight. The only familiar style was in the heavy, dark wool rug on the same hardwood floors.
But it was plush underfoot so Dane forgave its medieval flavor.
He sat last and chose a seat on the couch next to Marian, partly to test the relationship between her and Father D and partly for a convenient review of the names in the logbook.
Shana said, “Look for a Russian name.” He nodded.
He wasn’t surprised. He knew Shana would get something useful out of Sister Anne.
He skimmed the pages and when he came to a Russian name, knowing it would be fake, he pointed to it and noted the date and time.
It looked about right. Three days before the baby was left there.
Whoever tried to kidnap Paulette had to be the blackmailer.
The fiancée’s name was odd. Lara Bennett. Dane tucked it away.
“Do you remember this gentleman? From five days ago—visited on a Sunday at about three in the afternoon?” he asked Marian.
“Sure. I don’t get many Russian immigrant visitors. He and his fiancée were looking to get married and wanted to know, if they were married in the church, could they have their reception in the house.”
“What did he look like?”
She described the man. Dane looked at Shana and Sister Anne. Shana nodded.
“Was it the same guy?” he asked Sister Anne.
She was reluctant. “Could be. It’s hard to say based on Marian’s description.” Dane had to filter out the chances that was a dig on Marian’s descriptive powers to decide whether Sister Anne was truly reluctant to accuse someone or whether she was really unsure.
“It’s the same guy. The tattoo.” Shana said.
“Can you describe the tattoo in more detail?” Dane asked Marian.
“Sure.” She did.
Shana nodded. Sister Anne sat rigid. Dane thought, women.
“Tell me about the woman he was with.”
“She was a dark-haired beauty. Quiet. Looked Latina. Which was funny with a name like Lara Bennett so I figured the name was fake for whatever reason. Not terribly unusual.”
Dane agreed that the name had to be fake, at least the last name. Hopefully not the first.
“Did she say anything?”
Marian squinted her eyes, then tapped her chin with a forefinger decked out in a ruby red nail and a gold filigree ring embedded with a matching ruby.
She was no one’s idea of a poor widow needing a job and a place to live.
How the hell did the inhabitants of this house entice her to stay?
But that was a stupid thought. Dane knew the answer.
There had to be something between her and Father D, even if they were both in denial.
“No. Not a word, now that you mention it.” She paused, then added, “And he was holding her arm unnecessarily tight in my opinion—like he thought she might run away. I noticed because it was distracting and I was a little concerned.”