Death Goes on Retreat by Carol Anne O'Marie Page B

responsiblefor my Greg’s death. In fact, I wouldn’t put it past him and that girl to be in it together. My Greg was fine, just fine, until they assigned him to work with that one.”
    Her head jerked up and she stared at the blank television screen. “It was afterwards that my son started having trouble with his vocation. They sent him to work in Juvenile Hall. Greg never would tell me, his own mother, what happened. He lied to me. He said nothing happened.” Her voice dropped. “He didn’t learn to lie in this house. I took care of liars. Something awful did happen, I know it. I hold that one responsible.”
    “You hold Father Harrington responsible for what, Mrs. Johnson?”
    “For Greg’s fall from grace.” Her words came out in a sort of hiss. “For his turning to sin, for his leaving the seminary.”
    From somewhere a grandfather clock struck the hour. Its low, vibrating bong filled the room like a death knell.
    “The Devil is all around me.” Marva Johnson shivered in the stifling room. “But God is my shield, my protector. He took my son and I am glad. ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’ I would rather see my Greg dead than living in sin. I would sooner kill him myself than let him continue on the path to perdition.”
    She stood up abruptly, moved toward a window ledge, and plucked a wilted leaf from the base of a furry African violet plant. “The Lord said, ‘If your hand or your foot causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it from you; it is better for you to enter life maimed than with two hands or two feet to be thrown into the eternal fires. And if your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out and throw it from you . . .”’
    The woman turned and fastened her gaze on Kate. It was then Kate knew that what she suspected was true. In that moment, she caught the unmistakable laser glint of a fanatic burning in Marva Johnson’s flat brown eyes.

    “The mother from hell,” Gallagher said as soon as they were back on the freezing sidewalk. “The next time one of my kids gets the gall to complain, have I got a comeback.” He unlocked the door. “That old lady gives me the creeps,” he said. “How about you?”
    Kate nodded. “You really never know what’s going on in somebody’s head, do you?”
    Billows of fog rolled up the boulevard and Gallagher switched on the headlights. “You’re right. To look at her, you’d think she was Whistler’s mother. Then she opens her yap, and she’s a bucket of nuts with those Bible quotes bouncing around like popcorn. If you ask me, she’d be the perfect candidate for that bunch that was going to stone the gal taken in adultery.” Gallagher ran his hand over his balding pate. “What are you going to tell Little?”
    “I don’t know.” Kate watched the car lights make small tunnels in the drizzle. “That the victim’s mother accused his girlfriend, one Laura Purcell, of murder? That she accused a leading priest in the archdiocese? That she said with quite a bit of conviction that she’d gladly have done it herself? That she’s unbalanced? I don’t know. What should I tell him?”
    “All of the above, Katie-girl.” Gallagher let out anexaggerated sigh. “Jeez, I’m glad the whole damn mess is on his plate and not on ours.”
    They drove a few blocks in silence, listening to the tires swish against the wet streets. “Be sure you tell him—hear me good, Kate—be damn sure you tell him, that no matter what he thinks to the contrary—not to let those two nuns get involved. They look pious and helpless, like two old sweethearts, but we know better. They are nothing but a pair of colossal pains in the you-know-where. Are you listening to me, Kate?”
    Kate nodded, but said nothing. She had the feeling that despite Gallagher’s warning, Sisters Mary Helen and Eileen were already in this, knee-deep.

    Directly after lunch, Detective Sergeant Bob Little set up his command post in the small gift shop off St. Colette’s main lounge. It