Tess Gerritsen - Keeper of the Bride

The boys in Homicide were smart enough.

But the boys in Bombs were smarter.

That’s why Sam himself drove out to Maine Medical Center to reinterview Reverend Sullivan. This latest information on Jimmy Brogan’s death had opened up a whole new range of possibilities. Perhaps Brogan had been a completely innocent patsy. Perhaps he’d witnessed something — and had mentioned it to the minister.

At the hospital, Sam learned that Reverend Sullivan had been transferred out of Intensive Care that morning. A heart attack had been ruled out, and Sullivan was now on a regular ward.

When Sam walked in the man’s room, he found the minister sitting up in bed, looking glum. There was a visitor there already — Dick Yeats of Homicide. Not one of Sam’s favorite people.

“Hey, Navarro,” said Yeats in that cocky tone of his. “No need to spin your wheels here. We’re on the Brogan case.”

“I’d like to talk to Reverend Sullivan myself.”

“He doesn’t know anything helpful.”

“Nevertheless,” said Sam, “I’d like to ask my own questions.”

“Suit yourself,” Yeats said as he headed out the door. “Seems to me, though, that you boys in Bombs could make better use of your time if you’d let Homicide do its job.”

Sam turned to the elderly minister, who was looking very unhappy about talking to yet another cop.

“I’m sorry, Reverend,” said Sam. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you some more questions.”

Reverend Sullivan sighed, the weariness evident in his lined face. “I can’t tell you more than I already have.”

“You’ve been told about Brogan’s death?”

“Yes. That policeman — that Homicide person—”

“Detective Yeats.”

“He was far more graphic than necessary. I didn’t need all the…details.”

Sam sat down in a chair. The minister’s color was better today, but he still looked frail. The events of the last twenty-four hours must be devastating for him. First the destruction of his church building, and then the violent death of his handyman. Sam hated to flog the old man with yet more questions, but he had no choice.

Unfortunately, he could elicit no new answers. Reverend Sullivan knew nothing about Jimmy Brogan’s private life. Nor could he think of a single reason why Brogan, or anyone else for that matter, would attack the Good Shepherd Church. There had been minor incidents, of course. A few acts of vandalism and petty theft. That’s why he had started locking the church doors at night, a move that grieved him deeply as he felt churches should be open to those in need, day or night. But the insurance company had insisted, and so Reverend Sullivan had instructed his staff to lock up every evening at 6:00 p.m., and reopen every morning at 7:00 a.m.

“And there’ve been no acts of vandalism since?” asked Sam.

“None whatsoever,” affirmed the minister. “That is, until the bomb.”

This was a dead end, thought Sam. Yeats was right. He was just spinning his wheels.

As he rose to leave, there was a knock on the door. A heavyset woman poked her head in the room.

“Reverend Sullivan?” she said. “Is this a good time to visit?”

The gloom on the minister’s face instantly transformed to a look of relief. Thankfulness. “Helen! I’m so glad you’re back! Did you hear what happened?”

“On the television, this morning. As soon as I saw it, I packed my things and started straight back for home.” The woman, carrying a bundle of carnations, crossed to the bed and gave Reverend Sullivan a tearful hug. “I just saw the church. I drove right past it. Oh, what a mess.”

“You don’t know the worst of it,” said Reverend Sullivan. He swallowed. “Jimmy’s dead.”

“Dear God.” Helen pulled back in horror. “Was it…in the explosion?”

“No. They’re saying he shot himself. I didn’t even know he had a gun.”

Helen took an unsteady step backward. At once Sam grasped her ample arm and guided her into the chair from which he’d just risen. She sat quivering, her face white with shock.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Sam gently. “I’m Detective Navarro, Portland Police. May I ask your full name?”

She swallowed. “Helen Whipple.”

“You’re the church secretary?”

She looked up at him with dazed eyes. “Yes. Yes.”

“We’ve been trying to contact you, Miss Whipple.”

“I was — I was at my sister’s house. In Amherst.” She sat twisting her hands together, shaking her head. “I can’t believe this. I saw Jimmy only yesterday. I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“You saw Brogan? What time?”

“It was in the morning. Just before I left town.” She began digging in her purse, desperately fishing for tissues. “I stopped in to pay a few bills before I left.”

“Did you two speak?”

“Naturally. Jimmy’s such…” She gave a soft sob. “ Was such…a friendly man. He was always coming up to the office to chat. Since I was leaving on vacation, and Reverend Sullivan wasn’t in yet. I asked Jimmy to do a few things for me.”

“What things?”

“Oh, there was so much confusion. The wedding, you know. The florist kept popping in to use the phone. The men’s bathroom sink was leaking and we needed some plumbing done quick. I had to give Jimmy some last minute instructions. Everything from where to put the wedding gifts to which plumber to call. I was so relieved when Reverend Sullivan arrived, and I could leave.”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Sam cut in. “You said something about wedding gifts.”

“Yes. It’s a nuisance, how some people have gifts delivered to the church instead of the bride’s home.”

“How many gifts arrived at the church?”

“There was only one. Jimmy — oh, poor Jimmy. It’s so unfair. A wife and all…”

Sam fought to maintain his patience. “What about the gift?”

“Oh. That. Jimmy said a man brought it by. He showed it to me. Very nicely wrapped, with all these pretty silver bells and foil ribbons.”

“Mrs. Whipple,” Sam interrupted again. “What happened to that gift?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I told Jimmy to give it to the bride’s mother. I assume that’s what he did.”

“But the bride’s mother hadn’t arrived yet, right? So what would Jimmy do with it?”

Helplessly Helen Whipple shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose he’d leave it where she’d be sure to find it. In the front pew.”

The front pew. The center of the blast.

Sam said, sharply, “Who was the gift addressed to?”

“The bride and groom, of course.”

“Dr. Bledsoe and his fiancée?”

“Yes. That was on the card. Dr. and Mrs. Robert Bledsoe.”

IT WAS STARTING to come together now, Sam thought as he got back in his car. The method of delivery. The time of planting. But the target wasn’t quite clear yet. Was Nina Cormier or Robert Bledsoe supposed to die? Or was it both of them?

Nina, he knew, had no answers, no knowledge of any enemies. She couldn’t help him.

So Sam drove to Ocean View Drive, to Robert Bledsoe’s house. This time Bledsoe was damn well going to answer some questions, the first two being: Who was the other woman he’d been seeing, and was she jealous enough to sabotage her lover’s wedding — and kill off a dozen people in the process?

Two blocks before he got there, he knew something was wrong. There were police lights flashing ahead and spectators gathered on the sidewalks.

Sam parked the car and quickly pushed his way through the crowd. At the edge of Bledsoe’s driveway, a yellow police tape had been strung between wooden stakes. He flashed his badge to the patrolman standing guard and stepped across the line.

Homicide Detective Dick Yeats greeted him in the driveway with his usual I’m-in-charge tone of superiority.