Chapter Ten

Lucinda’s wedding ended.

The church had been packed mostly with Brad’s friends and relatives. The bride’s gown had been made especially for her in Paris and hurried to Lansing on the fastest ships and cars.

The guest list included a who’s who in American politics, academia and film. They had all flown to Michigan to attend the wedding of a rising star in the Republican Party. Brad would be president someday. Everyone said so. Well-wishes crowded around the couple. Movie stars and congressmen did not interest Lucinda. She found them boring.

These people were too fancy, too smug, too self important.

Somehow she must find a way to sometimes get back to Mountain Ridge and her friends.

She had wanted to invite Yvonne, but Yvonne had a farm to run and she had a baby. How Lucinda wanted to see little Louis.

She knew she had to put Jack behind her. She was a wife now, and though her marriage may have been political to unite her family to Brad’s family’s old world political connections, she still wanted to make a good wife. There are some clubs that even wealth and a seat in congress could not buy a way into. And Brad had been so good about her secret. Not every man would marry a Negro, even one as beautiful and wealthy as Lucinda Rinaldi.

The Davies family name would introduce her and her dad to the society that he dreamed about. She was not interested in the great families of New York, Boston and Washington D.C. Her dad was not that interested either. It was just something he wanted. Being a Negro often made Enrico feel inferior. But he and his daughter would rise to the pinnacles of society. He hoped to see her in the White House as hostess and first lady.

Lucinda’s politics were very different than Brad’s. While she was a New Deal Democrat and she knew her father had voted for Franklin Roosevelt, Brad was a Republican who opposed Roosevelt’s ideas for Social Security, and Works Projects.

Brad planned to oppose Roosevelt in every possible way.

With the wedding over, Lucinda retreated to their hotel room while Brad said good night to political cronies.

She brushed her hair and dabbed Lovely perfume behind her ears. She had read in a ladies’ magazine that the best way to get the full effect of a perfume was to rub on baby oil first. Lucinda did this. Then the perfume. She inhaled the rich aroma and hoped her husband would enjoy it. She wanted to be special for him. Was he not an important man?

She admitted she was a little nervous. This was her wedding night. Then she heard the bedroom door opening. She turned and smiled. “Darling.”

He still wore his tuxedo from the wedding, tie askew, and she suspected he was intoxicated.

“I put some blankets on the couch, Lucinda.”

“What?” she got up; her chartreuse silk nightgown caressing the curves of her young body.

He thought how cat-like she moved, as he reached for a decanter of brandy. “You’ll sleep on the couch. When we get to my house in Lansing, you will have your own bedroom like a maid.”

This was not the way a wedding a night should be. “You don’t want me?”

“Of course, I am tempted. You’re a damn beautiful woman. But you are a Negress. What kind of a white man sleeps with a Negress?”

“You knew I was a Negro when you married me.”

“And unfortunately I need your dad’s money. Now go out on the couch like a good girl.”

“No.” she surprised herself with her sharpness. “Father’s money is paying for this room and it financed your campaign. If anyone will sleep on the couch, it will be you. Better yet go get your own room. If you can afford one.” She sighed and sat back down at her vanity table where her cosmetics and perfumes were arranged around her.

Was there a way to change this? To make him see she was his wife and as good or better than any other wife. Lucinda had the best clothes, the best education and she was the daughter of perhaps the richest man in the state. She would not be treated this way. If he wanted an annulment, she would agree. But he didn’t want that, did he? He wanted her father’s money.

When she looked back at him, his eyes filled with hatred and anger. Suddenly he was striding toward her like a cowboy ready to beat a horse. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her to her feet and then shoved her to the floor. “Get up and walk out that door before I drag you.”

Frightened, she obeyed. She walked into the living room part of their hotel suite, grabbed her purse and ran for the door. But he grabbed her again, this time by the arm. His fingers dug into her flesh and hurt her terribly.

“I knew you’d try to run.”

“I’ll get my own room.”

“Now how will that look on our wedding night?”

“I’m calling my father.”

“Sure, call your father and I’ll call the newspapers. He opened a drawer in one of the desks. It continued her father’s birth certificate. “Race: Negro.” It read. “You think you covered your tracks so well. No one ever bothered to check. But you walk out that door, and I call the newspapers. Neither you nor your precious daddy will be welcome in white society again.”

“I’m your wife.”

“Time enough for an annulment. But we can’t have that now. Can we?”

“What do you want?” She couldn’t believe she was crying now.

“Daddy’s money and for you to know your place. You'll be a hostess and nothing more. You make any trouble for me, and I have your birth certificate too. We don’t want to disappoint Daddy now, do we?”

“If it’s so easy to check my background, it will be easy for others. What are your chances of making it to the White House with a Negro wife?”

“I can make the originals disappear. I may not be as rich as daddy, but I am more powerful. You remember that.”

She slowly walked to the sofa. “Don’t bother me anymore tonight,” she said sitting down.

He stared at her. As soon as he was sleeping, he suspected she would call her father. Maybe Enrico would end the marriage. His new little slave girl needed a lesson in obedience.

When he walked toward her she gave a small yelp. Was he going to hit her?

“Is that anyway to treat your new husband?” he asked. He pulled her to him. For a moment, she thought he would rape her. Instead he yanked her toward the closet and then tossed her in like she was an old overcoat. He locked the door.

She wanted to scream. Instead she sank to the floor and felt his shoes rub against her sides like they were kicking her. She cried until she fell asleep.

Lucinda knew she was trapped. If she told her father, Brad kept her isolated, treated her worse than a maid, Enrico would kill Brad.

A divorce would mean the end of her father’s dream of high Washington and New York society. The truth about her family would come out and make headlines.

She must endure her marriage.

Enrico awakened when he heard a noise. Someone was walking outside his bedroom door. He thought it must be an intruder and reached for the the gun he kept at his bedside. The doorknob turned. Click. The door opened. From the light of the full moon outside his bedroom window, he saw a flash of white material and a feminine form outlined in the darkness.

He set the gun down and reached for the lamp switch; the room was filled with light. Lisa Brianka stood in the doorway.

The light hurt Enrico’s eyes, but Lisa Brianka’s eyes were closed. She moved in a circle around the middle of the bedroom floor. Her face upturned toward the ceiling. It was as if she could see something through her closed lids.

For just a moment, he was paralyzed with something close to fear.

“Lisa,” he shouted, hoping to pull her out of her trance.

Her nightgown was diaphanous and he worried about the indecency of having a young woman in night clothes in his bedroom at an ungodly early hour. He shouted her name again.

She did not seem to have heard him.

Eyes closed, she continued to look to the ceiling. “Hanging,” she said softly and then she screamed and fell toward the floor. There she crouched in a sort of sitting position as if she were playing with a cat. “Pa’s hanging there,” she pointed to the ceiling. “Don’t hit me. Don’t kick me.” Her body jerked. She fell sideways like someone had pushed her or kicked her. Then she was still for several minutes.

Should he call the sheriff? That would make gossip and trouble. He didn’t want that for either himself or for the poor girl, who was obviously unhinged. He needed to call her sister, but he feared that if he moved past her; she might awaken or become violent.

He watched her for a moment.

And then very slowly she got up and left.

As soon as she left the room, he got up and locked the door.

He would definitely call her sister. But not tonight. What if Lisa lingered in the hall? It would wait until tomorrow. Perhaps he needed to have a phone put in his bedroom. But it should be okay, if he just kept the door locked.

Lisa got up early to prepare his breakfast. When Mr. Rinaldi tasted the coffee he spit it out. “It tastes awful.”

She tasted the coffee herself; it tasted the same as always. But Mr. Rinaldi had opened the sugar bowl and tasted a little bit of the contents. It was salt.

“I’m so sorry. I must have gotten the containers mixed up.” Both salt and sugar came in huge bags. It was easy to mix them up.

“Just go get the sugar,” he had snapped at her.

She flew to the pantry, opened the sugar bag, but it fell over and sugar spilled all over the floor. She started to sweep it up, then he was beside her. “Never mind that. Get my bacon.”

The bacon burned on the stove. She’d forgotten it. Smoke filled the kitchen.

He stormed out of the house saying he would get breakfast at the cafe.

Lisa easily put out the fire that had consumed the bacon, but she found herself shaking.

Cleaning was no easier. She started in Mr. Rinaldi’s bedroom, but knocked over a vase and it shattered into a million pieces.

If anyone thought mine owners had an easy life, they didn’t know the world of Enrico Rinaldi. His secretary had quit. His midnight foreman had a drinking problem and had to be fired. He asked Emil Mynter to find him another foreman, but in the meantime his other foremen would have to work double shifts. Even if he could find a capable secretary and a new foreman, training them would take time.

There was demand for more ore particularly from England and Germany who Enrico knew were preparing for another fight. He prayed Franklin Roosevelt would have the wisdom to keep America out of a European war. Of course, Roosevelt was running for another term and he could lose in November to Alf Landon. Political analysts thought it would be a close race, but Landon was favored.

Enrico planned to vote for Roosevelt again despite backing his Republican son-in-law. Roosevelt was doing what he could to pull the nation from the grips of Depression. That was more than the Republicans were doing.

There had been a meeting of the mine owners where Enrico had been pressured to cut wages. Other mine owners were not only cutting wages, but laying off workers.

Too tired to argue, Enrico said he would think about it.

When he got home, he met a crying maid. Lisa Brianka, babbled about breaking a vase.

He didn’t want to talk about it. “I’m sure it was an accident.”

“You just take the money out of my wages.” she had blubbered.

“That won’t be necessary,’ he assured her. He didn’t like the vase anyway. Where had it come from? Had Lucinda bought it as a favor to some poor shopkeeper.

Lisa was still crying when he climbed the stairs. He hated firing people, but he didn’t know how much longer he could endure ruined breakfasts and blubbering. Crying women made him nervous. On top of that he had to keep his bedroom door locked at night because of the ramblings of this strange girl. He would talk to Lucinda. Maybe she could take Lisa to work for her at the Lansing house.

Brad was running for the U.S. senate. Maybe Lisa could help Lucinda when she had to move. But then what would Enrico do for a maid? If only that other one, Vonnie, had been able to stay.

The house was quiet as he shaved and bathed and then crawled into bed. He was exhausted; sleep came quickly.

Then Lisa screamed.

March found Lucinda back in Mountain Ridge. Her husband had flown to Washington on state business. He had agreed to let her visit her family and friends. He knew she wouldn’t tell her father; she would be too ashamed, and she knew Brad would hurt her if she said anything. Lucinda sometimes feared her husband would kill her. He had threatened her. Anyway her father thought he could enter high society. He was planning his own trip to Washington. She couldn’t destroy his dream.

Brad had once asked Lucinda if she knew what an up-pity Nigger was. Sometimes she felt she just couldn’t take the degradation anymore. She functioned as a hostess, and then he dismissed to her room like the lowest maid.

There was, however, someone she could talk to and share her deepest darkest secrets. She sat in Vonnie’s warm kitchen at the Cheney farm house and ate an apple pie smothered in homemade vanilla ice cream.

“You have to leave him,“ Vonnie said.

Lucinda shook her head. “This means too much to my father. Even though people don’t know we’re Negroes, still so many doors are closed to us. We’re newly rich and to the people who matter, we’re no better than shanty Irish or Jews.”

“People who matter? Shanty Irish?” Vonnie almost had to laugh at that, but the phrases made her sad at the same time. “My dad was Jewish. It’s why a lot of people don’t like us.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.” Lucinda said as she sipped Vonnie’s coffee and knew the contrast between them. Lucinda wore a $300 dress custom made by the best dressmaker in Detroit. Vonnie ’s dress was one she had made for herself.

Lucinda’s hair was professionally styled. Vonnie cut and styled her own hair.

While the kitchen smelled of freshly baked apple pie, cinnamon and coffee, the furnishings were old. It was so different from Lucinda’s world of maids and shiny appliances.

“About Lisa,” Vonnie said.

“I’m so sorry.” Lucinda said. Her dad had mentioned his problems with Lisa.

Vonnie already knew some of it. Lisa had called a few times crying, and Mr. Rinaldi had asked her if she could come back to work. “But she will be staying with us now. I go down and pick her up in the evenings and I drop her off first thing in the morning. I have to be up anyway to help milk the cows.”

“That’s extra work for you.”

“It’s better for Lisa. She’s afraid unless I’m there for her at night. I wish Jack could be here.”

Lucinda took a deep breath. She still thought about Jack often. “Father had nothing to do with what happened to Jack.” she said. “Miles railroaded him and …and…”


 “And what?” Vonnie asked.

“Miles even thought Jack was the killer.”

“Killer?”

“Girls have disappeared and the police found a few bodies. The state police are saying Mountain Ridge is the center of a killer’s activity.”

Vonnie shivered. Both women were silent for a few minutes. They knew the sheriff’s son thought Jack was riff raft.

Miles Olson met with Michigan police Captain Ben Fuller at the Yorkie Cafe in Mountain Ridge. “What’s on your mind?” the state policeman asked.

“You got anymore on the Michigan killer? You know the serial killer.”

“Like what?”

“New victims.”

The two men sipped their coffee in silence for awhile. Finally Fuller spoke. “We haven’t had anything recently. If he’s still out there, he could’ve moved to a new area.” Fuller paused and sipped more of the black coffee. “He could be hiding his victims better. There’s a theory there are more bodies. We’ve got lots of missing women in this state and lots of people saying there’s a copy cat killer or more than one.”

“But nothing’s shown up recently,“ Mills clarified.

“Women are still missing.”

“That happens all over.” Miles said.

“We got twice the national average. That hasn’t changed.”

“Then you think the killer’s still out there.”

“I don’t know what to think, Miles. What do you think?”

“We got a vagrant name of Jack Brianka. I’ve had my eye on his for a long while.”

“And”

“And he tried to rob a gas station last year. I got him sent up to Marquette. He’s doing time there now.”

“How long’s he in for?”

“He should be getting out soon. He got a year and that’s mostly used up.”

“A year? For robbery?”

“He’s got some high level friends. He worked as a gardener for the Rinaldis. Originally they gave him five years, and that wasn’t nearly enough.”

“You think Enrico Rinaldi’s gardener’s our serial killer?”

“Like I said, I’ve had my eye on him. The family’s no good. One of his sisters just had a baby a couple months after getting married to a Civil War veteran no less.”

“A ninety-something year old guy knocked her up?” the police captain almost choked on his coffee. “You’ve got to be making this up.”

“He ain’t the father. You can be sure of that. Who knows who’s the father? For all I know the girl was doing tricks from the Rinaldi mansion.”

“You’ve got some imagination.”

“The other sister is a lulu. Crazy as can be.”

“Is that her name? Lulu?”

“Her name’s Lisa, but she has nightmares, roams around at night in her nightgown, talks about hanged men. The girl is a real basket case. She was out on the lawn at the Rinaldi’s one night. The neighbors called us in.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Just sharing some information, cop to cop. The killings have stopped since Jack Brianka went jail.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“I know it. And when Brianka gets out of jail, somebody gotta keep an eye on him.”

“Thanks for the coffee,” said the police captain.

Lisa walked through the woods.

Her red coat purchased from the Sears catalog even had a hood, and it protected her from some of the morning cold.

She knew Almasy house was at the other end and there was even a path. She looked at the old house. She knew she had been here before. She had been taken there the night she lost her parents.

She remembered the thick carpets and the chandelier hanging…swinging. It had frightened her. Why? The house had not seemed safe. She had expected hooded figures to jump out from the shadows. Then her mother was lying in a box. She understood now. Her mother was dead . Lisa knew about coffins now, but she hadn’t then.

She had wanted her mother and had tried to crawl into the coffin. Lisa remembered her mother’s dress was dark and made from a stiff, scratchy material. Her mother had been so still like a doll, and her mother had not tried to hold her. She remembered the strong arms that had pulled her away from her mother’s body. The arms had not been soft and soothing like her mother’s arms used to be.

She had wanted her ma.

She had wanted her pa.

Instead there was that awful old lady telling her that she must never tell anyone what happened. “It was all a nightmare.” the old lady had said. “You imagined it all. No one will believe you.”

What had happened that night? Her mother had died. Her father had disappeared. They told her he left town because he didn’t want to be saddled with the kids.

But she did remember why her pa would never come back for her. How she wished she didn’t remember.

If she closed her eyes, she could see the rope around his neck, his face twisted in pain. She didn’t want to remember him that way. “Pa,” she whispered as if he could hear her and come to her.

That scary old lady knew what really happened that night. Lisa was sure of that. Why had the old lady lied to her?

The killer watched Lisa as she moved down the path. He had watched her before. She would be easy. Too bad he was taking time off. No more killing until Jack Brianka got out of prison. But there had been a few. He couldn’t resist.

Bodies had to be carefully hidden.

The girls who disappeared carefully chosen.

It wouldn’t do to kill Jack’s sister. Not now. Would it? Miles said she couldn’t even disappear. Jack had to look guilty.

Of course, Jack couldn’t come back here; it was a condition of his sentencing.

But how far away would he stay with both of his sisters here?

The killer would have liked to rape Lisa as he and his buddy had once raped Vonnie. He wanted to kill her, and make the body disappear as other bodies had. But if the Rinaldi’s maid went missing, that would cause problems. Some people would know he was still here and that he hadn’t stopped killing. There were other ways of dealing with Lisa Brinaka. It just had to wait until later.

TO BE CONTINUED…

CHAPTER EIGHT

That night Lisa went to bed thinking about all the rooms in the Rinaldi home. Lucinda had given her a schedule of when different rooms needed to be cleaned. Mostly the guest rooms were cleaned once a year and again when the Rinaldis expected guests. The kitchen had to be cleaned everyday and scoured once a month. Closets were deep cleaned once a year, but they might need reorganization more often. The main rooms downstairs needed to be dusted and swept daily.

It’s so much work, but Lisa wanted to do it. She reviewed in her mind where all the cleaning supplies were kept. Then she fell asleep. There were no nightmares. She felt safe and woke up smiling.

“You have a visitor,“ said the jailer.

“I don’t want to see anyone,” answered Jack. If the orphanage was bad, the Mountain Ridge jail was worse. While he had a cell to himself, it had not been cleaned. He smelled the waste products of the prisoners who had been here before him. Fresh air didn’t find its way inside.

In the picture shows, jail houses had barred windows, but he didn’t have a window. Instead he just had cement walls.

A shadow fell between the bars. He thought his visitor might be his sister, Yvonne who he had asked the jailers to keep out. Instead it was his former employer, Enrico Rinaldi. Jack jumped off the cot and to his feet. “Sir,” he said. “I didn’t do it.”

“I know you didn’t, Jack.”

“Is Yvonne okay?”

Rinaldi nodded. “Your sisters are both okay. They’re staying at my house and working.”

“Lisa? Why isn’t she at the orphanage?”

“It seems Hollander kicked her out.”

“The bastard. She needs someone to look after her.”

“Vonnie assures me Lisa can do the work.”

“Lisa,” Jack paused. He didn’t know how to tell his employer or rather former employer about his sister’s spells.

Rinaldi guessed Jack’s concern. “She’ll be fine; you’re the one in trouble.”

“I was set up. I think you know that.”

“You think the sheriff set you up?”

“The sheriff’s son. Miles Olson thinks I’m trash. Maybe he’s right.”

“Olson isn’t my concern. I know he railroaded you, and I talked to the judge. There’s no real evidence of armed robbery or even of breaking and entering.”

“I wasn’t carrying a gun. I don’t even own one.”

“But you had a pocket knife.”

“I’m your gardener. I use the knife doing chores and most men in this town carry knives.”

“I know. Look I’m getting you a year in prison.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Jack almost shouted.

“You courted my daughter.’ Rinaldi lowered his voice and spoke through clenched teeth.

The accusation surprised Jack. He and Lucinda had been discreet. How could anyone have found out?

“Sir, we were just friends, and I was leaving town. I swear. I was going to leave. I just had to figure out what to do with my sisters. I was afraid to leave them.”

“Here’s a the deal. The judge is a friend of mine, and he could give you 20 years. I already talked to him about making it one year, and then you leave the area. You never come back.”

“I have two sisters here.”

“They have guaranteed jobs with me as long as they want, and as long as you stay away from Lucinda. You do a year and when you come out, there’s a hundred thousand dollars waiting for you. The condition is that you never step foot in the Upper Peninsula again or live in any town where Lucinda lives.”

“I don’t want your hundred thousand dollars.”

“Son, you’ll be an ex con. Unemployable, and there are thousands of others looking for jobs.”

Jack didn’t answer.
 “I’ll do what I have to do to keep you away from Lucinda. Take the money, son.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll leave the U.P. when I’m released. I know I can’t have Lucinda.”

The men each knew they had an agreement.

Leo Olson called in Miles, “There’s more talk than ever about a treasure.”

“What? In old Rose’s tunnels? Pa, I don’t think one exists.” He poured himself a cup of black coffee as he talked to his dad. “Those tunnels were used for transferring liquor not for hiding treasure.”

“Tell that to the damn fools who we’re going to have to rescue. It’s only a matter of time before someone gets killed or goes missing for good.”

Miles had his own reasons for being interested in the tunnels; he had explored more of them than he wanted to admit to his dad. He didn’t like the treasure hunters that got in his way. He also didn’t like having Emil Mynter, the mining engineer, in the tunnels. And that stupid priest was probably going down in the tunnels.

Last month Mynter had rescued two brothers who had gone into the tunnels and gotten lost. They had come out with wild tales of ghosts and a secret burial ground.

“We blocked off the entrance of the tunnel that starts near highway US-2,” Miles said. Of course, his dad already knew that.

“There’re other openings. Talk to Mynter. See if you can find out exactly where they are. He’ll know where they are if anyone does.” The sheriff paused. “And find a way to permanently seal the one near US-2. Anyone with half a brain can figure out how to get around your signs and boulders.”

“Dad, we may need that tunnel available the next tine we need to get someone out.”

“I’ll talk to the priest. Now that he owns Almasy House, maybe he’ll let us go through the door in the basement that leads into the tunnels.”

“Yeah” Miles grinned. “That ole boy priest should be very cooperative.”

His dad looked up and shook his head. Both men were thinking the same thing. If there was a treasure, it would be close to the house and Hollander would want all of that for himself.

The Olsons distrusted Hollander as did many of the townspeople. Rose had always wanted to leave her money to the church. Then that priest got friendlier and friendlier, and she ended up leaving her money to him. Most people wondered if he would stay in the priesthood or marry that pretty little Elaine Dabb. She hung around him enough.

Anyway Hollander was now a very rich man and determined to get every cent he could out of Almasy House.

Penny 1970

If you ever want to perk up some kid’s interest in local history, just mention hidden treasure. Their eyes light up; they’re ready to grab shovels and start digging. Chances of finding buried treasure are about zero. It would take more gold than Fort Knox ever held to get me into any of those tunnels that snake beneath Mountain Ridge. I could never understand miners who went into the earth every day. Neither did I understand the rum runners who reportedly ran the booze through Rose’s tunnels. I’m far from brave enough to ever become a treasure hunter.

My idea of treasure is a tidbit of forbidden information included in a letter or legal document like a birth or marriage certificate.

Note to reader: Emil Mynter’s daughter, Mary Mynter Smith is now the head of the historical society where I volunteer. I have seen Emil’s maps, but they are not at the museum. Mrs. Smith keeps them locked up in her home. They are hers, not the museum’s. After all they belonged to her dad. I doubt she will ever give them up.)

1935

Emil Mynter knew the mine tunnels like he knew the rooms in his own home. He had mapped out most of the routes and kept the maps in a safe in his home. Other maps existed; the country kept records of the tunnels; the county records also detailed who owned them and where they went. These were mostly accurate as far as the mining tunnels were concerned. Enrico Rinaldi, Emil’s employer, and the other mine owners were especially good at providing detailed information on their activities.

But Rose’s tunnels were different. She had been secretive. Many believed she kept maps. Maybe she kept them in her head. County executives in Rose’s time were more interested in her booze than in her tunnels.

Emil considered asking Jeff Hollander for permission to exam any maps Rose may have left behind. But Hollander would refuse. He would look for the treasure himself if indeed there was a treasure to find. Hollander would be suspicious of anyone else interested in those tunnels.

Emil himself had attempted over the years to map Rose’s tunnels. He did it on his own time, knowing he was sometimes trespassing. But most of the tunnels wound through state, county or mining property. Rose owned only a few acres that surrounded her home. She and her crews had themselves been trespassing.

Emil could find his way in and out of the tunnels without too much trouble. He looked at the maps he had drawn over the years. He had a system of always turning right or always turning left. Sometimes he left subtle clues in the sand or dirt. He might pile rocks a certain way or use a stick to point in the direction he took. He didn’t want anyone to know when he was in the tunnels or where he went. Not that anyone else should be inside these tunnels. But he had to be careful.

Rose Almasy, that crazy old lady, had tunnels that were elaborate mazes. Her tunnels had a purpose - transporting and hiding illegal liquor during Prohibition. One tunnel started near the old Quincy mine and dead ended. Others intersected with the mine tunnels in places that had not been mined in years. Rose used some mine tunnels that were no longer used by the mines. Talk about trespassing. Emil was sure the owners of the Quincy mine had no idea their abandoned tunnels had been hijacked.

Some tunnels purposely led nowhere.

Were the maps only in Rose’s mind? Did she share any written maps with Hollander? The priest had been crawling around her like a pet snake. If anyone could have gotten information from Rose, it would have been Hollander.

But Rose would not give up her secrets easily.

If the maps were kept only in her mind, then there was no reason for Mynter to contact the priest. If she explained her routes to him, most likely, Hollander would not understand. But Emil would. He could help the priest if there was anything buried in there. If Hollander had drawn maps based on Rose’s recollections, they might be dangerously incomplete. If Hollander was smart, he would ask a mining engineer like Emil to accompany him inside the maze.

Emil respected Rose’s property, but the tunnels were a safety hazard. A child or hiker or more likely a fortune hunter would wander into them and never find his way out. What if a mine employee took a wrong turn into one of those tunnels?

The sheriff and his deputies would be little help. Those treasure hunters who had been rescued had all needed Emil’s help. Sometimes Emil thought Miles Olson and that state trooper friend of his, Sonny Cain, knew more about the mines than they let on. But he would not have trusted either one to lead him out blindfolded.

Emil shrugged. He really did not believe the tales about hidden treasure. If anything had ever been hidden in the tunnels, he was sure Rose had removed it years before. There was a possibility of a still being down there. There could also have been hidden bottles of smuggled booze.

Emil strongly suspected that the priest had been taking advantage of Rose in getting her to leave her fortune to him instead of to the church. Emil didn’t care about the rumors about the the priest and that little Elaine, the pretty girl who had grown up on the same street where he had raised his own children. He knew Elaine’s parents. He knew how concerned they were about Elaine. He had three daughters of his own.

Emil turned a corner; the light from his helmet illuminated the dark cave walls inside the tunnels.

Emil wasn’t doing any harm in Rose’s tunnels. He was just looking. Hollander should be happy a qualified engineer was looking into those tunnels. The county should hire Emil to explore them. That would be much smarter than sending in that dumb deputy, the sheriff’s son. Emil usually managed to avoid Miles in the tunnels.

Rinaldi and the other mine owners had warned Miles to stay out of their tunnels. But Miles had still turned up once or twice claiming that he was lost or looking for someone who was lost. Emil wondered why Miles went into Rose’s tunnels so often. There weren’t that many lost souls to rescue.

Emil also knew about the North entrance. He didn’t think anyone else knew.

He remembered when he discovered this entrance. He had found this tunnel entrance one time when he was looking over one of Rinaldi’s abandoned tunnels.

When he walked inside, he discovered that this section had spokes. It was shaped like a wheel. Spokes led to other tunnels and to dead ends. One spoke led to the basement at Almasy House where Emil had found the cellar cellar door unlocked; he had actually stood there in the basement of Almasy House. He had quickly exited. He had not intended to trespass in someone’s home.

He thought he knew all the tunnels now, but in Rose’s tunnels, there could always be surprises.

Father Jeffrey Hollander had not been inside the tunnels yet. He had emptied Rose’s bank account, and he had searched the house, but found little of value. The bank accounts themselves held much less than he had expected.

Was anything in the tunnels? Rose had often changed the subject whenever he asked her about them. Sometimes she hinted about something in the tunnels, but she was never specific.

She would sigh. “I brought some things down there. Never trusted banks.”

“What did you bring down there, Rose? Is it still there?”

She would smile and shake her head. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Was she just trying to hold his interest? Had any treasure been removed years ago? Did a treasure ever exist?

He had no idea how to explore a tunnel or how extensive her tunnels were, but he had a plan. He purchased candles, a notebook, a pick, shovel, and a miners cap, so he would be able to see inside the tunnels; he bought red paint, so he could mark his way. The paint was the same kind that loggers used to mark trees.

Carefully he opened the cellar door. He walked into the dark tunnel and lit a half dozen candles. Rose had electricity in the cellar, but the tunnels had never been wired. He carried more candles and lots of matches with him. These were for emergencies.

He put on his miner’s light. He started his journey at almost the precise moment that Emil Mynter entered the tunnels from another place. Neither man knew the other was inside the tunnels. Nor did they know that a third man was in the tunnels. That third man would kill to keep his secrets.

Jeff Hollander wished there was someone else he cold trust. But a hired explorer might steal any treasure he found. Emil Mynter seemed like an honest sort, but Emil was a friend of Elaine’s parents, and he didn’t like Jeff Hollander. The priest decided he couldn’t trust anyone.

On his first exploration, he went east for about a mile. He noticed where the tunnel intersected with a mining tunnel. Where did this tunnel exit? Was the tunnel still used by the mines?

Rose would not have ventured this far from the house. Would she?

The next day Hollander went west. He exited this tunnel in a wooded area. He saw forest paths and heard the swish of cars on a near-by highway, but decided to go back inside the earth. Upper Peninsula forests could be as easy to get lost in as an underground tunnel. At least his tunnel was marked. The mouth of this tunnel looked like a natural cave. He didn’t know who owned this property, so he could not put up a “no trespassing" sign.

He could get the sheriff to block the entry. But then that deputy would want to explore.

He had inherited no more than a half dozen acres from Rose. Her tunnels crisscrossed private and state property. Any treasure found down here would have to remain a secret. If he did discover a treasure and if anyone found out, he would have to say he found it inside the house or on the grounds. Otherwise ownership could be contested. Best to keep any finds a secret, he decided.

He followed the tunnel back. This tunnel did not seem to intersect with the mines. But it did branch off. This was Rose’s maze, and he knew he had to be careful. There were dozens of places where the tunnel branched off. Where did these branches go? Should he explore them now or wait?

Then he saw the footprint in the soft earth. Someone else had been in this tunnel recently. Who? The footprint went left. Did he dare follow it? Instead of using his red paint he took out his picket knife and put a small notch in the wood to the side. Then he followed the footprints, taking care to step carefully in each one, so he himself was not leaving a trail.

He didn’t know why, but he sensed it was important that no one knew he had entered here. This tunnel was dark even with his miner’s light. He took out a candle and lit it. The light from his miners cap danced on the walls. The tunnel curved. He found himself saying a silent prayer for his own safety. Jeff Hollander was not a man who spooked easily, yet he had to admit he was scared.

Of What? What could possibly harm him down here? There might be bats or a rattlesnake. Neither of these things scared him. He had a club and he had a pistol. He wasn’t sure if he would dare use the pistol, but the club would discourage most creatures.

He smelled something, rotten decaying. It made him want to vomit. He swallowed hard to keep his breakfast from coming up and betraying his presence to whomever or whatever might be using this tunnel.

He turned the corner and screamed.

He had never screamed before, at least not that he remembered. But then he had never seen hell before. He backed away.

Elaine had cleaned Rose’s apartment many times. Still she could not get the old lady smell from the rooms.

Soon Elaine would have a maid cleaning for her in a fancy new home. Surely Jeff didn’t expect them to keep living here.

She hated this old boarding house with its musty smell, ancient furniture and silent rooms. She knew the house had once been fashionable, but after Rose’s husband killed himself, the old lady had slowly shut down everything until she lived like a recluse here. It didn’t matter how often Elaine cleaned. The house still smelled like mice droppings and rotten cheese.

The furniture looked like junk yard rejects.

It had taken too long for the old lady to die, but now she was gone, and the house was hers - well it was Jeff’s, but she and Jeff would soon be married. They just had to get out of here soon.

Jeff had searched the house and he had not found anything of value. When Rose seemed less lucid in the last years of her life, she said she had hidden something in the tunnels, but Jeff had not gotten her to be more specific.

When had Rose hidden it? Was Rose wealthy in her younger days? It didn’t make sense that a frail older woman would go down there by herself carting a fortune in gold, and jewels. Maybe it was her husband who hid the fortune, and Rose herself did not know where it was. Perhaps the fortune did not exit. There was always that possibility, but Jeff had to be sure. She understood that.

In her dreams Elaine imagined a life of fur coats, diamond bracelets and trips across the Atlantic. They would meet kings, queens and presidents. President and Mrs. Roosevelt would invite them to dine at the White House. She would be richer than the Lucinda Rinaldi.

She and Jeff could buy a house in one of the fancy districts of Detroit or Lansing. They could travel first class around the world and meet Hollywood stars. She would flirt with Clark Gable and Rudy Vallee.

Elaine wanted to dance around the room when she thought of what was possible with enough money and with Jeff.

They would, of course, have to leave town. There was too much prejudice here. People believed that Jeff had taken unfair advantage of Rose, and that all these years as he looked after her and her estate, he was just after her money. They talked about Elaine and Jeff too.

Was it anyone’s business if she were dating a priest? There were too many gossips in this town; she hated Mountain Ridge.

Elaine was tired of being an old lady’s maid. Even with Rose dead, she was still cleaning Rose’s house. Why was she doing that?

Elaine knew the tunnels could be dangerous, but she trusted Jeff. He was smart, and he would be careful. She was not worried about him. Well, maybe a little worried. If he failed to come out of the tunnels, she would be alone and penniless and forced to remain in Mountain Ridge. She’d have to live with her parents again.

When she heard noises in the cellar, she hurried to a mirror to make sure her hair was perfect. Her new lipstick was reportedly the same shade Jean Harlow wore. That’s what the ladies’ magazines claimed anyway. Elaine had bought it at the drug store down the street where she bought all her movie magazines.

She waited for the cellar door to open.

Jeff didn’t walk from the tunnel. He stumbled. His gear fell in a puddle around him. He stumbled up the stairs to where Elaine waited, fell into a chair and sat staring at the wall like he could see the devil himself sitting there.

“Jeff, what’s wrong?” Elaine ran to him.

“Pack a bag. We’re leaving.”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it.”

“Are you sick?”

“Worse,” he replied. He would tell her no more.

Miles was unprepared for Father Hollander’s visit. “No way,” he said. “I’ll believe there’s a treasure located in those tunnels, unlikely as that might seem, but dead bodies? No way.”

“It’s got to be checked out.” His dad told him.

The two lawmen looked at Jeff Hollander who was clearly shaken. The priest’s face was chalky. His hands trembled. He had bumped into a chair when he staggered into the jailhouse.

“Ready to show me where these bodies are?” Miles asked.

The priest nodded and moved toward the door like a sick man.

Miles followed. His gun was loaded. He would try to confuse the priest once they got into the tunnels. What if he couldn’t? Hollander had become a problem. One that could not be easily dispatched. He was sure of that. Some poor women could disappear, but not a priest.

Miles got in his car and drove the priest back to Almasy House. Hollander was too shaken to drive back himself. He was so nervous, it would be easy for him to have an accident. Save that for when they were alone in the tunnels.

CHAPTER FOUR, "BROKEN HOMES UNKEPT GARDENS"

Rose paced the foyer at Almasy House. Martha had been her maid. She and the children could stay here; eventually they would understand that it was best that John was gone. He would be tarred and feathered and taken out of town. Perhaps they would not even use the tar or feathers. He would be warned not to come back. Martha would mourn for awhile, but she would get over it. Martha had been such a good Catholic girl.

The sheriff entered carrying a small bundle wrapped in what Rose recognized as one of Martha’s ragged blankets, a cast off from the boarding house.

“Quickly,” he shouted, nodding toward the the fireplace. “Get a fire going. I need more blankets now.” Some of the lady prostitutes had been sitting around resting, reading or waiting for customers. They hurried to do the sheriff’s bidding. “Quickly,” he repeated.

He laid the bundle on the couch. Rose recognized the child. It was Lisa, Martha’s youngest. “She’s a baby,” one of the prostitute ladies said.

“The doctor’s on his way,” Leo pulled his badge from his pocket and placed it back on his chest.

“Where’s her mother? Why didn’t you leave her with her mother?” Rose sat across from the child while the sheriff rubbed the child’s cold hands and tried to bring some warmth into them. Soon the doctor rushed into the room.

Rose pulled the sheriff away from the others. “What went wrong?” she asked.

1970 Miles

When Miles arrived back in town, a deputy drove him to the courthouse. “How’s the prisoner?” Miles asked.

“Got her in isolation. She don’t say nothing. Don’t eat.”

“I’ll talk to doc about force feeding.”

“You sure we should be holdin’ her. She should be in a hospital.”

“Shut up and watch the road,” Miles snapped. “I ain’t letting this prisoner go.”

1925

Rose assured her husband Louis that things would be taken care of. “What do you mean by things?” Louis asked. “Martha’s funeral will be here. Father Hollander has agreed to officiate even though she certainly wasn’t a Catholic in the last years of her life. He will also petition Rome to allow her soul back into the Church. Our lord is good and will forgive her for her sins.”

“Will He forgive us?” Louis asked.

“We have done nothing wrong,” Rose insisted.

“What happened to John? Where is he?”

“He left town.” It was a lie that she was not yet ready to give up. She never would. She certainly wouldn’t tell her husband the truth. It was bad enough he knew Martha was dead.

“John didn’t stay for his wife’s funeral?” Louis knew his wife was keeping a lot of the story to herself.

“She wasn’t his wife. Not in the eyes of the Church.”

“I don’t give a damn for the eyes of the church. What happened to John?”

“I told you.”

“He wouldn’t leave her. He wouldn’t leave his children.”

“He was persuaded.”

“Rose, the little girl was almost killed. How did that happen?”

She didn’t answer. But when she turned to face him, she saw that he was cleaning his gun. She hadn’t seen that gun in years. What had made him bring it out? For the first time, she was afraid of what her husband might know and of what he might do.

He placed the gun on the table beside him. “What happens to Martha’s children?” he asked.

“Father Hollander will take them to the orphanage. They’ll get a good Christian upbringing. I made a large donation.” She hurried from the room, afraid he would use that gun on her.

There was one more thing she needed to arrange. Rose had to make sure the children never talked. She was sure the two older ones knew nothing. From reports they had been hiding in the cellar when their mother’s body was found. Most likely they had not seen what happened to their father.

John’s body had been moved and hidden before the children were taken from the house. At least that stupid sheriff had gotten that part right.

But what about the child called Lisa? What had she seen? What did she know?

Louis had always considered himself a good man. He loved his wife and he had sometimes even been proud of her as she ran the boarding house and made it much more profitable than he would have done on his own. He didn’t like that she allowed ladies of the evening to stay on the top floor and to use the house to entertain their customers. He didn’t like the illegal booze that Rose ran even though the profits were more than he ever imagined.

Her vast illegal enterprises scared him as did the men who came from Detroit and Chicago. He knew they were gangsters.

But now he thought about Martha’s death. He thought about the Klan whom he disliked even though he knew they met in the house every Thursday and sometimes maybe even more often. He thought about John’ Brianka’s disappearance. He should have stopped his wife before he let it all end like this. His Smith and Wesson was cleaned and fully loaded.

His confession had been written and mailed to Father Hollander along with instructions to bring in the authorities for a full investigation of John’s so-called disappearance. Had he left his last letter at the house, Rose would have found it and destroyed it. Louis trusted the new priest, Father Hollander. So he had gotten the letter out of the house and into a mail box.

He returned to his room.

Across the hall, a music box played. He didn’t recognize the tune, but it tickled the air like cowbells. He took a deep breath, placed the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Penny 1970

The room where Louis Almasy committed suicide is now the maid’s break room. Dark brown smudges mark the walls. Some people say it’s his blood, but the room has been painted, wall papered, stripped and painted again since that time. The floor is varnished every year. No trace of Louis Almasy remains or if it does, it’s covered by layers of paint and whitewash.

The old timer I had just interviewed for an oral history had not mentioned what happened here in this town so long ago. No one now admits to having belonged to the Klan. No one admits riding with them that night.

There’s a gorgeous portrait of Rose Almasy in the foyer. Some people say she came from a rich European family; some say she was royalty. Some say she was a gypsy fortune teller when she met Louis Almasy. He bought the house for her to run as a boarding house. It kept getting bigger and bigger as she added rooms. She had grown up near a large castle. She wanted the house to look like a castle. It resembles instead a poorly constructed old house. Its unusualness makes it a tourist attraction.

Rose added a restaurant. Miners had to eat and Rose managed to serve them breakfast, lunch and supper at reasonable prices. The kitchen she added to the house is still there, but today all the appliances are state of the art. We even have a chef.

Rose opened a tavern and kept it running even during Prohibition. She had tunnels built all around the house and some connected to the iron mines. She ran booze in and out of the house through those tunnels and associated with known gangsters from Detroit, Chicago and New York.

The town loves her now that she’s been dead for over thirty years.

Prohibition ended when Franklin Roosevelt became president. The mines that once supported this town are all closed now.

All of this has little or nothing to do with Lisa Mentor or her arrest.

Okay, it has a lot to do with Lisa’s arrest. I am just trying to figure out how to connect some of the dots.

When I went to pour myself a cup of coffee, Jack Brianka came in and sat at the break table.

“Lisa is asking for you,” he told me.

“Are they allowing her visitors?”

“Family. Vonnie and I got in. Danni got in, she helped Dr. Tracie do the medical evaluation.”

“Is that necessary? Everyone in town knows she’s crazy.”

“What do you think?” Jack asked me.

I didn’t answer. I really didn’t know what I think.

Almasy House 1925

Lisa was a strange child. That first night that her mother’s body lay in the parlor for view, she had crawled in the casket with her dead mother. The ladies who used the parlor to entertain gentlemen even when there was a funeral had pulled the child out of the casket and had sat with her until Rose came to take the child upstairs.

After that, Rose locked the three children in a room. She brought them their meals, took them down to see their mother’s body and gave them bathroom breaks.

One night Rose had the two older children taken downstairs to dinner. She sat down beside the small child. Lisa at first tried to pull away. She would not look at the fancy lady. “I want my daddy,” she said.

Rose sighed. Perhaps the child did not remember or perhaps she had not even seen what happened.

“You know your daddy went away,”

No answer. Lisa stared at the floor.

“Your daddy got on a train and he went away. He went to San Francisco and when he gets to San Francisco, he will get on a big boat and go all the way to China. He wasn’t a good daddy.”

Lisa continued to stare at the floor.

“Lisa, if you think you saw anything else happen to your daddy, you are wrong. Do you understand?”

The child made no answer. Instead she jumped off the sofa and tried to flee. But Rose caught her and pulled her back. Lisa could offer little more resistance than a kitten.

“You don’t want people to think you’re a liar, now do you?” Rose wasn’t even sure that the child heard her. She would get Father Hollander and the nuns at the orphanage to work with Lisa. “I think you had a very bad dream the night your mother died. But remember what really happened. Your mother went to heaven and your daddy went to China.”

She repeated it. “Your mother went to heaven, and your daddy went to China.”

Rose felt she should hug the child. But she couldn’t bring herself to get that close to a dirty little Jew. It was enough that she had to clutch the child to keep her from running away.

The little girl’s brown eyes held some emotion. Fear? Anger? Hatred? Sorrow? Rose thought she saw all that in this little one. She had done her Christian duty. Martha’s bastards would go the orphanage and be raised as good Catholics. Jesus would be proud of her charity.

She had just finished explaining things to the child when she heard the gunshot that killed her husband.

Penny 1970

The tunnels under Almasy House wound this way and that and back again. They had been built back when Rose Almasy and her husband owned the house. Rose hired foreign laborers to build the tunnels. When they were finished those laborers were transported back to their native land.

One rumor said she murdered them and their bodies are still there in one of the tunnels.

Another rumor says she has a fortune in gold and jewels buried some place in one of the tunnels. Those tunnels are barricaded off now. They are too dangerous for recreational fortune hunters.

Emil Mynter a mining engineer, explored some and maybe all of the tunnels. There were probably a few others who know their way around down there.

The sheriff, Miles Olson has gone into the tunnels to rescue people who got lost. He found some of them usually with help from Emil Mynter. I wondered how Miles found his way around down there. He was never a miner or a mining engineer like Mynter. But then I ask too many questions.

Thinking of the sheriff brought me back to the present and Lisa’s problems. After I left Vonnie’s office where Jack, Vonnie and I discussed Lisa’s case, I tried to avoid talking to anyone. Reporters knew I spent time with Vonnie and Jack. They must be wondering about my connection to the case. I hurried through the atrium.

I wasn’t fast enough. “Excuse me,” one of the reporters called. “I understand you’re an amateur historian here.”

“Not really.” Usually my title is called local snoop.

“I was wondering about Jeff Hollander.”

“What about him?” I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Not much about him here at Almasy house or at the museum.”

“Why should there be?” It was my turn to ask a question.

“Just wondering.”

“Mrs. Smith can help you find some articles in the old newspapers. We have microfilm readers.” Mary Mynter Smith, daughter of the old mining engineer, was the president of the historical society and my boss.

The reporter grinned, “Like I said, I was just asking.”

As he walked away I thought, you’ll never know the truth. It’s too well hidden.

1925

The town was not quite sure what to make of Father Thomas Hollander. He was as young as the century, just 25 years old. He was movie star handsome, and according to some of the young women in town who were infatuated by his blue eyes and blond hair, he was even handsomer than Francis X. Bushman whom he somewhat resembled. Church attendance was up among the young girls in town and also among their mothers.

There had been a rush on confessions among the men lately. A miner had been lynched. The men in confession spoke of watching, horrified. None confessed to the actual crime. Who had put the rope around the miner’s neck? Who forced him up the ladder? Who kicked the ladder away? If Hollander was shocked, he did not show it.

He had been too young to serve in the Great War, but an older brother had served and suffered a kind of exhaustion. He knew his brother had seen death, and had even participated in the battles. Things like that broke some men. These miners seemed remorseful, but not broken.

For his part, Hollander did not know what to make of Mountain Ridge, a town unlike any other town he had ever lived in. It consisted of the very wealthy like the summer vacationers who came north to enjoy the lakes and trees. Usually they had cottages outside of town. Some wealthy mine owners had houses within the town. Enrico Rinaldi was building a new home. If only he were Catholic. Not that Rinaldi wasn’t generous. He had donated a thousand dollars to the church charity fund.

Rose Almasy ran a very successful boarding house and restaurant. She also ran booze. Everyone in town knew where they could get a drink.

Rose was a good Catholic who attended mass every morning.

Hollander often took his meals at Almasy House, but didn’t know if he had ever met Rose’s husband, who always stayed in the background like a potted plant. The Almasys made monthly and yearly donations to the church that were very generous.

A few parishioners had speculated that Rose and her husband would leave all their possessions to the church when they died. As far as Jeff Hollander knew, they had no one else to leave their possessions to. He had heard gossip about a daughter, but he could gather few details. He knew her first name, and year of christening, but beyond that the girl was a mystery. Was she still living? Where? Had she ever married? Would she visit Mountain Ridge some day? Hollander tried to get information on this daughter, but had been unsuccessful. Some people said they didn’t know; a few shook their heads and said it was a sad thing. When he pressed for details, all anyone told him was that the girl was gone.

Hollander was unprepared for the events of January 1925.

First there was that young wife, Martha who had died of a heart attack. She had left the Catholic faith and married a Jewish man. Hollander explained that a Christian burial was out of the question, but after Rose Almasy pushed an envelope stuffed with money into his hands, he agreed to conduct a funeral ceremony at Almasy House where the body lay in state. Burial was possible, he decided accepting a second envelop of money. The body could be entered near the edge of the churchyard. Surprisingly none of the towns people objected to this unchristian woman lying among them.

On the contrary, many women had thanked him, saying Martha was a good Christian woman who had been led astray by the Jew. Look how quickly he had left town and abandoned those children. Shameful.

Of course, Hollander knew the truth from the confessions he heard. Martha’s husband had been lynched.

Rose made another large donation and he agreed to take the children to the Catholic orphanage.

Martha had not been such a pretty woman. He had seen pictures of her. He had looked upon her body lying in the casket. The townspeople loved her and hated the man she chose over them and over the true religion. Was it more than John’s religion that damned him in the eye of this pious town? He was a foreigner. Some people hated foreigners. John Brianka had had been lynched. There was no doubt in his mind that each man present at the killing was guilty of the murder.

Hollander had given those men who came to him absolution. He would have done the same for Rose, had she asked for it. She seldom came to confession. But she must have known what happened that night.

No one seemed to know what had happened to the body of John Brianka. One of the men said he thought one of Rose’s henchmen “took care of it.” She had connections with gangsters; at least that is what some people said. Another penitent said the sheriff had removed the body.

Then Louis, Rose’s husband, committed suicide. Rose wanted him buried in the churchyard, and she wanted a church funeral. Hollander explained that suicides like non believers should not be buried in consecrated ground, but Rose had shoved yet another envelope of money at him. Another funeral was held at Almasy House and then Louis went in the ground beside Martha at the edge of the churchyard.

Again no one complained.

Then came the letter. It was Louis’ suicide note sent through the mail just before he shot himself.

It told of how Rose had loved Martha. How upset she had been when Martha had married. It told why Rose carried a vendetta against John, and what she had gained or rather lost by causing John’s death.

Rose hadn’t meant for John to die. She just wanted him ridden out of town. Rose had indirectly caused Martha’s death too.

If the letter were sent to the authorities, Rose might even go to prison. Indeed Louis expected the priest to contact the authorities, and present evidence.

But, Hollander decided it was a confession and confidential. He would keep Rose’s secrets. He would keep the town’s secrets.

Father Jeffrey Hollander began taking all of his meals at Almasy House. He proved a fascinating conversationalist. Soon he was invited upstairs where he ate in Rose’s private quarters. She was 57 and he was in his mid to late 20’s. But he hungered for her money and decided he would do whatever was necessary to help the poor widow who was now alone.

His charm would do more than help the church. It would also make him a rich man.

TO BE CONTINUED…