Page 11 of Priestly Sins

“And, Evelyn?”

“Yes?”

“Take Friday off. I can man the office. Enjoy those grandbabies and have some time with your kids. Nothing will happen here that I can’t handle.”

It turns out that’s a lie. Good Friday is insane.

In addition to multiple services, three deaths in the last week mean grieving families need help. Three men will be laid to rest next week—all three white, all three mid-fifties, all three danced the line between good and evil in this town.

Not one died of natural causes.

My curiosity would be piqued if I had a moment to give it a thought.

Four masses Saturday and Sunday come on the heels of confessions and services today.

The weekend flies by in a blur. It’s the Super Bowl, March Madness, and the World Series all in one weekend. Go for broke, all in, no sleep ‘til Brooklyn.

* * *

Monday afternoon,I deplane my flight from Louis Armstrong to Boston Logan and hail a cab to Whitman, Hall, and Staunchley to meet Hal Staunchley, my father’s former attorney and the man who is handling his estate.

I’m Irish. My mom’s heritage was never acknowledged while my father’s was celebrated. We’re as Irish as four-leaf clovers, St. Patrick, Guinness, and leprechauns. My dark hair and green eyes belie my heritage.

Staunchley, on the other hand, is a caricature of Irish-ness. His too-round, too-red nose sits on a wide pink face. His ginger hair flops over shaggy red eyebrows. If they’ve been trimmed in the last ten years, no one would know. They sit over brown irises that are too small and too hard for his comical face.

His belly protrudes and greets you before his chubby handshake can. He reminds me of one of the Tweedles fromAlice in Wonderland. He hasn’t changed in the twenty years I’ve known him

“Sean.”

“Father O’Ryan,” I correct.

That makes him pause

Our warm handshakes juxtapose our curt nods and aloof greetings. Only this asshole would look at my collar and refer to me by Sean. I should’ve replied with “Hal,” but I, at least, remember my manners.

“Did ya have a good flight? Come on back.” He waves me forward though he’s already turned his back to walk away.

“Fine, thanks,” I mutter. Let’s get this shit done so I can go home.

Sitting in his finely appointed office, I listen as he drones on and on about my father’s last desires for me, for his holdings, his businesses, and his investments.

“Hello?”

“Yes,” I nod. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Lots of it. What did I miss specifically?”

“I asked what you wanted to do with it.”

“With what?”

“The property?

“Let’s back up. Which property?” I inquire, apparently having zoned out more than I’d known.

“The estate in Ireland.”