The Secret Price of History. Gayle Ridinger
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obvious that he just stopped off here every so often. Look at the dust on the desk top. No one has propped his elbows on this desk for at least a week…And no one has watered this plant for even longer."
"I'm not able to tell you more…" Father Giovanni replied, with no inkling of regret or promise.
Why was he doing this? Frustrated, she asked, "Have the police been by yet?" She could only hope that the DC cops were better than the ones from Gettysburg.
"Not yet."
She returned to the shelf with the photos of the woman and studied them at length.
"Is she his sister?"
"No, she isn't." Father Giovanni opened one of the desk drawers, took out a business card and handed it to her.
"Brenda knows," he said. He blinked away sudden grief. "It's hard for her," he added protectively.
Brenda Sherwin is visibly pregnant—arched back and all. She is not a young mother-to-be and her eyes are red from crying. One hand rests on top of her swell of belly as if protecting the small being inside. Despite the tragedy, however, she is approachable, willing to engage in conversation, perhaps even needing to. And this gentle-looking, puffy-faced, yet elegantly dressed art gallery owner warmly takes Angie's arm and draws her into the entrance way of her lovely townhouse. Angie likes her but is still confused as to who she is in relation to Kevin.
"I appreciate your coming all the way down here on Connecticut Avenue. And please do call me Brenda." She leads Angie into a beautiful and comfortable living room (all vibrant shades of red and Turkish throw pillows). "You told me on the phone about encountering Kevin in Giovanni's office on campus. I said that he was quite taken with your medallion. What I want to say now is that afterwards, Kevin came h…home in a very agitated state about it."
The slight pause and the word 'home' establish many things; also, Angie thinks, Brenda's voice is one of a woman who wants to do right by a person she loves. She wonders about their formal relationship. Can—could—Brenda and Father Kevin be married? Maybe some priests, in some places, have a right to? Despite her not liking priests, she approves.
Her hostess eases herself onto the couch. "I can't...I can't go to Rome. Kevin's brother from Ireland will claim his body," she reveals forlornly.
Angie doesn't know how to respond to that. Brenda, indicating that she'd like her to sit in the nearby armchair, continues, "Kevin told me about something that had resurfaced again after many years. He was very worried that it might end up in the wrong hands. I'm not sure now if he meant the medallion or something connected with it. I had leg cramps that evening, very painful, and as Kevin was massaging them, he went on about 'a key' to something. Then he stayed up nearly all night reading and checking books—I remember seeing him at it on my trips to the bathroom. In the morning he phoned our friend Arjan, who is based in Holland at present. He's an expert in art archaeology and also in the art of Early Christianity. Arjan said that he is in contact with someone who lives in Northern Italy under a false name, someone who restores churches or something like that, who as a super-expert should be able to provide more information about this 'key.' Then they talked about the mithraic temples in Rome and Arjan even gave him some names and phone numbers of priests and guardians who could open them for him. I was present for the entire phone call."
Angie is a careful listener this afternoon. "Sorry," she says politely, "but what is 'the key'?"
"Key to interpretation."
"And the false name?"
"Honey, people can do that without being criminals. A desire for a completely new life. Happens all the time. People go to India, move to an island, volunteer to help build a church in the middle of a jungle. At least in my generation."
Because Brenda almost smiles, Angie is not prepared for the next thing she says.
"I don't know who would have wanted to harm Kevin, but being an exceptional man, he was a target for any wacko. He was born into a poor family in Ireland—so poor that they had to send him to a seminary not just to educate him but to be sure he got fed. In general Kevin was an excellent student, but over time, well, let's say that he began to think for himself— too independently for the highly conservative and traditional Ireland of back then. He got deeply interested in such non-orthodox subjects as the start of Christianity and its original doctrine. He even maintained that the Bible derived from the Veda, an ancient Indian text, and not from God and the prophets. And so two years ago the Church authorities sent him here to Washington. Where he wasn't so much in the limelight. Where certain questions get discussed. Not officially, but in any case in small, select circles…"
Her deep sigh signals how resistant she is despite everything. She is like a pane of glass with an immense crack running through a vital inner layer and yet still holding together.
"You said that Kevin was up all night with his books and that in the morning he phoned Holland. What about that afternoon?"
"He was with me. I had to go for an ultrasound and he came with me... I believe the thought of his child was always a comfort to him."
That the baby is Kevin's is official now.
"Then he took a little nap, after which we went and opened the art gallery together. After a few hours, he went home, but I still had things to do and stayed on. The next morning—at dawn—I drove him to the airport."
"So you're saying that he saw practically nobody."
"No, no-one. If you're wondering if he might have phoned someone when he was home alone and I was still at the gallery, I must say I doubt it…" She claps her knees. "Can I offer you something to drink?"
"No thanks."
"Well, a tour of the house, then. I know you want to see Kevin's study."
Everywhere Brenda touches curios, small sculptures, an odd bronze work, with the trained eye, heart, and mind of an art lover who can see and feel all. Angie is relieved to see that Kevin's home study, a small narrow blue room, looks lived-in.
"I don't really think there's anything here that can help us solve the mystery of Kevin's death," Brenda is saying. "There are no relevant notes—I've checked. And I also looked at the websites that Kevin opened that last night. Just stuff about history, much of it in ancient Greek." She opens a desk drawer and takes out an address book. "Here," she adds, flipping through the pages. "I will give you Arjan's number. Tell him you got it from me."
They walk back along the carpeted central hallway filled mostly with modern paintings.
"I keep searching for a reason," Brenda says.
"Have you talked with Father Giovanni about this? They were close, weren't they?"
"Very much so. He protected Kevin. His refusal to publish Kevin's last article might even have been a form of protection."
"Did any one hate Kevin's ideas—like some Theo-con extremist?"
"He never mentioned a specific threat to me. Of course, we belonged to an advocacy group pushing for allowing priests to marry, but our life was quiet and we practiced discretion. All religions the world over have become more rigid in their doctrine over the last few years, including Christianity. Kevin would joke that if they could, they would very willingly burn him at the stake. But this was just for my ears. He wasn't serious. " Quickly wiping her eyes with the back of both her hands, Brenda adds, "I'd like to give you, Angie, a copy of Kevin's article."
She scurries down the hall to Kevin's study and retrieves a brown envelope which she sticks in Angie's hands. A bit breathless from her hurrying, she asks, "What's your next move?"
The question puts Angie one step further away from the twenty-one-year-old Substitute Weather Girl she was two weeks ago. "First, I'm going to phone your friend Arjan."
"Of course. And then?"
"I'll let you know, Brenda."
On the bus across town to the garage where she's parked her car, she opens the envelope and reads snatches of Father Kevin's unpublished article.