“What’s wrong with sleeping with a priest? Other than I’m not supposed to do that and neither is he.”
“Priests have power. Too much of it. You can’t go around sticking your fingers into light sockets and not expecting to get shocked. But be the Fool if you like. There’s a place for them in this world, too.” She held up another card—The Fool.
“You’re not going to make me leave the man I’ve loved my entire life. The only reason I came here was to make sure I didn’t need to be afraid of you. I can tell I don’t have to be, so I won’t be. Although if I were you, I’d stay away from my house from now on. We’re installing a security system.”
“I’ll stay away.”
Nora stood up though she didn’t want to. The shop felt as comfortable as a soft warm bed and leaving it just as hard. Mercedes stayed at her table, staring at the cards before her.
“Nora,” Mercedes said. Nora turned back. “Just so you know, I’m more scared of you than you are of me.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Okay, so Nora had been right. Going for a run with Søren? It was a trap.
The first mile was okay. Cyrus could do an eight-minute mile, no problem. He could do an eight-minute mile for a mile. Mile two got a little tougher. For Cyrus, that is. Søren kept on running, feet pounding the pavement like clockwork, breaths pumping steady and hard as a locomotive. But that couldn’t last, right? Not running eight-minute miles.
Mile three? Holy shit.
Cyrus actually said, “Holy shit!” out loud when the run stretched into mile four.
“You need to stop?” Søren asked.
“Two minutes.”
They jogged to a stop and stepped off the trail. It had been Søren’s suggestion they run the Mississippi River trail, something he’d been meaning to do. Cyrus had assumed they’d run a couple miles of it, maybe make a loop.
Seemed to him like Søren was intent on running all 60.8 miles of it. That morning.
“Are you all right?” Søren asked.
Cyrus glared at the man. They’d both shown up at the start of the trail wearing t-shirts. Cyrus paired his with his favorite Nike shorts, while Søren wore black running pants. Cyrus had stripped out of his t-shirt by the end of mile one. Søren was still wearing his. Cyrus was breathing hard, eyes burning from sweat. Søren wasn’t even winded.
“What did I ever do to you?” Cyrus asked.
Søren grinned. He pushed his black wraparound sunglasses up on his head. “It’s not personal.” A red-headed woman of about twenty, twenty-two jogged past them and glanced back over her shoulder to smile seductively at Søren.
“I hate you.” Here he was, doubled over trying not to puke from running four miles in thirty-two minutes, and this big blond Viking son of a bitch was over here getting eye-fucked by an Emma Stone clone.
“I’m fifty-one. Let me enjoy it. Shall we go again?”
“Hell no.”
“We can walk back.”
“Thank God.”
Cyrus stood up straight, took as much air into his lungs as he could manage, and set off back toward the parking lot.
“I have a long stride,” Søren said. “That’s why I can run a little faster than most men my age.”
“Yeah, tell me I’m short. That helps.”
“You aren’t short. I’m tall. There’s a difference.”
“Fuck off with all that. We’re done. I’m getting a new running buddy, and he’s gonna be short and fat, and I’m gonna pull him behind me in a wagon.”
“I can tell why Eleanor likes you so much. She approves of anyone who is comfortable telling me where to go.”
“Eight-minute mile for four miles? And you don’t even get a free t-shirt at the end? Nora’s right. You are a sadist.”
“Guilty as charged,” he said. “Though I promise, I’m getting no sexual pleasure from this run. Or…stroll.”
Cyrus shook his head. He swore to himself he would never—ever—go running with Søren again. He was also definitely not getting a wedding invite.
“What’s this about then? You trying to see if I’m tough enough to hang with Nora?”
“You’ve survived four whole days in her company and don’t seem any worse for the wear.”
“She does wear me out though. How do you sleep at night knowing your woman is that wild?”
“Helps to tie her ankle to the bedpost,” Søren said.
“No offense, but you’re kind of a weird priest. Ex-priest. Whatever.”
“There is no such thing as a normal priest. I would know.”
The morning was warming up fast. When they started running, it hadn’t quite been seventy yet. Now it was on its way to eighty, fast.
“I have to ask. You grounding Nora after last night? Keep her from playing detective with me?”
“I’ve tried grounding. Doesn’t work.” He shook his head, exasperated as the father of a rebellious teenager. “Honestly, I wanted to thank you for helping Eleanor on Bourbon Street last night.”
“Guess it was my fault she was there to start with.”
“Eleanor is wholly responsible for her own decisions. If she didn’t want to go with you, she wouldn’t have been there. I’m only glad you were there when she was being harassed.”
“No problem. I don’t let that shit happen around me if I can help it. That it?”
“I was also hoping you’d fill me in the case. It’s consuming Eleanor. That worries me.”
“I think she thinks because Ike called her, she’s responsible for figuring out why he killed himself. It’s more than just curiosity, I can tell you that much. She’s taking it as seriously as I am.”
“If Father Murran were still alive, I might kill him for dragging her into this. I can’t say I blame her. If someone had called me right before committing suicide, I would have trouble sleeping until I knew why.”
“It’s more than that. She keeps seeing you in this case. Like when we found Ike’s Bible full of private notes, she said you do that, too. She thinks he was kinky on the side and that somebody drove him to kill himself. I can tell she’s thinking that could happen to you, too, someday. That girl loves you, man. In case you didn’t know.”
“I know. But it never hurts to hear it again.” He smiled to himself. “Any breaks in the case?”
“Right now, I’m running on the theory Ike was being blackmailed, only because it makes sense, not because it fits the evidence. Nothing fits the evidence except he had a secret something weighing on him, and he died keeping it.” Cyrus rubbed fresh sweat off his forehead again. “I’m thinking of going to Dunn and talking to him. He seems pretty convinced Ike was depressed. And they’re old friends.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you. Archbishop Dunn is more a politician than a pastor these days. He’ll simply hint that he knows more than he can say about Father Murran’s mental state, and he’ll pat you on the head and send you home.”
“You don’t trust him?”