I let her walk a few paces before following. She leads me back through the nave, to a small office beside the foyer.
“If we decide not to get married here, would you send her baptismal records over to Father Kennedy? I’ll give you his email address.”
“Oh, we don’t keep electronic records,” Vicky says. “But I can always fax the certificate through to him.”
I take my phone out, put down her details as a new contact even though the certificate is useless to me. I need the record the parish keeps where they note the parents’ names and, usually, an address. It’s a long shot, but right now it’s all we have.
She motions to a chair, and we sit in stuffy silence as she opens a big ledger and makes a note of the impending wedding in three weeks.
“Where were you baptized?” she asks, peering at me over her glasses.
Some things you don’t lie about. “I wasn’t.”
The temperature inside the room drops a few degrees.
“Do you have any of the documents with you?”
The sudden chill in the air spreads right to my lungs. “Documents? Like my social security number?” I reach for my wallet, but she shakes her head.
Ticking off on her fingers, she starts up, “I need your Freedom to Marry letter, your dispensation form, your civil marriage license, and the information for marriage form.”
Christ.
I almost cross myself again hearing that list.
“Guess I have another wedding planner to fire,” I murmur, as if to myself. “Is there still time for me to get those, or do we have to postpone? I hope not. I’ve already lost the deposit on a cake because the previous planner had the dates wrong. And don’t even get me started on the flowers. Did you know that, apparently, peonies are only beautiful if they haven’t opened all the way?”
I’m not an actor like Cass. Hell, even Apollo could have done a better job convincing this woman that I’m a groom in a pickle. But I got the gig because any sister of the cloth would be too shocked Cass didn’t catch flame when he walked into the chapel to deal with him, and Apollo…well…he gets distracted sometimes.
Also, I had sisters. Which apparently makes me the closest thing to a wedding expert we have.
Thankfully some of my frustration comes through because, even though I’m not Catholic, Vicky softens a little to my plight. “No dear. If you go down to the courthouse today, you should have everything you need in a week or so.”
“Can you…” I stop for a second, make it look like I’m calming myself. “Can you please just check if you do have Trinity’s records? With my luck, I’ve come to the wrong church.”
“Oh, you’re in the right place,” Vicky says, mothering mode now fully engaged. “But it’s a good thing you ask, because some of our records were destroyed in a fire a few months ago.”
And there it is. That’s why she was so uneasy seeing a stranger in the chapel. There’s a shadow in Vicky’s eyes that wasn’t there before.
She goes over to a metal filing cabinet and opens it, her back to me. “What is her date of birth?”
I check on my phone, give it to Vicky.
I’ll be pushing it if I ask, but it’s burning me up. No pun intended. “A fire?”
At first I don’t think she’s going to answer, but then she lets out a sigh and closes the cabinet. I already have my suspicions before she starts talking, and when she’s done, they’re confirmed.
“Terrible thing,” she murmurs. I can’t help but notice she’s empty-handed as she adjusts her glasses and takes a seat. “The police ruled it as a botched robbery or something.” Vicky purses her lips. “Father Quinn was here that night. He often stayed late. Said he liked the quiet in the chapel. He lived close to the railway tracks, so I understand why.”
“Father Quinn?” I say. “Trinity never mentioned him.” The next almost sticks in my throat, but I force out the words as smoothly as I can. “She only ever spoke about Father Gabriel.”
Vicky lights up like a billboard. “Oh, Gabriel.” She nods a few times, a smile deeply etched on her face now. “Yes, they were close. He loved the Malones.” The smile fades a little. “But no, he’d left years before that. Father Quinn took over the flock from him. Good man, if a little…studious.”
An introverted priest? Downright unnatural.
“So Father Quinn was here when they broke in?” I nudge her, seeing as she’s no doubt still daydreaming about Gabriel. I get it, the guy’s good looking. But if she knew a shred of what his rotten heart was capable of, she’d be shitting herself right now.
“Yes.” She drops her gaze, takes off her glasses. “They came in, shot him, searched the place, and then…” She shrugs. “They said it wasn’t arson. The police. Said a candle had fallen on some papers. But this isn’t the eighteenth century.” She laughs a little, but it’s sad and hollow. “It’s not like Father Quinn sat here reading by candlelight.”
I let a little silence pass. But I have to be on my way, because her empty hands mean I was right.
“So…those records?”
She looks up and blinks like she forgot I was sitting here. “Oh. Sorry. No.” Shakes her head. “They must have been—”
“Destroyed.” I cut in. “In the fire.” I rub my eyelids as I let out a heavy sigh that’s not nearly as much acting as it should be.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I know Trinity. We can recreate the records. Most of the congregation still lives around these parts. Miss Langley was there. I know that for a fact. She comes to all the baptisms and first communions.”
“Miss Langley,” I reply, nestling that bit of information in my head. I’m not exactly planning on canvassing the town, but who knows what a name could—
“She babysat for Trinity,” Vicky says, beaming as she gets lost in a past that I’m guessing was much more bearable than the present. “Not often, of course. Just when her parents went out of town.”
My hackles rise up like a motherfucking rebellion.
“Out of town?”
“Oh, Trinity didn’t tell you?” Vicky cocks her head a little.
“She…doesn’t talk about them very much.” And thank fuck I can even think clearly at all with how my mind is scrambling.
“Yes, of course.” Vicky’s brow creases. “Terrible thing, that.”
A lot of terrible things happen around these parts. If I didn’t know any better, I’d tell her to go looking for the Indian burial ground this town was built on.
I mentally plead with Vicky to carry on talking.
For once, the Universe is on my side.
“Her father was a missionary,” Vicky says. “Her mother went on one or two missions with him, but then she stayed at home after that. The missionary life isn’t for everyone.”
Oh no, it most definitely isn’t.
“And Miss Langley sat for them?”
“She did. If I can get another two or three witnesses, then I can have those records ready by next week.” Vicky looks proud of herself, and I almost feel sorry that her hard work will be for naught.