Life Without Shoes: The First Father Ambrose Mystery by Emma Cyrus

Author:Emma Cyrus [Cyrus, Emma]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2017-11-28T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

John Redmond

Thursday morning, Father Ambrose was in his office having his usual cup of tea before meditation. That early, sounds coming through his open window were almost always quietly natural—bird calls, the breeze in the big pines at the edge of the parking lot.

Today, something was definitely amiss. It sounded like voices shouting, coming from the direction of the front gate. He grabbed his baseball cap from the windowsill and hustled downstairs, pulling on his sandals quickly and jumping in the station wagon out front.

He stopped on the side of the drive just inside the locked gate. There were about fifteen people waving signs and arguing with the deputy who was just coming off his overnight shift. When the group saw Ambrose, their volume increased, and a heavyset man stormed forward and started rattling the lock and gates.

“Let us in! We have a right. This is a through road to Lynnfield. It has to stay open. We have to talk to you people. You can’t just have a murder up here and expect to get away with it. We want justice for that girl,” he yelled.

The deputy was talking on his radio with a wary look on his face.

As Ambrose walked toward the gate, the demonstrators began waving their signs wildly: “Justice for Thea,” “Murderers!” and “Get Out of San Miguel” were the general sentiment.

Do I dare try and talk sense? Is it worth it? But I have to try—what do I have to lose? Ambrose said to himself. He came right up to the wrought-iron gates secured by a sturdy padlock. The big man was strong, and he was roaring and throwing his weight against the barrier.

“Please stop,” Ambrose said with a clear, strong voice. “You’ll break them or hurt yourself. We can talk right now. Just ask your friends to simmer down a little, so we can hear ourselves think.”

Ambrose’s reasonable manner seemed to pour gas on the flames. The shouting intensified, and the big man grabbed the bars on either side of the padlock and wrenched them back and forth. It was a hefty lock, the kind that required bolt cutters, but he looked like he was going to tear it apart with his bare hands. His face was bright red and his arm muscles strained with the effort.

“We want in!” he shouted in Ambrose’s face. “We want to talk to the guy in charge. We want you to send out the murdering bastard who killed that girl. We’ll show you justice then.”

“I’m the guy in charge,” Ambrose said simply.

That seemed to slow down the guy’s attack while he figured out how to answer. “Yeah, well, where’s the guy who killed her? Hiding him? Or did you all join in, like some Satan dance?”

“We didn’t kill anyone. Her body was dumped here. We’re as interested in seeing justice done as you are.” Ambrose’s voice stayed deep and calm.

The deputy came up behind the large man. His name badge was visible to Ambrose—“Simms.”

“Mr. Franks, can I ask you to let go of the gates here.

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