Murder on Memory Lake by J.D. Griffo

Author:J.D. Griffo
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2018-05-16T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 14

A cane scottato l’acqua fredda pare calda.

A few hours later, Sister Helen returned home after an emotionally draining day at work.

“I need a drink,” Helen announced, “And make it a strong one.”

“How about some mango-flavored vodka?” Joyce suggested.

“I need something stronger,” Helen said. “Make it apple.”

“How is apple stronger than mango?” Alberta asked.

“Don’t question me, Berta!” Helen shrieked. “I just had a visit with the ghost of my religious past, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience.”

Jinx poured Helen a healthy glass of apple-flavored vodka and placed it on the table in front of her. “I’m sorry you had to come face-to-face with the life you left behind, Aunt Helen, but it was the only way to find out the truth. Tell us what happened and don’t leave out any details.”

Helen took a swig of her vodka and let the apple-infused warmth linger in her mouth before swallowing. Once she felt the burn start to spread out to the rest of her body, she was ready to tell her story.

When she sat across from Father Sal in his office, Helen was reminded of everything she disliked about the Catholic Church. While she had devoted her life to near-poverty and charitable service, this priest was sitting, quite literally, in the lap of luxury. As a realist, Helen understood that helping the unfortunate while living like Mother Teresa in the bowels of Calcutta was hardly practical or, in her estimation, necessary to teach God’s word. However, she also didn’t think it should be preached from an ergonomic, Italian leather, fully reclinable chair with three-speed massage control. From the soft buzzing sound that had filled the spacious office, Helen surmised that Sal had the setting on low.

A terribly graphic Italian phrase had popped into her head: A cane scottato l’acqua fredda pare calda. Roughly translated into English, it meant “A burnt child dreads the fire.” It also meant that the burnt-out former nun dreaded revisiting the rectory, and a shiver went down Helen’s spine as she felt the first sparks lick at her feet. She didn’t want to be in this impeccably decorated office, sitting opposite this impeccably decorated priest, but she didn’t want to disappoint her niece. And although she would never admit it out loud, she didn’t want to disappoint her sister or sister-in-law either. As a modern-day spinster and, most undeniably, an Italian woman, family was vitally important to Helen. So instead of running from the impending inferno, she fanned its flames.

“If I remember correctly, this is your favorite,” she said, placing a bottle of Chardonnay on top of the mahogany desk. “I didn’t have room for glasses in my pocketbook, but I believe you keep some in the lower left-hand drawer of your desk for special occasions.”

“You remember correctly,” Father Sal replied, opening the drawer. He placed two small, gold-rimmed tumblers onto his desk, and then produced a bottle opener. After he uncorked the bottle of wine, he declared, “I guess this can be considered a special occasion.”

As Helen sipped her wine, she watched Sal pour his second glass.

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