The honeymoon homicide, p.1
The Honeymoon Homicide, page 1
The Honeymoon Homicide
The Mercy and Justice Mysteries, Book 1
By
J. R. Mathis and Susan Mathis
Also by J. R. Mathis
The Father Tom Mysteries
The Penitent Priest
The Framed Father
The Redemptive Return
The Buried Bride
The Defining Decision
The Silent Shooter
The Purloined Paintings
The Slain Saint
The Perfect Patsy
The Haunted Heritage
The Fatal Fall
The Father's Family
The Father Tom Mysteries Boxsets
The Reluctant Rector: The Father Tom Mysteries Books 1-3
The Father Tom Mysteries: Books 4-6
The Father Tom Mysteries: Books 7-9
The Mercy and Justice Mysteries
The Honeymoon Homicide (Coming Soon)
The Maligned Marine (Coming Soon)
The Sister's Secret (Coming Soon)
The Cardinal's Conscience (Coming Soon)
The Conned Cougar (Coming Soon)
The Chief's Choice (Coming Soon)
Watch for more at J. R. Mathis’s site.
Also by Susan Mathis
The Father Tom Mysteries
The Penitent Priest
The Framed Father
The Redemptive Return
The Buried Bride
The Defining Decision
The Silent Shooter
The Purloined Paintings
The Slain Saint
The Perfect Patsy
The Haunted Heritage
The Fatal Fall
The Father's Family
The Father Tom Mysteries Boxsets
The Reluctant Rector: The Father Tom Mysteries Books 1-3
The Father Tom Mysteries: Books 4-6
The Father Tom Mysteries: Books 7-9
The Mercy and Justice Mysteries
The Honeymoon Homicide (Coming Soon)
The Maligned Marine (Coming Soon)
The Sister's Secret (Coming Soon)
The Cardinal's Conscience (Coming Soon)
The Conned Cougar (Coming Soon)
The Chief's Choice (Coming Soon)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Also By J. R. Mathis
Also By Susan Mathis
The Honeymoon Homicide (The Mercy and Justice Mysteries, #1)
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Preview of The Maligned Marine
Also By J. R. Mathis
Also By Susan Mathis
About the Author
Mercy and Justice Mysteries, 2022
Copyright © 2022 by James R. Mathis and Susan S. Mathis
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Printing, February 2022
Contact: mercyandjusticemysteries@gmail.com
Cover Photo: Depositphotos
Cover: Millie Godwin
Editor: Anna Palmer Darkes
One
Tom
“TOM, WAKE UP!”
Helen’s voice cuts through my foggy brain like a searchlight.
A very loud searchlight.
“Stop yelling!” I demand, pulling my pillow over my head. “And for heaven’s sake, stop banging on the walls!”
“I am not yelling, I am whispering, and I am not banging on the walls, someone is banging on our door.”
Our door. We have a mutual door now. If my head didn’t hurt so badly, this would make me smile, but it does not.
“Tell them to go away,” I groan from under the pillow.
“I can’t do that,” she hisses. “I’m not dressed.”
“Neither am I.”
“Yes, but you're the man and you're supposed to protect me.”
I poke my head out from under the pillow. “By checking a door?”
“Yes.”
“Of a stateroom on a cruise ship?”
“Yes—Oh, damn!” she exclaims.
“You really have given up trying to give up cursing,” I say, rubbing my head.
“Tom,” she says, “we’re not supposed to be here!”
Helen rolls over to look at the clock as I grab my robe and rush toward the door. “What time?” I call back over my shoulder.
“9:30 a.m.”
“Oh, no! We were supposed to be off the ship a half hour ago!” I whisper back in the false hope that my head will not explode.
I reach the door and open it slightly to see a very determined-looking steward standing outside.
“Mr. Greer,” he says without preamble, “you and your wife have exactly 30 minutes to disembark or I will have to report you to the authorities.”
“No, no,” I insist. “That won’t be necessary. We just overslept.”
“Yes,” he says. “I’m not surprised.” He then leaves before I can say anything else.
By the time I turn around, Helen has her robe on and is flinging clothing into an overnight bag. I grab a shirt from her hands and put it on while I begin walking around looking for my pants. I don’t see them right away but finally find them under a chair.
“Helen,” I ask, “what did we do last night?”
“Hell if I know,” she says, grabbing a sweater, sniffing it, and then slipping it on. She’s now on her hands and knees looking under the bed, from where she pulls a number of garments, including a pair of black slacks. “I think we ordered some champagne.”
“Yes, I do remember finishing a bottle.” I’m in the bathroom now, sweeping our toiletries across the counter into Helen’s substantial make-up case. “But really, that shouldn’t have been such a big deal.”
“It wouldn’t have been,” she says, brushing her raven hair quickly, “if we hadn’t ordered a second bottle.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?” I ask, picking up our bags and heading for the door while she grabs our coats from the closet.
She joins me, stopping to pick up the bill slid under our door. Glancing at it she says, “Apparently, we ordered a third bottle of champagne and various snacks, including escargot and cheese puffs.”
“That would be you,” I say.
“As well as chocolate mousse, chocolate cake, and a tray of chocolate petits fours.”
I suppose that explains why my stomach feels nearly as bad as my head.
“Well,” I say, yanking the door open, “all that matters is that we get off this ship before we are arrested and tomorrow's headline reads, ‘Newly married priest and wife arrested after a night of drunken debauchery.’”
“You know what the real shame is?” she says, slipping on her sunglasses against the winter glare and giving me a kiss.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t remember the debauchery.”
THE GOOD THING ABOUT running late is that the nice people from the cruise line are more than happy to expedite our way off the ship.
They are even nicer when Helen and I both tip them generously.
Once we are in the port, though, we are on our own. I realize for the first time how much luggage Helen actually brought on our honeymoon. The thing is, everything that stands out in my mind was pretty flimsy, so I don’t really know . . .
We get to the port lounge. I learn the shuttle for our hotel just left, so we have about an hour to wait. This suits us fine, since we are both anxious to catch our breaths.
As soon as I sit down, I reflexively pull my phone from my pocket. Before I can turn it on, though, Helen says with a smile that grows dearer to me each day, “Oh, no, you don’t, Tom. We agreed, no phones on our honeymoon.”
I grin back as I put it away. Since my hands are now free, I slip my arm around her and we turn our eyes to the local station playing on the muted TV. There’s nothing much to see and we begin talking, whispering quietly about our first week of married life, when something on the screen catches my eye.
The chyron reads, “Man found dead near St. Clare's Catholic Church in Myerton.”
“Helen,” I say, pointing to the set as none other than Gladys Finkelstein comes on screen. I look around quickly and find the remote just in time to hear her say “withheld pending family notification.”
“What the hell?” Helen whispers. Digging through her tote bag, she says, “Where’s Dan? Why was Gladys on there? What’s going on?”
“I’m sure everything is fine, Helen,” I say, not really believing it myself.
“No,” she says as she pulls out her phone. “Something
She’s calling Dan Conway, her Chief Detective and the man she left in charge while we were gone. There’s no one else in the room so she puts her phone on speaker as I hear, “Daniel Boone Conway’s phone. Catherine Elizabeth Conway speaking. Who may I say is calling?”
Apparently, her mother Miriam has been working with 7-year-old Catherine on her phone manners. “Hi, Catherine,” Helen says calmly, “it's Miss Helen. Why are you answering Daddy’s phone?”
“Because he fell and broke his leg and he won’t rest, and so Mommy had to take it away from him so she could have a few moments’ peace. Then Helen Joan threw up on her so she had to go change shirts.”
“I see. Well, can I speak to your Daddy, please?”
“Sure,” she says before we hear her running down the hall yelling, “Daadddy! Miss Helen’s on the phone.” I hear grumbling before Dan says brightly, “Helen, I didn’t expect to hear from you. Is everything OK?”
“With us, yes. With you and the rest of the department, not so much. What the hell is going on?”
“Now calm down, Helen, I can explain. I’m just running a little late. That's the only reason I’m still at home.”
“Oh, so it doesn’t have anything to do with your broken leg?”
There’s a pause on the other end. “Who told you about that?” Dan finally says quickly. “We all agreed that you didn’t need to know anything until you got home.”
“Your little secretary told me, and I learned about the murder from Gladys.”
As always, I am impressed with Helen’s ability to get the truth without quite telling a lie.
“Gladys? Why did she call you? I mean, I have everything under control. I’ve got calls out all over the state to get a temporary chief in. It's just that a lot of guys are still out of town for the holidays.”
“And until then, Gladys is in charge?” Helen asks incredulously.
“She and Hallstead. They’re going to work together and run everything past me before they do anything.”
“Like talk to the press?”
“Well, Helen, someone had to do it, and Gladys is the ranking person in the office after us.”
“No, Dan. Gladys is a civilian with no police training.”
“You're kidding? You mean she lied to me? She said that she took a crash course in police procedure online last year and made a perfect score.”
“She did, because she’s a genius. But she is not suited to leadership.” Helen pauses. Dan, being as familiar with this tactic as I am, volunteers nothing. Finally, she says, “I’ll text you in a few minutes.”
She hangs up and calls Gladys. “Mom,” she says in a voice faster and higher-pitched than usual, “before you say anything, there is no need for you to come home. We have everything under control.”
“I just got off the phone with Dan,” Helen says calmly. “What I want to know from you is why you still haven’t notified the family?”
“I’ve tried, Mom. I got his file from Anna, but the only next of kin listed is his wife, and she's not answering her phone.”
“I see,” Helen says. “Well, just keep trying. I’ll get back with you.”
I’m already dialing my phone when Helen finishes. Anna answers tersely, “Tom, you’re supposed to be on your honeymoon. Why in the world are you calling me?”
“Helen and I just learned what happened and I wanted to know if there is anything I can do.”
Anna sighs at this and says, “We all agreed to keep this from you two. As Dan pointed out, he was probably mugged because he had the offering bag with him, though why he did, I’ll never know. I always take care of that.”
I feel panic well up in my throat as I ask, “Who had the offering bag with him?”
“Deacon Roderick. That’s what we think they killed him for.”
“Wait, Deacon Roderick’s been murdered?”
“Yes, who did you think I was talking about?”
Helen takes the phone as I slump down. Speaking to Anna firmly, she says, “Anna, Tom and I will be home in a few hours. I would really appreciate it if you'd turn on the heat in the Rectory.”
“Where?” Anna asks, seeming startled.
“The Rectory. Tom’s home, and mine now, too. Could you please have someone stop by and turn on the heat?”
“Umm. I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because the heat is out,” Anna says quickly. “There was a problem with the flue last night and the fire department had to seal it off. No one is allowed in there until the carbon monoxide dissipates, and then they’ll have to send someone in to repair it, and then the inspector will have to come out and certify that it is habitable. I told them to not rush, since you two weren’t supposed to be back until a week from today.”
There’s something funny about the way she says this. It’s almost like she’s trying to figure it out herself. But I’m too upset to give it much thought.
Deacon Derek Roderick, well-loved servant of God and one of the kindest, gentlest men I have ever met, is dead. As soon as Helen is off the phone, we both cross ourselves and pray for the happy repose of his soul.
Then we pick up our phones again, and start making plans to find the one who killed his body.
Two
Helen
“TOM,” I SAY, “WOULD you please stop pressing the floorboard with your foot. I’m not going that fast.”
Instead of taking a shuttle to our hotel, we canceled the room—receiving a credit because, as the hotel receptionist pointed out, “Mrs. Greer, you’re canceling the day of your check-in”—and took an Uber to Baltimore-Washington International Airport to rent a car.
The day after New Year’s, the pickings were slim. We had to take what was left.
Much to Tom’s chagrin.
“I just can’t believe this is the only car they had,” he says, a tinge of panic in his voice.
“Well, it was,” I reply, keeping my eyes fixed on the highway in front of me. “Think about it. No one wants to rent a Mustang convertible in Maryland to drive in early January.”
“I know. But honey, just because you can go fast doesn’t mean you have to.”
“In this case, Tom, it sorta does. I mean, we need to get home to our people, right?”
Our people. When did they become that to me? Obviously, there was a moment, some point in time when I stopped thinking of the people of Saint Clare’s parish in Myerton as just fellow Catholics and citizens and started thinking of them as my people, as my extended family. I suppose it began when Tom and I learned we could marry and he could remain a priest.
“Your people shall be my people, and your God my God.” Ruth’s words to Naomi—words not of love between a man and a woman, but the commitment to care for someone, to love someone, and all those they loved or even just encountered—ring in my ears.
Well, someone has killed one of our people and I am determined to find out who did it and bring them to justice.
“Helen,” Tom says, drawing me away from my reverie, “we need to go to Mass.”
“Oh, you're right,” I say. “With everything going on, I totally forgot.”
While we were on our honeymoon, Tom said a private Mass each day for just the two of us. In fact, he used the time to practice celebrating in the Extraordinary Form, the Latin Mass of the Roman Rite of the Church for over 400 years. He’s had several members of the Blessed Carlo Acutis Gaming Society approach him about adding it to St. Clare’s Mass schedule, but he has to master it first.
My first thought is that he could celebrate the Mass for us tonight. But as soon as we cross into Myerton, we’re going to be inundated with distractions, so I begin to slow down and look around where we are. That’s when it hits me.
“Tom,” I say, “There’s a church not far off the interstate near Frederick that has an 11:00 a.m. Mass on Sundays. I believe we can make it if I speed up a little.”
I catch his look out of the corner of my eye as he says under his breath, “Remember, Oh Lord, should I meet thee soon, it was because I was trying to get to Mass.” Then I hear him mumbling something.
“What are you doing?”
“Hearing my own confession,” he replies matter-of-factly.
“You know you can’t do that.”
“I might be able to in extremis, which this certainly is.”
I reach out to slap him lightly with my right hand when he yells, “Ten and two, Helen! Ten and two!”
