Free Decatur by Patricia Lynch

Patrick’s school carnival.
    Father Weston let out a long low whistle after the agent stopped talking. “Can you give me a minute? I need to cancel an appointment.” Without waiting for a reply he punched the numbers on the beige desk phone for the country club and told the manager at the clubhouse that he was tell his group that Father Weston had been detained on parish business. Agent House’s lip curled, a golfing priest was not going to get any special treatment from him. Putting the phone down, Father Weston folded his hands together in front of the desk. A red flush crept up his neck and he could feel his blood pressure rising even as he struggled to remain calm. At that moment Father Troy, looking like a stand-in for Jesus Christ, came through the door, his long hair curly from the misting spring rain, with sandals on this feet and carrying a hoe. He was in a worn black frock smudged with dirt and some stray leaves.
    “Mrs. Napoli said you were talking to some FBI agents, Frank?” Father Troy rarely called Father Weston by his first name, sticking with “Father W” as most everyone did since the priest detested his first name.
    “There’s been two murders, Father Troy. Of the carnies who we hired on Springfield diocese’s recommendation for the spring fundraiser.” Father Weston grimaced as he spoke, trying to imagine explaining this to the congregation, hell with the archbishop.
    The younger priest staggered then, his hoe falling against the wall and knocking a picture of Pope John askew. “They’re dead?”
    Agent Colby suddenly felt terrible bringing raw news like this into a church office on a Tuesday morning. “We aren’t making any connection to the parish having anything to do with this. But you understand, we need to ask -- nothing happened that we should know about for our investigation? Any strangers around the carnival, anything unexpected….”
    “No. Nothing,” Father Troy spoke first, two little red blotches on his cheeks, “It was all very normal. No one strange. Nothing odd. God have mercy on their troubled souls.” He wiped his hands on his frock but his eyes seemed pained and sincere behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
    Father Weston blinked slowly, sucking his breath in, surprised by Father Troy’s quick thinking. Maybe he had underestimated the younger priest, this was good. He looked like a saint standing there and Father Weston could tell the agents were cautious and respectful of someone apparently so little used to the secular world.
    “Of course we want to help. Here’s the number of the diocese staff member who recommended Big Top. Maybe they would know something? We just knew them as hourly workers for a day, I’m afraid with everything going on we didn’t even talk much.” Father Weston thumbed through his rolodex quickly and wrote down the phone number on a scrap of paper. He knew better than to ask the agents to keep quiet about St. Patrick’s involvement, he was going to have to hope that someone in the Bishop’s office would handle that. No one from the Herald had called so the lid was on for now, at least.
    Father Troy nodded. “Father Weston’s right. They might know something. If you don’t mind I need to get back to the garden. I’ll be praying for you.”
    When he said the word garden, Father Weston knew. Father Troy wasn’t thinking about the scandal for St. Patrick’s, or even Little Rhonda Cleary, no, he had been so quick on the trigger because of Gar. Father Troy was taking no chances that some inquiries by the FBI would hasten the end to Gar’s parish sojourn. Oh, for multiplying fish, thought Father Weston, as he saw the two agents to the door.

CHAPTER TEN

Father Troy’s Project
    The living quarters of the parish were upstairs from the office and Gar was in the second floor kitchen doing dishes so he could without much effort keep an eye on the entire household. The Monsignor was already out like a light. Through Father’s Troy open door he