Free Ghost Image by Ellen Crosby Page A

a Franciscan named Paul the other night. He had been walking through the monastery when Kevin thought someone was following him in the cloisters. According to Kevin, Paul had heard nothing.
    He was back in less than a minute, accompanied by two knights of St. Sepulchre in white ice-cream suits. They split up, the knights heading toward the entrance to the lower garden and Paul Zarin returning to where I waited.
    â€œI want to thank you for finding our brother,” he said. “You’re free to go. We’ll take care of him. Our guardian will talk to the police if it’s necessary.”
    â€œTake care of Kevin?”
    â€œHe belongs to God now,” he said as the two knights disappeared down the ramp.
    â€œWhat are you talking about? What are they going to do?”
    â€œBring Kevin to the church to lay him to rest there. It’s what he would want. It’s where he should be.”
    I caught my breath. “You can’t move him. No one should touch anything in that grotto. Kevin could have fallen down the stairs, but he also could have been pushed. It could be a crime scene.”
    Paul Zarin’s head snapped back as if I had just uttered something that defiled this holy place. “That’s not possible. No one here would do such a thing.”
    â€œYou have visitors, people who come and go as they please. And Kevin was a controversial public figure, you know that. People heckled him at talks all the time. Maybe someone showed up today and went too far.”
    Paul Zarin gave me another dark look. “Or maybe nothinglike that happened and it was merely God’s plan to call Kevin home. Thank you again for finding our brother, but now I must ask you to leave. Please. Go in peace.”
    I folded my arms across my chest. “I’m not leaving. I can’t leave. I’m the one who found him. The police will want to question me.”
    I thought when he had taken out his phone he’d called his superior, a quick, discreet conversation with Father Xavier Navarro to let him know something was seriously wrong, that this was an emergency. Instead it seemed like he’d alerted the entire monastery. I heard male voices as about a dozen men in Franciscan habits and a few in street clothes ran toward us, some emerging from the church, but most coming from the friary.
    He pointed to the entrance to the lower garden and shouted to the others. “Down there. He’s in the Gethsemane Grotto with two of the knights. We must pray for him and then bring him to the church.”
    â€œAre you crazy?” I said. “You can’t send them down there. They’ll trample everything. They could destroy evidence before the police get a chance to search the area. Don’t do this. You need to get Father Xavier here right now.”
    â€œFather Xavier is on his way back to the monastery. He should be here any minute.” His clear gray eyes were cool and he pointed to my khaki trousers. “Did you fall or trip on something? That mud stain on your knee is fresh. You never told me what you are doing here or how you knew where to find Kevin.”
    It took a moment before I realized he was implying I had something to do with Kevin’s death. I said, stunned, “I didn’t know where to find him. And I came here to return something to him, plus Kevin asked me to take photos of the community garden. Ask the security guard at the residence. I checked with him when I got here.”
    But Paul Zarin had stopped listening. “Did you bring a friend?” he asked.
    â€œPardon?”
    He pointed over my shoulder. “Her.”
    Yasmin Gilberti, stylishly dressed in jeans, leather boots, and a Burberry rain jacket with a pashmina scarf knotted around her neck, walked toward us down the middle of the driveway. Her vivid red hair was even more startling against the grayness of the afternoon. Paul Zarin didn’t take his eyes off her.
    I had forgotten all about