She had three responsibilities: cook for the priests, supervise the maintenance staff, and, most important, function as Father Spinelli’s eyes and ears.
She was dusting the blinds in the rectory when she saw the black Cadillac Escalade pull up in front of the church. She hurried down the hallway to Father Spinelli’s office. She didn’t bother knocking.
“Father…,” she said, winded from the brief journey, “you got company.”
The priest took a quick look at his watch. “I have morning Mass in ten minutes. Who is it?”
“Eye-talian royalty,” Sweeney said. “Take a gander.”
She ushered Spinelli to a window, and the two of them watched as the driver of the Escalade got out and opened the rear door.
Joe Salvi stepped out. He was wearing a perfectly fitted dark gray double-breasted suit, white shirt, blue tie, and black wingtips.
“Will you just look at him now,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “All dressed up spiffy like John Gotti and riding around in one of them big black SUVs like Tony Soprano. Is he thinking maybe we don’t already know he’s in the Mafia business?”
The priest shook his head. “Mrs. Sweeney, ‘Thou shalt not go up and down as a dispenser of gossip and scandal among your people,’” he scolded. “Leviticus nineteen, verse sixteen.”
She clasped her hands over her cheeks in mock penitence. “Mob boss Joe Salvi indicted on federal racketeering charges—Daily News, page one.”
The priest chuckled. The old woman was incorrigible. But he’d be lost without her.
“It ain’t Christmas nor Easter,” she said, “so what in God’s name is he doing here?”
“Not your concern. The Salvis are our biggest benefactors, so kindly hustle your aging Irish arse to the kitchen and bring us a pot of fresh coffee. Oh, and ask Father Daniel to take the Mass for me.”
“Yes, Father,” she said, taking one last look out the window. “But you gotta wonder what he wants at this hour of the morning.”
“I have no idea,” the priest said.
“Sure as hell he ain’t here for confession,” she said, cackling as she hustled her aging Irish arse out the door.
Spinelli stifled a laugh. And good thing for me he ain’t. I wouldn’t have time to hear it all.
Three minutes later, Salvi stood outside Spinelli’s door. “Good morning, Father,” he said. “I was hoping to catch you before Mass.”
“Father Daniel is celebrating the Mass this morning, but if you’re attending, I’ll get my vestments.”
“I’m flattered, Father, but Teresa does enough praying for the two of us. I just came here to make a donation to the church. Ten thousand dollars.”
“Praise God,” Spinelli said. “And if I may ask, what is the occasion for such joyous tidings?”
“My son Enzo’s diary. It means the world to us,” Salvi said without a trace of joy in his voice. “I want to thank you for finding it and bringing a little piece of our boy back into our lives.”
“Joseph,” the priest said, “we’d be more than grateful to receive your gift, but I can’t accept it under false pretenses. As I told Teresa, one of our parishioners found the diary. She turned it over to me to pass on to you.”
Salvi nodded as if he’d just heard it for the first time. He took a checkbook from his breast pocket. “In that case, we’ll make it twenty thousand dollars, but I want the donation to be in her honor. Please tell me who she is so Teresa and I can send a note of gratitude.”
“I’m sure she’d welcome that,” Spinelli said. “Her name is Emma Frye. Let me go to my files, and I’ll get her address.”
Mrs. Sweeney entered, carrying a silver tray. “Good day to you, Mr. Salvi,” she said. “And how’s your lovely missus this morning?”
Salvi flashed his best benevolent community benefactor smile. “Wonderful. And you?”
He handed the priest a check, and Spinelli in turn handed him a three-by-five index card, which Salvi folded and tucked into his jacket pocket.
“I’m well. Thank you for asking,” Sweeney said. “I brought you both some hot coffee and fresh-baked scones.”
“I wish I had time,” Salvi said, “but I must run. Peace be with you, Father.”
“And with your spirit,” the priest replied.
Salvi nodded politely at Mrs. Sweeney as he brushed by her and left the room.
I guess you got whatever it was you came for, she thought. And ’tweren’t no fecking scones.
Chapter 47
When I first met Cheryl, I decided she was totally out of my league. She had a doctorate from Fordham University; I had a tin badge from the Police Academy. She was salsa; I was mayonnaise. And, of course, she was married to Fred Robinson, and I had a flat-out policy about not hitting on women whose first name was Mrs.