Time and Again(35)

Henry opened the door and held it for a tiny blue-haired woman, who was leaving with a small painting carefully wrapped in brown paper. She smiled and thanked him. Her driver hopped out of the waiting black sedan, apologizing profusely for not having noticed she was coming out. There was a young couple admiring a sculpture in the corner. The rest of the gallery was empty, save for a gentleman behind a petite desk. The man, speaking with a thick French accent, was on the phone. He made brief eye contact with Henry, then returned to his conversation. Henry assumed that he had been sized up as a window shopper, which was true, so he didn't take offense.

Ten minutes passed. The couple had left, and the gentleman, who Henry assumed was Pierre Matisse, the owner, was still talking, though he was now speaking only French. A large man walked in, and Pierre hung up the phone and greeted him. "Monsieur Garneau, so good to see you again. Twice in one week, it is an honor."

They shook hands. "Yes my friend, I saw a couple of items which are not to my particular liking, but would be wonderful gifts. The people I am buying for, well, their tastes are a bit...how should I say...unrefined."

Pierre swallowed hard at the slight. "Of course, though we have many fine works, your tastes run to only the finest object d'art. I am expecting a Klimt next week though, which you might find suitable to your taste. I was just speaking with the seller when you walked in."

"Really? That would interest me. Do call me when it is available for a viewing."

Pierre nodded politely.

"I noticed the miniature Toulouse-Lautrec the other day. I think I would like it, along with the Rodin sculpture of Balzac."

Henry couldn't believe his ears. It had to be Andre Garneau, and now Henry knew what he looked like, but he wouldn't be able to get a word in with the owner, so he slipped out of the gallery and decided to head over to see Father Patrick.

Outside, across the street, the three guys stood smoking. If they hadn't been in front of a flower shop, they might have blended in, but the bright pink store front did little to help them look incognito. Henry didn't even glance in their direction; he wasn't ready to let it be known that he was onto them. He even crossed the street to be on the same side and to make it a bit easier for them.

Henry walked for about three blocks, then began to imagine a figure, maybe more, sitting in a car, smoking, waiting for his friend. Now, he was angry. He hailed a cab, hopped in, and told the cabbie to step on it. The three shadows were caught off guard. Before they could get their own cab, Henry was out of sight.

Henry tipped him an extra fiver for the quick footedness, and got out at the steps of the church. He walked inside and asked to see Father Patrick. An altar boy shuffled off to find him. Henry sat in the back. He didn't go to church often, and wasn't very religious. He considered saying a prayer, but he was still mad. Too mad to talk to God, so he just sat and watched the two people at the front lighting candles.





Chapter Thirty



The altar boy returned. "Father Patrick is with someone. He will be available in thirty minutes. Do you mind waiting?"

"I don't mind." Henry didn't mind at all. Being followed, and followed so clumsily, offended him. The calm of the church and the solace it might bring was much needed…time to cool off.

There was the faint sound of a choir practicing, though he couldn’t tell from where. No doubt in a room behind a door, but the beauty of their sound reached him and it was nice. The hint of music soothed his frayed edges. There were whispers accompanying soft footsteps. The sound of muted reverence steadied his uneasiness further. Henry was glad he came in to make the arrangements.

The minutes passed by and soon Henry was being led towards the priest’s modest office. Father Patrick greeted him warmly and offered a cup of tea. Henry declined and took a seat. The office was sparsely decorated, which is to say, it was almost completely barren of personal items. The Bible, sitting open on a small table, had a suspicious, though barely perceivable, layer of dust on it. Clearly this holy book was not regularly used.

The wall had but one painting. Likely painted by a young parishioner, the scene of the Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus was competently rendered. The desk lamp seemed lonely, with nothing to illuminate. The priest removed a small black appointment book from the drawer. It had a gold cross on it.

The details for the funeral were straight forward. Henry’s calm was slipping away. The suspicions about Father Patrick returned. Henry guessed it had been the priest watching him at the restaurant. The office, which the father said he had been using for years, had an unsettling feel. It was too temporary. It occurred to Henry that if he had known Latin, he might test the padre’s knowledge of the Scripture, but then he would also needed to have read the Bible, so it probably wouldn’t have worked. Still, the man before him did seem to know how to make arrangements for the funeral. Perhaps Henry was being paranoid.