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  “Lynette’s about finished. When she’s done, we’ll go over to the library where we can talk in private,” Mr. Santiago informed him.

  “We reserved a room for our social club,” Mrs. Martin added.

  “Great.” He moved his computer bag aside and took his seat. “Don’t hurry, Lynette. Enjoy your meal. Maybe someone can fill me in on your social club in the meantime? Just give me some basic background.”

  “Sure. Julia, you’re the secretary. You want to do it?” Mr. Santiago asked deferentially.

  “Okay. We all went to the same church before we moved in here—Saint Lazarus’s Shrine in Key West. We were part of a study group there under Father Rafael. Now, we’re more of a book club or a social club. We pray together, and we sometimes organize a service project or support a charity. The first Sunday of the month, after Father Rafael’s weekly service here, we get together with him.”

  Mrs. Martin explained confidently, but Bodhi caught her sneaking a peek at Lynette, as if for approval.

  “And the others—the deceased, they were also all Catholic?” he asked.

  “No. Not José,” Mr. Santiago quickly corrected him.

  “Right. José Gonzales,” Bodhi amended. “Was he a member of the Golden Island Church, then?”

  Lynette did a spit take, shooting a spray of mineral water onto the tablecloth.

  “Sorry,” she choked. “No. José was most definitely not a member of Golden Island.”

  Mr. Santiago shook his head at her reaction. Bodhi make a mental note to follow up on Mr. Gonzales’s beliefs then turned back to Mrs. Martin.

  “But Mr. Garcia, Ms. Morales, Mrs. Ruiz, and Mr. Caldron were all Roman Catholics, right?”

  “Yes,” she confirmed.

  “And had they all been parishioners at Saint Sebastian’s?”

  “Yes. Well, Ms. Morales was more of a Christmas and Easter Catholic than a regular churchgoer—until she and Carlos got together,” Mrs. Martin elaborated.

  “And were they all members of your study group back then?”

  “Again, everyone except Esmerelda. She started dating Carlos when she moved in here. And he started bringing her along to our little meetings. Most of us didn’t mind,” Lynette said, giving Julia Martin a side-eye.

  “She didn’t care about religion. She just wanted someone to warm her bed,” Mrs. Martin retorted.

  Mr. Santiago cleared his throat. “If you’re done eating, Lyn, we should move this party to the library.”

  Lynette pushed her bowl away and picked up her water bottle. “Let’s go. We need to do this before Hector’s nap time.”

  Mrs. Martin tittered.

  “I just need to rest for twenty minutes before lunch. You’d think I asked for a nap mat and a back rub, for crying out loud.”

  “He’s not sleeping,” Mrs. Martin confided to Bodhi as their little group wound through the tables to the exit. “He stays up all night so nothing—or nobody—can kill him in his sleep.”

  As soon as they entered the private room tucked into the far end of the library, Lynette closed the door and locked it. The atmosphere instantly crackled with secrecy and excitement.

  Bodhi observed quietly as Hector Santiago drew the blinds across the large rectangular window that overlooked a garden with a water feature. Mrs. Martin opened a set of cabinets along the wall near the door and took out an MP3 player and a portable speaker. She set them up, and mambo music filled the air.

  “We usually play religious music, but we’ve found the horns cover voices well. In case anyone’s eavesdropping,” Lynette told him.

  Bodhi lowered himself into a chair. He knew he wore a bemused expression, but it seemed appropriate.

  “So … what kind of social club is this, exactly?” he asked.

  Lynette cackled. Soon Mr. Santiago and Mrs. Martin joined in.

  When their laughter died down, Lynette looked him squarely in the eye and said, “Here’s the deal. We need your help. So we’re going to let you in on a little secret. But it’s not for public consumption.”

  He considered this. “I may have to tell Detective Williams—and possibly Dr. Ashland.”

  Lynette nodded. “We figured as much. We’d just ask that they keep it confidential unless and until it becomes material to a homicide investigation.”

  Mr. Santiago chuckled. “There she goes being all lawyerly.”

  “That’s fair. What about Ms. Clarkson? Can I share what you tell me with her?”

  A look traveled among the three residents.

  Mr. Santiago shook his head. “Now don’t get the wrong impression, we like Cleo. She’s a good kid. A great kid. But in this instance, she’s working for The Man. The Establishment.”

  “She really is a lovely person,” Mrs. Martin added.

  “And it’s not that we don’t trust her. We just can’t put her in the situation this knowledge would put her in. It wouldn’t be fair,” Lynette explained.

  Bodhi had always thought he had no interest in gossip, secrets, or clandestine affairs. But he would have agreed to just about any terms to find out what these three were keeping under wraps in an unassuming library meeting room.

  “Okay. I won’t tell her anything.”

  “Good. We are a little Roman Catholic social club,” Lynette said.

  “Okay.”

  “But we’re also practitioners of Santería.”

  Bodhi didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that.

  “You are?”

  “Yes. And so were Carlos, Esmerelda, and Juan Caldron, and Lucinda Ruiz.”

  All of the dead had practiced Santería.

  “But not Mr. Gonzales,” he said.

  “Not Mr. Gonzales,” Mr. Santiago confirmed.

  “There are other Catholics living here,” Lynette told him. “Quite a few.”

  “But as far as we know, we’re the only aborishas,” Mrs. Martin said.

  Bodhi shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with the term.”

  “No reason you would be,” Mr. Santiago told him. “An aborisha is a practitioner who has undergone some level of initiation, but is not a full priest or priestess—a santero or santera.”

  “Do you have a santero or santera?”

  “Not really. Not anymore. We only see him once a month in that capacity,” Lynette answered.

  Bodhi blinked. “Father Rafael?”

  “That part can’t be made public. It would be a scandal. But yes, Father Rafael came to the Saint Lazarus’s Shrine from a special church in Havana—the Church of Our Lady of Regla, the Black Madonna—it’s both a Catholic church and a Santería shrine.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. It’s different there. The Church of the Black Madonna is very open about the two living side by side, unusually so. But the Catholic priests throughout the country mainly accept it as part of the culture. Santería is an officially recognized religion there, you know,” Mr. Santiago explained.

  “Syncretism,” Bodhi said, thinking aloud.

  “Exactly.” Lynette beamed at him as if he were her star witness.

  “And this is top secret to protect Father Rafael?”

  “Him, and us. Imagine if Pastor Scott found out.” Mrs. Martin shivered.

  “So, how does Mr. Gonzales figure into this? Did he find out about you?” Bodhi was trying to piece it all together.

  “He knew about us, of course. He was a palero,” Lynette said.

  Mrs. Martin muttered darkly.

  Before Bodhi could ask for a definition of palero, there was a quick rap on the door.

  Mrs. Martin’s eyes widened and she fumbled with the music player. Mr. Santiago opened the blinds just as Lynette flung the door wide to reveal a smiling Cleo Clarkson.

  “I just thought I’d stop by and see how it’s going,” Cleo said in her low purr of a voice.

  The three residents all stared at Bodhi. He cleared his throat.

  “I was about to ask whether any of these folks had noticed any
changes in Mr. Gonzales’s behavior or mental state,” Bodhi said.

  It was technically true. He had been about to ask before the super-secret Santería news.

  A look crossed Cleo’s face.

  “What?” he said.

  “I’ll let the guests answer first,” she said. She closed the door and took a seat next to Lynette.

  “It’s hard to say. José’s mental state fluctuated between miserable and downright nasty,” Mr. Santiago began.

  “Mr. Santiago—” Cleo protested.

  “It’s true, and you know it. He wasn’t a very nice man,” Mrs. Martin said, fumbling with the beads around her neck. “He was a bad person.”

  “Now, really. It’s not kind to speak ill of the dead, Mrs. Martin,” Cleo gently chided her.

  She faced Bodhi. “He was a bit of a curmudgeon. He got very angry if the staff moved his belongings when they cleaned. Toward the end, he became a bit of a packrat. Maybe a hoarder would be a better description.”

  What sorts of things did he save?” Bodhi asked.

  Cleo wrinkled her nose. “All sorts of disgusting things. His belongings are still in storage. His family hasn’t been out to pick them up.”

  Bodhi was trying to concentrate on what she was saying but the bug-eyed face that Lynette was making was distracting him. He glanced at her and she began nodding urgently and pointing toward herself and then toward him. She very clearly had something to tell him about Mr. Gonzales. Something she didn’t want to say in front of Cleo.

  Cleo stood suddenly. “The storage closet is just around the corner. Why don’t I show you? Then I’ll take you upstairs to meet Detective Williams.”

  “I’m not quite finished here,” he said.

  Her face clouded. “Oh. Could you come back in a bit then? I need to meet Nurse Martinez when he arrives. He’s about to get on the ferry now. That ought to be enough time to show you Mr. Gonzales’s … collection. Then you could finish up with these fine folks.”

  “That would be fine,” Mrs. Martin said.

  “Are you sure?” Cleo asked, taking a closer look at Hector Santiago. “Some of you are looking tired.”

  Mr. Santiago peered back into her face. “We’re not the only ones, dear.”

  Bodhi met Lynette’s eyes. “Will that work for you?”

  “Sure thing,” she chirped.

  “Okay. After you,” he told Cleo.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Felicia smiled tightly at Charlene Rivers. “I think that’s all I have for now, Mrs. Rivers. The department appreciates your coming in to talk. Before we wrap this up, do you have any final thoughts that might be helpful? Anything I neglected to ask about that you think may be relevant?”

  She asked the follow-up question purely out of habit. To say the interview with Charlene Rivers had been a bust would be a charitable description.

  For one thing, the woman seemed to be wholly unobservant. She didn’t remember anything unusual ever happening on one of her shifts.

  For another, she kept bringing all of Felicia’s questions back to her church. In answer to a question about whether Mr. Garcia got a lot of visitors, she’d rambled on about the Golden Island Church’s shut-in visitation program on Key Largo.

  But the most irritating thing about the wasted hour and a half was Bryce Scott’s incessant interruptions and coaching. If Felicia had even an inkling that the Rivers woman might know something useful, she’d have slapped a pair of shiny metal bracelets around the pastor’s wrists at the outset. He was interfering with a witness interview—and was being freaking annoying about it, too.

  As if on cue, he fake-coughed.

  “Oh, yes, right. I did want to say one more thing,” Charlene blurted.

  Felicia resisted the urge to poke herself in the eye with her pen and put herself out of her misery.

  “Go right ahead.”

  The woman’s eyes darted toward Pastor Scott, who nodded. Felicia’s nostrils flared, but she held her tongue.

  “Well, you didn’t ask if anybody else was acting suspicious.”

  Felicia cocked her head. “Was anyone else acting suspicious?”

  “Um … yes.” Charlene stumbled over her words, paused for a moment, then picked up speed and finished her sentence in a rush. “Nurse Eduardo Martinez requested extra shifts on two of the nights people died. That’s why he was there during all the deaths. Doesn’t that seem shady to you? Also, a man nurse? That’s … unusual right there. But he definitely has the strength to hold someone down and suffocate them. Most of the female nurses couldn’t do that, I don’t think.”

  She finished and shot another look at her pastor, who rewarded her with a faint smile.

  Felicia’s blood pressure zoomed up. She felt like a cartoon character whose neck and face were gradually getting redder and redder. She waited for the steam to shoot out of the top of her head with a train whistle sound effect.

  She stood up. “We’re done here. Before I thank you for your time, Mrs. Rivers, let me just say that as a female homicide detective, I don’t think there’s anything inherently suspicious about a person choosing a career that’s been gender-stereotyped.”

  Charlene Rivers flinched.

  She went on, “And, having seen Nurse Mumma lift a two-hundred-pound man to change his sheets, I am pretty sure even the most feminine nurse has more upper body strength than you might think.”

  “I was … I’m just trying … I wanted to be helpful,” Charlene stammered.

  “And you were, Mrs. Rivers,” Pastor Scott assured her. “God will bless you richly for your honesty and assistance.”

  Charlene simpered.

  Felicia walked her to the door and opened it. She stuck her head out and said, “Mrs. Pearl, we’ll be with you in a moment. I need to have a word with Pastor Scott first.”

  Philomena Pearl looked up from her novel and blinked. Charlene scooted past Felicia and left the room at a near-jog. Felicia closed the door and tried hard to get a handle on her emotions before she turned around to rip into the richest, most connected religious leader in the Southeast.

  Bodhi stood in the cramped, stuffy closet and took in its contents in a state of bewilderment. He pulled out a pen and notepad to inventory the items and record his impressions.

  “These are Mr. Gonzales’s personal effects?”

  “Yes. It’s really strange, isn’t it?” Cleo said in a low, bemused voice.

  Strange was one word for the jumble of items.

  He peered into a large iron cauldron filled with dirt. Sticks, feathers, and coins were piled inside. Beside it, a smaller cauldron held more dirt, a bead necklace, and two coconut shells. He eased the lid off a nearby box with the tip of his pen. More dirt. Metal spikes. Another strand of beads.

  He lifted out a convex disk and held it up to the light for a better look.

  “Is that a …?” Cleo began, standing on her tiptoes behind him.

  “I think it’s a turtle shell.” He returned it to the box. “There are some dolls in here, too.” Several small, crude figures that appeared to be fashioned out of wooden clothespins and bits of cloth were piled together in one corner.

  “It gets weirder,” Cleo told him.

  She pointed to a stack of boxes along the wall. “There’s loads more dirt, some ceremonial-looking swords, pieces of metal and glass, and lots of beads, feathers, stones, bits of fur, globs of wax … it’s just trash.”

  He eyed the boxes. “Has someone gone through all of this stuff and catalogued it?”

  “No. I took a quick peek at a handful of the boxes, but I didn’t have time to look at all of them. We’ve been sort of scrambling around here this month. I figure I can have someone do it when things quiet down. Or, even better, maybe one of his relatives can come and just take it away. I could use this closet back.”

  “It’s quite a collection.”

  “Is it evidence that he was mentally decompensating? I mean, who saves all this stuff?”

  She had a point.
r />   “It doesn’t seem like the behavior of a well-organized mind. I’d like to talk to Nurse Martinez about Mr. Gonzales for a few minutes, since he’s coming in anyway. I’ll need to do a more detailed interview later, but I should finish up with the residents first.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m going to want to photograph everything in this room. And possibly gather some samples for testing.”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “Sure. But, the death cluster can’t be caused by boxes of dirt. I mean, can it? I’m confident nobody else was hoarding dirt and junk.”

  He wasn’t sure what the assemblage of strange items meant. But he was sure it meant something.

  He answered her question with one of his own. “I would imagine dirt collecting isn’t a common pursuit. But do you have the belongings of any of the other deceased individuals in storage?”

  “Ms. Morales’s.”

  “I’ll want to see those, too.”

  “I can arrange that. Are you done in here for now? Because we really should go wait for Nurse Martinez if you want to talk to him first.”

  He took one last look at the odd menagerie. Although it seemed to lack any rhyme or reason, there was a pattern in all this stuff. He just had to find it.

  “For now.”

  She opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. He turned out the light and followed.

  A breathless young woman in hospital scrubs was running toward them. She skidded to a stop.

  “Ms. Clarkson, you need to go upstairs. That detective is screaming at Pastor Scott. She just threatened to arrest him.”

  Cleo gave Bodhi a wide-eyed look of horror. “Great.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  They took off down the hall behind the aide.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bryce turned to see Cleo and a lanky, curly-haired man rushing into the conference room.

  “Oh, thank goodness.” He was surprised by the extent of his relief, but he wasn’t too proud to admit that he needed to be rescued from the fire-breathing detective.