“Let's roll, Danny,” says Ceepak. “We don't have much time.”
I nod and open my door. He's right. The sun is long gone. There's only three hours left to July 17.
The twinkle lights that illuminate Santa's Sea Shanty are still sparkling bright. Must be a billion tiny bulbs in the fake evergreen garlands wrapped around the building and buried in the even faker fiberglass snow banks surrounding the window display's miniature Victorian Village. Santa is still on duty.
We open the door. Sleigh bells ring. Of course.
“May I help you officers?” asks a chubby lady in reading glasses behind the cash register. She's got the apple cheeks. The button nose. Put a little bun in her hair bubble and she could be Mrs. Claus.
“I was just closing up. Is there some problem?”
“Are you Ms. Sarah Byrne?”
“That's right. Have we met?”
“No, ma'am. I don't believe so. I'm John Ceepak. Rita Lapczynski is a friend of mine.”
“Is that so? How is Rita?” She smiles. “Is she still working over at Morgan's? Haven't been by there in ages. Store keeps me busy. It's Christmas three hundred and sixty-five days a year in here.”
Ceepak moves closer to the counter. He's so tall his head scrapes against the plastic mistletoe suspended from the ceiling.
“Ms. Byrne,” he says gently, “we need to ask you some questions about the time you spent at Reverend Trumble's mission. We need to know about Life Under the Son.”
She looks up at Ceepak. The sugarplum twinkle is gone from her eyes.
“Rita told you?” she says. She looks surprised.
“Only because you might be able to help us in a matter of utmost urgency.”
“I see.”
“Ms. Byrne,” says Ceepak, “lives are at stake.”
She probably heard him but doesn't act like it. Instead, she fiddles with the felt hat on top of a papier-maché caroler's head.
“I assure you, Ms. Byrne, anything you tell us will be held in the strictest confidence.”
She finally looks up. Stares into Ceepak's eyes. Sees what she needs to see. Then she looks at me.
“Young man? Could you kindly lock the front door?”
“Sure.”
I throw the deadbolt. Flip over the CLOSED-FEEDING THE REINDEER sign.
Ms. Byrne moves out from behind the cash register to stand near an aluminum tree loaded down with seashells and sequined tropical fish.
“What do you gentlemen need to know?”
“You joined the community run by the Life Under the Son ministry?”
“Yes. I had run away from home. My stepfather….”
She doesn't finish. She doesn't have to. Ceepak only wants information that's pertinent to our investigation.
“This was in the 1980s?” he asks.
“That's right. 1985.”
“Did Reverend Trumble baptize you?”
“Yes. We walked out to where the waves break. He dunked me under; I swallowed a mouthful of saltwater. When I came up I was Joanna-a biblical name that means God is gracious. Reverend Billy chose it for me.”
“How long did you room at his mission?”
“I was there through September. Until I miscarried.”
Ceepak nods solemnly. “Yes, ma'am.”
“Rita told you about that as well, I take it?”
“We needed to know.”
“I see.” She looks lost. Lost to us, at any rate. I figure she's thinking about the past.
We wait patiently.
Even though we're in a huge hurry.
The clock is ticking, but Ceepak's giving her all the time she needs. I just hope she doesn't need too much more.
Finally, the respectful silence is broken when Ms. Byrne clears her throat and says, “But how is it I can help you, Officers? I'm sure Rita must have thought I could or she wouldn't have sent you over here, would she?”
Ceepak reaches into his shirt pocket, pulls out a copy of the missing-person milk carton photo Cap'n Pete found buried in the sand.
“You say you were at the mission in 1985?”
“That's right.”
“Do you remember this girl?”
He hands her the picture. She adjusts her glasses.
“Yes. She was my friend. Her name was Mary. Mary … something. Italian. Rhymed with Mary….”
“Guarneri?”
“Yes. Mary Guarneri. That's it. We shared a room at the motel.”
“She was also a runaway,” says Ceepak.
“That's right. Her mother didn't like the boys she'd been fooling around with back home in Pennsylvania. So, she came down here to fool around with ours.”
“Was she pregnant?”
“No. Merely promiscuous. She had no intention of ‘washing away her sins,’ as Reverend Billy liked to say. She just needed the free room and board.”
“Do you remember what happened to Mary?”
“Not really. I know she pretended to be baptized.”
“Pretended?”
“She played along. Said all the right words. Before you could be born again, you had to stand up in front of everybody, the whole congregation, and confess your sins. Reverend Trumble always insisted that we be very specific. I think he liked hearing the intimate details.”
Ceepak nods.
“Well, let me tell you, gentlemen-Miss Mary Guarneri did not disappoint. No, sir. She regaled us all with lurid tales of wild sex on the beach, in the back seat of Buicks, under the boardwalk. I don't know how much she made up, how much was true, but the day after her X-rated admissions, Reverend Billy dragged her out into the ocean, dunked her under a breaker, and Mary became Ruth.”
“Do you remember when she was baptized?”
“Not really. Sometime in July. Before my miscarriage.”
“And she remained at the mission?”
“For a while. She put on quite a show. Even took to acting like the true believers. The zombies. She called herself Ruth. Called everybody else brother and sister. Sent out the postcards like Reverend Billy told her to. Even sent one to her mother and pretended to make amends.”
“Do you know what happened to Mary a.k.a. Ruth?”
“No. Mary, or Ruth, simply disappeared. It was hot and muggy here that summer. Awful. There was no air conditioning at the motel in those days. I always assumed she ran away to someplace cooler. Maybe up to Canada.” She stares at the milk carton panel. “Was someone searching for her?”
Ceepak nods. “Her mother.”
“Did she find her?”
“No, ma'am. Mary Guarneri never came home.”
“I'm sorry to hear that.”
“Do you remember any of the young men who might have been at the mission that same summer?”
“No. Not really. The boys drifted in and out. Not many took rooms. They came for the food, a hot shower, and, if you ask me, to meet girls who had already proven themselves to be … readily available.”
My turn to butt in: “Were any of those guys police officers?”
“Police?”
Ceepak tries to clear things up: “Ms. Byrne, did you know Sergeant Gus Davis when he was with the SHPD?”
“Sure.” She smiles for the first time since we strolled through her door. “Everybody knows Gus. He stops in here all the time. Buys every fishing Santa I stock. Gus loves Christmas. Under that gruff exterior, I suspect he's a sentimental softy.”
“Do you remember seeing Gus at Life Under the Son during the summer of 1985?”
“Gus? No. Never.”
“Are you certain?”
“As certain as I can be, I suppose. It was such a long time ago. I've tried to move forward and forget all that.”
“Are you sure he wasn't there?” I ask.
“I'm sorry. I wish I could be of more help. But I simply don't recall many details.” She turns to Ceepak. “Perhaps you should talk to Pete.”
“Pete?”
“Peter Paul Mullen,” says Ms. Byrne. “Do you know him?”
“Yes, ma'am. Captain Pete.”
“That's right. Well, back then, before he was married, he was one of those young men I was telling you about. His mother wouldn't let him go out on dates. So Pete was a good boy and spent his weekends with the boardwalk ministry. He never did anything, mind you. Never hit on anybody. Never even flirted. I remember he always hung out in the back. Kept quiet, kept to himself….”