Cecilian Vespers: A Mystery (A Collins-Burke Mystery) by Anne Emery

By Anne Emery

Lawyer and bluesman Monty Collins is used to protecting murderers—and sometimes investigating murders himself—but he is by no means arise opposed to whatever just like the case of Reinhold Schellenberg, a world-renowned German theologian who has been came upon useless at the altar of an previous church in Halifax, Nova Scotia, on Saint Cecilia's day. The arguable priest, as soon as a best insider within the Vatican, was once identified to impress robust emotions in Catholics of all ideological stripes, and now these emotions have overflowed with frightening effects. not less than Monty is aware the place to seem for clues; his buddy Father Brennan Burke has simply opened a choir university on the church, and the scholars offer a world forged of suspects—including a flamboyant Sicilian priest, an eccentric English monk, a disgruntled American, a Vatican enforcer, a church woman with a heritage of violence, and, so much confusing of all, a police officer from the previous East Berlin.

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Sample text

He kind of laughed and told me it wasn’t him that needed peace and quiet. It was somebody else. And no, before you ask me, he didn’t say who. The police interviewed everyone working near Stella Maris, at the container terminal and the handful of businesses close by. Nobody saw anyone at the church. Cars went in and out of the parking areas but this was normal, and no one reported anything exceptional. There was one woman who at first looked promising. Clara MacIntyre. She had parked in a lot near the church so she could take her dog for a walk along the top of the peninsula.

Fred said he was going to watch the children rehearse for the Christmas pageant, so let’s meet up with him there. ” † The rehearsal was taking place in the basement of St. Bernadette’s Church. Breeze block walls were painted a glossy beige, the floor was a streaky brown, blue, and cream-patterned linoleum, there was a small stage at one end and a kitchen at the other; the room could not be anything other than a church basement. We were nearly knocked off our feet by a little boy with a white and green hotel towel on his head, a shepherd’s crook wielded like a sabre in his hand.

They were both unaware of the camera. The baby’s hair was almost as dark as the man’s, which was shot through with silver on the sides. The man was Brennan Burke. That brought back memories that were as embarrassing as they 40 were agonizing. Memories of me in a tense, drunken moment following the announcement that my wife was pregnant by another man, me striking out at Burke, punching him in the eye. Up till then, I had never struck another human being in my life, except in selfdefence. But those days and weeks after the announcement, which brought to a screeching halt my efforts to reconcile with Maura, were times of drinking, brooding, and recrimination.

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