Page 4 of Bringing Chelsea Home

“Any word on Marda Kitts?” Griff gripped a nearby paperweight with both hands. A member of a United Kingdom Special Forces Team who had a vast knowledge of the area, Marda had proved helpful more than once. They’d worked together for months and become lovers. Then, just as they were getting the Obando children out of the area, she’d set the trap and Griff had walked right into it. Now Alejandro, their local driver was dead, Griff’s shoulder and knee would always give him trouble and the Obando kids were gone. Griff would never forgive Marda for betraying them.

And maybe himself for loving and trusting her.

“We think she’s still in the area,” Hank said. “And the Brotherhood is looking for her, so that’s all you need to know. I need you focused on the mission at hand.”

“Copy that,” Griff said. He’d spent a long time while doing rehab at Better Days Ranch, imagining what he would say to Marda Kitts if they ever met again. “Can you forward what you have on Elaine Prescott?”

“Coming to you now,” Hank said. “Signing off.”

Coffee. I need coffee. Griff poured out a cup from the carafe on the desk and opened the file on Elaine Prescott.

Two women, one with very short, silver-blonde hair, and the other wearing a nun’s habit, stood arm in arm, grinning up at him from the onscreen photo like “besties”. Their shared joy lit up their faces and sympathy tugged at Griff’s heart. To lose a friend was bad enough. To have them die in your arms was an experience he wouldn’t wish on anyone. He’d held too many of them.

And Elaine Prescott was stunning. A head shot showed along with her silver-blonde hair, her dark brown eyes were thoughtful and penetrating while her wide and friendly smile held a kindness Griff hadn’t seen in a long time.

But that smile also held determination and bravery, suggesting that she was a woman to be reckoned with, one who would not be easily frightened. Griff sincerely hoped that her impressive resume included a good dose of common sense. Like to know when it was time to be frightened.

Because if they were going to go up against The CadreandBig Daddy, she was going to need to remember that.

CHAPTER3

Wednesday Noon

Why iseveryone except those nuns dressed like they walked off the set of Downton Abbey?Griff slipped into a pew at St. Nicholas’ Catholic Church just as the funeral Mass was starting. It was a small church, but it was packed. Beside him, a woman wearing a Nile green Victorian style dress, with matching hat and gloves, handed him a service leaflet. Griff smiled his thanks and gave his attention to the people around him.

It had stopped raining, and the weather had turned unexpectedly warm for November. A good day for hiking in the nearby Smoky Mountains or canoeing down the Ocoee River. Maybe when this mission was complete, Griff could borrow his buddy Parker Evans’ cabin in Townsend and do a little of both. It would be winter soon enough, but the weather in East Tennessee–the place Griff called home–was famously unpredictable and temperatures could rise and fall without warning, bringing mild days or deep snows.

But it was cool inside the church, the air scented from flickering votive candles and the lone floral arrangement near the chancel steps. A quick look at the service leaflet showed Sister “Bernie” had requested that in lieu of flowers, donations be made to local animal shelters or food banks. There was no coffin, the leaflet noting her ashes would eventually be placed in the church’s columbarium and he made a mental note to check and see if the autopsy–if there’d been one–was finished.

But it was the people gathered here and their finery that had Griff’s curiosity running at full tilt because it was the most colorful funeral he’d ever attended. Men wore striped trousers and frock coats with orange and white carnations for their boutonnieres, top hats or bowlers in their laps. Women’s outfits ranged from brightly colored slim skirts and shirtwaists and boaters to elegant gowns in prism hues with picture hats of varying sizes, festooned–his costume designer sister’s favorite word–with flowers, birds and who knew what else covering the crowns. All races and ethnic groups appeared represented, and Griff heard whispered snatches of Spanish and what he thought might be Russian. This is how people dressed for a nun’s funeral?

The service proceeded with its lovely formality and beauty until the celebrant, Father Daniel Ryan paused and came forward.

“I want to take the time to thank everyone who came today,” he began. “Sister Bernie’s family–” he gestured at an older couple and two men around Griff’s age seated in the front left pew–“are especially grateful for the kindness you’ve shown them since she died. You all know how dedicated Sister Bernie was in her work as a nurse and as a nun. Talent like that is a gift from God and she used it to help others. She was always on my case about eating healthy and getting more exercise as I’m sure she was with many of you.”

Soft laughter rippled around the church, and Griff watched the smiles and nods. Hastily produced handkerchiefs were applied to more than one tear-streaked face and anger stirred in him that such a life as Sister Bernie’s could be ended by scum like Big Daddy and The Cadre. Hunting them down would be a pleasure as well as an honor and a privilege.

“Sister Bernie’s family has asked that her friend and colleague, Elaine Prescott of the Families United agency to say a few words.” Father Ryan stepped back.

A woman in an enormous white hat covered in matching net and silk flowers stood from the pew behind Sister Bernie’s family, went to stand on the chancel steps and for a moment, Griff forgot how to breathe. Her shockingly pink Edwardian gown was simple, but elegant and showed off every curve she possessed, while still giving Elaine Prescott an old-fashioned modesty that some women of Griff’s acquaintance could learn from.

“Sister Bernie would be stunned to see so many people here today,” Ms. Prescott began, her clear, well-modulated voice easily carrying around the church. “Those of you who didn’t know her and are with us today, may be surprised by our various ensembles. Sister Bernie was crazy about period costume dramas, especiallyDownton Abbeyand said for years that she wanted people to dress like that at her funeral, but only in bright colors. Did we get it right, Mr. and Mrs. Nolan?”

People laughed and Griff could see the older couple smile and nod, as did the men beside them. All wore Edwardian and Victorian garb and had the determined expressions of those who would get through what had to be the saddest thing in the world–burying a beloved child and sister.

“I knew her before she was Sister Bernadette,” Ms. Prescott continued. “We grew up together and I remember her saying even when we were in kindergarten, that she wanted to be two things. A nurse and a nun. She said she was so incredibly blessed, she had to give back to those who had nothing. And she always gave everything. No stinting or hesitation. That wasn’t Bernie’s way.”

Ms. Prescott’s lips curved into a wide smile and Griff noticed the tiny beauty mark on the left side of her lips. “That’s not to say Sister Bernie was a saint. She could swear like my Marine grandfather–right Mother Winnifred–?had a temper like an Irish banshee and her gift for mimicry bordered on the sacrilegious. She admitted her most confessed sins were her pride in thinking she could do it all, her impatience with those she considered fools–who were usually those who didn’t listen to her–and not being able to convince more people to give what she needed for those who had so little. Continuing her work is the best way to honor her memory. That’s not only what she would want us to do, it’s what she would expect us to do. She–”

Ms. Prescott stopped, and tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. She bowed her head for a long, silent moment, then looked at the gathering. “That’s what she’d expect us to do,” she repeated. “I’ll miss her.”

She returned to her pew and the Mass continued. When it was finished, Griff followed the flow of people to the parish hall where oversized photos of Sister Bernie at all stages of her life rested on easel style stands around the room. Several he noted were of her and Ms. Prescott, one of them in baseball caps and uniforms for an Inner-City softball League, the other in what must be their high school or college graduation robes.

Ms. Prescottstood with Bernie’s family, her features set in a mask of contained sorrow while receiving hugs and handshakes from the assembly. Nuns in white habits and blue aprons stood behind food-heavy tables, filling plates while a jazz trio played softly from the small stage in the front of the room. After several minutes, Ms. Prescott turned her head and her dark gaze found Griff. Her eyes widened, and when Griff nodded, she spoke to the couple and then made her way across the room. Rather than draw attention to their meeting by joining her, Griff waited for her. “Lieutenant Griffin Tyler?” she asked, standing before him.

“Yes ma’am,” he acknowledged with a slight bow. “You are, of course, Elaine Prescott.”

She offered her hand and beneath her glove he could feel long slender fingers, but her grip held a firm strength. Standing this close, her pale hair shimmered like finely woven gossamer and his sisters would tell him that only a woman with Elaine Prescott’s bone structure could wear her hair that short and still look utterly feminine.

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