The Kashmir Shrine

Chapter 1 The Ailing Man

I don’t understand, Ellie, Imogen said, if the old man is in a bad way, why isn’t he already in a hospice?

There’s no room there right now, Ellie replied, so we’re doing what we can for him here at Saint Teresa’s. He’s not in great pain or distress, but I don’t think he’ll last more than another day or so.

What’s his name again?

Lanza—Doctor Antonio Lanza. He has a Ph.D. in something or other, and that’s all I know. I was only assigned here a few weeks ago.

The two women walked together down the rest home’s corridor, their footsteps echoing off the bare walls.

I still don’t get it, Imogen said, looking earnestly at Ellie. I don’t know this man. Why on earth would he ask for me?

He didn’t ask for you—not specifically. He just asked for a journalist and I remembered from high school that you said you’d be a writer. Ellie chuckled. A world-famous writer, I think it was. I looked you up on Facebook, and there you were—Imogen Lamington, Journalist.

True, but I’m not famous, sad to say, or even very experienced yet. I’ve only been doing this for a couple of years, so I work freelance, covering town hall meetings and writing for web pages.

I’m sure you’ll do just fine for the doctor, Ellie said.

What does this . . . Lanza gentleman want?

He needs a journalist to write his life story.

What did he do?

I don’t really know, Ellie said. In fact, I doubt that he’ll be able to talk to you much, but he’s put together an envelope and he wants you to have it. He says his story is in there.

The two women reached the room, then entered quietly. Lanza looked frail, lying in bed with sensors on his fingertips and an intravenous drip-feed in his arm.

Imogen moved closer to the man, sat down in the armchair by the bed, then spoke gently, Doctor Lanza, can you hear me?

His eyelids flickered, then opened. Oh . . . hello . . . who is it? His eyes showed his confusion.

He’ll drift in and out, Ellie said, leaning down and whispering into Imogen’s ear.

I’m the journalist you asked for, Imogen said, smiling at the man.

Lanza brightened up a little. Oh, yes, he said, trying to raise himself up against his pillows. Of course, journalist . . . very important . . . Phoenix . . . I did it, you know.

What does phoenix mean? Imogen asked.

Please, Doctor Lanza, said Ellie, standing at the side of the bed, try not to get too excited.

You must, said Lanza, looking intently at Imogen, you must tell everyone what I did, promise me. His head settled back on his pillow. In there, he said, his fingers shaking as he pointed across the room, look in there. Phoenix, you know.

His hand fell back onto the bedclothes, and he struggled to continue. You need to know more, much more . . . Then he seemed to lose his train of thought, his eyes closed and he lost consciousness.

Imogen realized she’d get no more from the man. I promise I’ll do what I can, Doctor, she murmured.

Turning to look across the room, she noticed a manila envelope lying on a table by the wall.

That’s what he was pointing at, Ellie said. Those are his papers, and he wants you to take them. They’re all that’s left of his belongings. It seems that everything else was disposed of over time.

Imogen looked down at the old man, who was now breathing gently. Do you think he’ll speak again?

He’s gone for now, Ellie said. It goes like that, you know. He can only manage a few minutes of clarity at a time.

Imogen nodded. Okay, then. I’m not sure about this, but I’ll do what he wants. Or I’ll try, at least.

She rose from the armchair, moved across the room, and picked up the envelope. Do you know what he meant when he said the word phoenix?

Not a clue, Ellie said as they left the room. I can’t even tell you what the envelope contains, because he sealed it himself a few days ago. All I know is that he wanted someone to deal with what’s in there.

Imogen nodded. You never know, this could be some kind of human interest story for me to work on.

Ellie’s eyes brightened. Hey, maybe this’ll get you a Pulitzer.

Imogen laughed. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? She looked down at the envelope in her hand. Okay, I’ll look at this when I get home, and see what it’s all about.

They walked more slowly now, back along the corridor.

It’s sad, Ellie said. Just days ago, he was cheerful. He’d be sitting up in bed, doing puzzles, like crosswords and fiendishly difficult word games. He loved that kind of thing.

They approached the main lobby and stood at the doors leading to the outside.

Ellie, I had no idea you were doing this work, and I’m very impressed. It’s good of you to care for these people. Imogen paused, then said, But you’re not a nun, and this is a Catholic home, isn’t it?

It is, but they can’t get enough nuns these days. Young women seem less interested in that kind of life. Ellie chuckled. On the other hand, there’s no shortage of old people, is there—more and more each year, so it’s guaranteed employment for me.

I suppose, Imogen said. Isn’t it funny, though? Thinking back to how we were in high school, we didn’t know what was in store for us, did we? You’re right about me saying I was going to be a brilliant and famous writer. Now look at me.

Ellie smiled. We were a bunch of maniacs back then, weren’t we? She paused, then said, Well, not so much you, Imogen, you were always one of the good girls, but the rest of us were completely out of control. Like Betty and Mary, and who was that other girl? Dusty, wasn’t it? Whatever happened to them, I wonder?

I shared rooms with Dusty in college, Imogen said. We got along great, and we’re even sharing an apartment now. When I came back here from New York, I needed somewhere to stay, so I moved in with her.

Isn’t Dusty a lesbian? asked Ellie. I kind of figured she was, even in high school, but I didn’t know that you—

Oh, I’m not, interrupted Imogen, frowning as she looked at Ellie. I’ve never been that way . . . I mean, I couldn’t. She and I are just sharing an apartment because we get along so well.

Ellie laughed. What’s that old saying? Something about the lady doth protest too much?

No, it’s true, Imogen said. I’m not that way inclined. God, my parents would just die.

Whatever, Ellie said. Nobody cares about labels these days, do they?

Dusty’s also very respectable now. She’s an FBI agent, you know.

Oh my, Ellie said. If they’re letting Dusty carry a gun, then we lunatics must have grown up, don’t you think?

The two women hugged, said their goodbyes, and Imogen left the building, got in her car, and headed home.

Chapter 2 At Home

Imogen stepped out of her car, used an elbow to carefully nudge the door shut behind her, then covered the short distance to her building, walking elegantly with her briefcase over her shoulder.

Once inside, she moved down the ground-floor corridor towards her apartment, turned the key in the lock, opened the door then stepped inside.

Hey, roomie, she cried, I’m home!

As she closed the door, she placed her keys in a basket that lay on a chest, then walked through the hall and into the living room. She gently lowered her things onto the sofa.

Hey, Dust . . . I said I’m home.

Dusty, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, was seated at a table by the window. She turned from her computer screen, gazed at Imogen and frowned. I’m supposed to be overjoyed at this interruption?

You are, Imogen said, ignoring Dusty’s scowl, and wait till you hear what happened to me today.

Let me guess. You took a cooking class and learned how to make dinner. Dusty turned back to her computer screen. It’s your turn tonight. You’re not getting out of it just because you’re adorable.

Imogen’s face fell. Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot about eating. She bent down to open her briefcase, then took out Lanza’s envelope and placed it on the coffee table.

Dusty glanced across the room. What’s in the envelope?

I haven’t looked yet.

Could it be recipes? Dusty asked. Then there’d be the faint hope that you could rustle up something to eat.

Forget dinner. I’ll walk out and get a pizza, or I’ll call for Chinese or something.

Imogen sat down on the sofa.

I met Ellie today. You remember? Ellie from high school?

I haven’t seen her since then, Dusty said, rising from her chair. She ambled across the room.

Imogen watched her friend’s athletic movements as she neared the sofa.

Didn’t she go into nursing? Dusty said, as she sat down beside Imogen.

She’s not a fully qualified nurse yet. Just some kind of assistant at the Saint Teresa rest home. A patient there had asked for a journalist and Ellie tracked me down for him.

Interesting, Dusty said. What did this guy want? After all, it’s been a long time since any man wanted you, isn’t it?

I’ll try not to be offended by that remark.

Well it’s true. When was the last time you went on a date?

Not sure, Imogen said. Maybe around the last time you went out with a girl? She looked at Dusty. Hey, are we becoming a couple of old maids? What do you think?

I don’t think at all. It confuses me. I prefer to just do stuff. FBI stuff, like shooting people.

Imogen laughed. You can’t just go around shooting people. You have to have a reason.

Dusty let out a little snort. You fail to understand how the FBI works, sweetie. First we shoot people, then we think of a reason. She sighed. It’s a beautiful system when you think about it. So, who was this man and what did he want with you?

Imogen told Dusty what had happened at the rest home.

This old guy wants you to write his life story? Is it even interesting?

I don’t know yet, Imogen said. I suppose I should look at the papers.

She sat up, leaned forward and picked up the envelope. Carefully, she peeled open the flap and pulled out the contents.

It’s photos. Just a bunch of travel photos.

Let me see, Dusty said, looking over Imogen’s shoulder. They look really old, don’t they?

Imogen frowned. They’re like vacation snaps. She looked more closely. And you’re right, Dust, they are old—just look at the dates on the backs.

Dusty leaned closer. That one might be from Africa or Asia, she said. The scenery looks interesting, with those mountains and lakes. But who are the men in the photos? Is one of them the old man you met?

I can’t tell for sure. But if it is him, then he’s lost a lot of weight and he’s very frail now.

I don’t get it, Imo. Is this all he gave you? If so, how are you supposed to figure out his life story from these photos? Shouldn’t there be other papers somewhere?

He was trying to tell me more, Imogen said, but he just didn’t have the strength. She riffled through the photos again, then suddenly pulled back. I can’t go through all this right now. I’ll scan them and see if I can figure out later what they mean.

Dusty sighed, and settled back against the sofa. Why do you insist on scanning everything? You do that with all your receipts and letters. That machine is always buzzing away in here, annoying me.

Hey, I’m a journalist. My whole life is about information, and I like to have everything with me all the time.

Imogen opened her purse and pulled out a memory stick. ‘See this? All my info is backed up on this little thing. My work projects, correspondence, finances, everything. It’s called being organized. You should try it."

It’s actually called being downright anal, Dusty said, but I suppose it’s your life.

I always thought so, Imogen said, though sometimes I wonder, what with you bossing me around.

Speaking of which, blondie, Dusty said, if you want your life to continue, you’d better solve the dinner problem, and pretty darned quick too.

Well, since you asked so nicely. Imogen picked up her phone, scrolled to the number for the local Chinese restaurant, then called in her order.

You know, she mumbled, we’ve been eating in for ages. I think we should go out somewhere on Friday evening. If I can’t find a man to date, at least I can enjoy a dinner out with you, right?

Oh sure, Dusty said, with a sigh. I don’t mind being your plan B. She got up from the sofa to return to her PC, while Imogen started to feed the photos into her scanner.

Chapter 3 The Attorney

Bill Willoughby strode through the door of his law firm, and smiled when he saw his assistant at her desk.

Good morning, Anne, he said.

Morning, Mister Willoughby. She paused, then added, I’m afraid there’s something very sad in your in-tray. She looked anxiously up at Bill.

Bill frowned at her. What kind of welcome back is that? Shouldn’t you ask how the conference was, and the visit with my cousin?

You’re right of course, Anne said. So how was all that?

Bill laughed. I don’t want to talk about it. If you must know, however, the conference was useful, but the family visit turned out to be a mistake. My cousin Jack’s youngest . . . the spawn of Satan.

You did your familial duty, I suppose, Anne said, smiling as she followed Bill into his office.

As you’ll see, she said, I left you the files from what you missed these last few days. On the top is an update on the Hamiltons. You probably already suspected the divorce would go ahead.

Bill frowned. Pity. I had hoped that they might reconcile, even though that would mean less work for us. He sat down, flicked through the pile of papers. I see the Andersons will come to review their wills next Thursday?

Right, Anne said, and there’s that sad thing I mentioned—the paper you’re holding now.

What’s this about?

That old client of yours. You remember Doctor Lanza? He passed away yesterday, at the Saint Teresa rest home.

Oh, that’s a pity. I quite liked that old guy.

I know you were fond of him. And we’re his executors, right? So, if you give the go-ahead, I’ll get one of the staff to pull the papers together.

Please do, Bill said. He settled back in his chair. You know, Lanza was one of my first clients when I started this firm. It was funny, because he was so serious about making a proper will, and most people don’t bother. This is really sad, because he wasn’t all that old. He can only have been around seventy or so.

Anne sat down opposite Bill. The woman who called said that he became ill recently, and went quickly downhill. It seems that this Catholic rest home, Saint Teresa’s, took him in because he had done important work for the Church in the past.

Bill looked across at Anne. I just remembered something. Years ago, he left me a package that I was to handle for him after his passing. He got up from behind his desk, walked to a large safe, twirled the dials then opened the heavy steel door.

Here it is, he said, walking back to the desk with a large envelope. He told me his instructions would be inside.

Bill picked up a letter-opener, then sliced along the short edge of the envelope. He took out a single sheet of paper and a small, sealed package.

"Hmm, it’s marked Do Not Open. Please Read Handling Instructions. I wonder what this is all about?"

What does the paper say? Anne asked.

Bill looked down at the page, and started to read out loud.

Dear Mr. Willoughby,

If you’re reading this, it probably means that I have passed away.

I would like to thank you for agreeing to be my executor. It has been a relief for me to know that you’ll file all the papers.

I am relying on you to do one more thing. The enclosed package must be delivered to one of the two individuals named below. Do not, under any circumstances, hand over the package to anyone else: not to an assistant, not to a receptionist. Nor can the package be mailed. You must visit the recipient, and personally hand over the package. Only then should it be opened, right in front of you.

If you encounter difficulties in arranging a handover meeting, please state that the matter is of the utmost importance to the Church.

The two possible recipients are: Bishop Dermot MacDonald and Bishop Bruno Mancini.

I thank you for you kindness and your valued assistance.

Yours sincerely,

Antonio Lanza

Bill put down the sheet of paper then looked at Anne. What do you make of that then?

I think it’s a bit weird. I’ve never heard of anything so dramatic. Did he give you any warning of what he wanted you to do?

No, none. I just assumed that I’d be mailing this on to a relative or somebody. He shook the small package. There’s something knocking around inside, but it’s not very big or heavy.

He shrugged. Well, there’s nothing for it. I’ll do what the old man wanted. I made a commitment, after all.

Anne nodded. Of course. She picked up her pen and pad. "If you give me those two names