Available now in a bookstore, on a Kindle, or at a library near you,
#2 in the Olympia Brown Mystery series
An Unspeakable Mission
Synopsis
When a vicious alcoholic dies in a suspicious house fire,
Rev. Olympia Brown and Father Jim Sawicki stretch the boundaries of their religious vows to prove his death is accidental and not murder. But evidence to the contrary is mounting and the curious clerical twosome have little time to learn the truth and prevent the daughter that the man abused for years from ending her own life.
Olympia and Jim confront unspeakable realities of incest, domestic violence and dark family secrets set against a tapestry of misconstrued Catholic dogma and the Irish culture of silence as the two colleagues struggle to untangle a hideous web of shame, guilt, and broken lives.
And through all of this, Olympia continues with the restoration of her antique home in Southeastern Massachusetts. Miss Winslow, Olympia’s nosy and outspoken house-ghost, begins to reveal more of her own story. Olympia’s search for her lost daughter takes a curious turn. Frederick Watkins, Olympia’s gentleman friend from England is planning a purposeful return visit. And Father Jim Sawicki, Olympia’s partner in amateur sleuthing and best friend forever, struggles with issues from his own tragic past.
~ Brenda Scott, Manchester Contemporary Literary Examiner, Examiner.com ~…says:
[In An Unspeakable Mission] … “Judith Campbell does a superb job in the follow-up to her suspense/thriller, A Deadly Mission, as Olympia Brown is once again tangled up in the personal life of one of her students; an ugly secret too horrible to speak of, and a death that looks suspiciously like murder!
…And Keith Kron, Director of the Transitions office of the Unitarian Universalist Association says:
An Unspeakable Mission is an engaging and thought-provoking story dedicated and impassioned clerics struggling to find the truth when secrets and silence are the expected norms. And when 21st century religion gets involved with religious and cultural expectations of the past, the story doesn't always turn out as expected. I kept turning the pages to see what would happen next.
Keith Kron also teaches an on line class on children's literature and has served on the board of the UUA's literary press for 10 years.
Here’s the first two chapters just to whet your appetite:
An Unspeakable Mission – An Olympia Brown, Father Jim Mystery-
by Judith Campbell
The Sinister minister
~ One ~
Terry O’Mara snapped back the handle of the aluminum ice tray and dumped the contents into the sink. He dropped three cubes into a cut glass tumbler, shook them down, and opened the cupboard where he kept the whiskey. The ice crackled as the pungent amber liquor swirled around them. Terry took a long swallow and topped up the glass before going into the living room to read the Sunday paper, smoke a couple of cigarettes, and find a game to watch on television. It was early for him to be home. He usually went to the eleven o’clock mass, but too many of his friends went to that one, and they might ask questions.
Much as he hated that stupid bitch Margaret, she was his wife, and she should be home making Easter dinner. When that nosy Polack priest at St. Bartholomew’s asked where she was, he said she’d gone to tend an ailing sister in upstate New York, but in truth, Terry had no idea where she was.
After the second drink, Terry was out of cigarettes. He stumbled on his way back out to the kitchen to get another pack and refresh his drink. This time he carried the bottle back with him and set it on the floor beside his chair.
By one in the afternoon Terry was sprawled and snoring in a drunken stupor, oblivious to the hockey players careening across the TV screen and equally oblivious to the thin finger of smoke curling up from the edge of the carpet and snaking toward the pages of the newspaper scattered around his feet.
~ Two ~
Tuesday, January 31, 1860.
Where to begin? At the end of last year, I was looking toward a new decade and wondering how my life might unfold. As a single woman possessed of a house, some land, and a modest inheritance from my father, I am beholden to no one. Teaching is the obvious choice, but I don’t want the obvious. I am determined not to marry, because my holdings will by law become the property of my husband. To tell the truth, which I can only do in the privacy of these pages, I am considering entering the ministry. It will be no small task to convince the board of governors at Harvard to admit a woman to their hallowed halls. However, I have money enough to support a seminary education, and I am determined that I shall do it.
I do not care to divulge my intentions to the members of my own church lest they attempt to discourage me. I shall approach the minister in the nearby town of Kingston and beg his advice and counsel. I have had opportunity to speak with him on more than one occasion, and he has impressed me most favorably with his sharp intelligence and gentle wit.
More anon, LFW
The Reverend Doctor Olympia Brown closed the small brown, leather-bound volume and placed it on the table beside her. It had been a long day, and she was ready for a glass of wine.
The six o’clock news was rattling on across the room, providing human sounds in the big empty house. Her gentleman friend, Frederick Watson, was back in England tending to family matters, and Miss Winslow, the resident house-ghost, had been conspicuously inconspicuous since the beginning of the New Year. Miss Leanna Faith Winslow was a Mayflower descendent and author of the diary Olympia had just set to one side. She was also a spectral busybody who never hesitated in expressing her opinions.
Easter Sunday is a long day for ministers. Olympia was glad to be home at the end of it with nothing more to do than relax in baggy jeans and a beat-up sweatshirt, feed the cats and drink a glass of wine. When she was finished with all of that, she would think about her letter of resignation from Meriwether College.
Alone in her spacious kitchen, she took an immoderate swallow of the vin de la semaine, a cool pale Chardonnay, and reluctantly poked the blinking playback button on the answering machine. Might as well get everything out of the way so I can totally relax.
The first message was from Frederick, saying he was counting the days until he’d be on a plane heading back and checking to see if she had received the flowers. Olympia smiled and raised her glass in the direction of the arrangement of pale pink roses and yellow star lilies on the kitchen table.
The second message was from her best friend and chaplain colleague, Father Jim Sawicki. He sounded distracted and out of breath and said to call him at the rectory the minute she got in. She looked up at the clock on the wall, shook her head, and walked into the sitting room. Surely a few minutes one way or the other isn’t going to make a difference. But as Olympia started to ease back in her chair and reach for the old diary, a news flash on the television stayed her hand.
“We have more on that tragic house fire on Barrett Street in Dorchester.”
The bright-eyed TV street reporter was standing in front of a partially burned building, holding a microphone close to her beautifully made-up face.
Olympia set down her glass and tucked a wisp of gray hair behind her ear.
“Fire officials have now confirmed that the victim, a middle-aged male, was alone when the fire started. Police and the local priest are talking with neighbors, trying to locate the family. The arson squad is still on the scene and could be making a preliminary report as early as tomorrow, but as of right now, the fire is considered to be suspicious.”
Olympia leaned forward and turned up the volume, straining to take in every word. Earlier in the semester she had befriended a freshman who lived on Barrett Street in Dorchester. Bridget Mary O’Mara had been date-raped and had come to Olympia for help. If the dead man was who she feared it might be, she knew exactly where to find the rest of the family and why Father Jim was so anxious that she call him. Barrett Street was in Father Jim’s parish, and the O’Maras were a deeply troubled family residing there.
Olympia turned her attention back to the TV screen.
“The name of the deceased will not be released until we have a positive identification and authorities have located the next of kin. We’ll bring you any further developments as we receive them.”
The newscaster nodded and changed expressions. “And now, back to our studio and Roger St. John with tomorrow’s weather. Roger, what are we in for?”
“Partly cloudy, Karen, with possible showers in the after …”
Olympia cursed under her breath as she clicked through the channels, frantically trying to catch more information on another station, but every single one of them had moved on to Sunday night sports. She muted the sound and sat staring at the flickering screen, trying to collect her gyrating thoughts. It had to be the O’Maras, but how had it come to this? What had she and Jim missed?
At the time of the rape, the distraught student insisted that Olympia tell no one what happened. But in the weeks that followed, as the girl’s desperate and convoluted story unfolded, Olympia came to understand that not only Bridget, but the girl’s mother and sister, were living in a horrific situation. But not this.
She knew then that the promise she had made to the Irish Catholic girl from Dorchester, and everything that she believed in as a minister and a mother, were going to be put to the test.
Olympia shook her head in disbelief and pushed away the unfinished wine. She reached for the phone beside her chair and tapped in a familiar number.
“St. Bartholomew’s Rectory,” said a woman’s voice.
“Is Father Jim available? This is Rev. Olympia Brown speaking. I’m returning his call.”
“Father Jim is out, Reverend Brown. There’s been a terrible fire in the parish; the police have just been here; he’s trying to locate the family. I’ll have him call you when he gets back. What’s the number?”
“He has it,” said Olympia. “This wouldn’t be the O’Mara family, would it?”
“You know them?”
“I do,” said Olympia.
“Mother of God.”
Olympia could hear the intake of a long, ragged breath. “Such a nice family, everybody loved them. Poor Margaret, that’s the mother, and the two girls. It’s a miracle they weren’t home. Oh, sweet Jesus, I wasn’t supposed to say that, it’s just …”
“Don’t worry,” said Olympia, “I won’t say anything. If you could just have Father Jim …”
“I’ll tell him.”
Olympia was cut off as the woman on the other end of the line sobbed aloud and hung up the phone.
Olympia squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her temples and then dialed a second number. After five rings she listened to a perky voice message telling her that Bridget and Susie were out and to please leave a message at the sound of the beep. But Bridget told me she’d be staying at the dorm this weekend.
Now she understood why Jim was so anxious that she call him. Olympia looked down at her watch and prayed there would be enough time to reach Margaret and her daughters before the police did.
Sitting alone in the empty house with nothing to do but wait for the call, Olympia heard a noise coming from the old clock across the room. The cats heard it, too. In tandem, they flattened their ears, and the fur on their backs began to lift into a sharp ridge along their arched backs. All three stared at the clock as the gold filigreed hands inched into the nine o’clock position.
Last year she had found both the clock and the diary she’d just been reading in a secret “parson’s cupboard” concealed in the wall next to the fireplace. The clock had never worked; but when the late Leanna Faith Winslow, author of the diary on the table beside her and resident house-ghost extraordinaire, was trying to get her attention, she often did it using the clock. What is she trying to tell me? Is it something to do with the fire or Jim?
She tried to laugh at the absurdity of having a nosy house-ghost interfering with her personal and professional life, but at the moment laughing was not an option. If her growing suspicions were correct, and Bridget’s father, Terrence O’Mara, was the victim of arson and his wife and daughters could not be found, this was serious, deadly serious.
Olympia slumped back in her chair and recalled the day when Bridget Mary O’Mara, one of her freshmen at Meriwether College for Women, had crept into her office looking like a wounded animal.
