As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  “Mulligan?” offered Father Pete.

  “Nah, I’ll just play that one,” answered Matt.

  Three more shots by the detective brought the two players to where Richter’s ball lie waiting in the short grass in the center of the fairway. With only 115 yards to the center of the green, he chose a pitching wedge, and sent the ball expertly toward the waving flagstick. It landed softly beyond the hole, and spun backward, narrowly missing the cup.

  “Great shot!” exclaimed Matt. Father Pete nodded in agreement, and stood by as Matt attempted his approach.

  Davis selected an eight iron, and quickly sculled it off line into the sand trap guarding the front right side of the green. Three hacking swings later he had managed to free the ball from the hazard, landing it within ten feet of the hole. He squatted behind the ball and lined it up with the cup. His first putt was short by half the distance to the hole, and his second effort ran by the target by almost as much. He made one more stroke to within two feet, and was able to sink the remaining putt, giving him a twelve for the hole. Father Pete then stepped up to his ball and tapped it in for a birdie.

  “I guess I’m a little rusty,” apologized Matt.

  “Really?” said Father Richter, his face totally serious. “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Just because you made a twelve?”

  Davis was starting to sweat. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all, he thought.

  Suddenly, Richter lost it. He exploded in a fit of laughter. Matt looked at him in amazement. Father Pete was laughing so hard he had tears running down his cheeks, his face growing bright red.

  Davis didn’t know what to say. “But, I thought—”

  “Thought what?” roared Richter, between fits of laughing.

  “I wasn’t sure,” said Matt. “I thought maybe you were mad at me. I mean…you were so serious.”

  Richter put his arm around Davis. “I couldn’t resist. You’re the one who’s too serious.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Relax, Matt. I was only kidding. It’s just a game.”

  “Then you’re not mad?” asked Matt.

  “Of course not,” replied Richter. “Come on, I’ll show you how to handle the next one.” Richter steered the detective to the golf cart, and together they drove to the next tee.

  The second hole at Van Cortland is a monstrous par-five that measures 605 yards in length. Bunkers located around 250 yards from the tee guard the fairway on both the left and the right sides. Father Pete drove his tee shot into the left-hand trap, while Matt managed to loft his drive about 180 yards down the right side, leaving him with a second shot that would have to carry over the fairway bunker. He stood by the ball, uncertain of how to proceed.

  “Now what do I do?” asked Matt.

  “Well, the smart play for you would be to use an eight iron and just make sure you get over the trap.”

  Matt had never before played with anyone who had such a command of the game. He followed Richter’s advice and was pleased when his ball landed safely in the fairway, some 30 yards beyond the bunker.

  “Good shot, Matt,” said Father Pete.

  “Thanks,” said a relieved Davis.

  “Now you can’t get into any trouble – well, at least not for a while.” He smiled at Matt.

  “So how are you gonna get out of that trap?” he asked the priest.

  “Come on,” said Richter. “I’ll show you.”

  They ran the cart up next to the trap, where Davis watched in amazement as Father Pete sent a three wood whistling up the fairway, picking it cleanly from the firm sand of the bunker.

  “Wow!” he exclaimed. “That’s incredible!”

  “Not really. Not if you know what you’re doing.”

  “Yeah,” replied Matt. “Well, that leaves me out,” he laughed.

  Richter looked around to make sure they weren’t being pressed from behind, and dropped a ball into the trap. “Go ahead,” he said. “You try it.”

  Davis laughed. “I don’t think so.”

  “Really,” said Richter. “Give it a try.”

  “Okay,” said Matt. “Here goes.” He took a hard swing, and the ball dribbled to the lip of the trap and fell back in. “See,” he said. “I told you I couldn’t do it.”

  “Let me show you how to do it right.”

  Matt stepped back, giving his newfound mentor plenty of room.

  “It’s really simple,” said Father Pete. “Just swing nice and easy.” He lined up the shot and, again launched a rocket out of the trap.

  Matt was awed. “But what’s the secret?” he asked.

  “You see, the left hand does all the work,” he explained. “Most people mistakenly try to overpower the club with their right hand. Just like you.”

  Matt listened intently.

  Father Pete continued, “There’s an old saying in golf. ‘ The left hand does all the work. The right hand just goes along for the ride.’”

  Matt thought a minute, then replied, “Yeah, except in your case, since you’re a lefty, it’s your right hand does all the work—”

  “Exactly!” replied the priest.

  Father Richter’s tips helped Matt quite a bit as they continued playing. Occasionally, he would stop and show the detective a little trick or help him adjust his stance ever so slightly. Each hole brought a little improvement in Davis’s game. Before long, the two players had reached the seventh hole. This was the so-called “signature” hole: a par three that measured 215 yards from an elevated tee to a shallow green below. The toughest pin placement was the one currently in use, with the hole located at the far right-hand side of the green.

  Matt watched as Richter lofted a two iron that landed just short of the green. He wondered out loud, “What the heck club do I use here?”

  “Try your five-wood,” offered Father Pete. “You never know.”

  “Hmmm,” said Matt. After a brief hesitation, he reached in his bag and extracted the recommended club. “Oh, what the hell. Oops, I mean, what the heck,” he laughed. He teed the ball up; careful to leave half the sphere above the face of the club as Father Pete had shown him. He set himself squarely; knees flexed, left shoulder toward the target, and started his back swing.

  “Wait!” interrupted Richter. “Don’t forget what I told you. The left hand does all the work. The right hand just goes along for the ride.”

  “Right,” said Matt. He steadied himself over the ball again, and then took his best swing of the day. The ball flew high into the air toward the target. Matt admired the shot as it landed on the green, then frowned as the ball ran past the hole and off the backside of the putting surface.

  “That,” said Father Pete, “was a great shot.”

  “It was?”

  “You better believe it. With that pin placement, only a pro could make a better shot.”

  Matt beamed. Of course, when they reached the green, he chipped back and forth across the putting surface twice, before landing the ball safely. Richter chipped to within three feet, and made his putt for a par. Matt ended up with a respectable five – his best hole of the afternoon.

  They concluded the front nine by four p.m. Matt had shot a disappointing fifty-nine, while Father Richter had carded, what was for him, a mediocre forty. Nevertheless, Matt was envious. He’d have given his left nut to shoot a forty. Matt waited until Father Pete had driven his ball from the tenth tee before he exited the parking lot and headed for home.

  CHAPTER 54

  It was nearly dark when Richter arrived back at St. Jude. He parked the Cadillac in the garage across the street from the rectory, and removed his clubs from the spacious trunk. The service of God surely had its advantages, he thought, as he crossed the street to the rectory. It had been a lovely day.

  Father Anthony, dressed in blue jeans and a tee shirt, was in the kitchen, gnawing upon the remains of a chicken leg, while alternately stuffing spoonfuls of delicatessen potato salad and sliced tomatoes
into his mouth. The young priest looked up from his impromptu feast, and waved a silent hello to Richter, who motioned for him to keep on with his meal.

  Father Anthony never took his eyes off the Monsignor, following him around the kitchen, first as he washed his hands, and then as he rummaged through the refrigerator for something to nibble on. Father Pete sensed the younger man’s attention, and turned to face him.

  “Is there something I can help you with, Father Anthony?”

  Embarrassed at being detected, the young priest lowered his eyes to his plate and mumbled, “No, no, Father. It’s nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Father Anthony hesitated, unsure of how to broach the delicate subject that had occupied his thoughts since the murder of Linda Vogel. Father Pete stood waiting; his eyes fixed on the top of Father Anthony’s head. Finally, when he could endure the silence no longer, he asked again.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing you want to talk to me about?”

  That did it. With a shrug of his shoulders, Father Anthony looked up into his superior’s eyes and spoke.

  “Monsignor,” he said. “There’s something that has been bothering me ever since the day we met with that detective.”

  “Yes? What is it, Father?”

  “Well, do you remember how we went through that whole business of twenty questions about Ms. McKenzie’s confession?”

  “Yes. What about it?”

  “Well, there was quite a bit I didn’t tell the detective or you about her confession that Friday.”

  “Such as what?” asked Richter.

  The young priest swallowed hard, an audible gulp from his throat escaping his mouth. “I know who killed her. I mean I—”

  “You what?” said Father Pete, incredulously. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  Father Anthony continued, “I don’t know exactly who the person was, but I know who he was—sort of.”

  Richter’s eyes darted nervously around the room. He was speechless.

  “Remember I said she was cheating?” said the younger cleric.

  “Yes, but you assumed she was speaking in generalities.”

  “Oh no. She was very specific. It’s been bothering me ever since I heard of her death.”

  Richter felt the room swimming around. He leaned on the back of Father Anthony’s chair for support. He closed his eyes, then opened them, this time staring hard at the young priest. He struggled to regain his composure.

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he finally managed to ask.

  “I wanted to, but—”

  “But what?” shouted Richter. “A woman is dead!”

  “I was afraid – I was afraid of violating her trust.”

  Father Pete felt his hands shaking, and fought to control himself, but Father Anthony could see that Richter was visibly shaken.

  “Father Richter,” he said, “What’s wrong? Why are you so upset?”

  The older priest wiped his hand across his forehead. He was sweating. “It’s just that if you had brought this to my attention sooner. Perhaps we could have—”

  “Could have what?” Now it was the young priest’s turn to be upset. “Do you think we might have saved her life?”

  “I’m not sure,” answered Father Richter. “Who knows? Perhaps.”

  A mournful look crossed Father Anthony’s face. It appeared as if he might cry at any moment.

  “Father Anthony,” said Richter, “Did Cindy McKenzie tell you whom it was that she was cheating with?”

  “Not exactly,” said Father Anthony. “She had been spending a lot of time on the Internet and she had met someone—someone very special. She had become very intimate with him in a chat room, and had decided to meet him. She was afraid she wouldn’t be able to control her desires, and she wanted to confess the weakness of her spirit.”

  “But you said you knew—”

  “I meant I knew more than the fact that she was just cheating.”

  “I see.”

  “But now that’s she gone,” said Father Anthony. “Don’t you think we should tell the police?”

  Richter paused to think. Father Anthony watched him intently, and felt sure he had done the right thing in telling his superior. Perhaps now he would stop dreaming of the poor woman.

  Father Pete spoke. “Father Anthony,” he said. “I’m glad you told me—”

  “Yes, perhaps now we can call that detective—”

  “But,” continued the Monsignor, “it must go no further.”

  “But, I thought—”

  “It would serve no purpose to drag that poor woman’s reputation through the gutter. It’s probably just a coincidence, anyway. Don’t you think so?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess it could be a coincidence, but what if—”

  “That’s it then,” continued Richter. “It’s simply a coincidence. We must protect her reputation at all cost. She has made her peace with her Maker. That is what’s important.”

  Relieved to have his conscience clear, Father Anthony acquiesced. He nodded his head in agreement. He picked up the remains of the chicken leg and began eating again. Father Pete opened the cupboard and removed a teacup. He withdrew a teabag from a China canister, placed it in the cup, and filled the cup three-quarters full of water. Then he placed the cup in the microwave oven over the range and set the timer. In less than two minutes, he was sipping the hot brew and watching the evening news in his study.

  Around eleven, after Father Anthony had retired to his room, Father Richter turned on his computer. He double-clicked on the AOL icon, and waited until the familiar home page appeared. Then, he stopped, got up from his chair, and walked over to the door and locked it. He returned to his chair and sat down again, confident that no one would enter unannounced. However, this time he loosened his belt a couple of notches.

  After his little “session,” Father Pete looked down at the computer, and then at the picture of Sister Francis, hanging on the wall. He lowered his head and crossed himself. He had to stop, he thought. If anyone ever caught him, they’d never understand. In the beginning it had just been the newness of it all. The very idea that he could flirt openly with women he didn’t even know—without any fear of revealing his identity—was like an aphrodisiac. And, it certainly was exciting – at least at first. Now it was more of a habit, a kind of addiction. He exited AOL, and quickly closed down the computer. He buckled his belt, got up, and walked out of the study, through the kitchen, and into his bedroom.

  His usual ritual consisted of undressing, hanging his clothes in the closet, and donning his robe and slippers, before using the bathroom. Then he would say his evening prayers, and retire for the night. As usual, he knelt at the side of his bed, closed his eyes, and began to pray.

  “Father,” he intoned, “Forgive me for my weakness. Help me to resist the temptation that constantly tests my resolve. Show me other ways to be happy. Help me to resist the ways of the flesh. All this I pray, in Jesus’ name, amen.”

  In less than five minutes, Father Richter was fast asleep.

  He awoke in the morning, shaky and disoriented. He was surprised to find his undershirt drenched in perspiration. He sat up and placed his feet on the floor, and noted that the bottom sheet had worked itself nearly free of the mattress. He made a mental not to remind Mrs. Flynn to use the fitted sheets on the bottom, from now on. Oddly, he had no memory of the disturbing dream that caused him to awake with his bedcovers in such disarray. It was just as well.

  CHAPTER 55

  8 a.m. Thursday, May 18

  “Freitag!” shouted Davis, “Get in here. We’re gonna take a little ride.”

  Freitag popped his head through Davis’s office doorway. “What’s up, boss?” he asked.

  “I think you and me will take a trip to Pennsylvania. Let’s see if we can find out more about this John Curran character.”

  “You think it’s worth it?” asked Freitag. “I mean, it’s only been—what—over forty years?”

/>   “You got any other suggestions?” Davis asked.

  “No, but—”

  “Well, then we’ll start with him,” said Matt. “Besides, we don’t have anybody else who looks good. Now, why don’t you—”

  “I know, get directions to Lewisburg and pick you up in a few minutes. I’m already on my way,” said Chris.

  “Good,” said Davis, in an “I told you so” tone of voice.

  Twenty minutes later, armed with directions and a map from the computer program, the two detectives were heading through the Lincoln Tunnel.

  The drive took a little over three hours. They passed the racetrack at Hazleton, where Mario Andretti had cut his teeth before making it big at Indianapolis, and Bloomsburg, home of a nice little college by the same name. This was blue-collar country—working class America—characterized by numerous decaying factories that littered the landscape like children’s toys in a sandbox.

  It was around eleven-thirty, when Freitag steered the Impala onto Franklin Avenue in Lewisburg. The university was situated on a rise overlooking the small Pennsylvania mining town. It consisted of a cluster of brick classroom buildings, surrounded by a cadre of dormitories. At the far end of the campus was a student union building, with a small pond guarding the entrance. The administration building was located immediately to the left of the student union.

  The two detectives were shown into the office of the Dean of Students. She was a woman in her forties, dressed in a conservative navy blue suit. Her graying hair was impeccably coifed, and her nails bore the look of professional care. She stood immediately, and offered a manicured hand to the detectives.