by Mary Daheim
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him talking earnestly to Father Den. Delia Lucci was standing awkwardly by the door that led from the vestibule to the crying room. She looked forlorn, and somehow her demeanor literally forced my hand. A vote for her husband's candidate was a vote for Delia. I felt the need to appease Luce, if only because it might make life easier for his wife. I checked off Laura O'Toole's name, and handed the ballot to Ronnie Wenzler-Greene. The principal looked grim.
Still feeling sorry for Delia Lucci, I went over to her and gave her a warm smile. “The forecast was right for once,” I said, falling back on the weather as a topic of conversation. “It looks like we won't have to worry about water rationing.”
Delia Lucci's plump face brightened ever so slightly. “Isn't that the truth, Ms. Lord? Maybe summer is finally over.” The light went out in her eyes as she saw her husband approach. Luce was limping, and he looked disturbed.
His nod to me was perfunctory and his tone was sharp as he spoke to his wife. “Come on, Delia, let's go. I gotta start haulin' stuff over to Old Mill Park for the picnic tomorrow.”
“What's wrong with your leg?” I asked, trying not to notice how Delia cringed when Luce spoke to her.
Luce glowered at me. “It's the rain. That's the leg that got bunged up in the woods.” He gestured impatiently at Delia. “What're you waitin' for—Santa Claus? He ain't comin' till December, Del. Let's move it.”
With a timorous smile, Delia said goodbye. I watched the Luccis leave the vestibule, Luce limping, Delia carefully keeping a couple of paces behind. I held back until they had descended the six wooden stairs. Then I, too, made my exit.
Ed and Shirley Bronsky waylaid me in the parking lot. Shirley held an umbrella over their heads. It featured the stained-glass windows of Notre Dame, and no doubt was a trophy from their European tour. Having grown up in Seattle, where the rain is usually as gentle as it is frequent, I eschewed umbrellas of any kind. I found them a nuisance, and easier to misplace than car keys.
“Hey-hey!” Ed exclaimed, beaming. “You and I have to take a meeting, Emma. How about Monday, say around ten?”
“Monday's a holiday,” I reminded Ed with what I hoped was a friendly smile. “But Tuesday would be fine. In fact, I was thinking about calling you. Milo and I have a project in mind that might interest you. We've been talking about the problem with the homeless. We thought that if—”
Ed held up a beefy hand. “Put all that stuff on hold, Emma. If you're asking me to get involved with any more volunteering, you'll have to wait.” He gave Shirley a conspiratorial glance, then turned back to me and lowered his voice. '7 finished the book.”
I'd all but forgotten about Ed's autobiography. He'd started writing it the previous winter, and had nearly driven me crazy by asking for help. At one point he had begged me to ghostwrite it for him. But a combination of flattery and intimidation had finally persuaded Ed that he should be the sole author.
I tried to look thrilled. “Great, Ed. How did it turn out?”
Ed again looked at his wife, who giggled and jiggled and almost conked her husband with the umbrella. “It's absolutely fantastic,” Shirley said with enthusiasm. “I couldn't put it down.”
Ed's attempt to look modest failed miserably. “It's pretty good, I'll admit. That's why I want to talk to you, to set up an interview when I get the contract. I sent the book off Friday to Doubleday. Maybe I'll hear from them by the end of next week.”
Having worked with a number of reporters who had tried to get books published, I knew a little about the industry. “I don't think they turn projects around quite that fast,” I cautioned. “Maybe you should try to get an agent first.”
Ed scoffed. “What for? Why lose fifteen percent off the top? This book will sell itself. Heck, the title alone is worth it.”
“Which is?” I wasn't sure I wanted to know.
“I needed something that told the reader what the book was about, namely me,” he replied, now very serious. “I wanted to keep it simple, but to have a familiar ring, so it would be easy for people to remember. I call it Mr. Ed.”
“That's … good,” I gulped, exerting every ounce of restraint to keep from laughing, smiling, or falling down in a coma. “Let me know what happens.”
Shirley twirled the umbrella like a top. “Everyone will know. We'll give a huge party. The only thing is, we hope they don't rush it into publication before we get the house finished. It'd be so much better to host the gala in our new banquet hall.”
I didn't know if the new Bronsky house actually had a banquet hall, or if Shirley was suffering from her usual delusions of grandeur. But the allusion to excess reminded me of my original intention.
“While you're waiting to hear from New York,” I began, managing to keep a straight face, “you might think about how we can build a multipurpose shelter in Alpine. The number of homeless people is growing by the day. Maybe you could talk to Father Den about it.”
Ed frowned and shook his head. “I don't know about that, Emma. Like I said, we should wait.”
“Ed,” I said, now growing impatient, “we can't wait too long. The good weather is coming to an end. We should get something up and running before the first snow. Believe me, it might take six months before you get a reply from Doubleday.”
Ed obviously didn't believe me. “I can't take the chance. Besides, it's not a good idea to bring up any big projects right now. Things around here are kind of shaky. If you know what I mean.” His small eyes darted toward the church, where Father Den now stood on the steps, bidding farewell to the stragglers.
“Are you talking about the school-board vote?” I asked in a puzzled tone.
Ed shook his head and took a couple of backward steps, forcing Shirley to move with the umbrella. “I mean Den. I've got a feeling that his days are numbered here in Alpine.”
I was shocked. While it was seldom wise to take Ed seriously, his pronouncement made an impression. “You can't mean he's being transferred,” I said in an incredulous voice. “The chancery doesn't move priests this time of year, they do it in the spring.”
The rain was coming down harder now. Ed looked over his paunch, apparently trying to see what effect the water was having on his black alligator shoes. “They'll move him if enough pressure is put on the archbishop. Or if he flat out resigns.” Turning to Shirley, he placed a guiding hand on her shoulder. “Let's go home, Shirl. My feet feel damp.” Over his shoulder, Ed nodded benignly. “See you, Emma. Don't worry, you'll get one of the first autographed copies of Mr, Ed”
Trying not to feel appalled by Ed's cocky attitude, I trudged to my car. Murray Felton was leaning against the passenger door, holding a black umbrella over his curly dark hair.
“I recognized your Jag from last night,” he said, giving me that big grin. “Want to take me for a ride?”
I couldn't quite summon up a smile. “Where? Why?”
“Don't forget who, what, and when.” Murray reached for the handle and found the door unlocked. He shot me a look of mock amazement. “Talk about trust! You smalltown folks really do feel safe from crime. Do you suppose that Randall babe got overconfident?”
“She wasn't a babe,” I said stiffly. “Move it, Murray. I'm going home.”
“Not quite.” To my astonishment, he closed the umbrella and got inside the Jag.
Angrily I marched around to the other side. “Listen, jackass,” I barked, leaning across the steering wheel, “get out of here! Or do you want me to call the sheriff?”
Murray's expression was insolent. “What do you call him? Quick Shot or Slow Draw?”
Rarely have I had the urge to throttle anyone. To keep from doing Murray Felton bodily harm, I flew out of the car, slammed the door, and stomped off in the direction of the rectory. Separated from the church by a covered walkway, the modest frame building is set off. from the parking lot by a small garden. I galloped up to the front porch and punched the bell, hoping that Father Den had had time to change in the sacristy.
Apparently he hadn't. There was no answer. The era of the full-time housekeeper had ended a few years earlier, forcing the pastor to rely on sporadic help. Frustrated, I started back to the parking lot.
To my relief, Murray Felton had gotten out of the Jag. He met me halfway back to the car. “Okay,” he said in a cheerful voice, “so I trash-talk sometimes. It's the cynical reporter in me, so what? Meet me at Starbucks. I'll buy you a latte, and explain how Ursula Randall managed to get herself drowned.”
“I thought you needed a ride,” I said in an irritable voice.
Murray shrugged. “Just kidding. My car's over there.” He nodded across the lot at the red Mazda Miata that was the only other remaining vehicle besides my Jag. “In fact,” he continued, now turning more serious, “I thought maybe we could go see Mrs. Patricelli together. She wouldn't let me in last night.”
I wasn't surprised. Polly was a nervous, suspicious widow who lived alone. A stranger who appeared on her doorstep after dark would not be welcomed. Finally calming down, I considered my options.
“I'll lead the way to Mrs. Patricelli's,” I said, brushing wet hair from my forehead. Now that Murray was putting on the pressure, I decided it was time to take a look at the miracle vase. “If you've really got a viable theory about Ursula, you can come with me and tell the sheriff.”
Murray seemed appeased. His Miata followed me closely along the two blocks to the Patricelli house on Tyee Street. From the outside, it seemed impossible that nine children had been raised in such an old crackerbox. Vida, however, had told me that the inside, especially the second story, was a veritable rabbit warren of rooms.
Eight cracked and chipped concrete stairs led through an overgrown rockery. An ancient lilac, which looked as if it had been split down the middle by lightning, stood at one end of the porch; at the other, a towering yew blotted out the daylight from the front windows. Boards creaked underfoot as we approached the front door, a solid slab of oak that had been varnished until it looked congealed.
Predictably, Polly opened the door only a crack. “Yes?” she said, her filmy dark eyes wary.
I identified myself, and introduced Murray. Slowly Polly undid the chain and let us in. “I know you, yes,” she said to me, her small, wrinkled face looking worried. “But him”—Polly gestured at Murray—”I never seen him before until last night. I don't talk to strangers. I tell my children, don't talk to strangers. But sometimes they do. They grow up and think they know everything.” She shrugged helplessly, a small, insignificant figure in a shapeless black dress' “You want to see my vase?”
I was vaguely startled. “How did you know?”
“Everybody wants to see it. Maybe God wants me to show it to other people. I don't know. Come, it's in the living room.” She always moved slowly, but now she was down to a crawl. Murray bumped into me as I tried not to do the same with Polly PatricellL
The heavy, worn drapes were closed, and the only illumination on this rainy Sunday came from a dozen votive candles on the mantel. My gaze flickered over the shabby furniture, much of which was covered with specimens of Polly's needlework. A small but exquisite Venetian chandelier hung from the ceiling, along with a collection of cobwebs. The walls were covered with familiar, if sentimental, religious pictures: the Holy Family, the Sacred Heart of Jesus, St. Francis, St. Clare, St, Cecilia, the Good Shepherd.
As Polly approached the fireplace with its smoke-blackened tiles, she crossed herself. I waited for her to speak, but she said nothing, merely standing there with her head bent. Murray and I stood on each side of our mesmerized hostess, trying to examine the vase in the flickering light of the votive candles. There was definitely a crack—five or six of them in fact, all radiating from a faded cluster of flowers that might have been wild roses. There were three in number, on a background of thin, pointed leaves. The vase had cracked in such a way that the center of the flowers could have been taken for two eyes and a mouth, while the other squiggly lines might—with a great stretch of the imagination—suggest a nose, a beard, longish hair, and something across the brow that could be construed as a crown of thorns. The leaves seemed to form no part of the picture, and if anything, might have been taken for ornamental head feathers. I was reminded more of Montezuma than Jesus, and didn't know what to say.
Murray, however, wasn't so tongue-tied. “When does it cry?” he asked.
Polly didn't respond. I gathered she was praying. At last, she crossed herself again and turned slowly. “What did you say?” she asked in a hushed voice.
To Murray's credit, he was respectful. “I heard the vase cried. Does that happen often?”
Polly gave a small shake of her head. “He won't cry now.” The cloudy old eyes gazed first at Murray, then at me. “That's because you don't believe. But later, when you are gone, He will weep. For both of you.”
Chapter Ten
“IT'S NOT WORTH it,” Murray declared as we sat down with our beverages at a window table in Starbucks. “I couldn't see squat. My producer won't waste footage on anything that lame.”
“It was kind of obscure,” I admitted.
“Screw it,” Murray said, taking a sip of his double-tall. “It was just a side issue. I don't even know who told us about it. Probably some Catholic bleeding heart. How's your mocha?”
“Fine,” I replied, though I hadn't yet tasted it. I was still smarting from Polly's denunciation. Or so I interpreted it. Had she meant that I didn't believe in her vase? Or that I didn't believe? Either way, was she right? There were times when I wondered. But I'd never say so out loud, not even to Ben. “Let's talk about Ursula. The sheriff's not around, so you can tell me.” I'd tried to call Milo on my way from the rest room, but he hadn't answered at my house or his. I'd also phoned the sheriff's office, but Bill Blatt hadn't seen him all day. Maybe Milo was following up a lead.
Murray was giving me that engaging grin. “I lied. I do that a lot, to get people's attention. You know what I mean—ninety percent of them are brain-dead. Like, which makes you tune in—'So how are you doing?' or 'You got tits to die for'?”
“Murray …”
“Just kidding! So I'm not PC. Not in private, anyway.
Forget what I said, even if … I'm not kidding.” He sipped some more at his latte, then wiped foam from his upper lip. “As for Ursula, I'm going after this from the legal angle. Four malpractice suits have gone down so far, three settled out of court, one went to trial. The plaintiff lost that one, but the other three collected a total of five million bucks, give or take a few hundred grand. Two of those took place before Dr. Randall died three years ago. Yes, he had malpractice insurance, but only up to twenty-five mil. With eleven more cases out there totaling close to forty mil in damages, that wouldn't leave his widow with a lot of cash flow. It might not leave the plaintiffs with much, either. So who decided that revenge was better than money?”
Trying to put aside my spiritual quandary, I turned a perplexed face to Murray. “I don't get it. Why kill Ursula? She didn't perform botched surgeries.”
“Hey—did I claim people are rational?” Murray leaned back in his chair. “Let's say you've got a kid with spinal problems. You send Junior to Dr. Randall, who screws up and the little guy ends up walking on his hands. You're number ten on that list of eleven plaintiffs, and if you've got more than four brain cells, you figure you're not going to get enough to buy Junior a pair of padded gloves. Then you find out that Wheaton's eatin' dirt in some cemetery, so who do you go after? Mrs. Randall, that's who. It's human nature.” Murray gave me a smug look.
“So Mom or Dad waits until Ursula moves to Alpine, follows her up here, has a few drinks with her, and hauls her off to the Sky. Glub, glub.” I shook my head. “No sale, Murray.”
“Emma!” Murray gazed at me with mock astonishment. “I thought you had brains to match those tits! Just kidding!” He put both hands in front of his face as if he needed to fend me off, which wasn't a bad idea on his part. I was feeling fairly dangerous. “How ma
ny surgeons have you got in Alpine?” Murray asked between his fingers.
The question took me aback. “Both Doc Dewey and Dr. Flake perform some surgeries. But they aren't surgeons per se,” I admitted.
Murray allowed his hands to fall back onto the table. “You got it. I'm heading back this afternoon since the babelicious Carla isn't around and the vase is a dud. But I'll keep in touch. Meanwhile take a hint from Felton's Fabulous Files and find out who got fucked over by Dr. Randall. There are four thousand people in this town, and I'll bet you a hop in the hay that at least one of them got a referral to Wheaton's Wacky Weed-Whacker.”
There was some merit in Murray's argument. Maybe I'd look into it. I had nothing better to do on this drizzly Sunday afternoon.
But even as Murray rose from the table he was off on another tangent. “Look at it from another angle—who benefits from Ursula's death? You know anything about her will? Rich people always have wills.”
“There were no children,” I said as we went outside and stood under the shelter of the green Starbucks marquee. “There are her two brothers here in town, of course. But maybe Warren Wells gets everything.”
“Assuming there'll be anything left to get,” Murray said with a grim expression. “If Ursula had been smart, she'd have left the country, not the county. That's what doctors—and their widows—usually do when they're faced with big lawsuits.”
My gaze traveled across Alpine Way to Old Mill Park, where the Labor Day picnic banners sagged in the rain. Several people were braving the weather to work on preparations for Monday's event. Red, white, and blue bunting decorated the original mill, which dated from World War I and now housed the local museum.
I looked again at Murray, who seemed indifferent to our little festivities. “Money is always a good motive,” I remarked.