Vengeance Is Mine

by Joanne Fluke

  The waitress hurried over to their booth, balancing their order on her arm. “Anything else for you today?”

  “If Esther’s back there, tell her I want eggs and bacon, the usual way. Michele?”

  “Oh, this is fine for me.” Michele looked down at her huge caramel roll. It had to be at least 500 calories, and that was a conservative estimate. She’d have to watch what she ate for the rest of the day, or she’d never be able to get into the new dress her mother had sent her. Of course, she could eat just half, but that called for more willpower than she possessed.

  “Sugar?”

  Steve smiled as she nodded. He poured two heaping teaspoons of sugar into her coffee, and Michele added another 40 calories to her mental tally.

  “Brian caught me just as I was leaving the office. He wants the whole WinterGame committee to come over for dinner tonight. Beef Stroganoff. We’re supposed to meet at his house at seven.”

  “Brian’s Stroganoff is heavenly.” Michele picked up her coffee and took a sip. So: 540 calories for breakfast plus another 2,000 if Brian served his usual feast. That was about 1,400 over her self-imposed limit. She’d have to starve tomorrow.

  A plate of Land O’ Lakes butter patties rested next to the caramel roll. Michele unwrapped two and let them melt over the top of her caramel roll. In for a penny, in for a pound. Suddenly her diet wasn’t important anymore. She’d be spending the evening with Steve.

  Michele used her fork to cut off a piece of roll and sighed as she popped it into her mouth. The caramel stuck to her teeth. Dan Marsh’s rolls were messy to eat and worth every calorie. She gave Steve a rapturous smile and crossed her fingers under the table, something she’d done as a child when she was telling a lie.

  “I really hate to bother you, Steve, but my car’s not working. Do you suppose you could pick me up tonight?”

  Mother Superior frowned and clasped her hands together. They had just seen the in-depth report about Brian Nordstrom’s fight.

  “I just can’t believe that sweet boy did anything wrong. He looked so nice on the television. I think someone made a dreadful mistake.”

  “You may be right, Mother.” Sister Kate nodded. “I’ve heard a lot about Herb Swanson and Norm Ostrander. They went to St. Mary’s Parochial. Sister Margaret said they were always the rowdiest boys in her class.”

  Monsignor Wickes licked his lips. “And they were drinking. There’s nothing more dangerous than a mean drunk. That Nordstrom boy was probably in fear for his life.”

  “Well, he didn’t learn hand-to-hand combat in the army.” Major Pietre laughed loudly. “The other side was only wounded. We taught our men to kill!”

  “This news is depressing.” Gustie looked toward the door. “Isn’t lunch ready yet?”

  “Shh. Here’s the boy’s lawyer.” Father Murphy leaned closer to the screen. “I hope he’s a Lutheran. No Catholic should defend a homosexual.”

  It was difficult for Bishop Donahue to sit quietly through the rest of the news. Black had moved by advancing Dale Kline to defend the Black Pawn. And Bishop Donahue’s White Rook, the Defender of Decency, had been seriously injured and was in danger of being captured. There was no other possible interpretation. He had to study the board immediately and block the advance.

  Sister Kate frowned as the bishop got up and walked toward the door. “Don’t leave now, Bishop Donahue. Lunch will be ready in just a minute.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.” Bishop Donahue turned and gave her a smile. “Do you think I might have a sandwich later in the day?”

  “Oh. Well . . . of course.”

  There were rules about eating at regular times, but Sister Kate was so shocked by the Bishop’s smile that she agreed without giving it a second thought. He seemed much more pleasant and alert today, and he’d been totally enthralled by News at Noon. Archbishop Ciminski and the doctor were right. The new television was doing Bishop Donahue a world of good.

  Sister Cecelia had prayed all afternoon. Her mind was in turmoil, and she was tempted to take just one forbidden tranquilizer, but she was sworn to obedience. The bishop needed her to be alert for the evening ahead.

  The sky was beginning to darken outside and Cissy knew it was time to go downstairs. As she passed Bishop Donahue’s door he looked up from his chessboard and smiled. Suddenly Cissy felt much better. His smile was a reward for her loyalty and devotion. She smiled back shyly and hurried down the stairs. Bishop Donahue was counting on her. She would do everything in her power to make certain he succeeded in accomplishing his duty.

  “I’m at the law library in the courthouse. In case of emergency, contact me there.”

  Dale Kline waited for the beep and set his answer phone to play the new message. It was already past seven, and he had to do research for a pleading on Monday morning. While he was there, he’d locate references for Brian Nordstrom’s case. It was good therapy to keep busy. Then he wouldn’t think about Cindy. He had lost his daughter. He had no one to blame but himself, and the reality was wrenchingly painful.

  Dale threw his coat over his shoulder. It was only half a block to the courthouse, and he didn’t bother to put the coat on as he dashed across the icy street. There were seventeen steps to the door, and Dale forced himself to climb them on the run. Lawyers got plenty of exercise in St. Cloud. The courtrooms were on the second floor, and the lounge was in the basement. Duluth residents claimed their women had the shapeliest legs because the city was built on a hill, but Dale was sure St. Cloud lawyers could give them a run for their money.

  Local lawyers were given keys to the courthouse law library when they passed the bar. Dale found the right key on his chain and hurried down the stairs to the lower level. The library was predictably deserted. It was Saturday, and everyone else was enjoying the weekend.

  The cleaning crew was working in the hallway, polishing the solid granite floors. Even with the door closed, he could hear the swish of the machines and the occasional shouted comment. Dale was glad there were other people in the building. The courthouse was eerie when it was completely deserted. Steps echoed hollowly along the corridors, and it had all the charm of a classic horror movie. Even though Dale was sure that Ray Perini had been hit by one of his mob connections, he checked the door again to make sure it was securely locked from the inside.

  He had almost five hours to work before the watchman made his rounds. Dale pulled several books from the shelves and placed them next to his yellow legal pad. The courthouse lobby stayed open until midnight, part of the city’s new extended hours policy. Dale had laughed when he read the new hours. It seemed ridiculous for the lobby to remain open when all the offices were closed, but the midnight curfew was policy now, and Dale doubted that it would be changed in the near future. At midnight the watchman, hired expressly for that purpose, would check the premises and lock the outside doors.

  Dale set his alarm watch for ten minutes to twelve and opened the first book. In no time at all he was lost in the intricacies of an involved Minnesota statute.

  It was a few minutes past eleven when Dale heard the sound of heels clicking on the polished floor of the lobby above him. The cleaning crew had left some time ago. Vaguely he remembered the mop buckets clanging as they stored their things in the janitor’s closet next door.

  The footsteps grew louder as they descended the stairs. A moment later there was a soft knock on the library door.

  Dale stuck a paper clip on the page he was reading. He walked to the door and squinted through the peephole. A nun stood waiting patiently in the corridor outside. There was another figure in a black cape standing behind her, a second nun or perhaps a priest.

  For a moment Dale was perplexed. Then he remembered the pledge he had signed for the Catholic Children’s Fund. They must really need money badly to track him down in the law library after eleven o’clock on a Saturday night.

  There was another knock on the door, a little louder this time. Dale sighed and bowed to the inevitable. He fixed his fa
ce in a welcoming smile and unlocked the door.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mother Superior spread out her collection of holy cards and selected nine Sacred Hearts for the first page of her album. The Holy Family cards would go next, and then the missionary sisters. She would save the signed cards for last. They were the most precious. And Archbishop Ciminski had promised to bring her a holy card blessed by the pope.

  The album had been a Christmas present, and Archbishop Ciminski had assured her that it was perfectly proper to put her holy cards between sheets of clear plastic. It would keep them safe and clean. Mother Superior only wished that albums like this had been available when she was teaching. She could have ordered them in bulk and given one to every student for a first holy communion present.

  Since she had 412 different holy cards, sorting was difficult. Mother Superior picked out one of her favorites. It was a beautifully colored picture of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. It had been printed in France, with gold stamp around the halo. Mother Superior decided it should go next to St. Frances Xavier Cabrini, the first American saint, canonized only forty years ago. Her holy card was printed in black and white. St. Frances probably had a few years to go before she rated a full-color card with fluted edges and gold stamp.

  Mother Superior smiled as she pulled back the plastic sheet and lined up her holy cards, three across, three down. She felt much better tonight. The throbbing in her head was completely gone. Sister Kate said the new medication was responsible but Mother Superior was sure St. Teresa of Avila, the patron saint of headaches, had finally interceded for her. The power of prayer was absolute, especially when it was addressed to the proper quarter.

  Another hour, and the album was half filled. Mother Superior glanced at the clock by her bed. It was past eleven, and the house was quiet. That nice young priest from St. John’s Seminary was coming to say early mass tomorrow in the chapel, and she didn’t want to oversleep. She’d take another few minutes to write a new question for the archbishop’s game, and then she’d go straight to bed.

  Archbishop Ciminski had given her an assignment yesterday. He’d told her all about Trivial Pursuit and explained that he was gathering data for a Catholic trivia game, one that parents could play with their children. He’d asked her to jot down any questions she thought were appropriate. It felt wonderful to be needed again.

  Mother Superior had a surprise for the archbishop. It was a file she had saved from her days at Sacred Heart Elementary. Inside were 232 questions, all neatly printed on three-by-five cards. Of course, she hadn’t thought to call it Catholic Trivia. It was Religious Spelldown, her students’ favorite game. On the last day of the school year, when the public schools had picnics, classes at Sacred Heart held Religious Spelldowns. The winners received religious medals.

  Mother Superior selected a card at random. It asked, “What is the largest order of priests?” The answer, “The Jesuits,” was written on the back. That was a nice easy question. Even a first-grader would know the answer. The next card read, “What is the smallest order of priests?” Mother Superior frowned as she saw the answer: “The Mekhitarist with only twenty-six members.” Archbishop Ciminski would have to go over her cards carefully to make sure the information was up-to-date.

  It was difficult to think of a subject she hadn’t covered in her card file. Mother Superior concentrated on real esoterica. There had been a bit of trivia in the Catholic Visitor last month, if only she could remember it. Oh yes. The pope’s radio station call letters, HVJ. Mother Superior wrote the question and answer on a blank card and slipped it into her file. That made a total of 233 questions. Now she could go to sleep with a clear conscience.

  Mother Superior had just climbed into bed and switched off the light when she heard footsteps in the hall. She thought about putting on her glasses to see who it was, but she was just too tired. A night-light was kept on in the hallway. It plugged into the wall socket outside her door. Because Mother Superior’s door didn’t close tightly, she could see the shoes of anyone who walked past.

  There was a quick blur of black. That would be Bishop Donahue, going to his room. He was the only one who wore black shoes. The black blur was followed by a blur of white. It had to be Cissy, still wearing her nursing shoes. Sister Kate switched to blue fuzzy slippers at night.

  Mother Superior frowned. Cissy was following Bishop Donahue to his room. She prayed that Cissy would remember her vows and not do anything to bring shame upon her order.

  A moment later the white shoes passed by again. Mother Superior breathed a sigh of relief as she heard Cissy go into her room and close the door. Now they all were in their proper rooms. She could relax her vigil. It never occurred to Mother Superior to wonder why Cissy and Bishop Donahue were wearing their daytime shoes at five minutes past midnight.

  Michele shifted position and tried to open her eyes, but she was just too tired. The deep voice in the background droned on with the rhythm of a professional lecturer, and Michele knew she was sleeping in class again. If the instructor called on her, she would be terribly embarrassed. She simply had to wake up and pay attention.

  “A lure with a fast drop head is imperative when vertical jigging. Lake trout are sight feeders, and the lure must provide flash and enticing action. Vibrating blade baits, tail spinners, and jigging spoons work consistently well.”

  What kind of class was this? For a moment Michele was thoroughly puzzled. Then she realized that she was lying on the couch in her own living room and the instructor’s voice was coming from the television.

  The fishing program. Michele sat up and pressed the red button to stop the videotape. She had put it on when Steve left, and she must have slept through at least an hour of How to Fish Lake Trout. Now she was hopelessly lost. She’d missed all the vocabulary. Of course, she knew that lures were something you tied on the end of the line. She remembered that much from an old Rock Hudson-Doris Day movie. But she didn’t have the slightest notion what “vertical jigging” meant.

  Carol Berg had stopped by the clinic on her lunch hour with the portable video recorder and eight hours of fishing tapes. Carol and Jim were planning a two-week Canadian fishing trip in May. Steve was going along. They had reserved an outpost cabin on Clearwater Lake in Ontario. Carol thought Michele might like to brush up on her fishing skills, just in case. They could easily make it a foursome.

  She should have spoken up immediately, but Michele hated to disappoint Carol. It might work out even though she’d been fishing only once in her life. It had been at the Funtime Trout Farm near Houston: pond restocked every week, fish so hungry they’d bite on a bare hook, and a dollar-an-inch charge for every fish caught. Michele’s Girl Scout troop had gone there when she was nine, and she’d been the only one to come home empty-handed.

  Michele pressed the rewind button and promised herself she’d watch at least two hours of fishing instruction tomorrow even though it was probably an exercise in futility. She doubted that Steve would think to ask her along. It seemed every time they were together some new catastrophe intervened. This time the evening had started out well. They’d had a wonderful time at Brian’s. When they got back to her apartment at midnight, Steve had lit the fireplace, she’d poured him a drink, and they’d curled up on the sofa. So far, so good. Then, before they could even think about cuddling up together, the telephone had rung. There was some sort of trouble, and Steve was needed at the station immediately.

  His snifter of cognac was still sitting, untouched, on the end table. Michele picked it up and took a tiny sip. The clerk at the Crossroads Liquor Store had assured her that Courvoisier VSOP was a good buy at eighteen dollars a bottle. Steve had been suitably impressed when she broke the seal, so it was definitely worth the money. Michele hoped he’d never explore the rest of her liquor cabinet. She’d never gotten around to stocking it. The total contents were a fifth of banana mint liqueur that had been left by a previous tenant and two bottles of rhubarb wine that Carol had made last summer.

  Michele
wrapped herself in the granny square afghan Louise had given her for Christmas and used the remote control to switch the television to Channel 5. It was showing some movie filmed in Alaska, and the blowing snow made her cold. Bat Masterson was shooting ’em up on Channel 4, and Channel 7 was having technical difficulties. Channel 9 had a Billy Graham special, and marathon wrestling was on Channel 11. Michele was about to switch off the television when she remembered that Margaret Whitworth’s station was now broadcasting twenty-four hours a day. The Bad News Bears wasn’t her favorite movie, but Michele figured she needed a little dose of comedy right now. She’d watch the movie and finish Steve’s cognac. Then maybe she’d feel better.

  She was dozing by the dying fire when a news flash interrupted the movie. Michele was suddenly alert when she heard a familiar name.

  “Local authorities were called to the scene shortly after midnight tonight when the body of Dale Kline, St. Cloud lawyer, was discovered in the law library of the county courthouse. Steve Radke, acting chief of police, says foul play is indicated.”

  Michele reached for the snifter of cognac and finished it off in one gulp. Dale Kline was dead, and foul play was a television euphemism for murder! Suddenly Michele felt guilty for thinking mean things about Dale. He had been a jerk with women and an evil father to Cindy, but he hadn’t deserved to die.

  Could this have anything to do with Brian? Michele frowned. The Defenders of Decency had a reputation for being a violent group, but they certainly wouldn’t murder Dale just because he was defending Brian.

  “Oh, my God!”

  Her hand was shaking and Michele set the empty snifter down with trembling fingers. What if Cindy had told someone she was pregnant? Someone like her mother. Would Vera Kline be angry enough to kill Dale?

  She had to call the police. Michele picked up the phone and dialed part of the number before she remembered that she’d agreed to keep Cindy’s abortion strictly confidential. It was part of her job. But was that promise binding in a murder case? There was no one she could ask for advice. If she explained the situation, she would be violating Cindy’s confidence. She’d have to use the tactic she’d devised for situations like this. What would so-and-so say if. She’d been doing it since she was a little girl, long before she’d learned what imaginary dialogues were.