“Astute,” Tully murmured under his breath. Then he said, “Let’s go, Mang.”
“Let me go to the door with you,” Koesler said. Whatever else he might accomplish in the near future, he was intent on apologizing to the officers. Any number of times in his past Koesler had felt like a complete idiot, but never more than now.
The three men left the dining room, as did the kitchen and serving staff.
Remaining in the room were the unwitting and unwilling actors in the unfortunate psychodrama.
Janet sat at the table now cleared of dishes and accoutered with a fresh tablecloth and napkins. Marie and Martha flanked her. Winer and Benbow remained standing.
“It seems such a long time since we had dinner,” Benbow said slowly.
Winer glanced at his watch. “Yes, it does. But it’s only a couple of hours.” No one else spoke. The silence was punctuated only by the soft sounds Janet made; her tears flowed less abundantly now.
“I must apologize, Sister,” Benbow addressed Marie finally. “I’m afraid I said some pretty horrid things to you.”
Marie tried to smile but did not quite succeed. “I guess I returned the favor. Our introduction to each other did not get off to an auspicious beginning.”
Silence again.
“To be perfectly honest,” Benbow said, “I don’t know that we can return to point zero.”
“Pardon?”
“I mean,” Benbow continued, “just a few hours ago we were complete strangers to one another. And then in no time we were all but accusing one another of murder. After the bitterness of the things that were said, I don’t know whether we can go back and patch up our relationship.”
Silence.
“I’d like to think we could,” Marie said thoughtfully, “but you may very well be right. Maybe it is too late to return to a neutral position and build our relationship on friendlier ground. Maybe we ought to call off this conference.”
Janet looked at Marie in horror.
“No,” Winer said with authority. “There are reasons—compelling reasons—why we must hold this workshop just as planned. For one thing, we have an obligation to those who signed up for it. They’ll be coming in tomorrow. It’s not their fault that things have gotten off to such a bad beginning.”
Janet looked relieved.
“And . . . ?”Benbow prodded.
“And . . . what?” Winer said.
“Look, I agree with you completely,” Benbow said. “We are honor bound to give the students their money’s worth. No doubt about that. But you spoke in the plural. You said there were reasons why we had to go on.”
Winer smiled briefly. “I, for one, want to find out what comes next.”
“Next?” Marie said.
“Yes. Until Sister Janet spoke up a few minutes ago, I had no idea whatsoever why this particular group had been selected as the ‘faculty’ for this conference. And I assume the same could be said for the rest of you?” He looked around for a reaction.
“Well,” Marie said, “we’re all authors of mystery novels with a religious motif.”
“Yes,” Winer agreed, “But we aren’t the only ones doing that. Just as a matter of conjecture, I had been wondering why each individual here had been selected. I thought the core of the secret was revealed when, before dinner, we learned that each of us had been offered a contract by P.G. Press. And that each of us had turned said contract down.
“But now a new element has been added. Our would-be publisher insisted that we—specifically each one of us—be invited. He made this a condition of his acceptance. I find that both odd and intriguing.”
“So do I,” Benbow said.
“And I,” Marie agreed. “Not only did he, in effect, invite us, he wanted to play a game with us.”
“Like marionettes on a string,” Benbow added.
“And that’s why,” Winer said, “I especially want to stay for the next act. I can’t think he had us invited just to play a trick on us. If we’re going to discover the reason, we’re going to have to play this out. Only now, I feel certain, we know something else is coming.”
Marie shuddered. “But what? I feel as if I’m going in two directions at once. I want to leave and I want to stay. I distinctly don’t want to play games with a madman.”
“I have a feeling, Sister,” Winer said, “that Krieg is not the sort of person who accepts no for an answer graciously. We’ve already rejected his proposal to join his publishing empire. Once again, it seems perfectly obvious he has something else in store for us. What’s he really up to?”
“The rabbi has a point, Sister,” Benbow said. “I’d rather face Krieg and get it over with. Besides, whatever he has in mind can’t be that serious. Probably just something in very bad taste.”
“Of course,” Winer said, “all this hypothesis we’ve been bandying about is predicated on the fact that all the games we know about have been played.” He purposefully focused on Janet. “There aren’t any more games or plots—that you know about—are there, Sister? I mean, there weren’t any more ‘conditions’ that Mr. Regan agreed to . . . are there?”
Janet shook her head vigorously. “No, no more conditions.”
“By the way, Sister,” Winer said, “just where is the man of the hour, the erstwhile corpse? The Reverend Krieg is not staying with us?”
“Oh, dear,” Janet said, “I forgot. There was one more stipulation. That was that he also have a room available for him off-campus. I remember Jack saying that the Reverend asked specifically about living conditions here. Jack said he tried to be as realistic as possible about the residence rooms. The Reverend asked Jack to book a room for him at the Westin.”
“In the Renaissance Center?” Marie asked.
“That’s right,” Janet said.
Marie pursed her lips. It was a prestigious riverfront hotel in that section of downtown Detroit that still worked.
Benbow whistled softly. “I think he’s trying to tell us something. His own residence. His own liquor supply. His own food.”
“His own food?” Marie said.
“Didn’t you see his henchman get him a dinner different than we had?” Benbow said. “I firmly believe he’s trying to tell us something: that he not only is different from the rest of us, he’s better—and merits better accommodations.”
“As long as we’re dealing with comparisons,” Marie said, “there’s one area where he very definitely surpasses us: money.”
“No argument there, Sister,” Benbow said.
Winer ran a hand through his trim beard. “Are we not forgetting someone?”
The others looked at him inquiringly.
“Father Augustine,” Winer said. “Whatever happened to Father Augustine?”
Janet almost laughed aloud. “I confess I forgot about him . . . or, at least stopped worrying about him the moment I heard the poor man snore.”
It was a much needed release of tension; they all roared with laughter.
“Then, Sister,” Winer said, “it is safe to assume that Father Augustine’s plight, whatever it is, was not part of the psychodrama Reverend Krieg and Mr. Regan arranged.”
Janet was wiping her eyes, teared this time by laughing, not crying. “No . . . no. I don’t know what was wrong with the poor man. Jet lag, upset stomach, I have no idea. One thing I am quite sure of: He is being well cared for. The students who volunteered to help him are very responsible young people. They said they would call a doctor and I’m sure they have. They would have told us if it were serious. In this case, I’m sure, no news is good news.
“But, so that we’ll all sleep well, I will check into the medical status of Father Augustine. I’ll just slip the information under each of your doors.”
“Speaking of which,” Martha glanced at her watch, “it’s still rather early, but I can’t remember when I’ve been this tired. If there isn’t anything more on the agenda—and for the life of me I can’t think of what could possibly follow what we’ve been through—if w
e’re done for the evening, I think I’ll just retire.”
Winer looked at Sister Janet. “I take it, Sister, that the visit to our classrooms that you announced after dinner was no more than a ploy to get us away from ‘the scene of the crime,’ and that there is really no need to go there before the sessions tomorrow.”
Janet nodded.
“Then,” Winer said, “I feel you have touched upon a consensus, Mrs. Benbow. It’s off to bed we go.”
“Amen,” Marie said.
Benbow stifled a yawn. “So much for our first exciting night in Dynamic Detroit.”
And so, not one by one, but as a group, they left the dining room and its memories not of food but of surprises.
Meanwhile, between the dining room and the front door of the Madame Cadillac Building, Father Koesler had been talking virtually nonstop, apprising the two officers of all that had happened that evening.
The gathering of the writers; the gradual and mutual realization that each had been solicited by Krieg; the immediate sense of agreement that they would have prostituted their talent had they had the misfortune to sign with Krieg; the dramatic entry of Krieg partway through dinner; the departure of everyone but Krieg from the dining area; the gunshot; finding Krieg “dead”; the false alarm with Augustine; the confrontation between Winer, Benbow, and Marie as to which might have had the opportunity to murder Krieg; and finally, his call to Homicide.
Koesler was anxious that Tully and Mangiapane understand what had prompted him to summon them. He realized he undoubtedly would have saved them the trouble of coming out had he gone through the routine of calling 911. Surely an officer or two from the precinct could have observed the absence of a victim as easily as experts from Homicide.
Koesler felt about as sorry as anyone had ever felt about anything.
Throughout Koesler’s detailed explanation, Tully paid only peripheral attention. He was just drained. It was really the end of his shift. With any luck, in a short while he could check out and go home. He would get a bit to eat, an extravagant hot shower and, again with any luck, a relaxing back rub. And so to sleep.
Not quite as tired, Mangiapane was relishing Koesler’s tale.
After Koesler had expressed his contrition for the umpteenth time, Mangiapane said, “You don’t have to feel so bad, Father.”
“I don’t?”
“This isn’t the first time we got fooled by some kind of scam.”
They had reached the exit. Tully was eager to leave and start the process that would, the sooner the better, free him to go home, get some tender loving care, and sleep—in that order.
Unfortunately, Mangiapane had begun a tale told out of school. Tully knew the story but he decided to endure it once again. He knew Mangiapane was telling the story for Koesler’s benefit. And, well, what the hell, the priest had been through an ordeal himself this evening. Maybe learning that he was not alone in failing for a fictional mystery scam would make Koesler feel better. The priest might get some sleep tonight but it would not be preceded by any tender loving care. Too bad, Tully thought, but that’s the way the collar buttons.
“This is a true story, Father,” Mangiapane continued. “It started when a guy got a piece of mail, no return address, just a plain piece of paper with threatening words all over it—like ‘murder,’ ‘kill,’ ‘an unsolved crime,’ ‘sudden death.’ The words looked like they came from newspapers, magazines, other publications. Just these words cut out.
“The guy couldn’t figure out why he got this threatening letter, but he was plenty scared. And he stayed scared, getting dead-bolt locks on his doors, double-checking the back seat of his car before getting in, parking near street lights at night, the whole thing.
“Then about ten days later, he gets another letter. Just like the first one, this has no return address. Just a plain envelope containing another plain piece of paper with threatening words cut out of various types of publications.
“By this time, the guy is scared enough to come to us. We took it pretty serious too. In fact we started an investigation. Sure enough, in another week, the guy gets another anonymous threatening letter. Now, none of these letters specifically threatens him personally; they’re just filled with life-threatening words. And we keep adding to the file.”
Koesler interrupted. “Did you put him under—what’s it called?— protective custody?”
Mangiapane chuckled. “You mean like they do in the movies, where almost an entire police department stops everything they’re doing and guards some potential victim for twenty-four-hour periods? So nobody can get close?”
The way Mangiapane rephrased the question, Koesler knew the answer was no.
“That just doesn’t happen in real life, Father,” Mangiapane said. “There’s no possible way we can protect anybody who decides he’s gonna do what he ordinarily does. If he’s gonna go to work, walk outside, go out to eat, his regular routine—he’s fair game.
“The only way we can protect somebody is if he agrees to retreat to a safe place. Say a hotel room or a jail cell. We’ve got to control the environment before we can offer secure protection.
“Anyway, this file we were keeping was filling out pretty good when, finally, he gets a piece of mail identical to the others, except this one promises the murder is gonna take place on Mackinac Island—at the Grand Hotel. And this time there’s a return address—a travel agency in Royal Oak.
“Needless to say, the guys working this case hopped right over to the agency and really rattled their cage.
“The thing turned out to be a brand new enterprise for the agency. They were sponsoring a ‘Mystery Weekend’ at the Grand Hotel . . . not an awful lot different from your little psychodrama here. The agency was sending out fliers to likely customers. It turns out that this guy and we were the only ones who were taking it serious.
“When our guys were pinning this travel agent to the wall, all the poor guy could say was, ‘But it was just promotion.’ I can tell you one thing, Father: It’ll be a long time before that guy tries another tricky promotion like that.”
“And,” Tully added, “it’ll be a long time before we fall for another stunt like that. By the way, Father, that story was meant for your consolation—not for publication.”
“I can keep a secret,” Koesler assured.
“Yeah, you can, can’t you,” Tully replied.
“And,” Koesler added, as the two detectives were leaving the building, “thanks.”
Koesler returned to the dining area. Finding no one there, he assumed—correctly—that the others had retired for the night. He decided to do the same.
Before entering the room, he noticed a sign on the bulletin board advising that Mass would be at 8:00 a.m. in the chapel. On entering his room, he found a note from Sister Janet, asking him to say the morning Mass. The note had a postscript regarding the condition of Father Augustine: A doctor had pronounced him indisposed but very much alive.
It was only then that Koesler realized he had completely forgotten Father Augustine. He had moved from reported death to a healthy snore to a normal prognosis. Koesler had been so distracted by other developments that, for all practical purposes, Augustine’s condition had been blocked out. How soon they forget!
9
The mass, a reenactment of the Last Supper, is the core liturgical event of many Christian sects. In no religious expression is it more at the heart of everything than in Catholicism.
Catholics old enough to remember a time during and before the Second Vatican Council, will recall the expected routine of daily Mass. Virtually all priests offered Mass every day. Most parishes were staffed by more than one priest. Thus, most parishes had more than one scheduled Mass daily.
Nowadays it can be difficult to find parishes where Mass is offered daily. This reduction in the dependable frequency of Mass happened after—but not as a direct consequence of—Vatican II. The drastic and escalating shortage of priests, in no way foreseen by the Council, takes its toll on Daily
Mass.
As challenging as it may be to find parishes with daily Mass, it is even more difficult locating parishes having more than one full-time parish priest. Parishes that traditionally had three, even four, assigned priests are now fortunate to have one.
People continue to get married and people continue to die. So weddings and funerals that used to be handled by a relative abundance of priests, now are the burden of the lonely pastor. Thus, to avoid being Massed to death, many pastors have cut back daily Mass to only a sprinkling of days in the typical week.
But there are a few holdouts still. Among these was Father Robert Koesler, who, no matter how many weddings and funerals accumulated, gleaned something special out of the sparsely attended early morning Mass. For him it was an appropriate time and an ideal way to commune with God.
It didn’t matter that Sister Janet had asked him to offer the 8:00 a.m. Mass. He would have been there anyway if only to concelebrate with whichever priest happened to have the Mass. As it happened, Marygrove’s chaplain had not yet returned from vacation; thus the invitation to Koesler.
At 7:30 he was kneeling in the ornate, vaulted chapel, gathering thoughts and prayers, taking stock of what yesterday had brought and what today might offer.
Last night he had been so relieved and grateful that the detectives were not angry at his blunder in calling them, and so exhausted from the Krieg-inspired psychodrama that he had drifted off to sleep earlier and slept even more soundly than was his custom at the rectory. So he felt extraordinarily refreshed as he prepared for Mass this morning.
Though distractions invaded his consciousness, he no longer fought them as he once had. By this time, they had become something with which one lived. Not infrequently they were welcomed in to become part of his prayer.
By any measurement, yesterday’s high point had been the nonmurder of Klaus Krieg. In his memory, Koesler could see clearly that clump of flesh lying on the floor, blood all over its clothing. I wonder, he thought, what they used for blood. Clever having those rivulets of red from the mouth and nostrils.
A question kept recurring and as often as it surfaced he rejected it. The question was, “Why?” Why had Krieg insisted on a psychodrama whose central theme was his own murder? Koesler kept dismissing the question because he had no acceptable answer for it.
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