Book Read Free

The Dead Saint

Page 12

by Marilyn Brown Oden


  Something had caused the abrupt departure. But apparently nothing that mattered. What does matter, thought Lynn, is what is happening at St. Mark's. She reached for Galen's hand and tapped her dual-time watch—ten in the morning in New Orleans. While the bishops and spouses were ushered toward the doorway in an orderly fashion, she and Galen remained in their seats and prayed for Elie's friends gathered at his jazz funeral in the Quarter.

  41

  An overflow crowd of people stands under a cloudless blue canopy outside St. Mark's Church in the French Quarter in New Orleans. They wait with hushed respect for the service to end and the procession to begin. The doors click open, and sunlight glints on the casket carried by Bubba Broussard and five other Saints. The bells of St. Francis Cathedral peal in honor of Elias Darwish.

  Bubba clutches the cold metal handles, his heart hurting as they carry Elie's body up Rampart Street to the hearse. The mucky smell of the river mingles with the sweet scent of flowers in the wreath on the casket. A tugboat horn wails its sadness, for the earth is a lesser place. A light breeze cools Bubba's face and his eyes blur as he helps place his friend in the hearse. But he is not alone. For this is a jazz funeral.

  The grand marshals and the Olympia Brass Band lead the people up Rampart. Bubba and all the Saints parade somberly behind the band. Cy Bill is on Ebony, both decked out in black, the silver trim polished. Chief Armstrong in full dress solemnly joins the procession. Along with Francine Babineaux from the crime lab and Fay Foster from the bishop's office. Yoo-Sei from Café du Monde and Rosa DuBois from Mt. Zion Church. And Bubba knows Bishop Lynn and Galen are present in spirit. Pete Fountain, the Neville Brothers, members of the Marsalis family, and other New Orleans musicians join the first line in tribute to Elie. The people walk along to the soulful lament of the slow, mournful hymns that haunt the procession up Rampart and past Louis Armstrong Park toward the cemetery. As they turn on Basin Street, Fats Domino waves from a chair, too ill to join the line, but his voice can be heard as "A Closer Walk with Thee" is played in a woeful dirge. Hundreds of feet march in the street, the first line, mourning the death of Elias Darwish.

  The hearse moves on to the cemetery, and Elie is laid to rest.

  Their goodbyes said, the mood begins to change. The moment comes. The moment of long tradition. The moment when they cut the body loose and the music shifts in tone and beat. From death to resurrection. The people whose white handkerchiefs dried their eyes in the church now wave them as they dance in joy. Clarinets and saxes, trumpets and trombones, tubas and drums play a rollicking rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In." It reverberates through the Quarter. Fans join in and well-wishers and onlookers, stepping high like the Saints and twirling fringed umbrellas. Thousands of feet dance in the street, the second line, celebrating the life of Elias Darwish.

  Bubba has tears in his eyes but a smile on his face. He can almost feel Elie dancing, too, on his nimble feet. The sniper shot him, but he won't have the last word. Bubba sees a vision as clear and true as jazz itself, a vision of Elie living on from generation to generation through the stories that fans tell their children:

  As we get ready to watch this game, kids, I want to tell you a story. There was once a Saints kicker named Elias Darwish—a great kicker. He had a magic foot, and I saw him play.

  As we get ready to watch this game, kids, I want to tell you a story. There was once a Saints kicker named Elias Darwish the greatest kicker in the country. He had a magic foot, and my daddy saw him play.

  As we get ready to watch this game, kids, I want to tell you a story. There was once a Saints kicker named Elias Darwish—the greatest kicker of all time. He had a magic foot, and my granddaddy saw him play.

  Yes, the sniper shot Elie. But the people won't ever let him die. Bubba is sure of that.

  42

  As the meeting in the Oval Office continued, John Adams made excellent contributions to the discussion of the economy. BarLothiun gave him good experience, and he was pleased to share it for the sake of his country. He kept his composure intact despite his agitation regarding the lack of news about the Schönbrunn Palace bomb.

  His sense of justice ruled out the loss of innocent lives. Death wasn't his objective at the palace. Since the 9/11 tragedy, bombs didn't have to explode to create a news frenzy that spiked fear. The palace bomb merely had to be found. He'd given his bomb specialist, Frank Fillmore, a directive with a twist: build a bomb that can't detonate but whose flaw must appear to be accidental, then get it inside Schönbrunn Palace. He had total confidence in Fillmore's ability to build it as instructed and figure out how to breach security. The guards were apt to consider bishops a safe group and soften their procedures. He was also confident that President Nausner's personal security team, perpetually on high alert, would discover it. Natural consequences would follow: The rapid removal of President Nausner. The frantic announcement. The terrified audience ordered to evacuate. Afterward the bishops would simultaneously carry their stories back to their various worldwide homelands, like a scattergun spreading personal stories that put a face on terror.

  The Peterson factor continued to bother him, and he trusted his instincts. She had both opportunity and cover as a bishop. Opportunity did not prove action. But lack of proof of action did not prove inaction. Zero tolerance. The major was dead. Should the bishop follow?

  No rash decisions! He needed more information. Life is precious.

  He peeked at his watch and did the time-zone math. The news should have broken long before now. He itched to excuse himself and contact Fillmore, an itch that had to remain unscratched. Had the bomb specialist failed? Impossible! But something had gone wrong.

  And he thought he knew what. The impact of a violent act or threat is not ultimately determined by the act itself but the reaction. A leader's response diminishes or intensifies fear and instability. He would bet a sum equal to BarLothiun that Fillmore successfully planted the faulty bomb and the security team found it. But President Nausner had frozen its impact by keeping the whole episode out of the news. The Patriot had gained nothing. All of that planning, risk, effort, money for nothing. Nothing!

  Unacceptable! Beneath his charming mask he seethed for revenge.

  43

  On Monday evening, following the Schönbrunn Palace reception, Ambassador Will Whitcomb stood at the open door of his home, the personification of hospitality. His hair matched the silver rims of glasses that framed hazel eyes without guile. He wore a navy blazer, gray pants, blue oxford shirt with a button-down collar, and a striped tie. The bishops also wore ties—it was not a color-purple evening. Will and Galen greeted each other warmly, their college camaraderie unbroken by the years. Anne, who held a Ph.D. in Korean studies, stood at Will's side. A petite woman, she wore an elegant black dress with a single diamond pendant at her throat. Her ash blonde hair was swept upward in a French braid. Most striking to Lynn was Anne's diligence to look for the good in others.

  Anne and Lynn greeted each other with a silent hug, needing no words. But the moment stung Lynn. Their last hug had been at Lyndie's service three years ago. Lyndie's service.

  Don't go there, Lynn.

  "Can you remain after dinner?" Will invited softly. "We could catch up."

  They nodded and moved on so the Whitcombs could continue to greet the line of guests. They crossed the foyer over colorful peacocks woven into the luxurious oriental carpet and entered a spacious room with dark paneled walls. People mingled with one another, greeting old friends and meeting new ones. Sparkling goblets and fancy hors d'oeuvres eased the social need for something to hold. Conversation filled the area like lively music in surround sound, bass to soprano.

  Jeff James held court in the corner. His gaze circled the room like a searchlight scoping the social sea. He rode Roman-style around the arena on twin horses of arrogance and criticism, content to let opinion rush in to fill the void of wisdom. Only his wife, Tiffany, appeared to listen, her eyes fixed on him in an adoring gaze.

&n
bsp; He's toxic to me, thought Lynn.

  Because he personifies the pompous, self-aggrandizing stereotype of bishops, Lynn?

  Probably so, Ivy. It hurts us all. Yet Lynn had sympathy for him. He reminded her of a little three-year-old who tugs at a coattail for attention and approval. As we all do at times, she admitted. Self-importance is an equal-opportunity dysfunction.

  Anne led everyone into the dining room. Large windows ran along the back wall, draped in pale yellow to match the carpet. White votive candles marched down the Battenberg tablecloth with pastel petals scattered among them. A colorful bouquet graced the center of the long table, and crisp white napkins folded into bishops' miters stood at each place, a gesture typical of Anne. Place cards in calligraphy showed Jeff James directly across from Lynn. Thanks a lot, Anne.

  Running for God's prosecutor are you, Lynn?

  Ouch! Time to judge him less and like him more.

  After Will said grace, the four-course dinner began with cold prawns in a zesty cocktail sauce. Jeff tried to dominate the table, but Will deftly broadened the monologue when Jeff paused for breath. "Bishop Phillips, what did you think of President Nausner's address?"

  "He received a standing ovation, Mr. Ambassador. Rare for our group." Booker's smiling eyes darted to Lynn. "Except, of course, when Bishop Peterson speaks."

  She brushed off the compliment with a smile and a shrug. "Last night everyone just needed an excuse to stretch after sitting so long."

  Praise for the President's address and the reception and comments about the international conference lasted through the second course of delicately seasoned asparagus soup. The aroma of a special Viennese chicken dish on well-presented plates slowed the conversation.

  "This is a perfect dinner, Anne," said Sylvia. Everyone raised a glass, and Booker offered a toast.

  Jeff cleared his throat. "Speaking of perfection, I wonder if John Wesley knew how close he was to Zen and Taoism when he stressed the process of going on to perfection instead of stressing perfection itself."

  Way to go Jeff, thought Lynn. Always trying to impress us.

  Judge him less and like him more. Was that it, Lynn?

  Ouch again.

  "I appreciate the common ties of the great religions," said Booker. "As Bishop Peterson stated last night, we do not grasp God. We merely glimpse God. It is good to be open to others' glimpses."

  Sylvia nodded. "Lynn reminded us how many things influence our glimpses. Like culture."

  "Formal education and informal instruction," added Jeff.

  "Don't forget our values," said Tiffany.

  Other words popped up around the table.

  "Customs and traditions."

  "Our family."

  "Our opportunities."

  Our losses, thought Lynn. She hadn't included that one last night. She felt Chris Nyangoma's eyes upon her and glanced at him. He was here as Bishop Ntaryamir's representative, and she hadn't met him until tonight. He looked bored.

  "It takes time to become aware of the power of these influences," said Jeff. His bravado in check, he sounded almost wistful. "And even longer to free ourselves from those that fetter us."

  His sincerity rang the doorbell of appreciation for Lynn. Maybe there's hope for me yet, Ivy. Her mind wandered to the President's letter. As an ambassador, Will might have personal access to her. Lynn was glad they were remaining after dinner and wondered how to approach him. More than fellowship was at stake.

  44

  After the long jazz funeral ended and things settled down into what passed for normal in New Orleans, Bubba and Cy Bill took a walk by the river. The wind danced with the waves, and sunbeams kissed the ripples. Bubba glanced from the water to his friend and saw the frown on his brow, the worry behind his eyes. Was it the loss of Elie? Or something else? "What's the trouble, Cy Bill?"

  "I'll take that as an offer to listen." He hesitated. "I need to get something off my chest."

  "Ol' Bubba is a safe haven." He ambled along beside Cy Bill, waiting silently, as Lynn and Galen would.

  Cy Bill watched the waves for a few moments. When he spoke, it was like the whisper of the pine trees. "Chief Armstrong was pressured to close Elie's case. They cut off the investigation too soon."

  "The man they found dead—he isn't the sniper?"

  "The chief is a politician and understands that the city economy depends on tourism. It's growing but still isn't what it was before Katrina. A Saint's murder makes national news and tourists won't come unless they feel secure. The case needed to be solved."

  Anger shot through Bubba. "He stopped the investigation of Elie's murder because of tourism?"

  "That's what puzzles me. He will please and appease up to a point. But—"

  "I thought the chief stands for justice."

  "Always. And Francine Babineaux got his attention. She suggested that the surface clues add up all right, but they make things too simple and leave some questions unanswered."

  "I'm with Francine, Cy Bill. A man smart enough to shoot him and get away isn't going to be careless enough to get himself killed the same night."

  "At first the chief was proud of that quick result, but now he isn't as sure as he was. He asked me to work on the case covertly."

  "Covertly! I can't see him getting the trembles when someone puts a little pressure on him."

  "There are only two forces I can think of powerful enough to send him underground. A vicious Mafia threat intended to cower him—but the chief doesn't cower. So it must be an entity more powerful than the FBI."

  Bubba thought about the careful search of his condo while the FBI detained him. Nothing displaced. But someone had been there. Like Lynn said, you can just feel that kind of invasion. Maybe it wasn't the FBI as he'd thought. "What would motivate your mysterious entity?"

  "That's what I'm trying to figure out. Francine agreed to help me."

  "You can count on me too, Cy Bill. I'll do anything you ask."

  "Thanks."

  "I may even try a little sleuthing on my own."

  "You stick to linebacking, Bubba," said the former quarterback. "I'll carry the ball."

  45

  Lynn and Galen slouched comfortably in the den. The men sat in mocha leather chairs, the women on the settee upholstered in a complementary plaid. The cozy room invited conversation rather than inhibited it. Lynn noticed she felt nervous about asking Will to be a communication channel to the President. Contrarily she felt tempted in this comfortable setting with these three trustworthy people to unload the whole story from envelope in the limo to retrieval at the hospital. But as long as the secret stayed with her—and only her—it couldn't ripple and end up where it shouldn't. Her silence was necessary to protect the President.

  Right, Lynn. The President of the United States of America needs your protection! A little case of vanity, is it?

  Ouch. Ivy was good at delivering ouches. But Lynn chose to keep her promise to Vice President Parker.

  Anne lifted the Wedgwood teapot from the silver tray. The amber tea poured from spout to cup like a small fountain replaying the ancient melody of liquid meeting porcelain.

  "The golden elixir," said Lynn, its fragrance carrying her mind from anxiety to the beauty of the mundane. "According to tradition, the golden elixir was first presented to Lao Tse, the founder of Taoism, at the gate of Han Pass—five centuries before Christ."

  "Surnamed the Long-Eared," added Galen.

  Anne wrapped her fingers around her cup. "If we're playing Wikipedia, Okakura Kakuzo called tea 'the cup of humanity.' " She looked at Galen, her eyes amused. "Cited in The Book of Tea, Dr. Peterson, written over a century ago."

  He smiled and raised his cup to her.

  "Tea taught me my primary lesson as an ambassador." Will grinned at their puzzled faces. "Marco Polo records that a Chinese minister of finance was deposed in 1285 for augmenting the tea taxes. Half a millennium later in Boston, as we learned in elementary school, England also levied a heavy tea tax. It cost them
the Colonies and we gained a country. People get riled over their golden elixir! Lesson: Don't mess with the basics."

  They savored the richness of friendship. Drinking tea and dancing with words. Filling in the spaces that time apart had left blank.

  Now or never. "Will, I have a favor to ask."

  "Anything, Lynn."

  "We flew from Frankfurt to Vienna on the same plane as Major Manetti." The expressions of both Will and Anne registered recognition of the name. "We had a good conversation with him." Her voice cracked. Friends did that to her. They reached inside her veneer and offered a safe landing for her feelings. She cleared her throat and let the tears trickle down her cheeks, pretending that if she didn't acknowledge them they'd be invisible. "One of the topics was the President."

  Galen frowned. "I don't remember that."

  "Maybe it was when you were in the restroom."

  Oops, Lynn! First, vanity. Now, fabrication.

  Hush, Ivy! "He spoke very highly of her." Well, not exactly. But since the President trusted him so much, surely he would have if given the opportunity. "Those would have been some of his last words. It's silly, but I would really like to send a note to her sharing that."

  "It isn't silly, Lynn. All of us like to hear we're appreciated—even presidents. Angry letters abound. People are far more apt to take the positive for granted and act on the negative."

  "I'm a nobody, and she'd never get it."

  Will grinned. "Are you taking the long way round to ask if I would send it?"

  "Is it appropriate for me to email it to you and you forward it to her?"

  "You're my friend, Lynn. I'll be glad to."

  "Thank you, Will," she said, relieved to get this cared for.

 

‹ Prev