Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  “I didn’t know you had an oil sheik living on your lake, Irene.” Koesler leaned on the right oar, pulling the boat closer to shore.

  “What?” Irene looked about, bewildered. “Oh,” she laughed when she saw the lot to which Koesler alluded, “that’s no sheik, although he must be almost as rich. That’s Lee Brand.”

  Koesler paused a moment while all the little bells ringing in his head synchronized. “Lee Brand…Lee Brand…not the president of the First Standard—”

  “—Bank and Trust. Yes, the very one.”

  “Does he own that entire lot?”

  “He could own all of Green Lake if he had a mind to.”

  “And the pavilion that runs the width of the lawn?” Undeliberately, Koesler was propelling the boat ever closer to shore.

  “Better watch out, Father,” Irene warned, “or we’ll be joining the Brand party. And Liam wouldn’t like that.”

  “Liam?’” Koesler leaned heavily on the left oar and headed back to sea.

  “Liam. Liam Brand. His real name.”

  “Liam… that’s Irish, isn’t it, for—”

  “—William,” she said, on the heels of his words. “Yes, William. Billy Brand.”

  “Then why—”

  “—Lee? Early on, he determined it had a better ring. That, just between you and me, is the essential explanation behind Lee Brand. He has packaged himself.”

  Koesler allowed the oars to drag through the calm water as he and Irene watched uniformed caterers scurrying about the Brand lawn.

  “As for the pavilion—Mr. Brand leaves nothing to chance. Even God couldn’t rain on his picnic.” She suddenly pointed to a figure approaching the pier. “That’s him there!”

  Koesler peered myopically through the upper portion of his bifocals. “Oh, you must be mistaken, Irene. I’ve seen Brand lots of times in photos and on TV. He’s a good-looking man. That guy,” he nodded toward the man standing on the pier, “is bald, paunchy, and short.”

  “Lee Brand sans toupee, corset, and lifts.”

  “I’ll be darned,” Koesler exclaimed.

  “I told you he has packaged himself. And in his office, behind his oversize desk, he sits on pillows. The number depends on the height of the person sitting opposite.”

  Koesler chuckled. “No one’s head higher than the King of Siam’s, eh?”

  Just then, a series of piercing shrieks, emanating from the Casey lawn, shattered the calm. Koesler and Irene turned so quickly they almost upset the boat. The fully clothed body of the Caseys’ nubile daughter Kitty was just disappearing beneath the surface of Green Lake. She’d been thrown in by several guffawing young men.

  “Ah,” Koesler reflected, “pity the lot of the pretty girl.”

  Irene shook her head. “I do hope she gets out of those wet clothes before she gets a chill.”

  Nothing more, mused Koesler, than Kitty getting out of her wet clothes, would improve the Fourth of July celebration for the guys who threw her in.

  “And speaking of pretty girls,” Irene returned her gaze to the Brand property, “there’s another one.”

  Koesler located her immediately. In a one-piece swimsuit, she stood near the water, talking with a tall, blond Viking. Koesler, a closet student of such things, would have described her figure as short of voluptuous but clearly sensational.

  “They are engaged,” said Irene, referring to the couple. “And that is one major fly in the Lee Brand pie.”

  “How’s that? Doesn’t he approve of the young man?”

  “Not that. The boy’s pedigree is without flaw. But he was married before, and Lee insists on a Catholic ceremony for the apple of his eye. Anything else would sully the Brand image.

  “Know anything about the young man’s first marriage?”

  “Episcopalian.”

  “Both he and his wife?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Ouch!” Koesler pulled at the oars. They had been close enough to shore that he had begun to fear the Brands might be able to hear their conversation. “That sounds like a presumably valid, sacramental marriage. At least as far as canon law is concerned.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. But Mr. Brand seems to think he’ll be able to talk, or buy, his way out of the jam. The problem is, he’s never met Monsignor Tommy Thompson.”

  “Maybe,” Koesler grinned, “he will be able to buy his way out.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Father. Monsignor Thompson isn’t that way.”

  “When it comes to Tommy, I wouldn’t cover any bets.”

  Irene scooped some of Green Lake and flicked it harmlessly at Koesler. “I’ve been meaning to ask you if there are any priests left who would… uh… witness the marriage of a couple like the Brand girl and her fiancé.”

  “You mean witness a canonically—”

  “—invalid marriage,” she completed.

  Koesler shook his head. “I don’t know, Irene. There were a few. But most of them are out of the priesthood now, if not married themselves.”

  “Nobody?”

  Koesler thought for a few moments. “Well, I’ve heard that young Shanley down at Rosary does that sort of thing.” After a pause, Koesler added, “Wait; are you thinking that Brand would—oh, no; he’d never permit his daughter to be married at Rosary! That’s a core-city parish. And Shanley would never officiate at such a wedding out here. The only reason he can get away with it now is because he’s at an inner-city parish. No one talks and almost no one is interested.”

  “Well, you never know what sort of port he might be willing to pull into if the weather got bad enough.”

  “I can’t imagine a Brand doing anything at Rosary, except maybe driving past it.”

  Koesler began feeling the effects of the sun against his head and neck. He began the relatively short trip back to the Caseys’.

  Hesitantly, Irene began. “Would you be willing to tell him about Father Shanley?”

  “Tell Brand about Shanley?” Koesler was surprised. “Why, I don’t travel in Brand’s class even when I’m at my charming best!”

  “Please?”

  “Irene…”

  “I told the Brands you might drop by later this evening.”

  Koesler’s resistance collapsed. He muttered, “Behind every successful invalid marriage—”

  “—there are several mothers.”

  Like a horse that senses the barn in his immediate future, Koesler rowed for the Casey landing with fresh determination.

  “One thing puzzles me, Irene. How do you happen to know so much about the Brand family? The lifts, the corsets, the toupees, the pillows, even the religious persuasion of a future son-in-law?”

  “The car pool.”

  “The car pool?”

  “Mrs. Brand and I are in the same car pool. We drive each other’s kids to and from school. And she’s a real nice gal.”

  “Oh-ho!”

  Irene began waving to someone. Koesler glanced over his shoulder. Monsignor Thomas Thompson was standing on the Casey wharf, hands thrust in pockets, a broad grin on his round face.

  “Hi, Monsignor,” Irene called. “Get off that pier or someone will throw you in. That sort of thing has been happening today.”

  But only to pretty girls, thought Koesler.

  “Don’t worry,” Thompson called through cupped hands, “nothing ever happens to me.”

  If you don’t stop sending me stupid requests for useless information, thought Koesler, something might.

  Father Norm Shanley noticed a strange odor. He got the first whiff on entering the small brick clubhouse at St. John Seminary’s golf course. While he couldn’t identify it immediately, it definitely was churchy.

  A note was taped to the narrow wooden bench: Rather than get teed off, we teed off. Tee time was 1:30. Why not conduct a search-and-fìnd mission? There’s only nine holes. It was signed, Bob Morell.

  One-thirty. Shanley checked his watch. Three o’clock. None of them was a good golfer. Shanley himself was the best of
the foursome, and anything in the nineties for him was respectable. He made a private wager with himself he would find them on the sixth or seventh fairway.

  His olfactory sense led him unerringly to the locker whence came the churchy odor. He opened the door of locker ten. On the metallic shelf near the locker’s top burned a small vigil candle. A note taped to the shelf read, Better to light one little candle than to sit around cursing Shanley. It was signed, Bill Cunneen.

  The idiot, thought Shanley. He recalled churches set afire by candles burning seemingly with minds of their own. This might have been the first locker room devastated by an otherwise innocent-appearing votive light.

  Shanley quickly changed into attire in which he could either play golf or paint a floor. Golfbag looped over left shoulder, he strode rapidly down the first fairway. He scanned the flat terrain. From his position he could see at least portions of fairways one, two, five, six and seven, as well as the first, fifth, and sixth greens. To the right was an apple orchard. To the left was forest.

  Two golfers had just mounted the first green and were about to line up their putts. The full head of dark hair, heavy-rimmed glasses, and nondescript body proclaimed one of the golfers to be Monsignor Joseph Iming. The other had to be Archbishop Mark Boyle. Iming was Boyle’s secretary. Shanley had never seen the Archbishop in other than clerical clothing or resplendent vestments. He looked strange, like a bird without plumage.

  Beyond them, unmistakably, were Shanley’s friends, just finishing the sixth green. One of them must have missed an easy putt; Cunneen’s boisterous laughter ricocheted off the trees.

  This was developing into a disaster. As far as the official Church was concerned, Shanley tried to maintain the lowest of profiles. He intended to continue dispensing sacraments as he thought best. What the Chancery and Tribunal did not know would not hurt him. If he managed to celebrate his Silver Jubilee, he wanted the Archbishop of Detroit to say of him, “Who?”

  Shanley’s friends were approaching the seventh tee, only a few yards removed from the first green. It was unlikely that either Morell or Cunneen would find himself this close to Boyle without talking to him.

  Boyle wished to be as uninformed as possible concerning the core-city ministry. He was aware that for any small measure of success, rules would have to be bent. As long as he did not know which rules were being bent how far, he would not be impelled to punish. He had enormous clout. He did not want to use it. Ordinarily, this arrangement was more than acceptable to core-city priests. Occasionally, however, they would wish an audience regarding such matters as Church taxes, which they could not pay. This was one of those times.

  “Who is that coming toward us down the first fairway?” asked Archbishop Boyle as he lined up his third putt.

  “Norm Shanley,” Monsignor Iming identified. “He’s in residence at Rosary and chaplain for a bunch of neighboring hospitals.”

  Boyle putted and rimmed the cup. “Do you think he wants to join us?”

  “No. I’d say he is going to join them.” Iming nodded toward the group who had settled in at the seventh tee, one of whom was approaching the first green.

  “Oh, dear! That’s Father Morell from St. Theresa’s, isn’t it?” Boyle tapped in the putt.

  “That’s exactly right. And he didn’t even have to ask for an appointment.”

  Archbishop Boyle sighed audibly. He did not do that often.

  “Good afternoon, Excellency! “ This was not going to work out too badly, Shanley thought, as he skirted the first green and headed for the seventh tee. Morell would be Boyle’s major distraction while Shanley could pass as an unnoticed ship in the night.

  Boyle nodded distractedly at Shanley as he directed his full attention at the imminent Morell.

  “Hi, Bob.” Iming retrieved his cigar from the putting surface and puffed it back to life.

  “Hi, Joe.” Morell, in single-minded pursuit of his Archbishop, did not bother even glancing at Iming.

  “Good afternoon, Father Morell.” Formality came naturally to the Archbishop.

  “I’ve got to talk to you, Archbishop.”

  Boyle, supported by one leg and a putter, retrieved his ball.

  “It’s about De Porres High.”

  “I assumed it was,” sighed the Archbishop.

  St. Martin De Porres High School, nearly all of whose students were black, was on the verge of being closed by the archdiocesan school board. Boyle had attended a meeting at which parents of De Porres students had begged for the school’s life. Boyle had made no commitment. So, for the past few days, the parents had taken turns camping on the lawn of the Archbishop’s Wellesley mansion, much to the distress of Boyle’s wealthy neighbors.

  “Our parents are really upset.” Morell’s St. Theresa parish was one that contributed both money and students to De Porres.

  “I know that, Father. I see them day and night, and I read their protest posters.”

  Almost any other bishop would have had squatters such as these long since thrown off the premises. Such an action would have been completely out of character for Boyle. While he fervently wished they would depart, he was far too compassionate a man to have any action taken against these sincere parents.

  “They need a commitment from you, Archbishop.” Morell thumped his driver against the ground to emphasize his point.

  “I cannot make such a commitment, Father. The diocese is strapped for money. As you very well know, our parishes have a most difficult time even meeting their diocesan taxes.”

  “That’s another thing,” Morell interrupted, “I wanted to talk to you again about a graduated tax to take some of the burden off the core-city parishes—”

  Boyle’s heavy black eyebrows nearly met as a supreme frown crossed his still handsome face. “That, Father, is out of the question.”

  “Well, then, look at the public relations aspect.” Morell returned to the point. “It won’t look good if we let a school like De Porres close while so many suburban schools remain open.”

  “I am well aware of that, Father. But we have already subsidized St. Martin De Porres High School to a far greater degree than we have offered aid to any other school in the diocese.” Boyle’s soft, brogue-tinged voice rose a decibel or two toward the end of his apologia.

  “But you can borrow—”

  “No, no, Father; we cannot borrow. We have so little collateral. Who would want to buy a church? And we receive no special rate—even though some of our bankers are outstanding Catholic gentlemen.

  “Father,” he sought to terminate the conversation, “if you had the overall picture of the state of the diocese, you would better understand.”

  It’s the old overall-view ploy, Morell thought; guess who the only one is who has that overall view.

  “However,” Boyle attempted a measure of conciliation, “if there is anything else I can do…”

  “You might bring home some barbecue sauce,” Morell answered, “your squatters tell me they’re running low on it for the ribs.”

  Boyle merely shook his head. He and Iming started for the second tee. Morell left to rejoin his friends.

  “I wish,” Boyle sighed, “that all the priests, especially those of the core city, would simply do their jobs without attempting to involve themselves in the administration of the diocese. Like that priest…” He gestured vaguely toward the seventh tee.

  “Shanley.”

  “Ah, yes. Father Shanley.”

  “Well,” Father Bill Cunneen asked, “how did you make out?”

  “Zilch,” said Morell, “retroactively.”

  Cunneen exploded in laughter. Pastor of Sacred Heart parish in a HUD-leveled area of Detroit, Cunneen was also the founding director of Focus Peace, an organization that procured and distributed goods and services for the needy from government, business, and industry.

  “What the pot did you ask him for?” asked Father Mickey Dolan, pastor of St. Elizabeth’s, another core-city parish. Dolan, with a Navy background, was sligh
tly older than his companions.

  “Help for De Poires,” Morell replied.

  “Get him to raise the Titanic while you’re at it,” said Shanley.

  “I didn’t notice any of you guys falling over each other to help me.” Morrell looked scornfully at one after another of his compadres. “Especially you, Shanley. You walked right by the infamous tableau like the guy in the Gospel.”

  “You are not a Samaritan. Nor is Archbishop Boyle a thief.” Shanley was going through a series of self-imposed calisthenics, trying to overtake the limberness of his already warmed-up friends. “Besides, I just live in my little corner of the world and try not to make enemies needlessly.”

  “What the pot,” observed Dolan, “if the Arch ever gets wind of your marriages, your ass is in a sling.”

  “I’m celibate,” said Shanley.

  “You marry everybody!” Sensing he was in a literalness war, Dolan corrected himself. “I mean, you witness marriages for anybody.”

  “That’s not quite true. In fact, I refused a couple just the other day.”

  Morell’s drive sliced sharply. He was fortunate the kidney-shaped fairway afforded lots of room on the right.

  Morell glanced back sharply at Shanley. “You refused to marry somebody?”

  “Couple of kids—eighteen, nineteen…” Shanley balanced his Dunlop on the tee. “They never go to church… quit completely a few years ago. They just wanted a church wedding for Mama. So I told them to make their statement and get married by a judge or somebody. I didn’t want to get involved in a mockery, and I advised them not to either.”

  Shanley fell silent as he tried to remember all seventeen items the book said were necessary to strike the ball solidly. Forgetting most of them, he hooked to the edge of the forest.

  “Gentlemen,” said Shanley, searching vainly for the tee the impact of his driver had buried, “I want you to know that at no time during that swing did I see the ball.”

  “I thought,” said Cunneen, returning to the subject, “you married everybody.”

  “Only those who really, sincerely want to be married in the Church.”

  Cunneen’s drive followed the path taken by Shanley’s, stopping just short of the rough on the left.