“You’re gonna get in trouble doing that,” Dolan warned as he prepared for his drive.
“I don’t think so. I’m just going to stay in my little corner of central Detroit and go about my business. Nobody downtown will even be aware of what I’m doing, let alone care.”
Dolan swung so vehemently he nearly fell.
“What the pot!” Dolan cried. “Where is it? Where is it?”
“Up! Up! Way up!” Morell directed.
It was, indeed, a towering drive. If it had cleared the giant oak to the right of center of the fairway, Dolan would have been in excellent position to approach the green. Unfortunately, it did not clear the oak. The ball struck one of the upper branches and bounced back about twenty-five yards toward the tee.
The others laughed. Cunneen broke up.
“You do have a habit of hitting that tree,” Cunneen observed.
“Damn!” Dolan commented, slamming his driver into his golf bag. He grabbed his two iron and strode angrily toward the ball.
“You’re right in front of the tree, Mickey,” said Morell, as Dolan prepared for his second shot. “You’d better aim to the left of the tree and hope for a slice.”
“What the pot! If I hit that damn tree one more time, I’m going to pee on it and kill it, and it won’t be here when I come back.”
With that, Dolan struck his ball a mighty blow. Like a shot, the ball hit the tree squarely in mid-trunk. It then headed directly back at Dolan, who dove—rather gracefully, all things considered—to the ground. The ball whizzed through the space lately occupied by Dolan’s head.
“Damn!” shouted Dolan.
Cunneen was on the ground, doubled up in howling laughter.
Dolan rose, looked at the ball now resting on the seventh tee whence all this had begun. He looked at the oak. He looked all around to make sure no one besides his companions was watching. Then he did it.
It was times like this, thought Father Koesler, that lakeside living must be most satisfying.
It was early evening, and Green Lake was like glass reflecting a premature moon. Koesler was seated on a glider near the water’s edge. With him were Irene and Joe Casey. The stillness was punctuated by the irregular pop of firecrackers. From the Brand party across the lake came the muffled sound of laughter, conversation, and soft music. It was not an intrusive noise. If anything, it enhanced the hypnotic, drifting mood.
“Judging from the comparatively little noise from the number of guests I’ve seen wandering in and out of the pavilion, that’s a surprisingly subdued party,” said Koesler.
“Subdued?” Joe Casey inquired.
“Quiet,” Koesler synonymed.
“It won’t get louder even in its later stages,” Joe observed.
“Oh?”
“No. Loud noise is tasteless. And Lee Brand will not abide tastelessness. So the music you hear comes from strolling violinists.”
“But,” Koesler countered, “they must be serving liquor. What happens when someone inevitably gets drunk at a Lee Brand party?”
“Most of his guests know enough not to get pie-eyed,” said Joe. “However, should one or another violate the pledge, he is given the alternative of leaving, as best he can, or being keelhauled. Brand runs a tight ship.”
The glider rocked gently. Koesler tried to imagine what being a guest at a Lee Brand party might be like. A vision began to form of a group of svelte, soigné people outrageously attired in variations of black and white, not unlike the Ascot Races sequence in “My Fair Lady.” All the people in Koesler’s fantasy were cautiously tiptoeing over broken glass. Each held a forefinger to his or her lips, needlessly reminding all to maintain decorous silence.
Dominating all this, seated on what appeared to be an infinite number of pillows, was Lee Brand, playing a violin. He was the fiddler, and by jiminy, his guests were going to dance to his tune.
Koesler laughed, breaking the reverie.
“What is it?” asked Irene, startled.
“Oh, nothing. Just an idle idyll that was entertaining me.” After a moment, Koesler continued, “I’ve been meaning to ask you all day, Irene; how are things at the paper?”
“All right, I guess. But circulation continues to drop.”
“Badly?”
“No; dribs and drabs mostly.”
“Of course, that started back when I was there. Once the Supreme Court ruled there’d be no public aid to parochial schools, then came that dual phenomenon: parishes started pouring funds down the bottomless coffers of Catholic schools, and you got parish councils. And, for the first time, parishioners got to look at the parish books. There was no one to tell them they could not cut funds for parish subscriptions to the Detroit Catholic. That’s when and why we began to lose circulation.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Irene, listlessly.
Koesler noted the absence of Irene’s usual vivacity. “Well, you don’t suppose any parish council would try to cut the pastor’s salary, do you?”
“No.”
His attempt at humor had failed.
“Is there something else wrong at the paper?” Koesler turned as much as he was able in the crowded glider to half face Irene.
She hesitated.
“Go on and tell him,” said Joe.
“Tell me what?”
“Well,” Irene began hesitantly, “remember that story we ran last week… the one about two former priests who have those neat jobs in Mayor Cobb’s Human Rights Department?”
“Yes, I remember. I thought it was an excellent story. Just the sort of thing the Catholic ought to be involved in. Lots of times, parishioners like to know what’s become of the priests who’ve left. I thought it was decidedly upbeat. What’s the matter; did you get some negative feedback?”
Irene nodded. “Father Cavanaugh at Divine Child. He called the other day.” She shook her head. “I’ve always liked him.”
“What did he say?”
“He started by saying that he was just going to make a statement, and he didn’t want any reply.”
“He makes all the rules, eh?” Koesler interjected.
“He said,” she continued, “that a story like that didn’t belong in a paper like the Detroit Catholic. He said it is ‘disedifying to the faithful’ to read about a couple of former priests who say they are happy and fulfilled. It would be more appropriate, he said, to publish stories of former priests who were suffering or in miserable circumstances. Then he hung up and—I couldn’t help it—I cried.”
Koesler tried to appreciate the story from Cavanaugh’s position. To someone like Cavanaugh, there were no grays. All was black or white. A former priest would be a traitor. Simple as that. Going to hell. Only not fast enough. Should have hell on earth.
All this Koesler could understand, even if he did not agree. But calling Irene—that was too much. Cavanaugh shouldn’t have taken advantage of her generous disposition to vent his unsatisfied desire for vengeance.
“Irene,” said Koesler, “you can’t let him get you down. You did the right thing. Irene, don’t ever second-guess a decision you’ve made as editor. If you do, you’ll begin to get queasy about all your decisions. And that, for an editor, is a shortcut to insanity.”
“I say,” rumbled Joe from the other end of the glider, “he should be keelhauled.”
“That,” Koesler observed, “should get his attention.”
The priest began looking about, apparently searching for someone. “Where,” he asked, “has Tommy Thompson gone? I haven’t seen him for the past hour or so.”
No one could tell in the fading sunlight, but Irene blushed. “Oh,” she said, “that’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you: earlier he went over to—”
“—the Brands,” Koesler completed, turning the tables.
“That’s right.”
“Why? I thought you told me—”
“I didn’t know. It seems Lee Brand had already called Monsignor Thompson and invited him over today. He just touche
d base here. What Monsignor really came for was his invitation later in the day at the Brands’.”
“Well, that’s sort of the emancipation proclamation for me.” Koesler symbolically wiped his brow.
“Oh, no,” Irene protested.
“But you said the Brands were expecting me. If Lee invited Tommy, he certainly isn’t expecting me.”
“Well…” Irene hesitated, “…it wasn’t Lee. It was Joan, his wife. And she does expect you.”
Koesler shrugged elaborately. “Behind every successful marriage—”
“—there are several anxious mothers!”
It seemed so childish she hated to admit it, but this was an annual event she eagerly anticipated and almost never missed.
It was the Fourth of July Fireworks Festival. Pat Lennon stood at the foot of Woodward not far from the Renaissance Center on the Detroit River. With her was Joe Cox. Arm in arm, they watched the lavish display of rockets and fireworks.
Three barges were anchored in the river midway between Detroit and Windsor. Several hundred yards on either side of the barges, countless power craft and sailboats, large and small, were anchored, while those aboard enjoyed the display. All through traffic on that section of the river had been halted.
The festival had begun with a few simple rockets. But imposed against the blue-black sky, even they elicited oohs and aahs from the crowd. Now, almost an hour later, the display was drawing to a close, and the rocketry became even more breathtaking. Pinks, blues, whites, reds. Pregnant rockets whose explosions had explosions. One could sense the rising exhilaration of the tens of thousands of spectators.
Cox glanced at Lennon. Her mouth was open in childlike wonder. She was, he decided again, beautiful in every way. He put his arm around her shoulder and drew her closer.
It was a good feeling being with Joe. A completed feeling. Pat had to admit their relationship had stood the test of time. She also had to admit that Cox had been clairvoyantly correct earlier in the day when he had uncovered the essential reason she was reluctant to seal their relationship with marriage. If she couldn’t be married in a Catholic ceremony, she did not wish any ceremony. And she had been convinced a second Catholic marriage for her was impossible.
Well, maybe Joe was right. Maybe things had changed enough so that even she had a chance.
The grand finale. The thunder of explosions multiplied incredibly. In the vicinity of the river, it was as if daylight had returned. The display ceased, but the rumble of sound echoed through the caverns of downtown Detroit and Windsor.
Spontaneously, the spectators began to applaud, cheer, whistle. The attending boats sounded their horns.
By damn, thought Lennon, buoyed by the excitement, I’ll do it!
It didn’t take long to drive around the curve of Green Lake. In fact, Father Koesler wished it were a greater distance. This was not his favorite type of mission.
He did not like to go where he was not invited and perhaps not even welcome. As far as he could tell, the lady of the house was willing to see him. The gentleman of the house undoubtedly didn’t even know he was coming. He did not like to butt into people’s affairs. And no one in the Brand family had yet asked him for help. He might be asked to volunteer the name of a young priest who might have very good reason to want not to get involved.
Finally—or at least it was Koesler’s final thought as he parked his car several homes removed from the Brand house, which was as close as he could get—he always felt vaguely uncomfortable in the company of the ostentatiously rich.
He did not consider this a virtue. After all, Jesus had seemed at home with the wealthy as well as the common. It was probably, he figured, a reflection of his middle-class upbringing.
Amazing the extent of what he would do when asked by a friend.
A uniformed attendant met him at the door. Koesler wasn’t sure whether this was the back or front door. He dismissed the question as irrelevant.
“Your name, please?” The guard did not seem friendly. He had not been hired to be friendly. His job was not so much to greet guests as to exclude gate-crashers.
“Koesler. Robert Koesler.”
Using a flashlight, the guard checked a list.
“Is that K-E-S-S-L-E-R?”
“K-O-E-S-L-E-R.”
After another moment searching his list, the guard snapped off the flashlight. “It says here, ‘Father.’ ‘Zat mean you’re a priest?” The guard’s eye wandered over Koesler’s mufti.
“Oh! I was at a picnic today… across the lake… that’s why I didn’t…” Koesler felt foolish. Ordinarily, he wore clerical garb. About the only exception he made was for recreation. Had he known he was destined to end his day at a posh party, he surely would have been in clericals. Another good reason, he thought, why he should have more strongly resisted Irene’s plea.
“You got some identification?”
Koesler found his driver’s license and held it alongside his face so the guard could see his resemblance to the mug shot.
The guard nodded, stepped aside, and held the door open.
“Thanks.” As Koesler entered, he reflected that it was almost as tough getting in to see Lee Brand as it was the Pope.
He was surprised at how few people were in the spacious living room. Most of the guests must be, he thought, in the pavilion or at the shore enjoying the delightful evening. A uniformed waiter offered a tray of cocktail glasses, some empty, some full. He waved them away. This was awkward enough without trying to balance a glass.
A very tall, very slender, handsome woman approached. “May I help you?” she asked.
“I hope so. Irene Casey, who lives across the lake—” He gestured in the general direction of the Casey home.
“Irene!” she interrupted. “Then you must be Father Bob Koesler. She’s told me all about you. I’m Joan Brand, but you may call me Sunny. Do you mind if I call you Bob?”
Koesler minded. Especially at a first meeting with one who was a Catholic. However, he knew protestation would be useless.
“If you prefer,” he said.
“Come. You’ve got to meet my husband and the others.” She entwined her arm in his and led him outside, walking so close she was almost leaning on him.
She was about five-eight or nine. Her perfume held a very soft, delicate fragrance. Her dress had an expensively elegant appearance. Inside the pavilion, she immediately located her husband. She hurried to him, dragging Koesler along.
“Lee! Lee!” she cried, loudly enough to attract the attention of those nearby. “This is the one I’ve been telling you about. This is Father Koesler!” She did not inform her husband that he could call Koesler Bob.
Brand was standing at a table laden with bottles of almost every top brand of liquor known to man.
This was the Lee Brand Koesler remembered from all the photos. Tall, heavy head of grayish hair, tummy tightly pulled in. Not the short, bald, dumpy man Irene had identified as Brand earlier that day.
As his wife and Koesler approached, Brand looked up from his occupation of building a drink. His head cocked to one side, and one eyebrow arched elaborately as he gazed pointedly at Koesler’s clothing.
“I was at a picnic across the lake… I didn’t know I was coming here…” It was the doorman revisited.
Brand’s furrowed brow smoothed. A smile appeared, followed by a contagious chuckle. “That’s OK., Father; I’ve had days like that. It’s cold-shower time.”
“Oh, no; I don’t need a shower.”
“He means,” Joan translated, “return to the drawing board. Start over again.”
“Oh.”
“May I build you a drink?” Brand asked. “Martini?”
Koesler nodded.
“Dry?”
Koesler nodded again.
“Lee,” said Joan, “Irene said Bob here might be able to help us with Bunny’s wedding.”
Koesler watched fascinated as Brand built the drink. He carefully placed a large ice cube in the glass. He po
ured in only enough dry vermouth to coat the ice. Placing one finger atop the ice, he turned the glass over and shook out the few drops of vermouth.
“Just in case we come up with a problem with the ceremony, you know,” Joan continued.
He splashed Steinhager gin over the ice until the glass was nearly full.
“Irene says Bob here may know a priest who would witness Bunny’s marriage if all else failed,” she concluded.
He cut a peeling from a fresh lemon, rubbed it on the surface of the glass’s rim, twisted the peel, and dropped it in the glass. He discarded the rest of the lemon.
“Well, all else is not going to fail.” Brand presented the martini to Koesler with just the hint of a flourish. “Not with Monsignor Tommy Thompson a part of our game plan.”
“I sincerely hope your prognosis is right on the button.” Koesler raised his glass in a toast to his host and hostess.
“Well,” said Joan, “you can never be too careful, I always say. Not with Murphy’s Law hovering over us all the time.”
“I,” Koesler affirmed, “am a firm believer in Murphy’s Law. And Murphy is as busy within the Catholic Church as he is elsewhere.”
“You can’t get anywhere with that belt-and-suspenders philosophy. It’s damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead, or there’s no cream at the top,” Brand hybridized.
Koesler guessed that Lee Brand lived by bromide and jargon. Not unlike Koesler’s deacon, Les Schroeder.
“C’mon, Father,” said Brand, “it’s time for you to meet the happy couple, who will, in a few weeks, be married in a Catholic church.” He pronounced the last few words in much the same way as God must have said, “Let there be light.”
Brand provided the wedge, blocking as he led the way through the crowded pavilion.
“You mustn’t mind Lee, Bob,” said Joan, as, their arms again entwined, she steered the priest in the wake of her husband’s path-clearing. “Lee simply believes he can get anything he wants done. If he can’t overcome an obstacle, he figures he can buy it.
“But I’m really worried about this marriage. I’ve checked with several priests, and none of them was at all hopeful. You see, Richard is Episcopalian, as is his first wife. High Church, mind you. Perhaps you read of their divorce. It was in all the papers.”
Mind Over Murder Page 5