by Mary Daheim
“Okay, I’ll call if I hear anything,” said Judith, unlocking her car door. “For now, I’ll continue on my round of good works. I think I’ll check in on Father Tim.”
“What for?” asked Renie, her disposition already back to normal. “He’s got Mrs. Katzenheimer to look after him.”
“True,” agreed Judith. “It’s just this crazy feeling I have that he’s not exactly sick.”
Renie lifted both eyebrows. “Sounds like a goofy theory, but at least it doesn’t annoy the hell out of me, which is more than I can say for Kate Duffy.” She started to get into the car, but bobbed up with a sly grin. “When are you and Joe going out to dinner?”
“Huh?” Judith goggled at Renie. Prevarication was useless. “How did you know?”
But Renie just shook her head. “Coz.” She got behind the wheel and shut the door.
Judith watched Renie drive off onto Heraldsgate Avenue, still shaking her head and grinning.
Eddie La Plante was spraying the bushes in the small rose garden at the west end of the church. It was semi-enclosed, with a grotto where St. Bernadette knelt at the feet of Our Lady of Lourdes. The Dooley family had donated the shrine thirty years earlier when one of its members had been diagnosed as having a stomach tumor. Surgery had revealed that he’d swallowed a Ping-Pong ball during a particularly raucous St. Patrick’s Day revel. The planned trip to Lourdes had been canceled, and the money set aside for the journey had gone into the grotto.
The minute Judith saw Eddie, she remembered that he was the person who had first mentioned Stella. Judith approached him gingerly, never sure of how he would receive an intruder in his floral domain.
“I see there are some buds coming out already,” she said pleasantly. “Nice new growth, too. Did you prune all these yourself?”
“Who else?” retorted Eddie, still spraying away. “You think any of these snooty parishioners would lend a hand?”
Since most of the parishioners’ hands were already callused, at least symbolically, from putting on bazaars, auctions, bake sales, carnivals, and endless other fund-raisers, Eddie’s remark struck Judith as unfair. But Judith, determined to stay on his good side, assuming he had one, kept smiling.
“You’ve certainly done a good job here,” she said, trying not to inhale Eddie’s pest spray. “Did you work in the garden at your former parish?”
Eddie eyed her suspiciously from under the brim of his baseball cap. “What former parish? I hadn’t been inside a church in forty years until I moved here.”
“Oh.” Judith mulled briefly. “It must be quite a change from…where you were before.”
Eddie snorted. “Nope. One place is like another. A roof, three hots, and a cot. Big deal. Quince Street ain’t Park Avenue.”
Judith hoped Eddie didn’t notice the flicker of surprise that crossed her face. “The rain doesn’t bother you?”
“Nope.” He polished off the last rose bush and set the spraying equipment aside. “It beats that wind in the Bay Area. The earthquakes aren’t as bad, either, I hear. ’Course there hasn’t been a real shaker since I came.”
“Did the last big one down there scare you off?” Judith asked innocently.
Eddie took the baseball cap off and mopped his brow with a handkerchief that looked as if it had been borrowed from Phyliss Rackley. “Naw. It just rattled the dishes and made the lights blink. I was living down the Peninsula then. Moraga.”
“You have family here?” she inquired in her most guileless manner.
The suspicion in Eddie’s eyes intensified. His weather-beaten face screwed up. “Why should I? What good is family?”
Judith thought of her own, flawed and sometimes aggravating, but nonetheless dear. “Oh—sometimes relatives are a trial, but they can be a comfort, too. I just wondered if you had anybody close up here, that’s all.”
Eddie gave her a baleful look and started to turn away. “Got to separate the bedding plants,” he muttered.
“Eddie—who is Stella?” Judith’s voice had risen, her tone implying command. She used it rarely, but it was well-honed from her days in the library and her nights at the bar.
Eddie jumped. “Stella? How should I know?” He was fumbling in his pocket, taking out his glasses case.
“You mentioned her to me the other day. Something about the Tresvant money. I thought you meant Sandy. Who is Stella?”
Clumsily, he withdrew his spectacles and put them on the end of his nose. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Somebody told me about her.”
“Who told you?” persisted Judith.
His rheumatic fingers plied the case like a harmonica. “Can’t recall.”
“Does Stella have a last name?” Judith stared at the little case.
Eddie’s old face scrunched up again. “I don’t recollect. Oh—I think it’s Maris.”
“But you don’t know who she is?” Judith was feeling frustrated.
“Nope.” Eddie was cramming the glasses case back into his pocket. “Just a name, floating around out there. I forget. Got to go. Where’s my slug bait?”
Judith watched him shuffle off past the grotto. At least she had a last name. Perhaps, she thought with a gleam in her eye, she had more: Eddie’s case for his spectacles was very unusual. Though obviously worn, it was hand-embroidered in an Oriental design, with butterflies. Judith wondered if it was the work of Eve Kramer.
ELEVEN
HILDE KATZENHEIMER HAD been the housekeeper at Our Lady, Star of the Sea, ever since she was middle-aged, which, it seemed to Judith, she’d reached at about twenty-five. Now, thirty years later, she looked virtually the same as when Judith had been a college student. Hilde had mousy brown hair hanging straight over her ears, a thin, pointed nose, a slit of a mouth, and lifeless gray eyes. She was almost as tall as Judith, but her figure had all the shape of a two-by-four. In her youth, she had married Mr. Katzenheimer, but had been widowed or deserted early on—no one knew for sure, even in a community where few secrets were kept for long. Childless and untrained, Hilde had found a job—and a home—in the parish rectory.
“He’s starving to death,” she said in her mournful voice. “Lent is one thing, Easter is another. Fasting is over.”
“He hasn’t eaten at all?” Judith asked as the two women stood in the parlor with its comfortable leather chairs and reproductions of the Italian Masters’ Madonnas.
Hilde shook her head. “Not since Saturday. I heard him crying last night.”
Alarmed, Judith considered. “Tell him I’m having a spiritual crisis.”
“Won’t matter. He refuses to come out.”
“Try it,” insisted Judith. “Young priests are always suckers for a spiritual crisis. Tell him I’m in a big void.”
Hilde stared at Judith as if she actually expected to see her standing in a big void, then shrugged. “Hopeless,” she concluded, but loped off in the direction of the rectory living quarters which had been designed for eight priests and now housed only two. Judith strolled around the parlor, admiring a Titian, a Raphael, and her favorite Botticelli, The Madonna with Divine Child.
Five minutes passed. Judith thumbed through a back issue of Catholic Digest. She studied an African crucified Christ clothed in tribal robes. She contemplated a photograph of the current archbishop, and felt her palms turn clammy. Was he even now making a decision that would change her life forever? Did he actually review the requests for annulment, or did they only pass through the hands of canon lawyers? Judith stared at the smiling, benevolent face and let out a little squeak when the parlor door opened.
“Mrs. McMonigle?” Tim Mills was pale, with dark circles under his eyes. He moved into the room with a tentative step.
“Father Tim! You startled me! How do you feel?”
Tim Mills gave Judith a hollow-eyed stare, then belatedly offered her a seat. “Sorry, I’m still a little…wobbly,” he explained, easing himself opposite Judith. Under a red and white rugby shirt and blue jogging pants, his burly build looked less subst
antial than usual.
“Flu?” asked Judith blandly.
Tim put a hand to his blond crew cut. “Well…no. Sort of a stomach upset, though.” His gray eyes roamed the parlor ceiling. Judith had the feeling he was arguing with himself. She wondered which side was winning. “Tell me, Mrs. McMonigle,” he inquired, very serious, “what’s troubling you?”
“You are,” replied Judith bluntly. “I’m worried about your illness. I know I’m not one of the most active members of this parish, and I’ve been gone for several years. But something other than your stomach upset you Saturday. Do you want to talk about it?”
Without his clerical garb, Tim Mills looked younger than his twenty-five years. Judith observed his surprise, which was followed by a guarded expression. “Look, Mrs. McMonigle, I understood you were in deep despair. I got out of a sickbed to see you. Why are you grilling me like this?”
“I told you, I’m concerned.” She leaned forward in the leather chair, hands clasped on her knees. “A terrible tragedy took place here three days ago. Sandy’s murder was sufficient to disturb any sensitive soul. Sandy’s masquerade was outrageous. You—and I, and everybody in the parish—have a right to be disturbed. But I think you’re more distraught than most. Is this your first brush with real evil?”
Taken aback by Judith’s forthright speech, Tim gnawed on his thumb and scowled. “Hardly. I’ve been hearing confessions for over a year.”
Judith waved a hand. “I’ve only heard my own, but I’d guess that ninety-nine percent of them must be pretty tame. I’m talking about real evil. In this case, cold-blooded, premeditated murder.”
“There have to be reasons for such things,” said Tim. He was the picture of a contemporary man, grappling with age-old mysteries. “A chemical imbalance, abusive parents, a lack of self-esteem. Some perfectly normal-acting people suddenly go off the deep end. Often, their acts of aggression are triggered subconsciously, rooted in the past. They, too, are victims of an indifferent, callous society.”
“Gee, Tim,” said Judith with a wry expression, “whatever happened to sin?”
A hint of color spread over Tim’s face. “Yes, of course, but we have to try to understand why people commit sin.”
“Call me crazy, but I’ve got this nutty idea about free will,” said Judith, with the notion that Bill Jones, Ph.D., would concur. “Sandy’s killer made a conscious choice. I’m not excusing him—or her—on the grounds of a bad haircut at age nine. We’re talking about good old-fashioned evil here.” Judith paused, noting the change that came over Tim’s face. He looked as if he were recognizing some new truth, and didn’t much like it. “What bothers me where you’re concerned,” she went on in a less forceful tone, “is that I have this strange feeling you may know who the murderer is.”
Tim’s gray eyes widened. “Even if I did, let’s say I’d heard it in confession, you know I couldn’t tell anyone.”
“Of course you couldn’t. But I don’t think that’s how you might know.” Judith sat back, waiting for Tim’s reaction. She felt faintly cruel, but knew of no other way to get through to Tim. He was, she was certain, absolutely terrified.
“I have no idea who killed Sandy.” Father Tim uttered the statement without inflection. His gaze was even. “Do you believe that?”
Judith hesitated. “Yes. At least I think you believe it. It’s safer for you that way.”
“Safer?” Tim’s boyish features were perplexed.
Inwardly, Judith cursed herself for not being more clever. The fact was, she lacked confidence in her own deductions. The only thing she was sure of was that Tim Mills stood in a precarious position. “I understand you asked Sandy to help with the Easter decorations,” said Judith, momentarily avoiding a direct response to Tim’s remark.
“Oh—well, yes,” replied Tim. “Sandy had called me a couple of times lately—questions about Emily’s funeral, that sort of thing—so I thought maybe it would be appropriate to ask about some volunteer work. But John answered the phone. He felt I was demanding too much of Sandy.” Tim’s face was wooden.
“I heard John wasn’t very pleasant about refusing,” Judith noted.
Tim’s expression turned ironic. “You could say that. Frankly, I was surprised. But Father Frank tells me that spouses—or should I say partners?—are often very touchy about too much volunteerism.”
“True,” conceded Judith, recalling that Dan had pitched a five-star fit any time she had offered her services to anybody who hadn’t been him. On the other hand, it seemed to Judith that a lot of people got involved outside the home to avoid family responsibilities. Good works sometimes turned out badly.
Not wanting to wear out her welcome, Judith stood up and now addressed her earlier concern for Tim: “If I were you, I’d get well in a hurry. I don’t think it’s wise to call attention to yourself right now. Do you know what I’m saying?”
Tim had grown very solemn as he, too, got up. He looked like a college football player who had been chastened by his coach for missing a crucial block. “Yes,” he said at last, “I do.”
“Good.” Judith proffered her hand. “You’re sure you don’t want to talk about anything else?”
Something flickered in Tim’s eyes, then faded away. “No.” He shook his head. “I can’t.”
Judith knew that was what he’d say. She was sorry. The archdiocese couldn’t afford to lose another priest.
The sun had finally decided to come out from behind the clouds. Judith could have used her dark glasses as she pulled away from the church, but apparently had left them at home. Like most native Puget Sounders, she didn’t consider sunglasses seasonal apparel, but necessary any time it wasn’t completely cloudy. Bill Jones, born and raised in Michigan, called it “the mole mentality.” Judith and Renie called him insensitive to light.
It still wasn’t noon. Judith drove away from Star of the Sea in a downcast mood. Across the street, the cherry trees had shed most of their blossoms, revealing wine-colored foliage swaying in the faint breeze. Daffodils, tulips, hyacinths, and narcissus preened in the sun. The early azaleas were in bloom, but others, along with the rhododendrons, wouldn’t burst forth in all their glory until May, the most colorful month in the Pacific Northwest.
Judith was not cheered by pretty gardens and green lawns. She fervently wished that Sandy—or George Sanderson—had not been killed. But since he had, she wished that she didn’t care who had killed him. If only, she thought, stopping at the arterial onto Heraldsgate Avenue, she could arm herself with the indifference that was typical of so many contemporary people. Murder, after all, was an everyday urban occurrence.
She was not entirely surprised to discover that she had not turned down the hill toward her home, but back up toward the business district. With a wry expression on her face, she felt as if she were letting the car drive itself. Past Chez Steve, Arlecchino’s Costume Shop, the dry cleaners, and Falstaff’s she went, pulling into a suddenly vacant spot across the street from Old As Eve Antiques.
Eve Kramer had converted a beauty parlor that couldn’t compete with Chez Steve into a haven for elegance. At the moment, Eve was consulting with an older woman Judith didn’t recognize, a tall dowager with upswept white hair, delicately rouged cheeks, and dangling diamond earrings. Judith discreetly withdrew to one side of the shop where she ostensibly admired some of Eve’s needlework.
“I’ll call the gallery in Dallas this afternoon about the lyre-back chair, Mrs. Woodson,” promised a smiling Eve as her client made her stately way to the door. “They may have to get it from Paris, though.”
Mrs. Woodson inclined her head, the earrings swinging above the collar of her cashmere coat. “You do that. I want the chair to complement the eighteenth-century porcelains on the marble mantel.”
“Of course.” Eve was still smiling. “As ever, your taste is impeccable.” The door closed gently behind the departing Mrs. Woodson. “Old hag,” snorted Eve. “She wouldn’t know a Boulle marquetry desk from a brass spittoon. I h
ope she trips over her seven-hundred-dollar alligator shoes.” Swinging around in Judith’s direction, she all but pounced. “What do you want? Didn’t Kurt tell you to knock it off?”
“What off?” Judith asked innocently. “Gosh, Eve, I had a nice visit with your husband. I thought we got everything squared away.”
“What?” Eve simmered down slightly. “Oh, yes, Kurt came home waving a white flag, but that doesn’t explain why you’re here now.” She fingered her full lower lip. “You make me nervous,” she said at last, skewering Judith with a wary, dark-eyed gaze.
“I’m a bit nervous myself,” Judith admitted. “You realize that one of us could be a murderer?”
Eve actually shivered under her blue silk wrap dress. “I didn’t do it so that leaves you.” She gave Judith an ironic look. “I ought to call the cops right now. Have you come here to steal my spare pair of embroidery scissors and do me in?”
Judith, in turn, studied Eve speculatively, concluding that despite Eve’s earlier outburst, her bark did indeed outstrip her bite. So far. Judith tested the waters.
“Were those scissors really lethal?”
It was a question Eve had obviously already considered. “Yes, they could be. Especially to a thin person like Sandy. She—I mean he, I can’t get over the fact Sandy was a man—God! Sandy used to come in here to meet John after work once in a while. Maybe I never really got a close look.” She put a hand to her forehead. “Anyway, he didn’t have much meat on his bones. My scissors came from Japan. Kurt got them for me when he went to Tokyo at the time Tresvant Timber was selling out. They’re longer and sharper than the European or American versions.”
“Have you any idea who took them out of your purse?”
Again, Eve had gone over all this territory before. “Not the foggiest. I left my bag on the counter in full view. I always do when I work up at SOTS. Let’s face it, there’s theft even at church, especially when you’ve got school kids around. I always figured my handbag was less likely to get pilfered if I kept it in plain sight.” She slipped down onto a Louis XIV brocade-covered armchair and gestured for Judith to take its mate.