“Did you find Mr. O’Keeffe all right?” Helen asked brightly, feeling my eyes upon her.
“Yes, thanks. Just take a short message for Mr. Huneker, and tell him I’ll try and catch him later on this week at his home.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll tell him.”
For a few minutes I sat in my car, wondering what to do next. So far, my knowledge concerning Marion Huneker added up to zero, although I thought I detected a pattern of some kind. Maybe her priest could divulge something; as her confessor he knew more about the dead woman than any person alive. As I drove to the Church of the Sacred Heart I thought how easy my assignment would be if I only had tape recordings of the last three or four confessions she had made to the old priest.
Chapter Nine
As Roman Catholic churches go, the Church of the Sacred Heart wasn’t large, but it had a wealthy membership. The percentage of Roman Catholics in Lake Springs was approximately eleven percent, and those who attended Mass were forced to go to the Church of the Sacred Heart because it was the only Catholic church in town.
After parking in the yellow loading zone in front of the church I went inside, and soon spotted Father Hardy down by the altar doing something or other with a stand of candelabra. There were two teenaged girls kneeling together, midway down the aisle, their heads covered with pink Kleenex cleansing tissues, but except for the girls and the old priest, the church was empty. I lit a cigarette and sat down in the last row of pews to wait for Father Hardy. The high-ceilinged church was cool, and it was a quiet, restful place to relax in. The multicolored stained glass windows along both walls were beautiful to contemplate, and gave the interior an aura of mystery. How nice it would be, I thought, to truly have faith in a religion like this, where a man could take his problems to God, through the medium of an understanding priest, and be forgiven for his sins—that is, if he had any. But the Mother Church hadn’t helped Marion Huneker when she had sorely needed it. Why?
Father Hardy came puffing up the aisle, white-haired, pink-cheeked, his enormous paunch hiking his black cassock up six inches higher in front than it was in the back. A muskmelon can be majestic, but it cannot be dignified, no matter how hard it tries. Smiling and shaking his round head, the priest wagged an authoritative finger.
“No smoking in church,” he said firmly.
“Why not?” I said, getting to my feet and falling in beside him. “Would God be offended?”
“No,” he said gently, with a sidewise look, “but the Fire Marshal wouldn’t like it.”
We paused outside, at the top of the steps, both of us blinking in the bright sunlight. I tossed my cigarette onto the verdant, well-kept yard, in the general direction of a “Keep Your Dogs Off The Lawn” sign.
“I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes about Mrs. Huneker, Father. I’m Richard Hudson, from the News-Press.”
“Of course. I’ve just been talking to her husband.” Father Hardy sighed gently, shaking his head. “And I lit a candle for the poor woman.”
“How much did the candle cost Mr. Huneker?”
“Twenty dollars,” the old priest snapped without hesitation. “Let’s go to the house where we can sit down in the shade.” He took my arm and we went next door to his two-story house. After righting two upturned aluminum patio chairs we sat down on the wide front porch. “It’s such a hot day, you might like a glass of lemonade, Mr. Hudson?”
“No, thanks. I know you’re a busy man, and I don’t want to take up too much of your time, Father. I’m doing the follow-up story on the murder-suicide story, and rumor has it that Mrs. Huneker and her children will all be buried in the same plot of ground. This isn’t the ordinary practice, is it, for suicides?”
“Rumors travel quickly in Lake Springs.” Father Hardy looked at me with mild surprise. “Mr. Huneker left me less than ten minutes ago.” He examined his fingernails for a moment; they were cleanly pared, and shiny from a coat of clear lacquer. “Ordinarily,” he continued in a level, matter-of-fact tone of voice, “suicides are not buried in our Calvary Cemetery, not unless there are extenuating circumstances. But in this particular case there were such circumstances. Mrs. Huneker was mentally ill.”
“Every person who takes his own life is mentally ill, in one way or another, or don’t you agree?”
“I agree to some extent, yes. But each case is different, and must be handled separately. A Requiem Mass will be offered for Mrs. Huneker, and her children, of course, tomorrow morning. There are no doubts whatsoever that Mrs. Huneker was mentally disturbed. Several years ago, when the couple was living in Pennsylvania, Mrs. Huneker was treated for a nervous breakdown. Mr. Huneker showed me some of the bills that he had retained from the psychiatrist who had treated his wife—”
“It was fortunate he kept them. What was the diagnosis?”
“There wasn’t any exact diganosis; it was a nervous condition of some kind that affected her scalp. Her illness began, Mr. Huneker told me, with a violent scalp rash she couldn’t get rid of. The family practitioner recommended a psychiatrist. And any rate, after a few psychiatric consultations the rash disappeared, and she didn’t make any more visits. It’s a pity she didn’t continue them. The underlying causes of the nervous condition she suffered may have been uncovered completely had she—”
“I don’t know, Father,” I interrupted, with a little laugh, “and it isn’t any of my business, but that sounds like mighty slim evidence for mental illness.”
“Illness may be the incorrect term to describe the case, Mr. Hudson. The Catholic Church regards suicide as a sin, a grievous sin, and doesn’t, by any means, condone Mrs. Huneker’s actions. However, she was definitely, in my considered opinion, mentally irresponsible at the time. When a reasonable, solid doubt exists, as it does here, the Church is merciful. Eternity is a long time, Mr. Hudson, and I knew the poor woman well. She was a good mother, and I cannot impute willfulness to this tragedy.”
“I suppose you checked your decision with the Bishop of Miami?”
Father Hardy closed his eyes, smiled, and slowly shook his head. “I was ordained in 1927, Mr. Hudson, and my superiors have confidence in my judgment in such matters.”
“I see. So mother, son, and daughter will be buried together tomorrow?”
“Yes. Calvary Cemetery, two o’clock. And please, no photographs.”
“Of course. One more thing, Padre. It has been estimated that Mr. Huneker averages about thirty thousand dollars a year in earnings. Does he give ten percent of this income, or three thousand dollars a year, to the Church of the Sacred Heart?”
“What is your faith, Mr. Hudson?”
“Zen Buddhism.” I grinned. “But I don’t practice it because there aren’t any Zen Masters living in Lake Springs at present.”
“In other words, none?”
“That’s right, Father. None. And please excuse my stupid facetiousness. A man should never scoff at what he doesn’t understand. I’m just an ignorant sinner, I guess, and I apologize.”
“Newspapermen have a tendency to carry their skepticism as a shield. Perhaps, one day, you and I can have a little talk?”
“Perhaps. I realize that the confessional is a deep, dark secret, Father Hardy, but are you allowed to tell me about the last time Mrs. Huneker came to you and confessed?”
“Do you rub everybody the wrong way, Mr. Hudson? Or am I overly sensitive?” The priest heaved himself out of the chair, leaned against the rail of the porch and studied my face. “I believe,” he said, nodding with conviction, “that you are a very rude, unpleasant, young man.”
“I think I am, too,” I agreed. “But if I don’t ask questions I don’t get any answers.”
“Your last question wasn’t germane. Anything else? I have a crowded schedule, Mr. Hudson.”
“Yes, sir. I’d like to have a list of the pallbearers, if you have it. Names make news, you know.”
“All right. The list isn’t completed, as yet. But I’ll telephone the names to your paper when I have th
em all.”
“Make it early, Father. My deadline is eleven-forty-five tonight.”
“That’s your problem, not mine!” he snapped. “I’ll call the paper when I have them. No! On second thought, you can call the Ivy Street Funeral Home and get them yourself.”
“Thanks.” I got out of the chair. “And if you have the name and address of the Pennsylvania psychiatrist, I’d like to have it. It might be ‘germane’ to drop him a line and see what his diagnosis was.”
“Good day, Mr. Hudson,” he said coldly.
“Good day, Padre.”
The priest ignored my outstretched hand and marched into his house. Overly sensitive, Father Hardy.
Sitting in my car I made some notes for a story about the funeral before driving downtown and parking in the newspaper lot. I had a bowl of soup and a pimento cheese sandwich in Frank’s Lunchroom. Then I walked three blocks to the public library to kill a couple of hours until it was time to report to the office for work.
The old biddy behind the desk gave me a tight-lipped, suspicious expression along with the key to the glass case where the medical books were kept locked away from the prying eyes of the junior and senior high school students. The library board was afraid that these young students, who used the library for study purposes at night, might possibly learn the differences between male and female by looking at the pictures. One of the books even went so far as to explain all about babies, with diagrams in full color.
I picked out several thick texts, and did some general reading on paresis and dermatology. The meager information I had obtained from the good priest was insufficient to fit Mrs. Huneker into any of the case histories I found in the small print. If she had made only a few visits to a psychiatrist, and had been so easily cured of a so-called psychosomatic rash, I decided she couldn’t have been seriously disturbed emotionally. The kind-hearted old priest was clutching at straws; more power to the old boy, and God bless him.
The gobbledygook in the psychiatry textbooks made interesting reading, however, and I made a great many notes for statistic tables I could prepare later to mystify my readers. The causes of psychoneuroses were explained in detail, and if anything, Mrs. Huneker had been a psychoneurotic. But weren’t we all?
The causes: Sexual disturbances, 22 percent; Accidents, with or without injury, 13 percent; Marital crises, 12 percent; Financial crises, 11 percent; Operations, 10 percent; and Deaths or illnesses in the family, 9 percent each. Other contributing factors included an unfavorable early home life, constitutional predisposition, the menopause, scars, anxiety, physical defects, and as a kind of catchall, overconcern about any of the symptoms the person complained about!
As a layman attempting to figure out something I didn’t know anything about, I was forced to the conclusion that everybody I knew, myself included, had psychoneurotic tendencies, and that all of us were logical candidates for suicide. But I had known that much before I had started reading… I locked the books up again, returned the key to the desk, and went to the office.
My compatriot, Dave Finney, looked up from his typewriter, checked his wristwatch, and clucked his tongue. “You’re slipping, Richard. Twenty minutes early.”
“I know, but stuff is beginning to stack up on me.”
“More than you know!” He laughed cheerfully. “You’re Mrs. Frances Worthington this week!”
“For once you’re wrong, Dave. I checked the schedule Monday.”
“And I rechecked it this morning. I know that Mrs. Mosby never makes a mistake, but this time she transposed our names when she typed the list.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive; I’m not kidding you, Richard. But the tough part’s already done. Rex and I took the photos already, and we got six or seven fairly good eight-by-tens. There’s a note on top of the pics for you.” He patted the stack of photos on the desk.
“Okay, okay,” I said wearily. “I’m Mrs. Worthington.”
“How’s the suicide business?”
“Not so good, Dave. It’s a painful conundrum, a painful conundrum indeed.” I sat down, pulled on my lower lip. “That might make a fair title for the series; A Painful Conundrum—”
Dave giggled. “You can’t get away with it, Richard! Dickens, or maybe Conan Doyle might have been able to use that title, but our readers would think you were referring to a tight condom!”
“It’s a sad situation,” I agreed, grinning, “but you’re probably right.”
While Dave cleared up the desk I went into the morgue to get the stack of old House Beautiful and Living For Young Homemakers magazines I used for research purposes when I was Mrs. Worthington. I plopped the magazines down on the desk, and took a look at Dave’s note. The featured house of the week belonged to a retired couple from Duluth. They had a son in college and a married daughter in Cincinnati. As usual, the address was a good one, and the photos revealed that their home was on the lake, so it was expensive.
“Tell me something, Richard,” Dave said earnestly, as I sat down in the still-warm vacated swivel chair behind the desk. “How in the hell can you write these Mrs. Worthington features without talking to the homeowners or visiting the sites?”
“Experience, my boy, experience, but it’s a secret for you and me to share, and not for J.C.’s ears. Don’t ever mention it to him; it would break our M.E.’s heart.”
“Either you’re crazy or lazy.”
“I’m both, and that isn’t a secret.”
Dave departed, and I made some notes for the evening’s work ahead. I was forced to cancel my attendance at the Jaycees’ banquet, and to call the secretary and ask him to drop by the office afterwards with his minutes on the affair. There was the general outline for the series on suicide I had to get out of the way. Four separate articles would do it; the first a general piece on suicide, and I had enough for that one already. I could always fill in, if I ran short, with information from the World Almanac and the office Americana Encyclopedia. The second article would be an exposition on female suicide; the third on male; and the fourth and final piece: suicide-murder, adolescent self-destruction and perhaps a summation. A fine plan of action, and if I was lucky Mr. Curtis would pay me a hundred dollars. It would be extra money and Beryl could use it to buy herself a couple of dresses and some new shoes or something.
I had plenty of work to do without being stuck as Mrs. Worthington, I thought disgustedly. I detested the unexpected assignment.
Every Sunday the paper ran a lead feature article on a Lake Springs residence in the Home and Real Estate Section. In addition to several photos of the outside and inside layout, the descriptive phrases describing the home were written in a gushy manner. The three female writers on the editorial staff did the best job on this kind of article, but because everybody disliked the task, J.C. had compromised by rotating the assignment to a different reporter every week—except for the two sports reporters. He didn’t consider them capable of such writing. This was a sore point with me, because both sports-writers were paid ten dollars a week more than me. In reality, there was no such person as Mrs. Frances Worthington, and there never had been. The pen name was used from the beginning of the feature because no one on the paper wanted to be identified with the articles. When publicity-seeking readers called the paper, anxious to make a pitch to the nonexistent Mrs. Worthington to get their homes featured, they were given a standard answer: “Mrs. Worthington is attending the National Home Conference in St. Louis. We’ll see that she gets your message when she returns.”
My phone rang. The phone rang all the time. Sometimes I answered it and sometimes I didn’t. If I was in the middle of something I left the receiver off the stand. This time I answered the summons.
“Richard, this is Gladys.”
“Gladys who?”
“Gladys Chatham.”
“Oh, yes. What can I do for you, Mrs. Chatham?”
“I was wondering if you and your wife could come over to our house for dinner one night next week—afte
r the play is over?”
“Sorry, Gladys. But I’m working every night.”
“How about cocktails, then? Sunday evening.”
“Where’ll I meet you?”
“I mean you and your wife. She appears to me like a person I’d like to meet and know.”
“How come this sudden, unnatural interest in my wife?”
“Because I feel sorry for her, that’s why!” Gladys said angrily. “I read your review of Lilliom this morning and I think you treated her shabbily. Adequate! She was marvelous in the role and you know it!”
“I’m glad you think so. I’ll tell Beryl. She’ll be pleased.”
“If you were my husband, which thank God you’re not, and you wrote about me like that, I’d slap you every way but loose!”
“If I may be so bold as to express an opinion, I think I wrote an excellent review. If you don’t agree with me, and that’s a reader’s privilege, why don’t you write an angry letter to the editor?”
“I may do that!”
“Good. I’ll enjoy reading it before I tear it up.”
“You’re no good, Richard, just plain out and out no good!”
“I’m busy, Mrs. Chatham. Is there anything else on your mind?”
If I hadn’t been prudent enough to hold the receiver away from my ear I might have received a punctured eardrum. Gladys slammed the phone down very hard indeed. I laughed, the familiar, ugly snuffling sound through my nose. But there wasn’t anything funny, nothing to laugh about. The quick fury in Gladys’ voice was not feigned. She was angry all right, but why? She didn’t know Beryl; why should she feel called upon to defend her? She didn’t even know me for that matter. And that was the true answer. Gladys had suffered an attack of remorse, and she had decided that she didn’t want to know me. The column had given her an excuse to relieve her guilty conscience; to nip our embryonic affair in the bud before it went any farther. Fine. In a few days, however, her boredom would probably overcome her temporary guilt and she’d call me again—to kiss and make up. Tough. I was through. The excuse worked both ways, and I made up my mind to be as impersonal as the weather if she ever called me again.
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