Kill and Tell

by William Kienzle

  “I’m going to call an ambulance and have him taken to Oakwood for observation.”

  “How long do you think he’ll have to be hospitalized, doctor?” There was a sense of urgency in Chase’s usually bland voice. “I mean,” he adjusted back to his normal unanimated tone, “there’s a very important meeting at The Company Wednesday. Do you think he’ll be able to make it?”

  Rambeau shrugged. “It’s just impossible to tell at this point, Mr. Chase. But, if I had to guess,” Rambeau was one of the few doctors who allowed himself a public guess, “I would guess we won’t be keeping him long. Despite the damage to his physical and psychic health, he appears in relatively good condition. But, it’s best to be on the safe side. We’ll get him into the hospital so we can monitor him. Actually, the next few hours are the critical ones.”

  Rambeau offered Emma a ride to the hospital. Passively, she accepted.

  Cindy Mercury, since she had been revived, had been sitting on one of the dining room chairs, numbly absorbing all that was going on.

  Angie Mercury began gathering and presenting coats and hats. “I’m sorry about the party, folks,” he said to all in general. “God, am I sorry about this party!”

  The cook, assisted by the waiter and waitress, was packing away a virtually untouched dinner. Most of it was being stored in the refrigerator. There were not many dishes to wash, mainly cocktail glasses and soup bowls.

  “What the hell are we going to do with all this food?” Angie, slightly disheveled, was feeling considerably depressed.

  “You know the one hundred and one things to do with hamburger? Well, you’re going to see a like number of things done with pheasant.” Cindy had almost completely recovered not only her consciousness but her natural ebullience.

  She seemed to improve the moment it was known that her brother was not in any danger and that, in all probability, he would fully and quickly recover. Her improvement continued as Emma Hoffman apologized profusely for her drunkenly abrasive behavior. An apology that Cindy accepted with good grace. Angie had not matched Cindy’s open spirit of forgiveness and, in fact, was nursing a grudge.

  The two now sat at the dinner table, which was being cleared quietly and efficiently.

  Angie slouched in his chair. “This was NOT a real fine clambake. And we did NOT have a real good time.” It was a parody of a song from Carousel.

  “It happens.” Cindy shrugged. “I’ve never found a good way of turning off the booze for a guest. By the time I realized that Em was drinking too much and eating too little, she was already over the edge. But once she recovered, she did apologize.”

  “Fat lot of good that does. The damage was done.”

  “I know it was embarrassing for you, honey, but she didn’t actually say anything. It was all innuendo. Her sarcasm would have been wasted on the Chases and the priests. As far as I know, none of them knows about what Frank gives us.” She thought it pointless to mention that just that afternoon she had told Father Koesler about the monthly check. That had been in the confessional, a world apart.

  “Actually,” he looked directly at her, “I wasn’t as sore at her for what she said to me as I was at what she must have said to you in the living room beforehand. When I came in to announce dinner, I saw that you were close to tears. But I didn’t know why, and there was no time to find out. And then when Em started in on me, I remembered that she’d been sitting right next to you before dinner—and it all fell into place. That’s the main reason I was teed off. If Frank hadn’t collapsed, I’m afraid my Italian fuse was about to burn down.”

  “People make mistakes; that’s all there is to it. Try to look at it that way. Em made a mistake and afterwards she was sorry about it. And I don’t think there was as much damage done as you suspect. Besides, there was a good side to it.” Cindy was renowned for her ability to find silver linings. “We were able to get a doctor for Frank right away. And after what happened to him tonight, Frank isn’t likely to do anything foolish like that again.”

  She rose and began folding the tablecloth. “It’s getting late, honey. Why don’t you go on to bed? I’ll make sure everything is taken care of and be with you shortly.”

  Angie affectionately kissed her cheek and patted her bottom, then started down the hall to the bedroom. God, he thought, how I love that lady!

  But, try as he might, he could not extend any such positive feeling toward her brother. In fact, when Frank toppled over and Louise had screamed that he was dead, Angie had had the fleeting thought that all his problems were solved.

  The way Frank felt about Cindy, she almost certainly would be well taken care of in his will. With Frank dead, Angie and Cindy undoubtedly would be able to live very well on the interest from what Frank would leave her.

  No more monthly checks, no more insults, putdowns, games deliberately lost, groveling.

  But then, Frank hadn’t died.

  It put Angie in mind of the story he told on those rare occasions when he had to entertain children. It was about a little boy whose pet turtle died. For a while, he was inconsolable. Then, his father, in an attempt to cheer him, took him on his knee and told him about the grand funeral they could have for the turtle.

  “We’ll have a procession,” the father said, “and all your little friends can be in it. We’ll sing hymns and march out to the back yard. We’ll dig a little hole in the ground and we’ll put the turtle in a little box. We’ll put the box in the hole and cover it up and put a cross and some flowers over it, just like in real cemeteries. Then we’ll come back in the house and have a party.”

  All the while the father was talking, the boy’s eyes got bigger and bigger. “Can we have ice cream and candy?”

  “Sure,” answered his father.

  “And we can play games and sing songs and have fun?”

  “Yup!”

  At that very moment, the turtle, who had been presumed dead, woke up, stretched its legs, and wiggled.

  As he realized his grandiose plans for the gala had just gone down the drain, the lad’s face filled with dismay. Then, slowly, he looked up at his dad. “Let’s kill the turtle!”

  Let’s kill Frank!

  No, of course he shouldn’t even think of a thing like that.

  And yet . . . and yet . . .

  He couldn’t erase the memory of Frank flat out and presumed dead.

  It was approximately eighteen miles from Dearborn Heights to their home in Bloomfield Hills, but the traffic flow and the generally favorable green lights of Telegraph Road made the trip seem far shorter than the actual distance. Then, too, the Chases had been making the weekly trip from home to St. Anselm’s for so many years that familiarity added to the sense of proximity.

  Since leaving the Mercury house several minutes before, neither Charles nor Louise had said a word. WQRS-FM, Detroit’s classical music radio station, was broadcasting a recording of a Boston Pops concert. Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” emanated from the quadraphonic system.

  The Chases were one of those couples who were comfortable with each other in silence. They had been together so many years and had shared so much that they frequently found a common ability to sense what the other was thinking and actually to communicate in silence. They fully intended to grow old together.

  “Somehow,” Louise broke the silence, “I feel as if I just stepped out of a soap opera.”

  Charles grunted. “Pretty awful, wasn’t it?”

  “Tasteless. You’d think a woman with Em’s background would know better—instinctively—than to drink like that and then run off at the mouth. I mean, she is Old Money!”

  “Probably under a lot of stress. It’s the only thing I can think of to explain it. Though where the stress comes from, I confess I’m at a loss to know. She’s got everything money can buy. Always did.”

  “What about this mistress bit she brought up?” Louise turned down the radio. “I’d say a mistress could cause a lot of stress.”

  Charles shrugged. “Don’t know.�
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  “There’s no talk of it at The Company?”

  “There’s talk of everything at The Company. The rumor mill is as active there as it is at any large concern. But it may be no more than talk. I just don’t know.”

  “Would you be surprised if the Hoffmans broke up?”

  He thought for a few moments. “Nothing should surprise any of us anymore. But, yes, that would surprise me.”

  “I don’t think I would be all that surprised.” Louise shifted so she could more nearly face her husband. “But if they were to divorce, I think they would follow the familiar pattern. I think Frank would initiate the proceedings. After all, Em’s getting to an age when life settles into a more or less comfortable rut, but a rut nonetheless. She wouldn’t be interested in playing the boy-girl games that are a part of dating and courtship. She’s probably comfortable having the escort service Frank provides, no matter how she feels about him personally.

  “Frank, on the other hand, gives every indication of having the roving eye of many men his age. He’s good looking and, despite what we saw tonight, he’s in excellent health. Just the type who’d want to turn in an older model for some young thing.”

  “So far so good, but you’re forgetting a couple of important things: Em, even with all her own money, would never let him get away unbloodied. And Frank would never give up what he’s worked so hard to get.

  “And then there’s The Company. Frank has his eye on the top. That’s obvious. And he’ll likely get it if he bides his time and wins his struggle to stay invisible. A Hoffman divorce would be a red flag to the local, maybe even national, media. And no one who gets involved in garish headlines is going to be chairman of the board of The Company.

  “No, I’m afraid they are doomed to remain together until death does them part.”

  “And, speaking of death, Frank’s collapse tonight was kind of scary.”

  “Yes. But you know, when I saw him on the floor, all I could think of was that I needed him for next Wednesday’s meeting and, almost for that reason alone, I wanted him to live. How selfish of me!”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. That meeting means a lot to you and, from all you’ve told me, Frank has helped a lot.”

  “He has. He’s been almost selfless.” He paused. “Well, of course no one is selfless. But I’m sure Frank knows that I surely wouldn’t forget him should I succeed in reaching the top.”

  “And so you will.

  “I must confess, I had my reservations about Frank until you told me how much he was helping you. Now I think I could forgive him anything, even a mistress. Unless, of course, I were married to him, a possibility I don’t even want to think about—why are you pulling in here?”

  “Jacques! In case you’ve forgotten, all we’ve had tonight was a bowl of soup—and not all of that.”

  “Aren’t you taking a bit of a chance? Jacques on a Saturday night without a reservation?”

  He smiled as he handed his keys to the parking valet. “Oh, I think Claude will dig up something for us.”

  “I can’t believe I just ate dinner at a Wendy’s!” Bishop Ratigan said in good-natured disgust.

  “You should have tried the salad bar; it was great.” Father Koesler was gustatorially satisfied.

  “There wasn’t anything special about that place. I should have asked for chapter and verse when you claimed there was something special about that particular Wendy’s. The last time you took me in like that, we saw Ice Station Zebra because you told me it was a historical movie about the ice age.”

  “Some people never learn.”

  Ratigan started his Olds and drove out of the restaurant’s parking area. “I’ll bet I’m the first bishop to eat at a Wendy’s.”

  Koesler could tell Ratigan was not soon going to forget this episode—or let him forget it. “You are probably the first bishop to eat at Wendy’s while wearing his pectoral cross. Of course Gump has probably eaten in any number of fast food places. But he was probably in mufti or dressed as a simple and humble parish priest.” Pause. “Like me.”

  “There are any number of things Bishop Gumbleton does that I’m not about to do. One of them is staying at a YMCA during a bishop’s meeting. Another is ever again eating at a fast food emporium.”

  “Admit it now: The hamburger was good.”

  “Kiss my ring!”

  Ratigan drove on in silence for a few minutes. Then, “By the way, we haven’t yet discussed what occasioned our eating out tonight.”

  Koesler sighed. “It sort of makes one grateful to be celibate.”

  “What?”

  “Frank Hoffman’s wife done him in tonight. Of course the pills and the booze didn’t help. But I doubt he would have drunk as much if he hadn’t tried to match his wife drink for drink. Then she spent the evening needling him. And finally, there was that bit about a mistress. His wife helped make him what he was tonight—a near fatality. And a wife is a relative you and I don’t have.”

  “It’s a sacrifice we make. Doing without a wife and family.”

  They fell silent again.

  The bishop’s thoughts returned to the luncheon he’d had just the other day with Frank Hoffman at Orchard Lake Country Club. Ratigan had thought more than once about their conversation. It had been, on the whole, an unpleasant experience. Sure, there were political considerations attached to becoming a member of the hierarchy and then continuing to climb the ladder of authority. But that was true of any career. Besides, he didn’t like anyone to focus attention on the more venal aspects of improving one’s station in life.

  And thinking of the word venal, Ratigan recalled that when he saw Frank Hoffman lying on the floor and he was under the momentary impression that he had died, close to the first thought that crossed his mind was the money Frank had promised to will Ratigan and the archdiocese. Not only would that have made Ratigan a wealthy man; he would have, as Frank had pointed out, been able to bring a substantial gift to the archdiocese. Not an inconsiderable reason for Archbishop Boyle to advance Ratigan’s chances at getting his own diocese.

  He recalled feeling sharply resentful on learning that Frank would live. An unworthy thought. But one he felt almost compelled to return to. He had to come to some decisions. Decisions that were likely to be crucial for him and his future. It was as Frank had suggested: If you just wait for something to happen, it very likely won’t happen. If you want something badly enough, make it happen.

  They turned in on the street that led to St. Anselm’s church and rectory.

  “Damn!” said Koesler, with some fervor. “The Pumpkin Fiend has struck again!”

  “Huh?”

  “Look! St. Anselm!”

  The statue of the parish’s patron saint stood on its pedestal in the middle of the large grassy park between the church and Outer Drive. St. Anselm was outlined by the street lights. A hollowed-out pumpkin had been placed over his head. The pumpkin rested on Anselm’s shoulders and covered his head. Only the tip of his pointed miter could be seen above the pumpkin.

  “Every Halloween,” said Koesler, “some fiend fits a pumpkin on Anselm’s head. Damn! I’m going to catch whoever’s doing this if I have to put Anselm under surveillance all night some Halloween! And then I’ll turn him over to somebody. The Sacred Inquisition, probably.”

  Crime and punishment. Something else Ratigan decided he would have to think about.

  15.

  Bright and early Wednesday, The Company’s top executives began filing into the board room, which was centrally located on the Fisher Building’s thirteenth floor.

  Most of the executives seemed to share an air of quiet camaraderie. Most of them had been with The Company for many years and had grown up and older as they climbed the corporate ladder. A glaring exception to this span was Charles Chase, an outsider, but one upon whom Frank Martin had smiled. And because the chairman of the board had smiled at Chase, so did everyone else smile and accept him. Though the natives deplored the notion of an outsider risin
g above them to The Company’s top position, there was little they could do to stop Chase. So, realistically, since Chase would one day undoubtedly be their boss, it made sense for the others to treat Chase with kid gloves. It would be wise to be in his favor long before he entered his kingdom.

  Although Chase was an outsider, he didn’t appear to be one. He was wearing a conservative, three-piece business suit just as, with varying shades and cuts, was everyone else. As they filed into the board room, conversing quietly in small groups, they almost, but not quite, resembled clones.

  Inside the board room, an executive pecking order was clearly established through the judicious placement of chairs.

  At the far end of the room, against the wall, four chairs, significantly larger than the others, stood behind a large table on a low dais. Facing these chairs was a series of semi-circular rows of chairs, each with its own small desk-table.

  The four large chairs were reserved for the chairman of the board and chief executive officer, the president and chief operations officer, the vice-chairman of the board, and the executive vice president and chief financial officer. Charles Chase’s place was at the center of the first row of chairs. Frank Hoffman was almost immediately behind Chase in the second row.

  All quickly took their places. Frank Martin rapped the table once with his gavel. He did not call for silence; he already had that. The gavel merely marked the opening of the meeting.

  While executive papers were shuffled, providing a soft background sound, the secretary read the minutes of the previous meeting, which were approved. Old business was called for, discussed, and disposed of.

  Chairman Martin announced new business, then launched into an elaborate introduction of Charles Chase. The introduction certainly was not needed for the benefit of anyone in this room. The few who had not known Chase personally before he joined The Company certainly had read all about him when the move was announced. It had been one of the major business events of that year.