Murder at the National Cathedral

by Margaret Truman

  He began to cry silently. Maybe he would just die there. That would be the end of it. Maybe he would just die and be found behind the high altar the next morning the way Father Singletary had been found in Good Shepherd. He prayed without sounding the words, ending his prayer with “Please tell me what to do.”

  He didn’t know that the police were outside searching the close for him, or that a man named Tony Buffolino was checking the bus station, or that his parents were at home, his mother hysterical, his father trying to calm her but quietly fearing the worst for their only son. Nor did he know that upstairs in the bishop’s study, a meeting was in progress at which Bishop St. James and members of his staff worked on a financial report that was expected in two days at the church’s executive council in New York City. With the bishop were reverends Merle and Armstrong and three lay members of the cathedral chapter.

  Damn that Willie Nickel, Joey thought again, clenching his fists. More tears ran down his already stained cheeks.

  Mac Smith took Rufus for a short walk in the rain, returned to the house, checked the answering machine, and heard Morgan’s voice confirming she’d meet him at the Good Shepherd Chapel. He wrote Annabel a note: Gone to meet Clarissa Morgan at the cathedral. Don’t ask why there. It just happened that way. Maybe we’ll finally get to the bottom of this. Wanted to see you but will return ASAP. I love you. Don’t worry. Mac.

  He checked his watch: time to go. He’d changed into tan corduroy slacks, and slipped a brown cable-knit sweater over the blue button-down shirt he’d worn that day. He’d also changed from black wing-tip shoes to his favorite pair of tan desert boots. He put on his raincoat, gave Rufus a reassuring pat on the head, and headed for the front door. The ringing phone stopped him.

  “Mr. Smith?” a woman asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Helen Morrison at Sevier Home.”

  Smith’s heartbeat accelerated. “Yes, Miss Morrison. Is my mother all right?”

  “No, Mr. Smith, that’s why I’m calling. She’s taken a bad fall, and we think she’s broken her hip. She hit her head pretty hard, too.”

  Oh, God. “Where is she?”

  “The ambulance has just arrived to take her to the hospital. We’ve made her as comfortable as possible. I wanted to let you know as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, thank you. What hospital is she being taken to?”

  “Georgetown University.”

  “I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

  It was nine-thirty. There was no debate in his mind about which obligation to meet. Maybe I can swing by the hospital, make sure Mother is being properly cared for, and then find Morgan, he thought. He’d be late at the cathedral, but so be it.

  He half-ran down the street to the garage they rented. Three minutes after he’d driven off, Annabel arrived, noticed that Mac’s car was gone, and went to the house.

  She opened the door, hung up her coat, and went to the kitchen. Mac’s half-consumed cup of coffee was on the table and still steaming. Next to it was the pile of photographs from London. She looked at them carefully; a chill went through her as the memory returned of that day in the sheep meadow.

  Usually when she came home to an empty house, her initial response was to go to the study in search of a note Mac might have left her. This night, however, she first went to the bedroom and changed into silk pajamas, a robe, and slippers. She made herself a cup of tea and then strolled into the study … saw and read the note.

  “Not without me, you’re not,” she said.

  Minutes later she was dressed again and pulling her still-damp raincoat from the closet. She shoved the photos in her oversized handbag and headed for the front door. Instead, she went to the answering machine and changed the outgoing message. “This is your partner, Mac. I’m on my way to the cathedral to be with you. If this is somebody else, leave a message after the beep.”

  It was raining harder now as she sprinted in the direction of their garage. By the time she reached it and opened the door, her shoes were soaked from puddles she hadn’t bothered to avoid. She turned the ignition key. Nothing. Can’t be, she thought. It started fine all day. “Come on,” she said, jamming her foot down on the accelerator. No sense trying to talk it into action. She stood on the sidewalk, looked up and down the street. No chance of getting a cruising cab at this hour, in this neighborhood, in this rain. She walked to the Kennedy Center, where a performance in the Opera House was letting out, and was able to grab one of many waiting taxis before the throng of theatergoers poured through the doors in search of those elusive vehicles. “The National Cathedral, please,” she told the coal-black driver whose name on the posted license read like that of an African king. As he pulled away, she wiped condensation from the inside of the window and looked out. “Stupid,” she mumbled. “You may be a brilliant professor, Mackensie Smith, but sometimes you are just plain stupid. Going to meet that woman alone, late at night.”

  Then she thought, stupid? Who’s stupid? She had just left a message on the answering machine that was crazy. No one should use their machine to tell callers that they’re out. No woman should announce where she is going, alone and late at night. Especially not a woman whose life has been threatened.

  Well, they were partners—and they could share the stupidity prize—if they lived.

  Mac Smith stood at the side of a bed in Georgetown University’s emergency room. His mother, whose grip on his fingers was pincerlike, smiled up at him and said, “Don’t worry, Mac, I’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, Mother, I know you will. Are you in much pain?”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “The shot helped,” he said.

  Eyes still closed, she nodded.

  The orthopedic surgeon on call that night entered the room carrying X rays that had been taken of Josephine Smith’s hip and head. “A clean break,” he said, slapping the still-wet plates up under metal clips and flipping on the back light. His finger traced a dark line on her left hip. “I’ve seen worse.”

  “What about the blow to her head?” Smith asked.

  “I see nothing on the X ray that would indicate any sort of injury.” He leaned over Mrs. Smith and said, “You’re going to be just fine.”

  She smiled. “I know,” she said. “I was just telling my son that. You shouldn’t have bothered taking an X ray of my head, not this hardheaded old lady. I take after him.”

  Smith grinned and massaged her hand.

  “We’ll make sure you have a comfortable night,” said the doctor. “Afraid we’ll have to do a little surgery on you, however.”

  “I suppose you do,” she said. “Where do I sign?”

  The doctor looked at Smith and laughed.

  “Be careful what you give me to sign,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “This man is a lawyer, and a very good one.”

  Ten minutes later a hospital administrator came in with a surgical consent form, which Josephine Smith signed with a weak but deliberate flourish.

  “How’s Annabel?” she asked Mac when the administrator left the room.

  “Fine, although she wasn’t home when I left. She was having dinner with an employee. I’d better give her a call.”

  “Tell her not to be concerned about me.”

  “I’ll tell her, Mother, but don’t count on it. You do know she loves you very much.”

  “Which makes me a fortunate old lady. Go on, now, get home to her. I’ll be fine. I’m getting drowsy.”

  Smith looked up at a white clock with black hands. Ten past ten. How long would Clarissa Morgan wait? He kissed his mother on the forehead and said, “I’ll stay until you’re asleep. Then I’ll go home, but I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

  He went out to the nurses’ station, where the doctor was making notations on a chart that had been created for Smith’s mother. “You’ll operate tomorrow?” Smith asked.

  “Yes. I’ve already scheduled the O.R. for eight o’clock.”

  “How long
does this kind of surgery take?”

  “A couple of hours. I think we can fix your mother up just fine, although she will have a long period of convalescence.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Thank you very much, Doctor. I know she’s in good hands. I’ll stay with her for a while.”

  When he finally did leave, Smith’s focus was on getting to his meeting with Clarissa Morgan, and he forgot about his intention to call home. He went directly to his car, sat back, and had a sudden urge for a cigarette he hadn’t had in fifteen years, told himself what happened to his mother could have been worse, and drove from the emergency-room parking lot in the direction of the National Cathedral.

  * * *

  While it had made sense in the beginning to seek refuge in the cathedral, and to choose the Jerusalem altar because it was the least likely place anyone would come at night, it now occurred to Joey Kelsch that he couldn’t just sit there for the rest of the night—for the rest of his life. He’d heard voices, some of them outside and amplified. They sounded like the police. Were they searching for him? That thought caused him to shudder. If they really searched for him, they would certainly find him, even if it took a day or two, and they would ask him lots of questions. They’d hear his voice and maybe remember the voice of the person who’d called to report Reverend Singletary’s murder.

  He had to find someone, tell someone.

  Bishop St. James. He was a nice man who would listen, and would protect him.

  Joey stood and peeked over the altar. Outside, powerful lights came and went, piercing stained glass and throwing bizarre, grotesque patterns of color over the nave’s stone grayness. Joey decided to leave his suitcase where it was, but he did pick up the kneeling pad and slowly came around from behind the altar with it. He paused, went to the communion rail, and laid the pad from where he’d taken it, in front of a plain block of wood that represented Judas; the rail was made up of eleven other carved blocks, each bearing the figure of a saint.

  He tiptoed away from the rail and down the long center aisle, passed the elaborately carved oak choir stalls, and reached the crossing—the cathedral’s center—its four gigantic sustaining piers rising up almost a hundred feet, though it seemed to Joey they went to heaven. He had always been impressed with how big the cathedral was, but at this moment it seemed to have grown tenfold, as if it had suddenly been filled with helium gas and expanded like a ponderous gray balloon. He’d never felt so tiny before, a speck upon the floor. He looked down; he was standing on the Crusader’s Cross, the cathedral’s special symbol.

  He seemed so small and alone. Then, somehow, it was as if he felt a presence, but not a scary one, just a kind of all-encompassing and powerful one. He couldn’t see a face, but he knew it was there, gentle, smiling, sort of saying, “Everything will be all right, Joey. Go now and do what you must.”

  He walked to the south transept and down a set of steps to the gift shop and information center, where he knew there was a pay phone. He pulled a small notepad from his rear pocket and opened it to where pieces of paper were inserted. One of them was a list of cathedral clergy and their office and home numbers. They were all there, including the bishop. His heart raced as he found a quarter in his pocket, lifted the handset, and inserted the coin. When he heard the dial tone, he squinted at the touchtone pad and carefully punched in the bishop’s home number, hoping not to make a mistake. It was his only quarter.

  “Hello,” Mrs. St. James said.

  Joey gulped.

  “Hello, who is this?”

  “Ma’am, is Bishop St. James at home?”

  “No, he’s not. Who’s calling?”

  “Ma’am, this is Joseph Kelsch. I go to school here.”

  Had Eileen St. James been visible to him, Joey would have seen her stiffen at the mention of his name. She said, “Yes, Joseph, how nice of you to call. Where are you?”

  “I’m … I really need to see the bishop right away. It’s very important.”

  “I’m sure it is. Are you near the cathedral?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m—” A searchlight swung past the window, its beam bathing the small black alcove in harsh light. Joey’s grip on the handset tightened, and he stopped breathing.

  “Joseph, please tell me where you are. I’ll have the bishop come to you right away.”

  “I don’t know.… Could you tell me where he is, please, and I’ll go to him.”

  Mrs. St. James realized she was going to lose contact, and decided to give him what he wanted. “The bishop is in his study in the cathedral, Joseph. He has a meeting, and he’s going to work very late. You could go see him there.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  There was a pause.

  “Deposit fifteen cents for an additional three minutes.”

  Joey hung up and flattened against the wall as the light once again intruded upon his safe place. He’d never been to the bishop’s study, but he knew where it was. He started to leave the alcove but the light came back again and illuminated everything. He crouched below the small booth that housed the telephone and tried to decide what to do next. Was he doing the right thing by going to see the bishop? Maybe he should just go home and forget about it—try to forget about it. And so he remained there, huddled and tense, and thought about it.

  Clarissa Morgan’s message on the machine had confirmed the time and place for them to meet. “The Good Shepherd Chapel,” he had said, reasoning that it was sure to be open—the murder had not changed cathedral policy in that regard—and was indoors. No sense having either of them waiting outside in the drenching cold rain pouring over Washington. He was aware of the macabre aspect of meeting there, but it still struck him as a logical place. Also, he wanted to detect any sign of resistance.

  Clarissa had agreed.

  Now, as she sat alone in the chapel, her mind was filled with conflicting thoughts. She was growing angry at Smith for not being there. It was getting late. Was this some nasty way of getting even with her for skipping out of London on him? No, he wouldn’t be that childish. He was a grown man, and a respected attorney and professor. Something must have happened. She’d wait, but not more than another fifteen minutes.

  Simultaneously, she thought of Paul. Whenever she did, her emotions shifted between sadness and anger. He was so prone to becoming involved with the wrong people—always the wrong people. She’d pointed that out to him repeatedly, but he never listened. Oh, he placated her from time to time, told her that he was seriously considering disengaging, but he never did, and she’d reached the point where only ultimatums were left. How many of those she had issued him, the most recent when they’d flown together to Washington from London.

  His announcement came as a total surprise to her the morning after his disappointing meeting at Lambeth Palace. She’d gone out early to the greengrocer’s, leaving him sleeping in her bed. When she returned, he had showered and dressed.

  “I have to go back to Washington immediately, Clarissa,” he’d said.

  “I thought you were going to the country today.”

  “My plans have changed.”

  She asked why, but he was evasive. Because she was a neat and orderly person, it was not difficult to ascertain when something in the flat was out of place. He’d obviously used the telephone while she was out. It must have been a call that prompted his sudden change in plans.

  “I’ll go with you,” she said.

  “I prefer that you don’t.”

  They fought about it, and eventually he gave in, albeit without enthusiasm, and made two reservations. He’d remained angry until they’d settled in their seats and the flight was over the Atlantic. Then he became more agreeable once again. Clarissa recalled that his change in attitude coincided with the pretty little flight attendant’s flirting with him. Her lips tightened. He was such a fool for a pretty face and trim figure, so easily seduced by red lips and pert breasts. She knew; she hadn’t had any problem seducing him. Then, of course, it had been a deliberate act that had nothin
g to do with being attracted to him, nothing to do with wanting to establish a real intimacy with this surprisingly handsome man of the cloth. But it had progressed, as those things sometimes do, until she was in love with him, madly, desperately, insanely in love with him.

  The tightness of her mouth softened almost into a smile as she thought of Brett Leighton’s warning to her about that very thing. “Remember, Clarissa,” he’d said, “we simply want to know everything he’s doing in Word of Peace. We simply want to know who he’s involved with and what they’re doing. Keep it at that, Clarissa. It’s a job, one you might even find pleasant, but nothing more than a job.”

  She’d laughed at Leighton that day, which made him angry. By then, she’d done his bidding before and had seduced those men he wanted seduced so that secrets and information might be transmitted over pillows damp with love. She’d already become jaded and wanted out when she took on the “Singletary assignment” as one last job. After love transcended simple lust, she wanted Paul to take her out of the game that had become distasteful, wanted him to love her, too, to commit himself to her. Which he said he would do, but he had not lived long enough to carry it off.

  And so what was left?