Very little.
It was getting later.
27
Wetter Yet
George St. James ended his phone conversation with his wife and said to those with whom he was meeting, “Thank God. That was Eileen. She received a call from Joey Kelsch a few minutes ago.”
“Wonderful,” said one of the chapter members. “Where is he?”
“The boy wouldn’t tell her. He insists upon seeing me. She told him I was working here late. I suspect he’ll be by soon.”
Canon Wilfred Nickelson, who’d been packing personal belongings in the choir room, had stopped off to leave a forwarding address with the bishop and clear up a few other details, and heard St. James make his announcement. “You say he’ll be here soon?” Nickelson asked.
“Unless he decides not to come.”
“Excuse me,” Nickelson said. “Sorry to have interrupted.”
“You know, Wilfred, we will miss you,” St. James said. Nickelson’s announcement of his hasty departure had only added to St. James’s generally depressed mood of late. It had been suggested that a big going-away party be held for Nickelson, but a thunderous lack of interest on the part of the cathedral staff caused St. James to offer a modest one, which Nickelson had declined. But the call from Eileen had lifted his spirits. At least the problem of a missing student would soon be over. He suddenly found it easier to forgive his choirmaster.
Nickelson appeared to be flustered by the kind words. He was well aware that his short notice had not sat well with St. James or with others in the cathedral. He said, “Thank you, Bishop. I’ll miss you, too.”
As Nickelson left the study, Annabel’s African king turned off Wisconsin and drove into the cathedral close. She had expected to arrive at a virtually deserted cathedral at this hour. Instead, there were MPD cars everywhere, and lights played over plantings on the grounds.
Annabel paid the driver and stood on the steps of the south transept, wondering where Mac would have arranged to meet Morgan. The time would have helped determine that. The cathedral was locked after dark unless a special religious event was taking place. He might have opted for an outside rendezvous. No, not in this weather. She pulled her raincoat collar up around her neck and wished she’d had the good sense to bring a hat and umbrella.
Mac would probably—and she knew she was trying to project herself into his mind—would probably have suggested meeting in the Good Shepherd Chapel because of the easy, twenty-four-hour access to it. It dawned on her that she would not have to circumvent the cathedral to reach the outside door off the garth. Because of all the activity, every door to the cathedral was open. She could take an interior route.
As she was about to go through the south entrance, she spotted Chief of Homicide Finnerty coming out of the Herb Cottage, a gift shop selling herbs harvested from the cathedral gardens. “Chief,” she shouted, coming down the stairs.
“Mrs. Smith. What are you doing here?”
“Looking for my husband. What’s going on?”
“Searching for a missing boy.”
“What missing boy?”
“Joseph Kelsch. Mac didn’t tell you?”
“No. I haven’t seen him.”
A uniformed officer came out of his squad car and ran up to them. “Chief, the kid is okay. Headquarters just got a call. The kid called the bishop’s house and has arranged to meet him tonight.”
“Jesus,” Finnerty said. “We spend the night getting soaked out here and the kid calls up? Terrific.”
Annabel looked at him incredulously. “Isn’t it wonderful he’s been found?” she said.
“Yeah, usual runaway stuff and I’ve got a whole squad out here catching pneumonia.”
“By the way, why are you here?” Annabel said. “I thought you were in charge of Homicide.”
Finnerty put his hands on his hips and looked at her as though she’d mispronounced a simple word. “Mrs. Smith, because of the reverend getting it, I’ve picked up this cathedral as permanent duty. Anything happens here, they call me no matter what—murder, a kid sneaking off to a dirty movie without telling his parents, a pickpocket working communion, I get it, and I’ll be glad when I don’t. Excuse me, I want to pull my men off and go see the bishop.”
Annabel watched the little detective swagger away, barking orders as he walked. She went up the stairs, entered the cathedral, and tried to get her bearings. She knew where the Good Shepherd Chapel was, but was confused for the moment about how to get there. She considered returning to the outside, but the incessant sound of rain changed her mind. She started across the dimly lighted nave, the squishing sound of water being squeezed out of the crepe soles of her shoes coming back at her loudly, as though tiny microphones in the laces were picking it up and amplifying it through speakers in her ears.
She paused at the crossing and looked down at the large Crusader’s Cross. To her right was the high altar; she could not know that Joey Kelsch had returned there and was sitting on his suitcase, pondering whether to fulfill his promise to the bishop’s wife. She looked left and squinted to better see across the vast expanse of nave that reached to the west rose window.
Would Mac and Clarissa Morgan be in Good Shepherd? It was only an assumption on her part, of course, but why assume anything? There was a way to find out, and she set off again, her pace faster. She reached the steps and descended.
A single candelabrum on the hallway wall spilled a drop of light through the chapel’s open door. Annabel approached, wishing the sound from her wet shoes could be muffled. She stood outside and listened. No voices came from within, but there was movement. Annabel thought of Paul Singletary slumped dead just beyond the door.
She could see only one pew; faint, mottled light from the window illuminated its emptiness. A sound of slight movement came from the high-altar end of the chapel that was out of Annabel’s line of vision. She drew a deep breath and stepped through the door.
Standing with her back pressed against the altar in the chapel was a tall, broad-shouldered figure. The silouhette was oddly familiar. Light through the window shone on the left side of her face; the right side was in shadows, a theatrical mask of good and evil. The woman was tense; her right hand was jammed into her raincoat pocket, and her eyes were wide.
“Miss Morgan?” Annabel asked.
The other figure’s deep sigh filled the small space. Her body then physically and visually lost its tautness, and she half-smiled. “Mrs. Smith. Yes, I am Clarissa Morgan.”
“Sure you don’t want me to keep a couple of officers around?” Finnerty asked Bishop St. James. He’d found him in his study, where the meeting was still in progress, and called him into the hallway.
“No, thank you,” St. James replied. “They might scare the boy off.”
“You don’t know where he called from?”
St. James shook his head. “My wife said it was definitely a phone booth. Could have been any one, a mile away or here, for all I know. Anyhow, I think he’ll show up. My wife said he sounded committed to seeing me.”
“Okay, your call, Bishop. We’ll keep an eye out for him. If we spot him we’ll—”
“If he doesn’t show up here in a reasonable amount of time, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, all I can do is thank you for your quick and professional response.”
“Thanks,” Finnerty said. “That’s our job.” He didn’t consider searching for lost kids his job, but it seemed the thing to say. “Hey Bishop,” Finnerty said suddenly, pointing to a high open window at the end of the hall through which rain was streaming, “you got a ladder or chair? I’ll get one of my men to close up that window before we go.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” the bishop grumbled, “the custodian should have been around hours ago, when the rain started, to close any open windows. No, don’t bother one of your men. I’m sure he’ll be around soon to close that window—and to mop up that puddle.”
“Well, okay,” Finnerty said. They shook hands, and Finnerty left and headed for his car.
St. James returned to his study, where the two lay chapter members were preparing to leave. The work had gone more smoothly and quickly than St. James had anticipated. The report needed only finishing touches, which Merle and Armstrong were working on, civilly but with a distinct distance.
Once the chapter members were gone, St. James yawned, then said to his two clergy, “I’d call it a night, too, but I have to be here for Joey. If he shows up.”
Merle said, “No need to do that, Bishop. You never can tell when that might be. Reverend Armstrong and I will be here for a while, to complete this document. If you have something else to do, go ahead and do it. Catch a few winks. We’ll get in touch with you the minute he shows up.”
St. James sat behind his desk and considered the offer. Merle had his kinder moments. The bishop was fatigued; it had been a long day and night, and he sensed he was coming down with a cold, maybe even the flu, which he’d heard was taking on the proportions of an epidemic in the Washington area. He’d tripled his intake of vitamin C that day in the hope of fighting off whatever was brewing inside. He’d got soaked late in the afternoon, and there was still a dampness to his clothing that passed through his skin and assaulted his bones. Besides, despite their recent differences, Merle and Armstrong seemed to be reasonably cooperative with each other, and with him. He said, “I really want to be here when Joseph arrives, but I could use a little time at home, maybe a hot bath and a cup of Eileen’s tea. How long will you stay?”
“Probably another hour,” Carolyn Armstrong said, looking up and smiling. “Go take that bath and enjoy the tea.”
St. James stood and stretched. His muscles ached, and the prospect of sinking into a hot tub became almost over-whelming. “I think I will, but I’ll be back in less than an hour. If he shows up, please call immediately.”
As St. James prepared to leave the cathedral, he had a spasm of second-guessing. Joey Kelsch had specifically told Eileen he wanted to see the bishop. Would the boy bolt when he arrived at the study and found only reverends Merle and Armstrong there? St. James reasoned Joey wouldn’t—rationalized it, actually. Both canons were well known to all the students in the school. There shouldn’t be any problem. Besides, they would call him, and he would return as quickly as possible, even if it meant cutting short his soak. He buttoned up his raincoat and went out into a blowing rain, forecast to be “occasional,” that had become a District of Columbia monsoon.
Tony and Alicia Buffolino sat in their storeroom-cum-office at the rear of Tony’s Spotlight Room. Outside, the band, now reduced to a piano player and drummer, labored through their repertoire of songs that all sounded alike for the entertainment of a half-dozen customers who all looked alike. On the desk was a tall pile of bills and a spreadsheet Alicia had worked up earlier in the day.
“It’s no use, Tony,” she said. “We can’t pay these bills—we can’t even pay the entertainers anymore.” The piano player and drummer were the sole source of entertainment that night.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Maybe we could do some kind of special promotion. Or, if you’d let me bring in a couple ’a strippers, say, it would be different.”
“Absolutely not,” Alicia said. “I will not have women taking off their clothes in my club.”
“Your club?” Tony guffawed. “This joint was my idea, and all you do is get in the way with No this, No that.”
“That isn’t fair, Tony.”
“Yeah, well maybe I’m not fair, but this place ain’t fair, either. We gotta have a gimmick, like the song says, or find some way to get people in here and keep them alive and around before they go out or pass out. We could go topless, maybe.”
“You could go topless. All you seem to be interested in is what you’ve always been interested in. This place is turning you into some kind of lowlife. I thought you were better than that.”
“Yeah, I thought I was better, too. But those bills are telling me somethin’, that nothin’s getting better.” He thought, yes, he had been better somehow, when they first met. He had been working for Mac Smith and life had started over. Now it was turning over, headed for the bottom. He flared up at her: “Well, I thought you were better, too. Whatta you know about this business, a waitress.”
She clenched her fists and said, in a burst of sheer frustration, “All you were was a cop, Tony Buffolino, and that didn’t work out, either.” Her look of disgust and despair hit him like a blow before she slammed the door on her way out.
He slumped in his chair and shook his head. What had he got himself into this time? Another marriage, and a business partner who didn’t understand how things worked. He could make something of the club if he didn’t have to listen to her. But he also knew—and had trouble admitting even to himself—that maybe he wasn’t being square with her. Maybe she was right; he was an ex-cop who’d been bounced off the force and who decided to become a big-shot club owner—and couldn’t even meet the payroll. Some big shot.
He needed to talk to someone who understood him, who’d support him. During a previous conversation with Mac Smith, Tony had lapsed into a round of complaints about Alicia and the state of their marriage. Smith had suggested they see a marriage counselor.
“A shrink?” Tony had said. “What’s a shrink gonna do, put us on a couch together?” He laughed. “Hey, maybe that would help.”
“Don’t be so cynical about counseling, Tony,” his professor friend had said. “Alicia seems like a nice person. She’s obviously crazy about you, which I suppose casts suspicion on her judgment, but I don’t think you want to lose her. Remember, she’s Number Three.”
Buffolino had told Smith he’d think about it, which he did. He’d suggested to Alicia that night that maybe he’d be willing to go to a counselor, and she’d responded enthusiastically. But they hadn’t gone any further because, as Tony had to admit to himself, he couldn’t bring himself to make the call, and wasn’t about to let Alicia choose the person who would attempt to help pull their marriage together. If they saw a shrink, it would be his guy.
Dumb, he thought as he sat dejectedly in the battered office chair. Smith had been right; he didn’t want to lose her. Tomorrow, he’d suggest she pick a counselor and make an appointment. Tomorrow. Couldn’t make the call this time of night unless it was to cops, the hospital, or the local funny farm. Sometimes they all seemed to be one place.
He picked up the phone and held it in front of him. Who should he call? He had to call somebody, get out of here, at least for the evening. There was no show to introduce, so he wasn’t needed. He considered calling one of his ex-wives, but they were both a source of pain out of the past. Right. Mackensie Smith. He’d call Mac and schmooze with him awhile. But the machine said:
“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.”
“Huh?” He’d never heard that kind of message from Smith’s machine before. He dialed the number again, got a busy signal, waited, then once again tried the number and got the same message from Annabel.
He hung up and frowned. What was Smith doing at the cathedral at this hour, in this weather, and why was Annabel going to meet him there? What had she called herself? His “partner”? Partner in what?
Buffolino had canvassed a number of places where runaways tended to go. He’d come up empty. All he’d learned was that the boy had been reported as missing to the police, and that Terry Finnerty was leading a squad on a search of the cathedral grounds. Why Finnerty? He was Homicide. Did this kid have something to do with Singletary’s murder?
It was all too much for Tony to ignore, particularly in light of his desperate need to get away from the club, the bills. He put on his old raincoat and slouch hat and walked into the club, where Alicia was berating the piano player for having taken his break too soon. “Forty on, twenty off,” she said.
“We played forty-five last set,” the pianist said, downing a glass half-filled with amber liquid.
; “I’m leaving,” Tony said.
“Where are you going?” Alicia said.
“I got somethin’ else to do.”
A blast of rain hit his face as he went outside. He ducked quickly into one of the two topless clubs that flanked Tony’s Spotlight Room and looked around. The room was packed with men who ogled a tall, lithe young woman wearing gloves, high heels, a bored look, and absolutely nothing else.
“Hello, Tony,” the club’s owner said. “Want a seat?”
“Nah, just checkin’ out the competition.”
The owner laughed. “Doin’ pretty good, huh?”
“Yeah, congratulations, I got to go.” To kidnap some customers, he thought, pulling his coat together.
“I can’t understand what happened to my husband,” said Annabel, who sat with Clarissa Morgan in the two-person pew at the front of Good Shepherd Chapel. “I hope he hasn’t had an accident. The weather is dreadful.”
“It can be even worse in England, in London or, say, in the Cotswolds,” Morgan said.
“Yes, I suppose it can be. The last time we were there, I had an experience I’ll never forget.” Annabel looked at Morgan. She pulled the photographs from her purse and handed them to the other woman. Morgan’s expression said many things, including a silent statement that she didn’t need photographs to know about Annabel’s nearly being trampled to death. She glanced at the pictures, then gave them back to her.
“That’s you on that horse, isn’t it?” Annabel said.
“Yes. I owe you an apology for that, Mrs. Smith.”
Annabel shifted so that she more squarely faced the beautiful British woman at her side. “Why? I didn’t even know you.”
“That’s correct,” Morgan said, clasping her hands on her lap and looking down at them. “I was told to do it by my employer.”
“Your employer? What employer would tell you to kill somebody you didn’t even know?”
Morgan denied Annabel’s assertion. “I didn’t intend to kill you, Mrs. Smith. I was told to frighten you, rough you up, make you and your husband decide you had better things to do than snoop around sheep pastures and churches. We couldn’t get to him, frighten him off, but if you were threatened, he’d be more likely to pull out.”
Murder at the National Cathedral Page 27