Conduct in Question

by Mary E. Martin

  “They’re firing you?”

  “Hardly! They’re smarter than that. One woman, Katharine Rowe, along with two guys, Taylor and Metzler, have orchestrated my departure.”

  “Are they offering a package?” asked Harry. Having represented a few disgruntled employees, he was well aware of the Machiavellian strategies of employers.

  “A pittance!” Dean’s face was an ugly knot of fury. Harry’s concern mounted. Dean was on his third scotch.

  “See…these two young guys, Taylor and Meltzer, have this project.” He sneered. “It’s supposed to revitalize the firm. St. Timothy’s Church on Highland Avenue wants to sell to a shopping-mall developer, but they have to get it zoned commercial before closing. These guys are a couple of interior decorators, with all their artsy-fartsy stuff.” Dean waved his hand in the air, then poked his finger at Harry. “But underneath, they’re still a couple of fucking cutthroats,” he muttered.

  Dean lapsed into black silence. Harry prodded gently. “Have you gotten legal advice?”

  Dean shook his head. “Not yet.” He stared into his drink. Fury rose in his voice. “But you know what really kills? No loyalty from Katharine. Another outmoded concept of mine. Jesus, I mentored the woman. Without me to protect her, her career would have been in the toilet. How’s that for gratitude?”

  Harry shook his head in sympathy. Everyday he was thankful to be spared the bloodiness of corporate warfare.

  “That bitch! Did plenty to advance her career.”

  “What does she do at Orion?”

  “She used to be my assistant.” Dean’s lip curled. “I should’ve seen it coming. She’s gunning for my job. Thinks she can bring new life to a worn-out firm.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of her,” Harry said carefully. Marjorie had said little about her niece Katharine. It was just as he always thought. Names mentioned in wills often took on surprising life on the death of the testator.

  “Tough lady. Lots of times, when she was my assistant, I could have taken advantage.” Dean held up his hands in innocence. “Never touched her once…a real ballbuster, though.”

  The two men sat in silence. The bar was getting hot. Suddenly, Dean said, “Ever hear of a lawyer, Tony McKeown?”

  Harry had read a few articles by McKeown in the Law Times about a new master plan for the city. He had been alarmed at his zeal for a vision of cool, sleek lines, uncluttered by any trace of humanity. Harry shrugged. “Just heard of him. He’s an urban planning lawyer. Why?”

  Dean chuckled.” “He’s the shark who gulps up all the little fish. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers almost under Harry’s nose. His friend was getting pretty drunk.

  Dean leaned across the table and said, “Some of his buddies are planning a takeover of Orion. Nobody’s safe there.” He smiled bitterly, “Not even Taylor and Meltzer. They don’t know McKeown hates their planning concepts.”

  Harry patted Dean’s arm. “Listen, if you need help, call me. You’re entitled to a good severance.”

  “You’re goddamned right, Harry. I will.” His voice was fierce, but Harry saw his eyes were damp.

  As Harry pulled into his driveway, thoughts of Katharine and Dean faded and his mind returned to Marjorie. Someone else had been in the house at two o’clock. The evidence had been there: spilled teacups, and chairs pulled up around the bed. The cop had seemed out-and-out lazy, and too quick to decide that her death was from natural causes. In order to make the funeral arrangements, he needed to know whether there would be an autopsy, as he had suggested.

  As he opened his front door, he heard the telephone ring. Katharine Rowe was on the other end.

  “She was an amazingly strong woman,” Katharine sighed after he told her of Marjorie’s death. “At least she’s at peace, now.” There was a pause. Harry wondered if she were overcome with grief. “I haven’t seen her for almost two weeks. Was anyone with her when she died?”

  “Not that I know of. But someone was there earlier.”

  “Who?” Katharine’s voice was sharp.

  “I don’t know.” Harry hesitated. “Of course, I called the police, and they came with the coroner.”

  “The police?”

  “Yes. It’s customary when someone dies alone at home.”

  “Where was Rosie?”

  “Marjorie said she was letting her go for the afternoon.”

  “Strange,” Katharine said. “I was in meetings all day, and I called you back as soon as I could. I didn’t know she was unwell.”

  “I didn’t either, but of course, people do die suddenly, without warning.”

  “I suppose.” Katharine sounded unconvinced.

  Harry hesitated and then said, “I did ask the police about an autopsy.”

  “What on earth for? Do you suspect something?”

  Harry hesitated. “No. I just wanted to be sure I could go ahead with the funeral arrangements.” He hoped he sounded convincing. Briefly, he closed his eyes.

  A certain serenity had filled Marjorie’s bedroom. As she lay in repose, his first thought had been: She got what she wanted…a neat and peaceful passing. He frowned. On the stairs, it had seemed as though something was wrong, like reverberations after a violent clap of thunder. He had asked the officer about an autopsy. Now he had to know what happened.

  He heard Katharine sigh. “Listen, Mr. Jenkins, I’ve had an absolutely exhausting day. Meetings nonstop all day, and more tomorrow. What happens next? Are you her executor?”

  “Yes. I’ll be in touch the next day or so.”

  “Good. Well, thank you. Goodbye.” Katharine hung up.

  She’s all business, he reflected.

  Looking about his empty kitchen, he sought refuge from his circuitous thoughts. Leafing through yesterday’s paper, he was surprised to find Katharine’s photograph. He read the article about her award for tireless efforts in support of Emma’s Hostel for Women.

  Perhaps Dean did not have the whole picture of Katharine. Harry was sympathetic to the plight of women in the so-called man’s world. The survivors almost became a parody of the men with whom they competed.

  Where the hell is Laura? he wondered. Hardly ever here! Sadly, he remembered a time when she would turn to him for comfort. Her climb on the corporate ladder had been perilous. Sometimes all he could do back then was to hold her close in bed at night, until she drifted off. Now, at the top of her profession, maybe she did not need him anymore.

  He checked his watch. Strange: no word from Rosie yet. He called Marjorie’s house, but there was no answer. Without even knowing her last name, he could not reach her. Slowly, he started upstairs for bed.

  CHAPTER 8

  On the day that Marjorie died, Katharine had been in the midst of appointments, struggling to maintain control of Orion’s newest client, the archbishop of the Anglican Church. Inexplicably, Archbishop Staunton had decided to personally promote the plans of St. Timothy’s Church to sell out to a shopping-mall developer.

  Katharine’s male partners had voted unanimously to assign personal charge of the client to her. The senior partners would control the important matters of design and structure. Surely, a man of the cloth required special tact and sensitivity to guide him through the shoals of planning departments, city council meetings, and legal briefs. A woman’s gentle touch was needed; no male was suited for the role of handmaiden.

  They did not know Archbishop Staunton. In their ignorance, they expected a kindly, older gentleman, ready to bless their every thought and deed. Shielded by their preconceptions, they saw what they expected. For Katharine, this new client was surprisingly difficult, exhibiting keen intelligence, sophisticated worldliness, and outright pigheadedness. A clerical collar was no guarantee of benevolence. No robe could disguise his cool and calculating manner. His interest in the project was intense. Just like a domineering white male, she thought.

  Katharine had revised plans to present to the archbishop at his legal counsel’s office. The head of the church knew the wisdom of retai
ning the law firm of Cheney, Arpin. The expertise and connections of their most senior urban development lawyer, Tony McKeown, were at their disposal. McKeown was at the pinnacle of the urban-planning law world.

  According to Katharine, a woman needed the right combination to succeed in a man’s world: hard‑nosed business acumen, tempered with just enough femininity; competence mellowed with just the right degree of vulnerability.

  Last night she had sensed that McKeown was buying into the package. She could guess at his assessment of her: competence, yes; smarts, yes; killer instinct, undoubtedly; easy lay, maybe. But for her, McKeown was hard to read.

  “We advise. The client instructs,” McKeown had said last evening. Then, with eyes lowered, he added, “Tomorrow, Mrs. Rowe, you and I will woodshed a priest. By the time I am finished, he will have become an effective witness.” The wry smile and the depth of pleasure in his eyes were more than disconcerting.

  Although she sensed danger, she could not place its source. He was very attractive, in a rough and threatening way.

  For Katharine, sex was an indispensable weapon in any woman’s arsenal. As a rule, men were weak and vulnerable pawns. But McKeown was different. He was polished like an elegant stone, but there was a sharp and dangerous edge to his charm—a challenge she could not resist.

  The next morning, as the elevator to McKeown’s office slowed, Katharine glanced into the mirror. The woman who stared back seemed remote and disconnected from her. She could not deny the desperate hunger in her eyes. Although she had everything in life, no man had ever satisfied her, at least not in bed. And then there was the business of love, she thought bitterly. Her husband, Bob, claimed he loved her, but it was a suffocating, deadening kind of love. Stepping from the elevator, she caught the reflection of her bright and brittle smile.

  First Katharine visited the washroom. As she checked her makeup, she heard sobbing from the lounge. Two women were seated on a low cushioned bench. The soft cries threatened to rise, but then subsided.

  “He really was a bastard. No, a monster!” choked the younger woman.

  She’s only a child, thought Katharine.

  “All through dinner, he was wonderful. So I thought it’d be okay to go back to his place.” The older woman put her arm around the girl.

  Heard this one a million times before, Katharine thought. Women could be so stupid and trusting. At the shelter, they tried to teach women—girls, really—how to protect themselves. Usually, it was a hopeless task. To Katharine, such naïveté was a cardinal sin.

  “He said that some women were meant to be hurt. Then he dragged me into the bedroom and told me to take off all my clothes.” The girl’s face streamed with tears. “He said that before he touched me, he had to examine me. He was holding a tiny silver knife in his hand.”

  The girl’s shoulders shook. She could not continue for some moments. “And when I said no, I didn’t want to do that, he hit me right across the mouth, real hard. Then he just dragged me to the door and shoved me out.” The girl flung herself into the woman’s arms. “He called me ‘filthy trash’ and slammed the door.”

  Oh God, thought Katharine, the child doesn’t stand a chance. But even so, she had to concede that it was nearly impossible to protect yourself from a charming madman. Katharine could do nothing. While she pitied the girl, she was contemptuous of such naïveté.

  After pausing to collect herself, Katharine proceeded to the reception desk of Cheney, Arpin. She was right on time for her meeting with the archbishop and Tony McKeown. Moments later, she was ushered past the circular staircase and down the paneled hallway to the boardroom. The rosewood conference table was twenty-five feet long. Richly upholstered armchairs lined both sides of it. The dark wainscoting gleamed in the sunlight. In the shadows at the far end of the table sat the archbishop who was talking to a woman who was filling his coffee cup from a silver carafe.

  “Good afternoon, Archbishop Staunton.” Katharine quickly covered the length of the boardroom and extended her hand. The archbishop began to rise.

  “Please don’t get up,” she said.

  The sunlight caught the unyielding angle of the cleric’s jaw. A wintry smile graced his lips as he replied, “It’s good of you to come on short notice, Mrs. Rowe. I see you have the revised plans.”

  Straight to business, thought Katharine, placing the roll of plans on the table and sitting down.

  The archbishop glanced at his watch and frowned. “Mr. McKeown is on the phone with the planning department.” His words were clipped and his manner brusque. “The whole diocese is very much concerned about the opposition to the church application. Tell me, Mrs. Rowe, what are our chances?”

  A clear, honest answer was demanded by this intelligent and perceptive client; no glossing over or false promises for him. Katharine took a deep breath and proceeded. “Mr. McKeown is really the one to answer your question, sir. But the city councilors I’ve talked to consider the proposal somewhat unusual.”

  “Really? Why?” The archbishop’s heavy eyebrows shot up, animating his face.

  Katharine met his eyes, then opened her maroon leather binder, which contained notes of conversations with various aldermen. With her best level gaze, she began. “Bottom line, sir, they don’t want increased commercial development in the neighborhood. Somehow, the idea of a church property being used for commercial retail space is a problem for them.”

  The archbishop turned angrily and said, “But we have the evidence! What about all those planning reports the church has paid for? They recommend the project because the tax base will increase.” Staunton waved his hand in disgust and sat back in his chair. “I thought aldermen always liked that sort of thing.”

  Katharine waited until he had finished, and then began quietly, “Unfortunately, the element of resentment is strong. The council sees the church as a wealthy institution owning valuable property and not fairly bearing the tax burden. Other businesses see it as a threat, while the residents regard it as an intrusion.” Katharine did not speak of the alderman who joked about driving the moneychangers out of the temple.

  She was surprised at the archbishop’s low chuckle. “Mrs. Rowe, don’t they realize that the church is building up a colossal debt just to pay its heat and light bills? No one tithes anymore. We can’t count on donations. If people want churches for their weddings and funerals, they’ll either have to become reliably generous, or else let us raise it in our own way. What business ever survived on charity?” Spent with frustration, Archbishop Staunton sank back in his chair and glared at Katharine.

  A clerical collar was no guarantee of immunity from secular concerns. The aggressiveness of the archbishop was disconcerting, and the idea of a church dirtying its hands in a commercial complex did seem undignified. She spread the plans on the table.

  Memories flooded through her. St. Timothy’s was an immense limestone structure built on a triple lot, right next to the house in which she had grown up. Katharine’s grandfather, Colonel William Mortimer Deighton, was a decorated war hero. Wishing to dominate the congregation of St. Timothy’s, the colonel had built immediately to the north, preventing the construction of the manse nearby. This act ushered in several decades of an uneasy balance of power between the church and the Deighton family.

  Katharine had lived there for eighteen years with her parents, George and Mildred Deighton, and her Aunt Marjorie. Katharine was the eldest, then came Gerry, and last, Suzannah.

  Until she was eleven, Katharine had attended Sunday school at St. Timothy’s. Shortly after her confirmation, she had simply refused to go back. She despised the sanctimonious vicar and his church. Hadn’t Jesus said, “Come, little children, unto me”? she thought bitterly. Without her, Gerry would not go. Despite threats, cajoling, and even bribery by her parents and Aunt Marjorie, she had sullenly resisted. None of them had thought to ask why, and Katharine preferred to keep secrets. Secrets gave her power.

  One Sunday in early April, a week before her eleventh birthday, Ka
tharine had been waiting for Gerry to come out of the junior class. She and her friend Betty had been talking about birthday-party plans outside on the lawn, and had almost forgotten him.

  Pulling the heavy side door open, she walked down the darkened and silent hall to his classroom. Everyone was gone. A gentle breeze filtered through the windows stirring the Lent calendar on the notice board. The secretary in the office directed her to the vicar’s study.

  Standing silently in the hallway of vaulted ceilings, she heard muffled sobs and pleading. Cupping her ear to the vicar’s door, she held her breath. Gerry’s voice! She was able to hear it plainly. She turned the knob slowly and silently the door swung open.

  Reverend Purvis, in his surplice, stood motionless. A belt dangled from his hand.

  Gerry, a slight and submissive figure, was bent over the arm of the sofa, his buttocks bared and his legs splayed. Slowly and confidently, Purvis strode about the room, as if delay might heighten his pleasure. Katharine was transfixed as the man unbuttoned his gown. He did not see her. Suddenly, the Reverend’s face became florid. He approached her brother with a brutal rush of energy.

  Katharine screamed. The Reverend turned. Only two Sundays before, he had smiled down on her at her confirmation. Now he scowled. Disgust rose in her. Confirmation of dedication to Jesus and the Church. For an eternity, she and the Reverend stood motionless, staring at each other. Horrified, she could see the blood vessels engorged at his temples. At last, the man drew his robe about him.

  Her screams rebounded on the vaulted ceilings. The Reverend slapped his hand across her mouth, but she broke free. Dragging Gerry by the hand, she raced from the study, down the hallway and past the locked office. He did not follow them. At the outer door, she turned back to see Purvis silhouetted against the stained glass window.