Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries)

by Judith Ivie

  “Yes,” Mary agreed, “but there was a little more to it. James and I had had quite a serious quarrel just before he left for that particular convention. I can't even remember now what it was about.” She shrugged. “Whatever it was, it was enough for James to justify to himself having his little fling with Roberta, at least for the few days they were in California. He told me that as soon as he got on the plane to come home, he was overcome with remorse. By the time he arrived here, he had worked himself into quite a state.” Her face clouded over at the memory.

  “He told you right away, then?”

  “Immediately. He didn't even say hello, just flung open the door and blurted it all out. He looked so awful, Kate, I thought someone had died, or he had an incurable disease or something. It was almost a relief to find out it was just a stupid affair. Almost,” she repeated with a trace of bitterness.

  I held out my mug, ready for a refill. “Then what happened?”

  “He felt better, and I felt terrible. That's how these things usually go, isn't it? I hated him for about a week. Then I forgave him.”

  I nodded my understanding. “Was that the end of it?”

  “I thought so at the time, but about a year later, there were some phone calls. James told me they were from Roberta. He said she was ill and had lost her job, needed some money. If I didn't object, he wanted to loan her a thousand dollars. I told him I didn't object, but I never quite believed that story.” She smiled to herself. “James is basically a truthful person, so he lies very badly.” She was quiet for a moment, remembering.

  “What do you think the true story was, or should I say, is?” I prompted her.

  She sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “I believe there's a child, a boy. Again, there's nothing terribly unusual about that, except that James and I were never lucky enough to have children. So when Roberta produced a son and heir, that rather put her in the catbird seat.”

  I didn't follow her reasoning and said so.

  “Don't you see? In James’ eyes, she went from being his former fling to being the mother of his only child, which is quite an elevation in status, wouldn't you agree?”

  “How do you really know all this, Mary? Did James tell you ultimately?”

  She shook her head. “No. That would have been far too hurtful, to his way of thinking. The fact that Roberta had borne his child meant that it was my fault James and I had never conceived, you see. He knew that would cause me real suffering.”

  I tried to take this in. “Aren't you just assuming all of this? I mean, if he never told you, what makes you believe there's a child?”

  Mary's eyes clouded once again, and she stirred her coffee, now cold, with ferocity. “There was a picture,” she said finally, “one of those awful school photos. A small boy with slicked-back hair and a missing tooth in the front. I found it in the pocket of James’ navy blue blazer after one of his convention trips several years later. The boy was the spitting image of James.”

  I was silent as I considered how very terrible that discovery must have been for her, to be betrayed yet again and realize that her beloved husband was apparently prepared to go on lying to her forever.

  “How could you forgive him after that, Mary?”

  “It does seem impossible, I know, but the first time, it was all about him, his feelings, what he wanted or thought he wanted. But after that, it was all about the child—his name is Patrick, by the way—and me. As soon as he knew there was a child, James did everything he could for Patrick. When I started missing money from our accounts, I knew where it was going. There were calls from his attorney to confirm meetings I wasn't supposed to know about but did. Now and then, he would slip up and leave a statement lying around for the trust fund he established for Patrick, things like that.”

  I was stunned, and my face must have shown it. “You said nothing? All these years?”

  “James was trying so desperately to spare me the knowledge of Patrick while still doing right by his son. How could I let him know that he had failed?”

  I couldn't help spluttering in indignation. “The money involved must have been considerable. How could James believe you wouldn't notice, Mary?”

  She smiled at my perplexity. “He had to believe he was succeeding, Kate. He simply could not bear to hurt me again, not in this terrible way. So he bore his burden in silence and took what comfort he could from his belief that at least he was sparing my feelings. He loves me, Kate. Can you possibly understand that? I love him, and he loves me. Of that, I am very, very certain.”

  After leaving Mary, I stopped by the diner and picked up a cup of their good coffee to go. Not wanting to be one of those annoying people who yap on their cell phones in public places, I took it back out to the Jetta to sip while I shared Mary's new theory with Margo.

  “Can you imagine your husband keeping a secret like that from you, and your letting him?” I finished up. “I mean, the convention fling with Roberta, maybe, but to find out six or eight years later that there's a child, and James was supporting him all that time and still keeping it a secret? I don't think so.”

  “Well, I suppose it's better than findin’ out there's a child, and he's not supportin’ him,” Margo mused. “It's the secretive part that would be the most upsettin’ to me. I'm still tryin’ to get my head around the fact that this nice, conservative man who spends his life slavin’ away for a charitable organization has a wife who's completely nuts about him, an ex-lover, an illegitimate son, a black sheep brother who turns up drowned, and, oh, yes, has now gone missin’ himself. Honestly, Sugar, you couldn't make this stuff up. So now what?”

  “Now I get myself to work. If Mary follows my advice, she calls your husband, and the police track down this Roberta to see what, if anything, she knows about this whole situation.”

  “How can they do that? All they have to go on is her first name.”

  “Oh, there's way more to go on than that. Someone at the UCC will know the name of the organization that sponsors the annual conventions James attends. That organization will have rosters of members and past attendees. In the universe of charity CFOs, there can't be all that many women, period, and surely not more than one or two named Roberta.”

  “I see your point. How's Strutter doin’, by the way? Have you talked with her?”

  “Not since Sunday, now that you mention it.”

  “Huh. Me neither. I think I'll give her a call and see what's cookin’.”

  “Say hi for me, and speaking of cooking, ask her what I owe her for that Christmas Eve goose she's doing for me. Gotta go.”

  I threaded my way through the light midmorning traffic on automatic pilot, my mind still whirling from Mary's revelations. I had no doubt that Mary was right about one thing. James loved her. I had spoken to the man only a couple of times in the days before the gala, and Mary's name had come up both times. His references to her were affectionate, even doting. So why had he jeopardized his long-time marriage to a woman he clearly adored by having a convention fling?

  Mary had said they'd had a quarrel just before he left on his trip, but was that so very unusual? Armando and I weren't even married yet, and we certainly quarreled from time to time. Nothing of real consequence, mostly just a lot of hissing and spitting, but still. He also was on the road for TeleCom now and again. Was this what lay in store for me?

  I pulled into the UCC parking lot and was surprised to see more cars than usual. Then I remembered the extensive post-gala meeting scheduled for ten-thirty with everyone who had anything to do with the fundraiser. The group was too large for the conference room in the UCC office, so the plan was to gather in the lower level of the Cathedral. I looked at my watch, which said ten-forty-five. Probably not too late to be noticeable, if previous meetings were any indication. Starting times were always loose.

  I locked up the Jetta and sprinted for the back door at the lower level of the Cathedral. Following the hubbub of conversation, I headed down a flight of stairs and came to the large, lower nave, wh
ere the meeting was just getting under way. I smiled and nodded to one of the many maintenance staff members who kept the Cathedral in order, not sure enough of his name to risk saying it out loud. With seconds to spare, I skinned into a rear pew next to the entryway I had just passed through.

  After James’ assistant began his financial report, I took note of my surroundings once again. There was certainly a lot to see, since St. Joseph's was one of the largest cathedrals in Connecticut. As I had noted during our previous meeting here in the lower level, the ambience was impressive and would have been even without the Christmas decorations that now festooned every nook and cranny. The hundred or so people in attendance occupied only a small percentage of the available pews, and stained glass windows filled most of the wall opposite me. I wondered again what the main floor of the Cathedral would look like. As luck would have it, I got my chance to find out.

  It seemed very cold to me, probably because I had left my coat in the car and had forgotten to bring a sweater with me. As the speaker droned on about debits and credits and balance sheets, I eased out of the pew and back to the entrance. I intended to go back to the parking lot to collect my coat, but at the bottom of the stairs, I paused. Someone upstairs was playing the pipe organ, the magnificent Mighty Austin about which I had heard.

  As if drawn by a magnet, I tiptoed up to the main level to investigate and found the doors to the nave standing wide open. To my astonishment, no mass was in progress. What seemed like acres of empty pews, each and every one adorned with an evergreen swag, stood before me. I nearly gasped aloud at the grandeur of the altar, banked with row upon row of potted poinsettias. But the main draw to my senses was the organ music. Someone was playing the Austin, and without even thinking about it, in I went. I might not be a religious person, but Christmas music, impressively performed, could still produce gooseflesh. I crept inside and gazed around me.

  If the stained glass windows of the lower level had been impressive, those on this level could only be described as awe-inspiring, which I supposed was the intention. The enormous pillars required to support the massive upper structure afforded me cover as I endeavored to trace the source of the music. After a few minutes of neck-craning, I was rewarded with the sight of an organist at the keyboard in the loft on the mezzanine level. Having spotted him, I withdrew once again to stand quietly behind a sheltering column, not wanting to make him self-conscious about having an unexpected audience.

  I looked about at my new surroundings as the music swelled and ebbed around me in the impeccable acoustics. “In dulcijubilo,” I thought, although the name of the composer escaped me. The altar, which lay a hundred yards in front of me, was a breathtaking configuration of architectural details and sculptures. The right wall of the nave was filled with what seemed to be confessionals, if my sketchy knowledge of the Catholic faith was accurate. Cautiously, I lowered myself into a pew and closed my eyes as the organist struggled to get a particularly complicated sequence exactly right, repeating a few bars of the music over and over. When he had mastered the passage, he played it triumphantly, and the reverberation of the huge pipes that had been installed throughout the Cathedral made me shiver.

  Shirley had told me that more than eight thousand pipes had been built into the walls, some so big they had been installed before the roof was completed. I hugged myself in sheer delight. Perhaps there was something left about Christmas for me to enjoy.

  The sound of approaching footsteps snapped me back to reality, and I guiltily headed for the door as George, or was it Mark, entered the nave carrying a mop and bucket. “I couldn't resist,” I whispered as I passed him, and he grinned conspiratorially.

  “It's cool, isn't it?” he agreed appreciatively, if a bit irreverently for our surroundings, but perhaps solemnity was not always required in this space. Faith was supposed to be a joyous thing, was it not? Then, too, I would probably be less awed if it fell to me to mop the floor and clean the bathrooms. I returned his grin, gave him a thumbs-up, and scooted back down the stairs to regain my seat at the back of the lower level just as Sister Marguerite concluded her remarks and retreated down the aisle to join me.

  “It was too long, wasn't it?” she self-critiqued her presentation.

  “It didn't seem long at all to me,” I answered honestly, although something a friend had once told me about sins of omission niggled at my conscience.

  Jeff was Michael's brother's son, and Michael and I were his godparents, “although what business a nonbeliever like me has calling herself a godmother is beyond me,” I remember telling Michael. “Couldn't I just be his devoted auntie?”

  But Jeff's mother was a staunch Catholic, so godmother it must be. I presented myself at the church on the appointed day for the prayers and the wetting of the head, but my involvement with the child from that point on had been minimal. We presented Jeff with gifts at Christmas and on his birthday, and we put together a nice collection of savings bonds that he ultimately converted to a down payment on a car, and that was about it.

  Still, over the years I enjoyed seeing Jeff at the endless family functions to which Michael's kin subjected me. Truth to tell, I enjoyed very few of my in-laws, but Jeff's intelligence and quirky way of looking at the world always appealed to me. He was too uncoordinated to be athletic, a fact of life he accepted philosophically, if a bit wistfully, but throughout high school, he was the mainstay of both the debating team and the chess club. His nice-but-average looks didn't make him the class heartthrob, but his quick wit and dry sense of humor kept the girls giggling.

  “I may be a geek, Aunt Kate,” he had told me once, “but I can always get a hot date for the dance.” I suspected that the girls who accepted Jeff's invitations as a lark had been surprised to find themselves having a very good time.

  One of Jeff's hot dates had been Donna. When her football-playing boyfriend was injured senior year and couldn't take her to the big autumn dance, he recruited Jeff to take his place. “It was the worst play he ever made,” Jeff confided to me that Christmas. Donna had shyly accompanied him to the inevitable family gathering. “She's the one. She doesn't know it yet, but she's stuck with me for life.”

  At the time, I had smiled at his unrealistic confidence about the way things would turn out, but here we were, seven years later, preparing for their wedding.

  “It's so good of you to do this for us,” Donna said to me. She and Jeff sat with me at the kitchen table. We were waiting for the caterer, who was finally making an in-person visit to tell us how he wanted things arranged before the arrival of his crew on Sunday.

  “Not at all,” I assured her. “It's a Schmidt tradition to be married at home, and Michael and Sheila just can't manage it in that apartment. I'm glad to help.”

  “So it's Aunt Kate to the rescue,” Jeff grinned. Now a fast-tracker at one of New York's most prestigious accounting firms, he had lost none of his impish appeal. I winked at him.

  “The most reliable agnostic godmother in the East, that's me. Besides, if this caterer is as good as Michael says he is, there won't be anything for me to do but get out of the way.”

  “I hope so. Speaking of Uncle Mike, we were sorry when things didn't work out for the two of you.” His ears reddened slightly.

  “Not to worry,” I said lightly. “We had twenty-two good years, raised two great kids, and we're still friends. Michael and Sheila are crazy about each other, as are Armando and I. There's nothing to complain about from where I sit.”

  The two youngsters were obviously relieved to hear it. “Where is Armando?” Donna asked. “I had looked forward to meeting him tonight.”

  “California on business, but he'll be here for the wedding.” I hope, I added silently. I looked closely at Donna. She seemed pale and tired, not unusual for a bride-to-be but unusual for her normal, vivacious self.

  “Are you feeling all right?” I asked, putting a hand on her arm. “You look a little tired.”

  “Oh, she's more than tired,” Jeff announced. “She's knoc
ked up like a cheerleader, and won't that give everyone something to talk about at the wedding?”

  Donna and I exchanged knowing looks. “These days, not so much,” I told him. “Sorry to disappoint you. You're happy about this?” I asked Donna.

  “Over the moon,” she assured me, “just a little nauseated.”

  “I remember,” I sympathized. “Can I offer you a cracker?”

  “That would be great.”

  As I rose to fetch the Wheat Thins, the doorbell rang, and Jeff went to let in the caterer.

  I spent a largely sleepless night, tossing and turning, my mind whirling with the emotions of the day. I cuddled my old cat to me. She accepted the warmth laconically, as she accepted most things these days, showing no interest, no spark of life. My eyes burned with unshed tears at the possibility of losing my old girl so soon after Simon had left me, however unwillingly. I reached for the telephone on the bedside table, needing to talk to Armando.

  “Is something the matter?” Armando asked as soon as he recognized the phone number and picked up. I was so close to tears, I couldn't immediately speak.

  “Are you ill? What is it, Mia?” I could hear him thrashing his way out from under his bedcovers and struggling to sit up. I realized it was still the middle of the night in California.

  I cleared my throat, contrite at having awakened him but needing to hear his voice too much to let that matter.

  “Armando,” was all I could manage at first.

  “I'm here, Cara. Tell me.”

  I listened to him breathing, pictured him clutching the phone in his darkened hotel room. I closed my eyes and imagined that I was there with him, dozing cozily under the warm covers, inhaling his clean, soapy scent. It was enough to stop my heart's crazy pounding. I tried again.