The Hanson’s were having coffee in one of the anterooms. Schwartz had gotten permission from the funeral home director to use an office, so he and the unmarried Hanson’s excused themselves from our company. The remaining men then excused themselves for a cigarette break, leaving me alone with the wives and Marjorie. I went to the coffee urn to pour myself a cup, and sat deliberately next to Melissa, wife of Sam.
“We haven’t been introduced,” I said. “My name is Cat Hoskin.”
She took my extended hand and said, “Yes, I know.”
“So you’re a nurse?” I said.
“Nurse’s aide,” she answered. “One who doesn’t have access to Chlordane or any other toxic agents for that matter.”
I smiled as realistically as I could. “I didn’t suppose you did,” I said, then (since this was how the game was being played) I added, “Your husband works at the air-field. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” she confirmed, “he flies a Cessna. He owns his own business teaching students how to fly.”
“Was he always a teacher? Is that the only job he’s ever had with his skill?”
“What do you mean?” Melissa asked. “He learned to fly in the military, but I don’t see…”
“No,” I interrupted. “I meant between the military and now. Surely he must have had a few odd jobs before starting his own flight instruction school.”
“No,” Melissa said. “He started the business as soon as his hitch was up.”
“Never mind that, Melissa,” Carl said as he re-entered the room. “She’s a reporter, she’s going to find out.”
Marjorie sniffed and said, “Cut it out, Carl.”
“Besides,” Carl continued, “Sam already told Schwartz. Didn’t you, Sam?” Sam Hanson had come into the anteroom a few seconds behind his brother and had been taken unawares. “Told Schwartz what?” he said.
“About the freelance crop dusting.” The group fell into a stunned silence. Marjorie stood angrily and walked over to Melissa. She placed her hand on her sister-in-law’s shoulder and said, “It’s all right. Don’t worry. We explained everything.” Melissa Hanson seemed about to faint with fright. The coffee cup she held began to tremble and spill over onto her lap. Her husband hurriedly got a napkin to her, and he knelt before her daubing at her dress. Marjorie and Sara were glaring at Carl. Sara approached Melissa and helped her to her feet. “Come on,” she said, “Let’s get some cold water on that before it stains.” The two Hanson spouses then left the room.
“We told you not to upset her,” Marjorie scolded.
“It’s okay,” Sam said. “She’ll be okay in a while.” Sam turned to me and beckoned me to sit. “You see, Miss Hoskin,” he said, “my wife has had several nervous collapses. We were afraid that if she knew that I was a suspect in my father’s murder she might ... well, you saw what happened.”
“She was as white as a ghost,” Marjorie said while staring Carl down.
“It’s better she read it in the papers?” Carl asked.
“It wouldn’t be in the papers if you weren’t blabbing it to the press,” Marjorie insisted with a derisive head tilt my way.
“Actually,” I began thinking to make the distinction between newspapers and magazines when Sam broke in.
“It’s done,” he said. “Let’s drop it.”
Melissa and Sara returned from the ladies room at that point, and Melissa (who had calmed down) asked, “Why did you tell him about the crop dusting?”
“It’s public record, honey,” Sam said. “He asked Carl what jobs he’d held trying to find out if any of us had ever had access to Chlordane, and when Carl mentioned that he’d been a manager at the air field, Schwartz asked if Carl had ever known anyone who did crop dusting.”
“But Sam never used Chlordane in his planes. It was already banned by the time he got out of the military,” Carl pointed out. It was of little help though. Melissa broke into a crying jag and Sam had to escort her out of the home. Once they were gone, the room descended into funereal gloom. “I still think it’s best that she know,” Carl said.
***
When, several minutes later, Schwartz and the unmarried Hansons returned to the anteroom, I stood and prepared to leave. This was not to be, however. Schwartz glanced around the room and asked, “Where are Mr. Hanson — Sam and his wife?” He was given his answer by Sara, and the unmarried Hansons took the news in stride. Schwartz, however was exasperated. “I need Mrs. Hanson. I need both Mrs. Hansons and Mr. Melhorne. Which way did they go?”
“You need us?” Melvin said. “Why?”
“Weren’t you also there that night?” Schwartz asked. “The night Mr. Hanson senior died?” Melvin nodded as if the explanation was incomplete. “Well then,” Schwartz said, “I need to know what you know.”
“But you spoke with my wife,” Melhorne said.
“Would somebody please tell me where they went?” Schwartz said. I indicated the door, and Schwartz went off to retrieve Melissa and her husband.
Matthew sat beside me in the seat vacated by Melissa. “Well,” he said, “that was a waste of time. He didn’t even ask me about my theory. Didn’t you tell him that I had a theory?” Matthew said to me.
“Hmm? Oh, yes,” I said. “Why? What is your theory?”
At that instant, Schwartz returned with the crying Hanson and her fretful mate. He asked for Sara and Melvin to join him in “his” office, and I was left alone with the whole of the Hanson brothers and sisters. And I thought my mother’s family reunions were intense.
Chapter 10
I’d thought we’d be leaving, so I had to readjust my attitude. I’d gotten myself all prepped for farewells, and now I was going to have to shift back to mid-conversation mode. I was about to ask Matthew to continue explaining his theory about who had helped Coneely kill his father when Lewis accosted Carl.
“I thought you said that he wanted to know about our former jobs,” Lewis said. His arms were folded across his chest, but his posture suggested that he’d have enjoyed grabbing his brother’s throat.
Carl backed away as he spoke and he found a chair with his thighs. As he sat he replied, “I said that that’s what he asked us about. Why? What did he question you about?”
Peggy fielded this question. “He didn’t ask us about anything,” she said. She waved her hand dismissively. “He made a speech; a sermon, actually.”
Carl’s brow tightened up like a Chinese handcuffs. “What do you mean ‘a sermon?’ What kind of sermon?” He leaned forward on his seat as though Peggy’s response were the word of his very God.
“It was like he wanted one of us to confess,” Matthew said demanding center stage, but he didn’t seem to fully know the answer. “It was something about confession and how as Catholics, we should understand that confessing a sin was less important than the actual repentance. I didn’t really understand it all.” He turned to me and added, “I thought he was Jewish.”
“Don’t look at me,” I said anxious to become just an observer again. “I was under the impression he was an atheist.”
“Well, that makes sense then,” Peggy said. All eyes fell upon her as she explained. “He doesn’t understand how it works. He said that the law couldn’t compel a priest to reveal what he’d heard in confession, but that a priest was also a citizen. He said that if a priest learned something in the confessional, he might be honor bound not to reveal the particulars, but he’d still be obliged to his countrymen to expose what he could. He said that an unrepentant confessor wouldn’t be safe from exposure in court if the priest thought the confession was fraudulent. Only he’s wrong. Priests never reveal any part of what they learn in the confessional.”
How chilling. I was witnessing a textbook example of the complexity of the Catholic mind-set. Here was a woman who thought (or claimed to think) that a priest had killed her father because of a personal belief which he held in direct opposition to church policy. Yet she was simultaneously confident that the same priest would never violat
e any part of the sanctity of confession. I wondered how she’d react if she could have heard the tape from Schwartz’s answering machine where Coneely did exactly what she was defending him as being incapable of.
Sam had moved closer to the closed office door, and he said, “What do you think he wanted with our spouses?” Again, all of the Hansons’ eyes found me. I said in rebuff, “I don’t know. He doesn’t confide in me. I’m just covering him for a magazine article.”
Matthew relieved the pressure on me. “He probably wants to see if they can confirm your alibis.”
“He didn’t ask us for alibis,” Sam said. “He asked us about our pasts. The topic of the night Dad died never even came up.”
“You’re right,” Carl said. “I hadn’t even noticed that. He never said a word about that night to us.”
“Us either,” Peggy said. “I don’t think he believes that any of us did it. He was probably just trying to get evidence to take suspicion off of Fr. Coneely. After he talked with you boys and learned that he couldn’t do that, he tried to intimidate one of us into confessing or implicating each other. He’s probably trying to get the in-laws to say that Coneely wasn’t ever alone with Dad or something. I think he’s desperate. He knows Coneely’s guilty.”
“Even if he does think Coneely is guilty,” Matthew said, “why would he be trying to turn suspicion to one of us? What could he gain from that?”
Peggy moaned in frustration. Her manner suggested that she’d already explained her theory to Matthew, and that he should have come to the same realization by now. “Peggy,” Matthew said, “I know you think that the police want to clear Fr. Coneely whether he’s guilty or not, but…” Peggy gawked. She seemed about to lash out verbally, but Matthew continued. “…but they’re right that he couldn’t have done it without having access to Chlordane. Somebody had to supply it to him, and if it wasn’t one of us, then who? The only other person in the house that night was Fr. Donatelli, and he never even went into the room. Do you think Fr. Donatelli killed dad?”
“So which one of us do you think did it, Matthew? Hmm?” Peggy demanded. “Which one of your brothers or sisters do you think murdered your father?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Matthew said. “I’m not accusing anybody.”
“Of course you are,” Marjorie said. To this point, she’d remained silent, but now she came out intending to fight. “You’re not accusing anyone in particular maybe, but sure as hell you’re saying one of us gave the poison to the priest. If you think it was me or Melvin, I want you to say so now. I want to hear you say it, and I want to know why you think it. Is it because Melvin is smarter than you? Is it because Peggy and I were the ones who convinced Dad to cancel his insurance?”
“Marj,” Lewis said trying to get the arguing to stop. Marjorie looked at him as if she’d forgotten he was there. “Come on, Marj, please.”
“I don’t think you did it, Marjorie,” Matthew said sadly. “I just think the priest had help, but I won’t say what makes me think so, not unless it becomes necessary to prevent an injustice.” Matthew stood and walked over to his brother Lewis. “I’m leaving,” he said handing his key to his brother. “You guys make whatever arrangements you like. I’ll pick up the car later.”
He left the funeral home, and Peggy started after him, but Carl took her arm and stopped her. “He’ll be okay,” Carl said. “He needs some time alone’s all.” Peggy stared reproachfully at Marjorie who tried to accept the full stare but failed.
After a few minutes of silence, Peggy returned to her chair, and Sam said, “What could they be talking about in there?”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Lewis said. “No sense fretting about it now.”
Marjorie slowly made her way to the seat beside me which Matthew had vacated. She leaned to me and said softly, “Forget what I said to my brother. I didn’t mean it. Forget it, okay?”
She was hanging in time and space waiting for me to wave a cross in the air and wish her Dominus vobiscum. I couldn’t promise to forget it, so I decided to make it harder for her while I bided my time. “Which part do you want me to forget?” I said.
Giving up, she turned away and muttered, “Never mind.”
The office door opened, and Schwartz escorted the wives and Melhorne out to rejoin their awaiting family. Melissa appeared visibly relieved both to see her husband waiting for her and by the meeting she’d just had with Schwartz. Schwartz sought me out and said, “We can go now, Miss Hoskin. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for your cooperation. I may need to speak with you all again, but that possibility seems remote.” He turned and exited the building. I followed close behind.
***
When we arrived at the T-bird, Schwartz indicated for me to get in. “What about the Tracer?” I asked. Schwartz waved a hand and said, “I’ll have Mia come for it later. I want to hear what was said in the lobby.”
I had thought that Schwartz might have brought out a box lunch while I reported the events of the anteroom, but he didn’t. He listened intently, and drove as quickly as legally and safely permissible back to Squirrel Hill. When I finished, he nodded and smiled. “I know,” he said, “that you’re dying to know what it is that I’m working on. I’d tell you, but it would ruin the surprise. Tomorrow, we will attend the viewing, and I’ll let the Hansons in on some news. Then, within a few days, I’ll be able to expose the name or names of the guilty. For now, your part is finished, and I thank you for a job well done.”
I was a little miffed. Something I’d said had given him the final piece to the puzzle, and I didn’t even know what it was. “Can I at least ask you,” I said, “what it was that you discussed with the wives and Melhorne?”
“I don’t see why not,” Schwartz said. “After all, you could find out from them if I refused to tell you. I told them that Fr. Coneely had begun making mistakes. I suggested that if and when he was arrested for the murder, they should be prepared to help their spouses accept that their long time priest might try to shift the blame to them.”
“Coneely’s not their long time priest,” I said. “He just took over for Donatelli recently.”
“I’m aware of that,” Schwartz said. “However, they didn’t know that I had that information. At first, they didn’t bother to correct me. So I said that, for example, he might try to use against them something he’d learned in confessional from their spouses when they were much younger. That was when Melissa explained to me that Sam hadn’t been to confession since Coneely had taken over. I asked if either of the other two had knowledge of their own spouses making confessions to Coneely. They both claimed to be unsure. I then told them it was no matter, and spent the rest of the time reassuring them that I felt certain that they’d be able to put this all behind them soon. Now, if this traffic will just let up, we’ll be able to make it home in time for a late lunch before my afternoon garage time.”
***
We made it just in time for Beverly to serve up the lunch she’d been holding before it became gummy. She’d breaded some of the green tomato from the garden that we’d enjoyed the night before, and she served it parmesan style with a homemade basil and ripe tomato sauce that she’d also gathered from Schwartz’s back yard. Personally, I’d have preferred eggplant or veal, but Schwartz seemed to enjoy the green tomato an inordinate amount. After lunch, I learned why.
Schwartz called Fr. Coneely and asked him to come to the office in two hours, then he excused himself and went to the garage, joining Mia who’d aptly eaten earlier. She knew what was on the menu, and she preferred to enjoy what was left over of the cold chicken salad.
I was helping Beverly wash the skillet, and she asked me how I’d liked lunch. “It was interesting,” I said trying hard not to insult her. She’d done so well up to this point with the meal choices and preparation.
“It was awful, wasn’t it?” she asked smiling knowingly.
“It wasn’t good,” I agreed diplomatically. “But Schwartz seemed to like it.”
“He pretends to, yes.” Beverly said. “He has to. It’s his recipe. He invented it to be contrary. You see, according to kosher law, you’re not supposed to eat veal parmesan; something about the meat of the calf and the milk of the mother. So he came up with this recipe a few years back when a rabbi was coming to dinner. He said that the hypocrisy was evident in the fact that the young tomatoes were served in the sauce of the mature ones yet this was kosher. He lives for that kind of thing. So now, I make this for lunch every summer when the tomatoes are first ripe, and he pretends to find it delicious. Who knows? Maybe he actually does enjoy it. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit.”
Chapter 11
We continued to dry the dishes in amused silence. Gradually, as the moment of mirth receded into the recent past, I began feeling-out a shift in the topic. “What is his religious philosophy exactly?” I asked.
“Oh, you’d have to ask him that,” Beverly said cautiously.
“Sure, but I mean, what do you think his religious philosophy is? It seems hard to pinpoint.” Beverly lifted a short shrug from her shoulders. “Have you ever discussed it with him?” I asked.
“We’ve talked about it at length,” Beverly said. “He’s complicated. He claims to be certain that there is no factual truth in the Bible. He may be right. I don’t think it matters if the bible is factually correct. Religion is subjective from my way of thinking. There are so many people who rely on it to help them accept ‘the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to,’ as Shakespeare called it. I think it might be the dogma that really gets under his skin, and not the faith itself. Did you know that he used to be very religious?”
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I mean, I knew he was bar mitzvahed, but I thought he did it just to accommodate his parents.”
“No,” Beverly said. “When he was a boy, he wanted to be a rabbi. He says that he didn’t believe that his God was exactly the murderous Old Testament Yahweh, but the connection he felt with His divinity was keen and resolute. But he says that over time, the connection faded as he learned more of the harshness of the reality of life. He says he began to see the murderous side of Yahweh in every face he encountered. He says the divinity turned to simple faith which became hubris and that this finally acceded to something less than denial but more than acceptance; it became realization. He says he realized that the macro-universe didn’t need God the same way that the micro-universe did. He says that the true hubris was when he thought he should be a rabbi. To claim to speak of the true meanings of life’s impedances was to elevate one’s self to demi-god-hood and to lower one’s self to demagoguery.
Extreme Unction: A Lupa Schwartz Mystery Page 7