Ash Wednesday (28 page)

“The place reeked of liquor.”

Father Dowling was silent for a moment. “Have you heard of the
beer and liquor that had appeared at the Foot Doctor, Amos? Someone seems to have been anxious for Jason to have a relapse.”

Someone. Almost immediately Amos thought of Carmela, but, of course, he said nothing. If he had, he would have gone on to express his reaction to Carmela’s partner, Augie Liberati. Partner in how many senses? That would have been sheer speculation and, moral considerations of calumny aside, the prudence of his profession kept Amos silent on that matter.

“The squalor in which he lives, Father. Unbelievable.”

“I would have thought Helen Burke would want him with her in that huge house.”

“ She might have wanted that, yes.”

“But not Jason?”

“His mother was already too constant a presence in his life.”

“Ah.”

“Who knows if Jason’s marriage would not have survived without her constant interference in his life?”

“What kind of interference?”

“She always came to his aid when he failed at one thing or another.”

Tetzel was intent on making what had happened to Jason a sequel to his recent story on the son and heir of Helen Burke. Menteur had just glared at him when he turned in the story on public reactions to the smoking ban. Saloons—Tetzel mentioned no particular
places—were ignoring it. “I’m a bartender, not a cop,” one had growled to Tetzel. The man and woman in the street were equally opposed. If they weren’t, they didn’t make it into Tetzel’s story. His only stab in the direction of balance was to point out the
Tribune’s
adamant support of the prohibition.

“That was dictated by you-know-who,” Menteur said.

You-know-who was the absent proprietor, a billionaire who had bought up newspapers as if they had a future and from time to time spoke ex cathedra on the editorial pages of his many papers. Somehow he had heard of the proposal of a no-smoking ordinance in little Fox River and demanded that the full moral authority of the
Tribune
be placed in support of the ban. Moreover, he cast it into words that, with suitable editing and respect for the English language, duly appeared.

“I’m told the SOB goes through two packs a day,” Menteur said.

“Of gum?”

“Get out of here, Tetzel. I’m thinking of reassigning you.”

Tetzel got out of there, glancing at the poor devils who spent their day in the smoke-free city room. If it came to that, he would expose the hypocrisy of exempting the courthouse from the ban. That, though, could lead to the pressroom in the courthouse becoming as oppressive as the city room. Such a story might win him fame, but afterward he would die of fresh air. It was a true dilemma. He could postpone that evil day, but it was folly to think that Menteur did not long to have the injustice he suffered under shared by Tetzel. If he would not forget, at least he could be distracted. Therein lay the promise of the dreadful beating Jason Burke had taken.

“What do we know?” he asked Tuttle.

“Have you become a skeptic? Do you doubt your mental powers?”

“What do we know about Jason Burke?” Tetzel emended patiently.

“I can only tell you what I know.”

Tuttle smacked his dry mouth and sighed. They went across the street, where, in a booth, Tuttle sipped his shandy while Tetzel got a grip on his bourbon and water.

“He was beaten with a baseball bat,” Tuttle began. “His own. Apparently a memento of his healthy boyhood.”

A lead sentence formed in Tetzel’s mind. “Go on.”

“He was found bloody and beaten by Amos Cadbury. Found by, not beaten by.”

“Is Cadbury his lawyer?”

“Only indirectly, I believe.”

“What does that mean?”

“He was Helen Burke’s lawyer.”

“Any leads on his assailant?”

“Just some unidentified prints on one of the liquor bottles.”

“So he’d gone back to drinking.”

“He might have dabbed a little behind his ears. There was no alcohol in the bloodstream. Whoever beat him went to a lot of trouble making it look like a relapse. Three bottles of booze were splashed around; Jason’s clothes were soaked with it.”

“Splashed around?” Tetzel was shocked.

“Of course they’re wondering if there is any connection with the case of scotch and month’s supply of beer someone left in the lunchroom at the Foot Doctor.”

“Tell me about that.”

Tuttle told him. A conspiracy formed itself in Tetzel’s mind. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Not a friend,” Tuttle said.

“So who were his enemies?”

“I thought you were the reporter, Tetzel.”

“Why do you think I’m talking with you? Tuttle, this could be big.” As he had so often in the past, Tetzel saw a possible story
eclipsing all the actual ones he had ever written. “How is Jason now, by the way?”

“He’s come out of the coma. I haven’t been able to see him yet.”

“You?”

“As his lawyer. This experience should bring home to him the wisdom of having a will.”

“What an ambulance chaser you are, Tuttle.”

“And you chase the ambulance chaser.”

That seemed to make it a draw. Whatever old animosity existed between the two men evanesced. Tetzel pushed away his drink. “You got any gum, Tuttle?”

“Gum?”

“I’m going down to the hospital.”

“For treatment?”

Turn himself in, get issued a patient’s gown, roam the halls of the hospital, sit at Jason’s bedside, and get the whole story from the lips of the victim? Tetzel shuddered away the thought. Besides, who would ever believe he had a problem with drink?

Tetzel went first to the detective division in the hope of finding Cy Horvath. With what he had learned from Tuttle he thought he could begin a conversation in medias res. But Horvath was not there.

“Can I help you?” Agnes Lamb asked.

“Did you happen to read the story I did for the
Tribune
on Jason Burke?”

“Very touching.”

“Thank you. You can imagine my reaction to what has happened to him.”

Agnes said nothing, perhaps imagining.

“Could we talk about your investigation off the record?”

“Press relations is in another office.”

Hedwig! She was about five feet tall and another five around the middle and knew less of what was going on than the janitor.

“You’ve briefed her?”

“Lieutenant Horvath is in charge of the investigation.”

“He seems to be out.”

“Is that what you were told?”

“Isn’t he?”

“I report to him, not the other way around.”

“You’re good,” Tetzel said grudgingly.

“Would I be a cop if I weren’t?”

This little lady could write legends for fortune cookies.

“You’ve been a great help.”

Then, just to show that the universe was favorable to Tetzel, in walked Cy Horvath.

“Horvath! I’ve been waiting for you.”

Horvath continued to his inner office, and Tetzel went along after him.

“What can you tell me about the investigation into the break-in at Jason Burke’s?”

“Nothing.”

“Aw, come on, Cy.”

“There wasn’t a break-in.” Cy sat and looked at Tetzel with his all-purpose expression.

“He let the assailant in?”

“Have you talked with Hedwig?”

“When can I talk with you? Look, Horvath, what I have in mind is a feature story, a follow-up on the one I already wrote about Jason Burke. Did you read it?”

Cy just looked at him.

“Please, Horvath, give me a break. Do you know what my editor wants me to write about? The exemption of the courthouse from the no-smoking ordinance. What leads do you have?”

The ashtray on Horvath’s desk was piled high with cigarette ends. The whole detective bureau reeked with the heavenly aroma of stale tobacco smoke. Horvath glanced at the ashtray.

“We have some fingerprints. None of the neighbors admits to knowing who Jason Burke was, let alone what happened to him. You might have better luck than we had.”

“Sure. Oh, I’ll talk to them. I’ll leave no stone unturned. Who are your suspects?”

“It’s too early to say.”

Then, twice in one day, providence smiled on Tetzel. Phil Keegan came in, puffing on a cigar, and said to Cy, “We have a clear footprint.” Then he noticed Tetzel. “Print that and I’ll break your neck.”

“I told Cy. I’m writing a feature, not doing daily reports. Of course I’ll hold it. Have you talked to all the relatives?”

“Get out of here, Tetzel.”

Tetzel got out of there, hugging the information he had just accidentally obtained.
FOOTPRINT UNDOES ASSAILANT OF THE FOOT DOCTOR
.

Marie Murkin watched with dread and foreboding as Holy Week loomed, and beyond it the planned marriage of Natalie Armstrong and Eugene Schmidt. Honestly, how a woman that age could be taken in by the fast-talking little man with his cottony hair and trim little mustache was more than Marie could understand. Isn’t
there a statute of limitations on female frailty? Father Dowling seemed to grant Eugene Schmidt the benefit of every doubt. Even when the man confided that he had not been born Eugene Schmidt but had legally adopted that name seven years before, Father Dowling reacted as if this were the most ordinary admission in the world.

“Has he told Natalie, Father Dowling?” Marie demanded when Schmidt was gone.

“Told her what?”

“That he changed his name!”

Father Dowling looked at her sadly. “My, what large ears you have.”

“He wasn’t exactly whispering, Father Dowling.”

“It was a confidence, Marie.”

“But who in the world is he?”

“Eugene Schmidt, legally.”

“Legally!”

“Did you hear the reason he gave for changing his name?”

“What was it?”

“So you didn’t hear that. Of course, I would not break a confidence.”

Back in her kitchen, Marie did not regret that she had overheard Schmidt tell Father Dowling of his change of name, nor did she regret letting the pastor know she had overheard him say it. Her only regret was that she had not stayed at her post and learned the reason Schmidt or whoever he was had given for the change. Heaven only knew what would happen to St. Hilary’s if she did not keep on the alert.

Natalie should know, but Marie could not be the bearer of the news. Father Dowling would never forgive her if she told Natalie what Eugene Schmidt had confided to the pastor. She tried various ways in which she might pass on the information, but none of them
was plausible. Until Rebecca Farmer came calling, identifying herself as a writer for the
Tribune
.

“You want to see Father Dowling?”

“Would I have come to the kitchen door if I did?”

Aha. Marie invited her in, sat her at the kitchen table, closed the door to the hallway, and asked her guest if she liked tea.

“I am a coffee drinker.”

“Then coffee it will be.”

She made coffee, put a plate of oatmeal cookies on the table, and sat across from Rebecca Farmer, certain that word of the impending post-Easter nuptials had gotten to the reporter.

“A story I’ve been planning for a long time has to do with women abandoned by men.”

Marie could have cheered. She nodded receptively.

“Some women are reluctant to talk about the experience, and I respect that. I’ll take every precaution to avoid embarrassing my sources.”

Marie nodded at this sound policy, wishing the woman would get on with it.

“So anything you can tell me about what happened to you …”

“To me! What are you talking about?”

“Several people told me that your husband deserted you.”

Marie was speechless. Who would have passed on such gossip, and to a reporter? She slumped in her chair and managed to say, “And I thought you were interested in Eugene Schmidt.”

Rebecca took a sip of her coffee, studying Marie. “Perhaps I am.”

Marie straightened and leaned toward her guest. “This is a story you won’t believe.”

“Try me.”

Speaking softly but distinctly, Marie told Rebecca Farmer everything she knew about Eugene Schmidt. His sudden appearance at the parish senior center, quickly becoming the darling of
the widows there, and finally setting his cap for Natalie Armstrong.