Prodigal Father (29 page)
Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself.
âPsalm 84
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As superior, Boniface was celebrant at the final rites for Richard Krause, Father Nathaniel in religion. He had wandered in exterior darkness for years but finally returned. He had died in the habit he would not have been permitted to wear had he lived and Boniface given him his verdict on his reinstatement. All that was irrelevant now. Death made so many things irrelevant. The mind concentrated on the grim boundary between life and death and the great questions surged up within. For the believer, those questions had received their answer. The religious lives out his acceptance of those answers day after day, year after year. For such a one, the words of the liturgy seem particularly apt:
Vita mutatur non tollitur
âlife is altered, not taken away. There were ironies in according Nathaniel all the deference due a deceased priest. The casket of a layman pointed feet forward toward the altar, that of a priest was reversed. In the stalls were the four priests whose loyalty Nathaniel had divided.
Vita mutatur non tollitur
âlife is altered, not taken away. There were ironies in according Nathaniel all the deference due a deceased priest. The casket of a layman pointed feet forward toward the altar, that of a priest was reversed. In the stalls were the four priests whose loyalty Nathaniel had divided.
The ceremony was swift and simple, as required by the Rule
of the Order. Afterward, the casket was lifted to a flatbed and the diminished community followed Andrew George as he drove slowly toward the cemetery. The undertaker followed in his car. Looking into the grave that had been dug for Nathaniel, Boniface resisted the thoughts that came, thoughts that might seem lugubrious to some, but not to him. But he was here to fulfill a function, not meditate on the last things. Within minutes it was over. The old men turned from the new grave and walked slowly and in silence back to the mansion.
of the Order. Afterward, the casket was lifted to a flatbed and the diminished community followed Andrew George as he drove slowly toward the cemetery. The undertaker followed in his car. Looking into the grave that had been dug for Nathaniel, Boniface resisted the thoughts that came, thoughts that might seem lugubrious to some, but not to him. But he was here to fulfill a function, not meditate on the last things. Within minutes it was over. The old men turned from the new grave and walked slowly and in silence back to the mansion.
When Mr. Cadbury told him the story of Mr. George and his son Michael, he seemed to think that Boniface had already known it. Hearing that father and son had suspected one another and that the son had made a hurried cleanup of the maintenance shed in order to cover up what he thought his father had done filled the old priest with a tremendous sadness. What has become of us when we can suspect one another of having done so awful a deed? Boniface thought it was obvious who had killed Nathaniel. After Mr. Cadbury left, he drove downtown to police headquarters and asked if he could see Stanley Morgan.
Morgan came into the room with a smile, then stopped. “I thought it was Father Dowling. All they said was a priest.”
“Will you talk with me?”
“Of course. Father Boniface, I can't tell you how I regret having tried to deceive you as I did, at least at first.”
“What you told me helped change the minds of those who had sided with Father Nathaniel.”
“Good.”
“Mr. Morgan, why did you run away the morning Nathaniel was found?”
“That was cowardly. But after what happened to me in California, I could not stay.”
“Running away was like an admission of guilt.”
“They would have thought me guilty anyway.”
“The Georges didn't.”
“They are good people.”
“Yes, they are.”
Then Boniface told the story of Michael George and the maintenance shed, of Mr. George's anguished admission that his son had been in the shed when he went there to telephone.
“Michael is putting himself under suspicion in order to protect his father.”
“My God.”
“You didn't know this?”
“No. Father, neither of them could have done such a thing.”
“That is what I think.”
Father Boniface sat in silence, certain that he was in the presence of a murderer, but a murderer with a strange conscience. He seemed genuinely moved by what the Georges had done.
“Neither of them ever said he thought it was you.”
Morgan asked to hear it all again, as if he wanted to memorize the events recounted. He shook his head sadly. “The short time I spent with them ⦔ Again he shook his head. “The father and I stayed up until all hours that night, drinking Greek wine and talking.”
“About Nathaniel?”
“About him. About everything. Here was a man who had spent his life on that same plot of ground, gone nowhere, seen nothing, and yet he was wise. Of course he was angry that Michael might not follow in his footsteps because of Nathaniel. Some would call it a small ambition, wanting his son to be the groundskeeper there.
But it was his whole world, and it was threatened with destruction.”
But it was his whole world, and it was threatened with destruction.”
“It is difficult to think of our lives without the Georges.”
“But you said Nathaniel's supporters had deserted him.”
“There are other ways in which that future for Michael can be ruined. It is well on the way to being ruined now. Do you know what I fear? I fear that Michael will take the final step and confess to murdering Nathaniel.”
“No.”
“Of course, you have been arrested and are being held here. Largely because you refuse to get a lawyer. That does not seem to be the act of a man who is worried about himself.”
“I hate lawyers.”
“There are good ones and there are bad ones.”
“Why do you think that Michael will confess?”
“For the same reason he has done what he has already done. To protect his father.”
“But who else thinks George could do such a thing?”
“One is sufficient, if it is Michael.”
Whatever Boniface had expected from the conversation failed to happen. And he did not know whether or not he was disappointed. When he left he met Lieutenant Horvath who talked to him of the death of the young woman, but Boniface listened to the story as if it were an event on another planet.
Horvath said that there were those who thought the two murders were connected, but gave no indication he thought the same. It seemed to Boniface a far-fetched idea. His one desire was to have the death of Nathaniel cease being a matter of public discussion. But that wouldn't happen until the murderer was tried and convicted. Complicating the issue by trying to link Nathaniel's death with that of this young woman would only prolong the
publicity and postpone the implementation of the plan he would present to the cardinal.
publicity and postpone the implementation of the plan he would present to the cardinal.
“So what brings you here, Father?”
“I have been speaking with Stanley Morgan.”
Cy pulled on his ear. “He still insists he is innocent. Maybe he is.”
Father Boniface felt a chill. Was this a warning that the police were now ready to act on what Michael had done? He couldn't bring himself to ask.
It was some hours later, that evening, when Boniface looked into the common room where the old priests were dozing in front of the television. The local news was on. And then it had Father Boniface's full attention. Stanley Morgan had just confessed to the murder of Father Nathaniel.
For they have consulted together with one consent.
â
Psalm 83
Psalm 83
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Tuttle had been booked as a material witness and bail was set. Hazel Barnes came down to get him out. Tuttle felt like refusing. There were worse things than jail. Hazel stood with the bail bondsman,
an inscrutable smile on her face, looking again like the angel of judgment. It was a moment that might have been covered with glee by his friends in the pressroom, but only Hazel and Crawford the bondsman were present.
an inscrutable smile on her face, looking again like the angel of judgment. It was a moment that might have been covered with glee by his friends in the pressroom, but only Hazel and Crawford the bondsman were present.
“Where is everybody?”
Hazel snorted. “You were expecting a brass band? What a sight you are.”
Tuttle still couldn't believe that this was a private event. If Tetzel were in his spot, he would have been here to enjoy the occasion. And then the sergeant told him that Stanley Morgan had confessed.
“To murdering Charlotte Priebe?”
“Don't be an idiot,” Hazel said. “The man was locked up when that happened. It's too bad you weren't. Honestly, you need someone to look after you.”
“Run away, Tuttle,” Crawford said, slapping him on the arm. “I could use the money.”
“How much is this costing?”
“She beat me down,” Crawford said. “A fraction of a fraction. But she promised me free legal representation besides.”
“So go get in trouble,” Hazel said, grabbing Tuttle by the arm and leading him out to her SUV. Getting into it used muscles that atrophied in civilized society, but Tuttle was happy to clamber aboard.
“I suppose you want to go to a Chinese restaurant to celebrate.”
What could he say? Hazel was his misfortune cookie and she seemed impossible to get rid of.
Farniente was at the Great Wall and he invited them to join him. Hazel pulled on Tuttle's arm, but this was one time he was
too strong for her. He slipped into the chair across from Farniente. When Hazel sat, she said, “Take off that stupid hat.”
too strong for her. He slipped into the chair across from Farniente. When Hazel sat, she said, “Take off that stupid hat.”
Hazel lectured with her mouth full or empty and the two professionals ignored her, or tried to. Her words came to Tuttle as those of people disgustedly tearing up their tickets after the last race has run, of people wanting a divorce and to whom he had sometimes listened before refusing their customâhe lived by a rigid if eclectic codeâof losers everywhere, of Saliari being wheeled through the nuthouse, bestowing a blessing on mediocrity. How long, O Lord, how long?
“I could use a secretary,” Farniente mumbled through a mouthful of egg roll.
“What you could use would make up a long list.”
For a moment, hope had flared. Even Farniente would look like a better bet than himself. He had had plenty of time in that damnable cell to think of the big one that had gotten away. Where had things gone wrong? He had the client of a lifetime, he had inspired Tetzel to write a series that might win him a prize, unimaginable fees were within his reach, and then, poof! The goose was gone before a golden egg could be laid. Leo Corbett had dropped him without telling him, had gone off with Charlotte Priebe, no doubt to form an alliance with Anderson Ltd. that excluded Tuttle. He had thought of his vigil outside the building in which Charlotte Priebe lived once the perfidious Matilda had described the man living with Charlotte in a way that matched Leo. He remembered following Leo to the hotel where he took a room, and then camping out in the lobby. What was lost had been found. He was sure that he could shame Leo into loyalty. And then without warning the roof had fallen in on him. He had no doubt that it had been his clone in the tweed hat behind the counter who
had blown the whistle on him. Leo appeared, his moment had arrived, and the next thing he knew, he was in Horvath's custody, and Leo had slipped away.
had blown the whistle on him. Leo appeared, his moment had arrived, and the next thing he knew, he was in Horvath's custody, and Leo had slipped away.
That sequence of events, to suspicious eyes, had been sufficient to land him in the cooler. While he was being questioned, he tried to piece together what in the minds of Horvath and Keegan had happened to Charlotte Priebe. She had drowned in her bathtub.
“What did you do with the bottle for the sleeping pills?” he had been asked during the third round of questioning.
So that was what had happened. The young woman had been put into a drugged sleep and then into her bathtub and held beneath the surface of the water. He had not done that. So who had? This was a question he would like to put to Leo Corbett. Tuttle paused in his eating, completely deaf now to Hazel's continuing lamentation. That question gave him the leverage he needed to get Leo back under his thumb. He sat back and rubbed his middle.
“Well, that hit the spot.”
“Tasty,” Farniente agreed.
Tuttle stood, announcing a call of nature, and catching Farniente's eye tipped his tweed in the direction of the john.
“Look,” Tuttle said, when Farniente came into the men's room. “Get rid of her, will you? There's something I have to do.”
“Me, too,” Farniente said, stepping up to one of the baby shower-style urinals.
Tuttle positioned himself at the adjoining one. “Will you do it?”
“Tuttle, I can't tell you how glad I was to see you walk in that door tonight. It's a travesty that a man with your background
should be held in jail.” Farniente glanced at him. “You didn't kill her, did you?”
should be held in jail.” Farniente glanced at him. “You didn't kill her, did you?”
“If I ever kill a woman, it will be Hazel.”
Farniente shook his head. “She reminds me of my first wife.”
“Are you divorced?”
“No.”
Tuttle debated with himself the wisdom of letting Farniente in on the epiphany he had had at the table. He won the debate. Farniente was not a good luck charm.
“Aren't you going to ask me why I was so glad to see you, Tuttle?”
Tuttle stepped away, zipped, and went to the washbasin, trying to be patient. Farniente was getting to be like Hazel, always interrupting. Next to him, Farniente turned a faucet, and then danced away from an errant splash.
“You remember Solomon, the retired cop? He is now doing security at the Wackham Building, nights. He called me on my cell phone just as I sat down to eat. Something's going on over there and he wanted me to know.”
“Why?”
“He wishes he had become a PI instead of a cop.” Farniente looked shy. “You wouldn't believe what an exciting life he thinks I lead. It's all those paperbacks he reads on duty.”
“Why did he call you?”
“Cy Horvath and Pippen the coroner's assistant had just showed up and asked to be taken to the basement.”
“So?”
“They were carrying some kind of electronic equipment.”
“No kidding.”
Tuttle's father had worked on the construction crew when that building went up. And the builder had been Lars Anderson, early
in his career. He weighed the possibility of finding Leo Corbett tonight and checking out the Wackham. There was time to do both.
in his career. He weighed the possibility of finding Leo Corbett tonight and checking out the Wackham. There was time to do both.
“Solomon said it was all hush-hush.”
The basement of the Wackham did not sound like a rendezvous to Tuttle. Horvath was sweet on Pippen like everyone else; but this had to be something important.
“We have to get rid of Hazel,” he said.
“There's a back door.”
“But the bill?”
Farniente smiled wickedly. “I think you paid for your supper just listening to her.”
“My hat is at the table.”
“Get it later.”
He would feel like Samson shorn, but he made a reluctant decision. A moment later, he and Farniente were stealing through the odorous kitchen and slipping out the back door into the parking lot.
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