Stained Glass (6 page)
Carl Borloff worked out of his apartment, one of whose two bedrooms served as the editorial office for
Sacred Art
, the little journal of limited circulation that had been meant to lift him out of obscurity into the rarefied upper atmosphere of Church circles, those circles that revolved around ecclesiastical art. Others had specialized, confining themselves to the liturgy and even subdividing into those monitoring English translations of liturgical texts and those insisting on Latin; or into music, and here, too, there were subspecializa-tions, some promoting Gregorian chant and others directing attention to the horrors in the hymnbooks cluttering the pews of the country. Of course, there were those whose passion was church architecture and who were striving to wean the Church from the Pizza Hut constructions of the past half century to something resembling houses of worship. All these narrow paths Carl had eschewed. Many facets of Catholic art there might be, but they were facets, not the whole, and any reader of Chesterton must know the results of substituting the part for the whole. No, Carl Borloff was a generalist who welcomed into the pages of
Sacred Art
any and all of the above. He thought of
Sacred Art
as a clearinghouse, an arbiter, the repository of the full view.
Sacred Art
, the little journal of limited circulation that had been meant to lift him out of obscurity into the rarefied upper atmosphere of Church circles, those circles that revolved around ecclesiastical art. Others had specialized, confining themselves to the liturgy and even subdividing into those monitoring English translations of liturgical texts and those insisting on Latin; or into music, and here, too, there were subspecializa-tions, some promoting Gregorian chant and others directing attention to the horrors in the hymnbooks cluttering the pews of the country. Of course, there were those whose passion was church architecture and who were striving to wean the Church from the Pizza Hut constructions of the past half century to something resembling houses of worship. All these narrow paths Carl had eschewed. Many facets of Catholic art there might be, but they were facets, not the whole, and any reader of Chesterton must know the results of substituting the part for the whole. No, Carl Borloff was a generalist who welcomed into the pages of
Sacred Art
any and all of the above. He thought of
Sacred Art
as a clearinghouse, an arbiter, the repository of the full view.
Pity the poor founder of a magazine or journal. The format and
layout of
Sacred Art
were, by common consent, marvelous. The paper was thick and shiny, the reproductions of art true, the photographs of churches and shrines works of art in themselves. Nevertheless, subscriptions had been inching toward two thousand for years and never reaching it. To publish is to make something known to the public, but first one must have the attention of the public. Who knew how many would eagerly subscribe to
Sacred Art
if they only knew of its existence? Carl could easily imagine ten thousand, twenty thousand, more, but to make those potential readers aware of the publication cost moneyâfor advertisements, for mailings. Mailings! The postal rate had soared for such publications as his, and he did not dare to raise the annual subscription rate, already at fifty dollarsâ$49.99 plus postage and handlingâmaking it too much of a luxury even for the few who knew of it. Thank God for those loyal 1,739 subscribers! Thank God, too, for the Deveres, above all Jane, their matriarch. He shuddered to think what his fate would be if left in the hands of the volatile Susan. Without that annual subsidy
Sacred Art
would have disappeared long ago. With it, the work went on. Of course, it was necessary for Carl to schmooze the Deveres, and he was a frequent presence at their home and a devotee in the upper chamber where Jane Devere dwelt.
layout of
Sacred Art
were, by common consent, marvelous. The paper was thick and shiny, the reproductions of art true, the photographs of churches and shrines works of art in themselves. Nevertheless, subscriptions had been inching toward two thousand for years and never reaching it. To publish is to make something known to the public, but first one must have the attention of the public. Who knew how many would eagerly subscribe to
Sacred Art
if they only knew of its existence? Carl could easily imagine ten thousand, twenty thousand, more, but to make those potential readers aware of the publication cost moneyâfor advertisements, for mailings. Mailings! The postal rate had soared for such publications as his, and he did not dare to raise the annual subscription rate, already at fifty dollarsâ$49.99 plus postage and handlingâmaking it too much of a luxury even for the few who knew of it. Thank God for those loyal 1,739 subscribers! Thank God, too, for the Deveres, above all Jane, their matriarch. He shuddered to think what his fate would be if left in the hands of the volatile Susan. Without that annual subsidy
Sacred Art
would have disappeared long ago. With it, the work went on. Of course, it was necessary for Carl to schmooze the Deveres, and he was a frequent presence at their home and a devotee in the upper chamber where Jane Devere dwelt.
There he could forget his humble origins, the seventh son of a family in Austin, Minnesota, where his father had worked at Hormel's and many of his siblings were employed at Marigold Dairy. It was only when Carl came home between semesters from Mankato State that he became aware of the heavy aromas that filled the town, from the packing plant and the counter olfactory assault from the ethanol plant on the other side of town. What as a child had been simply the air he breathed now offended his senses. He had majored in art history; vistas had opened before him. After graduation he fled to Chicago with the vague thought of continuing his education, and so in a sense he had. He became a pilgrim of the churches in
Chicago; he spent days in many of them, making notes on the architecture, the appointments, the windows. How easily he might have narrowed his interest to stained glass. Stained glass was a passion with Jane Devere.
Chicago; he spent days in many of them, making notes on the architecture, the appointments, the windows. How easily he might have narrowed his interest to stained glass. Stained glass was a passion with Jane Devere.
“Angelo Menotti,” she had cried when Carl spoke to her of a particular church. It was a cry he heard more than once. In fact, he made it a practice to elicit it at least once during each visit to Jane.
The beautiful reproductions of several Menotti windows in
Sacred Art
had been the seed of Jane's suggestion, “They should all be made available to those who do not have the time to make the rounds of all those churches.”
Sacred Art
had been the seed of Jane's suggestion, “They should all be made available to those who do not have the time to make the rounds of all those churches.”
Carl had smiled sadly. “That would be a most expensive undertaking.”
“How much?”
“I would have to look into it.”
He looked into it; he drew up a plan; he estimated costs; he generously provided for himself as editor of the proposed book. Jane looked it over, her glasses sliding down her thin nose to its tip. She nodded and looked at him. “Do it.”
It had been a delicate matter to draw up terms of agreement. For this Jane had enlisted the help of her attorney, Amos Cadbury. The lawyer's manner made it difficult to tell whether he approved or disapproved of the proposed outlay of Devere Foundation money. Cadbury inserted a clause calling for half-yearly reports that Carl must make to Jane with a copy going to the lawyer. All this took months during which Carl tried not to hope, was too distracted to pray, and fell behind in preparing the next issue of
Sacred Art
for the printer. Jane Devere had assured him that the Menotti project would not affect her support for
Sacred Art
. Finally the papers were signed, and Carl celebrated with a solitary bottle of Marsala and found it in him at last to pray, sending up thanksgiving to heaven for his great good fortune.
Sacred Art
for the printer. Jane Devere had assured him that the Menotti project would not affect her support for
Sacred Art
. Finally the papers were signed, and Carl celebrated with a solitary bottle of Marsala and found it in him at last to pray, sending up thanksgiving to heaven for his great good fortune.
The beauty of the agreement was that it was open-ended, no deadline. Jane had dismissed Amos Cadbury's suggestion. “I want this done right. I do not want it rushed. This must be a work of art in its own right.”
Over and above his semiannual written report, Carl kept Jane abreast of his progress on the Menotti book.
“Where did you learn of Angelo Menotti, Mrs. Devere?”
“When he designed and installed the windows for the parish church.”
“What was your parish then?”
She frowned at him. “The same as now. St. Hilary's.”
“Here in Fox River!”
His tone of incredulity had been a mistake. The remark seemed to suggest that nothing worthy of aesthetic attention could possibly be found in Fox River. Carl had been surprised that the Deveres still lived there, despite the triangulation of the area by eight-lane highways and interstates along which vehicles hurtled night and day. For all that, it was a little oasis, a memorial to a better day.
“The Menotti windows in St. Hilary's may be the peak of his achievement. I know he thought so.”
“You knew him!”
“He was still a young man at the time, not much older than myself.” She paused. “My father-in-law, August, underwrote the expense of the windows and became his champion. My enthusiasm came to rival his. I suppose we must have been a nuisance to Angelo, bothering him in his studio and then showing up every day while the windows were being installed.”
“How wonderful to have known the man himself.”
“You must visit him. He should know of your project.”
“Visit him.”
“Of course, he is an old man now, but he has remained in Peoria, surrounded by mementos of his long career.”
Was the old woman confusing the present and the past? During the anxious months when the agreement for the Menotti volume was under way, Carl had sometimes suspected that Amos Cadbury doubted that the old woman was compos mentis enough to dole out the huge sum. Was she simply imagining that Angelo Menotti was still alive? When she told him that the artist was not much older than herself, it had given Carl a point of reference to guess the old man's age. Angelo Menotti, if he were still alive, would be ninety-two at least.
When the story appeared about the closing of several Chicago parishes, Carl hoped that Jane Devere did not read the
Tribune.
He decided to visit her and find out.
Tribune.
He decided to visit her and find out.
She knew. “This is outrageous. They must be stopped.”
“There are three churches on the list that have Menotti windows.”
“It must be a conspiracy!”
“Hell hath no fury like a bureaucrat, Mrs. Devere.”
“I would buy St. Hilary's rather than let them tear it down.”
Coming from anyone else, this might have seemed whimsy.
“In that awful event, you could turn it into a Menotti museum, provide refuge for his windows.”
She threw up her hands. “Windows are meant to stay in the churches for which they were designed.”
“I couldn't agree more.”
“You haven't been to see Angelo Menotti?”
“Not yet. I intend to drive to Peoria later this week.” He had formed the intention as they spoke.
She sighed. “If only I could go with you.”
“A wonderful idea. Of course you should go.”
The old eyes sparkled at the suggestion. She began to nod. “Perhaps I will.”
Agnes Lamb was an experienced detective, but not the veteran Cy Horvath was, so it was understandable that she reacted as she did when they arrived at the scene of the crime, answering the call from the cruiser that had been first on the scene.
“Homicide?” Cy had asked.
“At least. It looks like a ritual killing.”
Cy did not comment but collected Agnes and took off. All cops were influenced now by television, horror films, and maybe comic booksâgraphic novels, in the phraseâand were prone to importing the categories of fantasy into their work. Ritual killing!
Agnes was surprised when Cy asked her to drive.
“I forgot to renew my license.”
“You're under arrest.”
Cy liked Agnes. He hadn't at first. She had seemed pretty clearly a beneficiary of affirmative action, and police work was no place for ideologues. For one thing it was dull, a matter of routineâand disappointment. Most investigations ended up in a tie. Agnes had turned out to be a natural cop, though, one of the best.
It was not the sort of thing you would want to come upon right after having lunch. The body was in a garage, nude, hanging from the cross strut on which the door lift was mounted. There was a
cloth laundry sack over the head, cinched tight around the throat. The body had looked as if it were being readied for quartering, or open heart surgery. The car in the other stall was still running when the cruiser answered the 911 call.
cloth laundry sack over the head, cinched tight around the throat. The body had looked as if it were being readied for quartering, or open heart surgery. The car in the other stall was still running when the cruiser answered the 911 call.
Agnes walked into the garage with Cy, then wheeled and went right outside again. There was a woman cop in uniform out there, probably affected as Agnes was.
Riley stood with his hands on his hips, studying the body. “When the wind is southerly I can tell a hawk from a handsaw.”
Cy ignored him, going to examine the body more closely.
“Hamlet,” Riley said. “You stare at it for a while and you notice it rotates.”
“You call the coroner?”
As if in answer a vehicle came into the driveway and squealed to a stop. Dr. Pippen got out. She came toward Cy with her lab coat floating around her, her ponytail floating behind, her eyes on the body. “My God in heaven.”
Riley said, “It looks like a ritual killing.”
Pippen was giving orders to her crew. “Cut her down.”
This was done, and the mutilated body laid in a gurney. Pippen arranged a blanket over it. For the first time, she inhaled.
“The motor of the car was still running,” Riley said.
“You turn it off?”
Riley looked from her to Cy. “It seemed the right thing to do.”
“Where's the ignition key?”
“In the car.” Riley looked as if he wished he were somewhere else.
Cy said, “Call in as complete a report as you can right now. You can edit it when it's typed up.”
Riley hurried out to his cruiser, happy to escape.
Pippen asked, “What do you make of it, Cy?”
“A ritual killing?”
“What's that?”
“Ask Riley.”
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The garage was attached to a house, entrance to which was gained through a door in the garage. It was closed. Cy eased it open and waited. He put his hand in, groped around, found the light switch, and flicked it. A laundry room. He told Agnes to check downtown to find out who lived at this address. Agnes got out her phone but followed Cy through the rest of the house. Thus began the slow dull process of trying to figure out what had happened in the garage and who the woman was to whom it had happened.
The house was owned by Amy Gorman, a widow who worked as a legal secretary downtown. The body, it was established after many hours, was that of Madeline Schutz. Clothes and a purse found in the trash can in the garage established her identity tentatively. Cy and Agnes found Amy Gorman about to leave her office for the day. She looked at them quizzically when they asked if they could have a few words with her.
“You've been at the office all day?” Agnes asked.
“What an odd question.”
“Is there any coffee here?” Cy asked.
Agnes said, “Something terrible has happened at your house.”
“Terrible.”
Agnes looked at Cy. “A body was found in your garage when a cruiser answered a 911 call.”
Well, how would anyone react to a remark like that? The laugh seemed appropriate, but then she asked Cy who he was. He told her, showed her his ID. Agnes did the same.
“A dead body?”
Cy nodded.
“Come with me.” Amy Gorman marched down a hall and into an office whose door was open. “Emil, I want you in on this.”
Emil Sooner looked like one of the contestants in a television fat reduction show, before. He was in shirtsleeves and seemed to spill over the arms of his chair. His tie was loosened, and his shirt pocket was full of pens and pencils.
“Hello, Horvath. What's going on?”
Amy Gorman said, “A body has been found in my garage.”
Emil might once have been capable of surprise, but years of legal practice had cured him of it. Cy knew him as a formidable defense attorney, more often in white-collar crimes, but from time to time in grislier cases.
“Does the body have a name?”
“Madeline Schutz.” Cy looked at Amy Gorman when he said it, but there was no reaction.
“Why don't you all sit down,” Emil suggested.
Emil listened while Cy told him what they knew. It was the car that piqued his curiosity. “Registration?”
“Amy Gordon,” Agnes said in a flat voice.
If she could be believed, Amy Gorman had no idea who Madeline Schutz was or why she should have been found hanging in her garage with the motor of Amy's car still running. Her keys? They were hung on a hook in the laundry room. Amy had been downtown all day. She seldom drove to work.
After twenty minutes, Emil thanked them for coming here to tell all this to Amy. “I don't suppose you should stay in your house tonight, Amy.”
“Good idea,” Agnes said. “Good idea not to.” She added, “Who knows when the lab people will be done.”
“You could stay in a hotel,” Emil said. “Or call a friend?”
Amy thought about it. “I'll call Susan Devere.”
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