Vengeance Is Mine (7 page)

CHAPTER 8

Mother Superior spread out her collection of holy cards and selected nine Sacred Hearts for the first page of her album. The Holy Family cards would go next, and then the missionary sisters. She would save the signed cards for last. They were the most precious. And Archbishop Ciminski had promised to bring her a holy card blessed by the pope.

The album had been a Christmas present, and Archbishop Ciminski had assured her that it was perfectly proper to put her holy cards between sheets of clear plastic. It would keep them safe and clean. Mother Superior only wished that albums like this had been available when she was teaching. She could have ordered them in bulk and given one to every student for a first holy communion present.

Since she had 412 different holy cards, sorting was difficult. Mother Superior picked out one of her favorites. It was a beautifully colored picture of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. It had been printed in France, with gold stamp around the halo. Mother Superior decided it should go next to St. Frances Xavier Cabrini, the first American saint, canonized only forty years ago. Her holy card was printed in black and white. St. Frances probably had a few years to go before she rated a full-color card with fluted edges and gold stamp.

Mother Superior smiled as she pulled back the plastic sheet and lined up her holy cards, three across, three down. She felt much better tonight. The throbbing in her head was completely gone. Sister Kate said the new medication was responsible but Mother Superior was sure St. Teresa of Avila, the patron saint of headaches, had finally interceded for her. The power of prayer was absolute, especially when it was addressed to the proper quarter.

Another hour, and the album was half filled. Mother Superior glanced at the clock by her bed. It was past eleven, and the house was quiet. That nice young priest from St. John's Seminary was coming to say early mass tomorrow in the chapel, and she didn't want to oversleep. She'd take another few minutes to write a new question for the archbishop's game, and then she'd go straight to bed.

Archbishop Ciminski had given her an assignment yesterday. He'd told her all about Trivial Pursuit and explained that he was gathering data for a Catholic trivia game, one that parents could play with their children. He'd asked her to jot down any questions she thought were appropriate. It felt wonderful to be needed again.

Mother Superior had a surprise for the archbishop. It was a file she had saved from her days at Sacred Heart Elementary. Inside were 232 questions, all neatly printed on three-by-five cards. Of course, she hadn't thought to call it Catholic Trivia. It was Religious Spelldown, her students' favorite game. On the last day of the school year, when the public schools had picnics, classes at Sacred Heart held Religious Spelldowns. The winners received religious medals.

Mother Superior selected a card at random. It asked, “What is the largest order of priests?” The answer, “The Jesuits,” was written on the back. That was a nice easy question. Even a first-grader would know the answer. The next card read, “What is the smallest order of priests?” Mother Superior frowned as she saw the answer: “The Mekhitarist with only twenty-six members.” Archbishop Ciminski would have to go over her cards carefully to make sure the information was up-to-date.

It was difficult to think of a subject she hadn't covered in her card file. Mother Superior concentrated on real esoterica. There had been a bit of trivia in the
Catholic Visitor
last month, if only she could remember it. Oh yes. The pope's radio station call letters, HVJ. Mother Superior wrote the question and answer on a blank card and slipped it into her file. That made a total of 233 questions. Now she could go to sleep with a clear conscience.

Mother Superior had just climbed into bed and switched off the light when she heard footsteps in the hall. She thought about putting on her glasses to see who it was, but she was just too tired. A night-light was kept on in the hallway. It plugged into the wall socket outside her door. Because Mother Superior's door didn't close tightly, she could see the shoes of anyone who walked past.

There was a quick blur of black. That would be Bishop Donahue, going to his room. He was the only one who wore black shoes. The black blur was followed by a blur of white. It had to be Cissy, still wearing her nursing shoes. Sister Kate switched to blue fuzzy slippers at night.

Mother Superior frowned. Cissy was following Bishop Donahue to his room. She prayed that Cissy would remember her vows and not do anything to bring shame upon her order.

A moment later the white shoes passed by again. Mother Superior breathed a sigh of relief as she heard Cissy go into her room and close the door. Now they all were in their proper rooms. She could relax her vigil. It never occurred to Mother Superior to wonder why Cissy and Bishop Donahue were wearing their daytime shoes at five minutes past midnight.

 

 

Michele shifted position and tried to open her eyes, but she was just too tired. The deep voice in the background droned on with the rhythm of a professional lecturer, and Michele knew she was sleeping in class again. If the instructor called on her, she would be terribly embarrassed. She simply had to wake up and pay attention.

“A lure with a fast drop head is imperative when vertical jigging. Lake trout are sight feeders, and the lure must provide flash and enticing action. Vibrating blade baits, tail spinners, and jigging spoons work consistently well.”

What kind of class was this? For a moment Michele was thoroughly puzzled. Then she realized that she was lying on the couch in her own living room and the instructor's voice was coming from the television.

The fishing program. Michele sat up and pressed the red button to stop the videotape. She had put it on when Steve left, and she must have slept through at least an hour of
How to Fish Lake Trout
. Now she was hopelessly lost. She'd missed all the vocabulary. Of course, she knew that lures were something you tied on the end of the line. She remembered that much from an old Rock Hudson-Doris Day movie. But she didn't have the slightest notion what “vertical jigging” meant.

Carol Berg had stopped by the clinic on her lunch hour with the portable video recorder and eight hours of fishing tapes. Carol and Jim were planning a two-week Canadian fishing trip in May. Steve was going along. They had reserved an outpost cabin on Clearwater Lake in Ontario. Carol thought Michele might like to brush up on her fishing skills, just in case. They could easily make it a foursome.

She should have spoken up immediately, but Michele hated to disappoint Carol. It might work out even though she'd been fishing only once in her life. It had been at the Funtime Trout Farm near Houston: pond restocked every week, fish so hungry they'd bite on a bare hook, and a dollar-an-inch charge for every fish caught. Michele's Girl Scout troop had gone there when she was nine, and she'd been the only one to come home empty-handed.

Michele pressed the rewind button and promised herself she'd watch at least two hours of fishing instruction tomorrow even though it was probably an exercise in futility. She doubted that Steve would think to ask her along. It seemed every time they were together some new catastrophe intervened. This time the evening had started out well. They'd had a wonderful time at Brian's. When they got back to her apartment at midnight, Steve had lit the fireplace, she'd poured him a drink, and they'd curled up on the sofa. So far, so good. Then, before they could even think about cuddling up together, the telephone had rung. There was some sort of trouble, and Steve was needed at the station immediately.

His snifter of cognac was still sitting, untouched, on the end table. Michele picked it up and took a tiny sip. The clerk at the Crossroads Liquor Store had assured her that Courvoisier VSOP was a good buy at eighteen dollars a bottle. Steve had been suitably impressed when she broke the seal, so it was definitely worth the money. Michele hoped he'd never explore the rest of her liquor cabinet. She'd never gotten around to stocking it. The total contents were a fifth of banana mint liqueur that had been left by a previous tenant and two bottles of rhubarb wine that Carol had made last summer.

Michele wrapped herself in the granny square afghan Louise had given her for Christmas and used the remote control to switch the television to Channel 5. It was showing some movie filmed in Alaska, and the blowing snow made her cold. Bat Masterson was shooting 'em up on Channel 4, and Channel 7 was having technical difficulties. Channel 9 had a Billy Graham special, and marathon wrestling was on Channel 11. Michele was about to switch off the television when she remembered that Margaret Whitworth's station was now broadcasting twenty-four hours a day.
The Bad News Bears
wasn't her favorite movie, but Michele figured she needed a little dose of comedy right now. She'd watch the movie and finish Steve's cognac. Then maybe she'd feel better.

She was dozing by the dying fire when a news flash interrupted the movie. Michele was suddenly alert when she heard a familiar name.

“Local authorities were called to the scene shortly after midnight tonight when the body of Dale Kline, St. Cloud lawyer, was discovered in the law library of the county courthouse. Steve Radke, acting chief of police, says foul play is indicated.”

Michele reached for the snifter of cognac and finished it off in one gulp. Dale Kline was dead, and foul play was a television euphemism for murder! Suddenly Michele felt guilty for thinking mean things about Dale. He had been a jerk with women and an evil father to Cindy, but he hadn't deserved to die.

Could this have anything to do with Brian? Michele frowned. The Defenders of Decency had a reputation for being a violent group, but they certainly wouldn't murder Dale just because he was defending Brian.

“Oh, my God!”

Her hand was shaking and Michele set the empty snifter down with trembling fingers. What if Cindy had told someone she was pregnant? Someone like her mother. Would Vera Kline be angry enough to kill Dale?

She had to call the police. Michele picked up the phone and dialed part of the number before she remembered that she'd agreed to keep Cindy's abortion strictly confidential. It was part of her job. But was that promise binding in a murder case? There was no one she could ask for advice. If she explained the situation, she would be violating Cindy's confidence. She'd have to use the tactic she'd devised for situations like this.
What would so-and-so say if
. She'd been doing it since she was a little girl, long before she'd learned what imaginary dialogues were.

Michele picked her mother for the first candidate. She imagined sitting down at her mother's spotless kitchen table for coffee and a heart-to-heart. The moment her mother heard the full particulars, she'd have a nervous breakdown.

Louise was next in line. She'd tell Michele she was getting too thin. No wonder she was all upset. A person who didn't eat right couldn't think right. She'd give Michele a Tupperware bowl full of homemade soup and tell her to follow her own conscience. Of course, Louise would offer to back her up all the way, but she wouldn't tell her what to do.

Brian and Judith might help. What would they say if she asked for advice? Brian would launch into an involved lecture about personal integrity versus public morality. He'd point out that there was only one possible conclusion. Judith would totally disagree with whatever Brian recommended. The ensuing argument would result in a standoff, and Michele would be right back where she had started.

Carol Berg was practical and levelheaded. She'd understand Michele's dilemma. Carol would tell her to talk to Steve in confidence and trust him to handle it in the best possible way.

The more Michele thought about it, the better it sounded. She could call Steve right now and tell him she had some information about Dale that she couldn't discuss over the telephone. Steve could be here in five minutes.

Michele rinsed out the brandy snifter and refilled it with cognac. Then she picked up the phone and dialed Steve's number at the station. Carol Berg was a genius, and she didn't even know it.

CHAPTER 9

Margaret Whitworth took a sip of her lukewarm coffee and leaned back against the worn couch cushions in Barney's office.

“What a morning! The station's been swamped with calls since we ran that bulletin about Dale.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” Les Hollenkamp lifted his coffee cup to his lips and set it down again, untouched. Trish had warned him to cut down on his caffeine. “Trish and I had seventeen calls on our answer phone when we got back from church. The people are starting to panic. Why don't you do an interview, Steve? Sort of calm the people down, like they do in Los Angeles and New York. You know what I mean. Tell them you're investigating leads, closing in on a suspect, an arrest is imminent, stuff like that?”

“I'll be glad to, Les, but it's still too early to say anything definite. How about tomorrow on
News at Noon
?”

“That's fine with me,” Margaret smiled. “I'll tell Kevin to run the original release with a voice-over prompting the interview. Meet me at the studio at eight for the taping.”

Steve nodded. “Here's the autopsy report. It's definitely the same murder weapon. Dr. Corliss showed me where it pierced Dale's forehead in three places, an inch apart. The sharp points tore the skin.”

Les reached out for the file gingerly. “You watched while Dr. Corliss did the . . . uh . . . examination?”

Steve nodded. “I'm always in on murder autopsies. I have to take color Polaroids for the file.”

Les opened the file and glanced down at the pictures. That was a mistake. He felt physically ill as he closed it and passed it to Margaret.

“Do you think we should try to reach the chief again? Carol's got a number for Hannah's cousin in Heidelberg.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Steve.” Margaret gave a short laugh. “I doubt that Barney could handle one murder, much less two. Are you trying to tell us you're ready to throw in the towel?”

“No. I just thought that . . . well . . . I'm relatively new on the force, and people might feel more comfortable if Chief Schultz were here. I'd handle the investigation anyway. It's my job.”

“I see.” Margaret nodded. “Then you must be looking for a vote of confidence. Well, you won't get that until you've earned it. Do you have any suspects?”

Steve looked grim. There was no need to discuss what Michele had told him last night. Vera Kline had an airtight alibi.

“I have a couple of possibilities. The Defenders of Decency lead the list.”

Les took a big swig of coffee. The hell with watching his caffeine intake. The Defenders of Decency weren't going to be happy when they heard him promote WinterGame on his interview this afternoon, but there'd be all hell to pay when they found out they were being investigated by the local police.

“I think you're on the wrong track, Steve,” Margaret said. “I know every man in that group. They're certainly capable of murder, but bashing someone over the head is much too tame for the DOD. If they wanted to kill someone, they'd slice off his balls and stuff them in his mouth. Then they'd hang him.”

“I'd better get back to the house.” Les jumped up and hurried toward the door. “I'm expecting a call. Let me know if there's any more I can do, Steve.”

“Good-bye, Les.” Margaret smiled at him sweetly. “Don't forget to watch your interview this afternoon. And tell Trish I'm expecting her tonight at eight.”

Margaret sat back, satisfied, as the door closed behind Les. She gave Steve a wicked grin.

“You do know the DOD backed Les from the start, don't you?”

Steve nodded. “I've got to investigate them anyway, Mrs. Whitworth.”

Margaret stared straight into Steve's blue eyes. He wasn't the least bit swayed by political pressure.

“That's the right attitude.” Margaret got to her feet. “Don't let any of the old guard talk you out of it. And while you're at it, don't forget about me. It's common knowledge that I couldn't stomach Ray, and Dale Kline and I had a nasty little run-in last year.”

“Over the demolition of the Tenth Street Bridge.” Steve flipped through the file. “Three witnesses claimed you threatened to put him out of his misery if he succeeded in tearing down your favorite landmark. You also threatened to run Ray Perini out of town after the roof leaked on Garfield Elementary's new auditorium.”

“I see you've done your homework.”

“You were home alone at the time of Ray's death. No alibi. And last night you left the studio at seven. You stopped to chat with Delbert Olson in front of Metzroth's and a Waldo's delivery boy saw you walk through the parking lot and head toward the courthouse at seven-fifteen. If I looked on your key ring, I'd find a key that fits the law library door. It was issued to you in May 1980 to do research for your talk show.”

“Steven Radke! Are you accusing me of killing Ray and Dale?”

“Of course not. You had an alibi last night even though you don't know about it. Jerry Thiesen saw you standing in your living room with your back to the window at eleven last night. You were wearing a pale blue robe. Jerry was walking his Irish setter, and Skippy made a mess on your front sidewalk. He cleaned it up even though he was sure you weren't watching. He said when it came to the neighborhood dogs, you had eyes in the back of your head. Do I get my vote of confidence now, Mrs. Whitworth?”

“You've earned it.” Margaret clapped her hands together and laughed. “And, Steve? I think it's time you called me Margaret.”

 

 

“Hurry up, Trish. I'll be on right after this commercial.”

“Coming, darling!”

Trish came into the living room with two fluted glasses of Perrier. Each one had a twist of lime. Les took his and set it down on the table next to his recliner. He hated Perrier. It tasted like champagne with all the good stuff taken out.

“I think this commercial is totally tasteless, don't you, dear?” Trish frowned at the screen.

“Um.” Les settled for a safe, noncommittal comment. Four headless plucked chickens, dressed up in little army outfits, were riding in toy tanks and jeeps. The announcer said something about feeding an army with golden plump chickens. Les thought it was kind of cute.

The theme music for Margaret's show came on, and Les turned up the volume. It was crazy, but his palms were sweaty. He'd never gotten used to the way he looked on television. It was like watching a total stranger.

“Oh, you look marvelous, Les.” Trish reached out to squeeze his arm as the camera panned over Margaret and Les, sitting in easy chairs. “I told you that shirt would be just right.”

Les groaned as the camera moved in closer. He really had to lose a little weight. He was getting a double chin, and he was only thirty-eight. And combing his hair to the front didn't begin to cover his bald spot. He hoped he sounded better than he looked.

“As you know, the WinterGame fund-raiser starts tomorrow. My guest this afternoon is Mayor Les Hollenkamp. What can you tell us about WinterGame, Mayor Hollenkamp?”

Les winced as he heard himself speak. Was his voice always that high-pitched? He sounded like a member of GALA, for Christ's sake.

“. . . and we are proud to be a modern city even though it was back in 1853 that St. Cloud was built on the beautiful banks of the Mississippi. Now it's time to take another step into the future, to prove to the rest of the state that St. Cloud is a liberal and progressive community. The Alternate Life-style Center will provide us with new citizens and increased business revenues. I urge all of you to attend the WinterGame festivities in the coming week so that the Alternate Life-style Center can become a reality.”

“Thank you, Mayor Hollenkamp. WinterGame will open tomorrow afternoon at three o'clock with a snowman contest. All children under the age of twelve are welcome to enter. The bar team hockey play-offs start at seven tomorrow evening at Lake George Park. The first game is the Locker Room Jocks versus the Red Carpet Sweepers.”

“Oh, that was inspired, Les. Especially the part about being liberal and progressive.”

“It's a good thing you sounded out Jane Kedrowski, honey. After we taped that segment, Margaret thanked me for giving WinterGame a boost.”

Trish sipped delicately at her Perrier. “This is the first time Margaret's ever invited me to one of her dinner parties. I'm sure it's because of your interview, darling.”

“It's possible.” Les switched off the television. “You don't have to get ready right now, do you, honey?”

Trish looked up at him and smiled. It wouldn't take more than a few minutes, and Les deserved his little reward. He'd done everything just the way she'd told him to.

“I saved a whole hour, just for the two of us.” Trish reached out with one carefully manicured fingernail and brushed it lightly on the inside of Les's thigh. “You will be careful of my hair won't you, dear? I had it done this morning.”

 

 

Bishop Donahue stared down at the board. Just as he had anticipated, Black was playing an excellent game. He might have to sacrifice his White Pawn eventually, but certain sacrifices were necessary to attain a superior position. As he stared down at the antique pieces he thought of the film he had viewed shortly before he had come to Holy Rest, Ingmar Bergman's
The Seventh Seal
. It was a psychotic outpouring of medieval religious images that was totally unsuitable for his naïve parishioners, but Bishop Donahue had found the concept of a chess game between man and Satan intriguing. Life would be simple if cosmic mysteries could be reduced to the pure abstraction of the chessboard. He had often imagined playing such a game, but he had never, in his wildest dreams, expected to be chosen.

They all had watched Margaret Whitworth's interview show this afternoon in the dayroom. Bishop Donahue had barely been able to conceal his fury when the mayor took a strong pro-WinterGame stand. The devil had attacked, advancing Les Hollenkamp, his Black Rook, to the fifth rank of the chessboard. Bishop Donahue was in position to capture the Black Rook easily, but he had to analyze the consequences carefully. There was great danger in underestimating his opponent.

Sister Cecelia sat beside him, quietly praying. Rosary beads clicked softly between her fingers, and her lips moved in silent supplication. As Bishop Donahue stared at her meekly bowed head, rage consumed him. It was almost an insult to pray for divine guidance. He was a superb chess player!

Bishop Donahue shuddered as he realized that he was guilty of the sin of pride. He mentally blessed Sister Cecelia for humbling him and turned back to the board with new determination. Good must triumph over evil!

Several hours later Bishop Donahue looked up from his game. Sister Cecelia had turned on the lamp before she left, and the room was bathed in a soft golden glow. The White King seemed to nod approvingly as Bishop Donahue came to a decision. He would capture the Black Rook tonight. It was a weighty move.

The sky was dark outside the window, and floodlights illuminated the skating rink on Lake George. It was deserted. Where were the children? They were always out skating on clear winter nights, gliding across the ice in their brightly colored snowsuits.

Suddenly Bishop Donahue understood. It was the chess game, of course. Parents were afraid to let their children out after dark. He wished there were some way to tell them that only the evil would be punished, but they would understand in time. Then they would thank him for making the world safe for their children.

Michele knotted a brightly patterned silk scarf at her throat and looked at herself in the mirror. Her tan coatdress was old—she'd worn it at her graduation—but it was back in style. It was the best she could do, and the taxi would be here in five minutes to pick her up.

She had been lucky to get a cab at all. Michele had called more than two hours ago, and the Yellow Cab dispatcher said they were way behind schedule. No one was out walking tonight. Murders were good for the taxi business.

Michele's little white lie had turned on her despite her crossed fingers. Her car had been working perfectly when she'd told Steve it wouldn't start. Now it was sitting in the lot at the clinic, as dead as a doornail.

The bed was covered with clothes she had tried on and discarded. Nothing seemed right for an evening at Mrs. Whitworth's. Michele stuffed everything back into the closet and forced the door closed. She had to iron tomorrow anyway.

A horn honked outside, and Michele grabbed her coat and gloves. She was ready. She kicked two pairs of shoes under the bed and gave the pillows a quick plump. This was the third day in a row she'd straightened up the apartment for Steve. He had volunteered to pick her up at Mrs. Whitworth's at ten-thirty, and she hadn't even had to ask him. Maybe this time they'd get more than five minutes alone before something happened to call him away.