Ash Wednesday (31 page)

He should have read more into Menteur’s attitude than he had. The bastard had obviously been conspiring with Rebecca, keeping her big story a secret until it burst upon the reading public of Fox River and on all those, near and far, who consulted the paper’s Web page. Tetzel was not fasting, Holy Week or not, but it was like a Lenten penance when he turned over the paper and looked at the odious headline.
VAGABOND LOVER STRIKES IN FOX RIVER
.

A more magnanimous colleague would have admired Rebecca’s story on Eugene Schmidt. The name was always in quotation marks in the story, and no wonder. Rebecca had scared up court records in Charleston, where one Marcus Matthews had legally changed his name to Eugene Schmidt. And why would Marcus Matthews change his name? Because Marcus Matthews was not his name. The little man who had been a frequent presence at the St. Hilary senior center had been born in Durham, North Carolina, the son of Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Collins. Their son had been baptized
Thomas. Photocopies of the relevant documents accompanied the story. Allusion was made to Tom Collins’s lucrative if brief career as an evangelist on the margins of the Bible Belt. The swath that “Eugene Schmidt” had cut at the senior center was described at length. Tetzel noted that Natalie Armstrong was not named, and an unnamed widow in Detroit had refused to be interviewed. A sequel was promised for tomorrow, “the first in a series of follow-ups to this remarkable story.”

Tetzel flung the paper away, aiming at the wastebasket, missing, and it lay scattered on the floor. Rebecca—Rebecca!—had eclipsed him. Menteur had called him “old boy,” as if he were over the hill, but Rebecca was at least as old as he was. Now Tuttle was patronizing him. Where would it all end?

Across the street, as it happened, in his favorite booth in a back corner, a triple bourbon and water before him on the scarred surface. The oblivion alcohol promised beckoned. Any self-respecting man would go on a weeklong toot in circumstances like these. Where had sobriety ever gotten him? Tetzel drank, he brooded, and then down the dark tunnel of his mind a weak light went on. It grew brighter and brighter. My God! Out of the nettle of despair he plucked the flower of hope. The ineffable Tuttle had dropped the means of redemption in his lap, and he had not recognized it. He straightened in the booth; he strove for consecutive thought. The idea that had come to him, while dangerous, was a natural, a smasharoo.

Augie Liberati had been indicted for assault and battery committed on Jason Burke, but the the motive for this action had so far been left vague. Why would Augie beat Jason Burke to a pulp and take the trouble to make it seem that Jason had been drunk as a lord at the time? What was Jason Burke to him or he to Jason Burke? Think, Gerry, think. Jason had just come into a bundle of money, money controlled, however, by his estranged wife. Augie
Liberati was Carmela’s business partner. Business partner? Tetzel had listened while Maxine Flood, a gofer in the detective division, had said in a carrying whisper to those at her table in the cafeteria that there had been something going on between Augie and Carmela. But Carmela was still married to Jason. Jason was thus an obstacle to Augie’s uniting himself with the custodian and doubtless rightful heir of all Jason’s money.

All that was true. The facts could be shaped into a story that would rival Rebecca’s. But it was not that alone that had turned on the light that illumined the hitherto dark tunnel of Tetzel’s mind. Augie was related to the Pianones. Tuttle clearly saw that as an obstacle to his client’s being found guilty of what he had done. Here, as so often in the past, the forces of justice confronted the force of the Pianone family. Judges were in their pocket; juries could be bought. Even Tuttle could get Augie off, and nothing would be said about why such an assailant had been set free.

Back in the pressroom, at his computer, Tetzel composed a memo to Menteur. The time had come for the
Tribune
to stand up to the Pianones and cleanse the city of their nefarious influence. He faxed it over to the editor after he had e-mailed it to him. He waited. His phone rang.

It was Menteur. “You’re out of your mind, Gerry.”

“Perhaps.”

“We run a story like that and they’d feed you to the fish.”

Tetzel chuckled. “May I point out what you are overlooking, old boy?”

“Tell me. Quick. I’m busy.”

“We have a new owner. You-know-who. A distant plutocrat who from time to time remembers that one of the papers he owns is in Fox River, Illinois. Need I remind you of the no-smoking ordinance?”

“I want that story on the courthouse exemption, Gerry!”

“Later. Have you grasped my point?”

Menteur grasped the point. With the backing of their distant owner, who could nationalize the story and put pressure on corruption in Fox River it had never known, it would no longer be simply the
Tribune
versus the Pianones.

“You could fly me out to have a talk with him,” Tetzel suggested. Menteur began to laugh but killed it. “I can’t spare you. I’ll go.”

“But how can you be spared?”

Menteur hummed. “I’ll have Rebecca sit in for me.”

Even without the deterrent of Helen Burke, Nathaniel Green kept aloof from the others at the St. Hilary senior center. He did spend more time inside now, but he continued to be more of a spectator than a participant. He always carried a book. It was one of Father Dowling’s regrets that he had not grown closer to the man, a regret that increased when Barney O’Connell, the chaplain at Joliet, asked how Nathaniel was doing.

“I read about the death of his sister-in-law,” O’Connell said.

“Did he talk about her?”

“What was significant was that he didn’t. But I knew how she had treated him.”

“Are all families unhappy, Barney?”

“Who asked that, Tolstoy?”

“Not quite.”

“That was quite a riposte, leaving his money to her.”

Who could blame O’Connell for seeing in that a kind of response to his vengeful sister-in-law? What a chain of events that had set in motion. After Helen’s death in that tragic accident, many people had come into large amounts of money. Poor Natalie Armstrong. She had come fleeing to the rectory when the exposé of her intended husband filled the pages of the local paper.

“Father, I feel like a fool.”

“There’s no need for that, Natalie. Trusting people is not a fault.”

“Of course, the wedding is off.”

“Of course.”

When Natalie left the study, Marie took over. Father Dowling felt that Marie would be far better than himself at soothing Natalie’s wounded sensibilities. Thomas Aquinas argued that we should always judge people for the better, a rule that could, of course, lead to the kind of sad situation in which Natalie found herself. Meanwhile, Eugene Schmidt, as Father Dowling still thought of him, was nowhere to be seen. Father Dowling felt a little foolish himself when he thought of the explanation Schmidt had given him for his last change of name.

“I was once a sort of rival of yours,” the little man said, his eyes twinkling.

“How so?”

“I ran a revival tabernacle for a number of years. The day came when I saw I was making a mockery of religion. I decided to cease to exist as the man so many had known. I suppose that was cowardly.”

“You said you had never been baptized,” Father Dowling said.

“The problem is that I had been baptized so many times. Before I set up my own tabernacle, I went to many others, getting the hang of it. I came forward to be baptized in at least four of them. I told myself it was part of my apprenticeship. Can God forgive me, Father?”

“God can forgive anything. If we’re truly repentant.”

“I have turned over a new leaf, Father. Being here at St. Hilary has transformed my life.”

Well, it had certainly transformed poor Natalie’s. Eugene Schmidt’s housekeeper said that her lodger had disappeared.

The news that Jason Burke’s assailant had been identified was not likely to make Jason heal any quicker. Father Dowling visited him at the Burke home, where he was still bedridden. His misfortune had rendered him philosophical.

“What a life I have led, Father Dowling.”

“How does it go with you and Carmela?”

“I never see her. She came by the hospital once or twice, but not here. I suppose this house has too many sad associations for her.”

“Has Nathaniel been to see you?”

Jason was silent for a moment. “I don’t expect him to.” “Oh?”

Jason rolled onto his side, a major undertaking, and looked directly into Father Dowling’s eyes. “I don’t think he wanted to hear what I told him.”

“What was that?”

“I thought it would enable him to close the books on Aunt Florence’s death. He had to know that he had not done what he accused himself of. He couldn’t have.” Jason paused. “My mother turned off the oxygen when he was out of the room.”

“How do you know that?”

“She told me.”

“Good Lord.”

“Oh, she felt fully justified. Florence was dying, everyone knew that. Yet there she lay, day after day. It was the sight of Nathaniel that infuriated my mother. She thought he was dramatizing his own role. So she decided to cut it short.”

“And let him confess and stand trial?”

“She didn’t think anything would come of it. Even if he had done what he thought he had done, it was what she herself had really done and she had no regret or remorse.”

“And you told Nathaniel.”

“I sometimes wished I hadn’t. He certainly didn’t react as I thought he would.”

“How long ago was it that you told him?”

“Shortly after his release.”

Madeline came in then, and that marked the end of the conversation. After a time, a very preoccupied Father Dowling drove back to his rectory.

Thanks to a decree of Benedict XVI, Father Dowling followed the old rite during Holy Week. Kevin Brown was ecstatic. Monica Garvey seemed not to be in church. Kevin wondered if perhaps next year they couldn’t have Tenebrae. On Easter Sunday, both Masses were in English, and Monica Garvey was very much in evidence. Her Easter bonnet was a marvel, broad brim, ribbons, flowers.

“I could write a sonnet,” Father Dowling said when, still vested, he was chatting with Monica and others outside the church.

“Upon my Easter bonnet?” She actually broke into song.

“Alleluia,” grumbled Kevin Brown.

Even Marie Murkin looked almost festive for the occasion. A lacy black mantilla, a white silk scarf at her throat. Natalie Armstrong hesitantly joined the group, and the others made way for her.

“Happy Easter, Natalie.”

“Happy Easter, Father.”

That was all it took to remove the uneasiness of the others. When the little group dispersed, Madeline took Natalie’s arm and led her to her car.

Father Dowling entered the church and had started down the aisle toward the sacristy, to take off his vestments, when he noticed a solitary figure in the back row, eyes shut, lips moving. Father Dowling went on to the sacristy.

Phil Keegan was the only guest at the Easter feast Marie prepared—a great ham prickled with cloves, mashed potatoes as well as sweet potatoes, several vegetables, cranberry sauce, relish, pickles, olives. Thus did Marie say good-bye to Lent. She joined them and kept Phil’s wineglass, and her own, brimming. She might have been priming the pump.

“Why on earth did Augie Liberati choose Tuttle for his lawyer?” she asked.

“Agnes recommended him.”

“What a sly one she is.”

“He may get help.” Phil told them of Augie Liberati’s odd connection to the Pianones.

“Will they want to rescue him, Phil?” Father Dowling asked.

“We’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.” One of Augie’s shoes matched the footprint found at the scene of the crime.

Outside the church, Madeline had told Father Dowling that Jason was so recovered he had wanted to come to Mass, but she had vetoed it. One might have thought that she was reluctant to let the Foot Doctor out of her house.

Herman the German, at his own insistence, was enjoying his
meal in the kitchen, but he came into the dining room to have mince pie and coffee with them.

“I suppose you miss Eugene Schmidt,” Marie said to him. There seemed to be quotation marks around the name.