Dead Wrong (11 page)

“Then, he’s got the pulpit, but you’ve got the parish bulletin. Keep an open, running account in the bulletin of the parish budget as compared with the weekly offerings. Keep after the parishioners through the bulletin.

“They know the place can’t run on good will alone. Oh, they like to think it can, especially since they’re never reminded that they need to support the place. But at Raphael’s, the people have the money; it’s just that they would rather keep the money than give it away … a natural enough sentiment.

“The thing is, Lou, you can do it. It’s right down your alley. It’s practically made to order for you.”

Mary Lou tentatively picked up her fork and resumed eating. At length, she said, “You know an awful lot about this thing, don’t you?”

“What thing?”

“This Archdiocese of Detroit.”

Brenda smiled. “I work for it.”

“You’re a secretary! I’ve been a secretary more times than I like to remember. Depending on the boss, secretaries know as much as they want. As much as they want to get involved, that is. But you know an awful lot about the Detroit Church.”

“I guess so,” Brenda admitted. “But see: It worked out pretty well for you, didn’t it?”

“I have to admit.”

As they ate in silence for a few moments, Brenda studied Mary Lou. She was dressed up, rather more than usual. And she looked good.

Ordinarily, Mary Lou’s hair looked the same whether she had just gotten out of bed or had just washed and combed it. All those tight little curls. But today it looked different. She must have had it cut and shaped. It could still be improved. But better.

She’d paid more attention to her clothes too, and it showed. By and large, with a good bit of attention, she might just be stunning.

And if she were, then what?

Then a man. A serious man. Not somebody who would chase her till he caught her and then discard her. No, for this, she would need help and support. That Brenda could and would supply.

If Mary Lou were to find Mr. Right, most of her problems would be solved. No more drifting from one job to another. No more insecurity and loneliness. Fulfillment.

It would be almost as big a consolation and joy for Maureen as it would be for Mary Lou. Maureen worried a lot over the ultimate insecurity of her “daughter.” Seeing her settled down and reliably cared for would put Maureen’s concern to rest.

While Brenda’s evaluation of Mary Lou’s upcoming job situation was accurate in every detail, Brenda knew that she had oversimplified Mary Lou’s ability to handle the problems she was about to encounter.

Could Mary Lou actually accomplish all this fiscal stability in the face of almost no encouragement or support from the pastor? The feat would require a strong personality. Did Mary Lou fit the bill? Maybe.

But in her heart, Brenda doubted it.

And then what? Lou would be out of another job and at loose ends. Maureen would be distraught. Back to square one for the umpteenth time.

No, marriage was the answer. Or somehow, a sudden influx of a great deal of money. But where in the world would that come from?

When Mary Lou spoke again, Brenda was so lost in thought she was startled.

“Did you get me this job?”

“Me! What gave you that idea?”

“The way you explained everything so well. It’s as if you planned the whole thing.” She fluttered a hand at Brenda. “Don’t get me wrong; I’m grateful. If I’m supposed to be grateful to you, I am. I just wanted to know.”

Brenda smiled and shook her head. “If you want to blame somebody—or thank somebody—the somebody would be Uncle Bob. He and Father Pool are about the same age. Pool hasn’t been a priest as long as Uncle Bob. He did some time in the army before he went to the seminary. Otherwise they would almost have been classmates. But they’re friends. Uncle Bob knew Father Pool was looking for a secretary and manager, so he told him about you. But not I …” She laughed. “I don’t have that kind of clout.”

The waitress refilled their cups.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Mary Lou said as she stirred her steaming coffee, “what are you doing there anyway?”

“Where?”

“The chancery. Don’t get upset, but I’ve wondered about that for a long time. I mean, you could get a job anywhere practically. You’ve got the talent. Why would you work for the Church?”

“Because it’s interesting.”

“How interesting could any job be?”

“It’s different. It’s more different than any other place I can think of. It’s so interesting that I haven’t got time to tell you how interesting it is … how interesting it can get.”

“Okay. So it’s interesting and it’s different. So will my job be at St. Raphael’s.”

“No, no. Lou, no parish job can compare with working in the central Church structure.”

“Well, there’s one thing that’s comparable.”

“What’s that?”

“The salary.”

“Lou, you don’t know what I make.”

“More than I will at Raphael’s, but still not much. The Church just doesn’t pay. It certainly doesn’t pay as much as you could get almost anywhere outside. And you’ve got the talent, Brenda: With your brains and experience, you could work almost anywhere you wanted. Even without knowing exactly what you make, I’ll bet you could triple it tomorrow.”

“Lou … Lou …” Brenda seemed to debate within herself about what to say next. “Lou, money is not that important a factor right now.”

It was as if a light bulb lit over Mary Lou’s head. “You mean … because of … Ted Nash?”

Brenda gripped her cup so tightly her knuckles whitened. “Lou …”

“I know. I know. You don’t want to discuss it. But you can talk about it with me. I’m not going to get all moral on you again like I did at the party. I’ve thought it over. And I decided I was wrong. I’m not your conscience or your guardian angel. But … we might just as well be sisters, you know. And the whole thing doesn’t make sense.”

“What … doesn’t?” It was obvious that this topic was painful for Brenda.

“You! Working for peanuts when you could have almost any job you wanted and you could almost name your salary. On top of that, you’re involved with a married man who is probably going to stay married. So that relationship is going nowhere. Whereas … you could have just about any man you wanted. That’s what doesn’t make sense!”

Brenda drained her cup and paused a few moments. “I really don’t want to talk about this, Lou. And if we’re going to remain ‘sisters,’ let’s not ever mention this again. But … look at it this way: My relationship with Ted—whatever it is—makes it possible for me to not be concerned about money. So, I can work for ‘peanuts’ without having to worry about a salary … see? That makes some sense. And, Lou, if it doesn’t make a lot of sense to you, take it on faith.”

“Faith?”

“Faith in me. Take it on faith in me … okay?”

A pause. Then, “Okay.”

“Now, I don’t want to rush you, Lou, but it’s about time for me to get back to work.”

“Oh … oh, sure.” Mary Lou had only a small portion left of her salad. She proceeded to finish it.

While Mary Lou ate, Brenda had nothing better to do than study her once more. There was something about Mary Lou that engendered in some others an urge to watch over her. Brenda was one of those who felt called to protect Mary Lou. The question was, from what? Brenda’s intuition suggested she would soon know.

C H A P T E R

9

A
S HIS ENCOUNTER
with Father Deutsch had demonstrated, it was not easy for Father Koesler to get an appointment with Ted Nash.

Nash’s secretary had been very firm about the channels that
must
be taken before a meeting could be arranged with Mr. Nash. Mr. Nash was, after all, a most busy executive. At this point she began to list the many and varied ventures that fell under the umbrella of Nash Enterprises.

Koesler had not realized that the Nashes, father and son, had so many irons getting hot in far-flung fires.

However, for the sake of Brenda—and to beat Deutsch at his own game—the normally mild-mannered Koesler was unaccustomedly determined. He made it clear to the secretary that he, a holy, Roman Catholic priest, would take no for an answer only from the Catholic lips of Mr. Nash himself. Most reluctantly—and only because she had doubts that Deutsch had handled this matter correctly—did she permit Koesler to talk to Nash.

Nash quickly concluded it would be easier to grant Koesler a few minutes than to be bugged by so dogged a priest.

And so, Koesler now sat in the waiting area of Nash’s private office complex in downtown Detroit’s Penobscot Building, where Nash Enterprises occupied three full floors. He had arrived ten minutes early for his 11:30
A
.
M
. appointment. It was now 11:35 and he was getting edgy. Since the appointment had been scheduled for a mere half hour before noon, it seemed obvious that Nash had allotted just thirty minutes, which Koesler did not think was at all adequate. Now, if he was correct about the luncheon break, he had only twenty-five minutes—and counting.

After her initial glare, Nash’s secretary had paid Koesler no attention whatsoever—her way of evening the score for his insistence on this interview. Koesler was beginning to feel the martyr. If the silent secretary had been a feral carnivore, it was likely his life would have been demanded.

Just as he was imagining his bones being pounded into slivers for placement in a reliquary for some seldom-used altar stone, the buzzer on the secretary’s desk sounded.

She nodded at Koesler and said, in an icy tone, “You may go in now.”

Ted Nash obviously subscribed to the dictum: No one’s office shall be more plush than the boss’s.

The operative word was “too.” Everything was too large, too showy, too tasteless, and too pretentious. Koesler couldn’t swear to it, but the flowers and plants that decorated the office space appeared artificial. The office definitely made a statement. That Ted Nash was somewhat insecure? If so, the insecurity was probably buried deep.

Nash rose from his extra large executive chair and circled the king-size desk with hand outstretched to greet the priest. If one were given to hyperbole, it seemed almost possible to play hockey on the desk’s surface.

“So good to finally meet you, Father Koesler,” Nash said with some enthusiasm. “Up until now, I’ve just read about you from time to time. The police and those investigations. The homicides and such.”

It was a more effusive greeting than Koesler had expected. He was, after all, not the most welcome guest Nash would receive. Particularly since Deutsch, the in-house priest, should have handled and disposed of whatever was on Koesler’s mind.

Koesler shook the outstretched hand. “Good of you to see me, Mr. Nash. But please, forget about those investigations. They were mostly the media’s invention. At most, I was just on the periphery. It’s just that the media like the idea of a simple parish priest and murder. It’s like those pictures of nuns playing baseball or on a roller coaster in the good old days: They were almost as compelling as a boy and his dog.”

Nash chuckled. “Now, now, Father; remember: He who doth not toot his own horn, the same shall not get tooted.”

“Sounds like a good slogan for Nash Enterprises, but not for a parish priest.”

“And
a pastor. We must be nearly neighbors. Father Deutsch tells me you’re at St. Joseph’s. Now there’s a parish with a history. If it weren’t for the skyline we could see your church from one of these windows.”

Not much homework done here, thought Koesler, who knew precisely which window faced the church. Nash should also have known. Koesler would wager that Nash knew little or nothing of the parish history as well.

“Your parish,” Nash continued, “includes some of those high rises downtown, doesn’t it?”

“Recently, yes. Before that, it was a German national church.”

“Oh?”

He didn’t know much about it at all. “That means,” Koesler said, “that anyone of German heritage could belong to St. Joe’s no matter where they lived. But recently, the archdiocese gave us territorial boundaries.”

“So. But you do include those high rises and condos.”

“Yes.”

“They must contribute pretty well.”

“Our income is improving.” Koesler was puzzled; he was also acutely aware that the sand in his twenty-five minutes was running low.

“I must tell you, Father, that I have never gone against the advice of Father Art. Of course, I have come to realize over the years that one should never say never. But I should stress before you plead your case that after your interview with Father Deutsch, the cards are stacked against you.” Nash glanced at his Rolex.

Koesler was dumbfounded. “You mean you think … that I … that I want money … a grant from you … from Nash Enterprises?”

Nash spread his hands as if the matter were self-evident. “You’re a priest from the inner city. But, really Father, there are so many other parishes in the city in far worse shape than yours. Of course—” Nash frowned. “—they have … well, many of them have become quite Protestant in an effort to be relevant—I think that’s the term they like to use—to their community.”

Koesler started to reply, but Nash went on. “What with one thing and another, Father, there is very little that Nash Enterprises—not to mention myself—can do for just about any of our city parishes. Either they’re in a financially regenerating area like yours is, or they have almost abandoned the One True Church.