Irish Coffee (5 page)

FRED NEVILLE'S APARTMENT
was a surprise—sparsely furnished with very modern furniture, a contour chair over which a futuristic lamp craned like a tropical bird, on one wall a large canvas covered with streaks of primary colors, a couch that was little more than a slab of leather randomly covered with a dozen pillows. Another tropical bird looked down on it. The carpet was plush, greenish, the walls chalk white. When Phil and Jimmy Stewart checked out the bedroom they found an austere room. A single bed, one chair, a lamp affixed to the wall over the bed in which Fred's body had been found. Chalk-white walls here too, but no pictures. It was a relief to go into the study.

Here there was clutter and dozens of unmatching colors, pictures Scotch-taped to the walls, one a photograph of Lilac House, apparently taken by Fred himself. And books, books everywhere, books on shelves, books in piles, books beside the old-fashioned easy chair and on the footstool in front of it. The desk seemed to be a trestle table but its nature was obscured by the burden it bore—a computer, a printer, a fax machine. There were piles of paper on it and beneath it stacks of magazines. The chair before the computer was a stenographer's chair, armless, firm back support. Messages were taped to the computer and to the walls. Even Jimmy Stewart seemed relieved by the study's contrast with the other rooms in the apartment.

“What are we looking for?” Phil asked.

“If we knew, we wouldn't be here. Let's start with the notes.”

Most of them were reminders to do things on dates that had long since passed. There was a fax message in the basket of the machine. Jimmy Stewart looked at it and then passed it to Phil without comment.

Jimmy Stewart watched Phil as he read it. “What do you make of that?”

“I'm no judge.”

“Did you notice the sender?”

The message was from Fred Neville as well as to him. Phil shrugged.

“What's a sports guy doing collecting stuff like that?”

“At least he didn't send it to someone else.”

“I don't suppose it matters where he found it.”

“We can ask Roger.”

Phil made a copy of it on the machine that emerged from beneath a pile of paper, folded it and put it in the jacket pocket of his good suit.

The two men went systematically through the items in the study, read old fax messages, none of them poetic, all from senders other than Fred. Often they were acknowledgments of data he had sent reporters, Notre Dame statistics to facilitate reporting of a game. From time to time, one showed something to the other. Phil passed a fax to Stewart from Naomi McTear, acknowledging receipt of such statistics.

“What's that mean?” Stewart pointed to the final line:
XOXOXOXO
.

Phil thought about it. “Those are the letters used to diagram plays.”

“This one make any sense?”

“Maybe the
X
's represent the defense and the O's the offense.”

“Maybe.”

“It doesn't read like a message from his fiancée.”

“Business,” Jimmy Stewart said.

And they got back to business. It was difficult to know why Fred had kept most of the papers stacked on the desk and scattered on the floor around it. He seemed never to have thrown anything away. Of course they went through all the books, looking for anything Fred might have inserted in them. There were stubs from airline tickets, a holy card depicting Blessed Brother André, the holy man who had lived a life of obscurity in Montreal whom the Congregation of Holy Cross was hoping to get canonized, another of a youthful Pope John XXIII. A postcard from Fred's parents when they had been on a Carribean cruise. Nothing at all relevant to his death. Some hours after they had entered the study, only the computer was left. Neither man trusted himself to check it out.

“Would Roger do it?”

“He'd probably ask Greg Whelan to come with him.”

“That's good enough for me. But it should be done fairly soon.”

From the kitchen they took the canister of sugar as well as the sugar bowl on the table where Fred had taken his solitary meals when he ate at home. The refrigerator was full of TV dinners and other microwaveable goodies. And lots of beer.

“Care for one?”

“I don't suppose it could be called destroying evidence.”

“Not by me.”

Jimmy Stewart decided to put a bag of popcorn in the microwave and when he popped open the door there was a wallet lying on the round tray. He found a kind of tongs in a drawer, extracted the wallet and dropped it in a baggie.

“That explains why there was no wallet in his trousers.”

“Was he dressed when he was found?”

“I thought you knew that.”

They sat at the kitchen table, drank beer, and went over what they knew about Fred Neville's death, which wasn't much. He hadn't shown up at his office for a few days but no one seemed surprised at first.

“I wonder if he took days off regularly,” Jimmy Stewart said.

“You can ask.”

“I will.”

After Fred had failed to show up at his office for three days, Roger had been induced to check on Fred and was let into the apartment after explaining the concern of the Notre Dame athletic department. Roger's first reaction had been to think Fred had suffered a youthful heart attack, or perhaps had some illness he'd never mentioned. A diabetic might slip away while in a coma. Because of the length of time from Fred's failing to show up at his office and the discovery of the body, an autopsy was made. Traces of poison had shown up in Fred's system, sufficient to account for his death.

“Did he have any enemies?” Jimmy asked.

“Everybody liked Fred,” Phil said.

“Meaning you and Roger did.”

“Ask anybody in the athletic department.”

“I'll ask everybody in the athletic department.”

“They'll tell you. He was just a guy people liked.”

“So it was suicide.”

“I would never believe that. Fred was a devout Catholic.”

“And that rules out suicide. Are you ever loyal.”

“Loyal? I'm not a Catholic.”

“You're not?” Stewart was surprised. Did he think everybody was Catholic?

“Roger is a convert. He's the Catholic in the family.”

“But you're so gung-ho Notre Dame.”

“That makes me a Catholic?”

“An honorary one at least.”

 

The building manager, a man named Santander, had an apartment in the basement of the building. He was in his sixties, bald but with hair sprouting from his ears and nostrils, and unhappy to be disturbed. Behind him in the apartment a television roared. Jimmy Stewart identified himself and Santander became cooperative.

“Come in, come in.”

It was a snug little place he had, redolent of garlic and pepper. A Notre Dame blanket was thrown over the beat-up couch.

“What do you pay for this place?” Stewart asked.

“Pay? I'm the manager. This is one of the perks of the job.”

“Free rent? I hope you declare it on your income tax. That would come to quite a sum each year.”

“Income tax! I thought you were city police.”

“We're investigating the death of Fred Neville.”

Santander waved them to twin beat-up chairs and sat on the edge of the couch. “What a great guy he was.”

“You liked him?”

“Everybody liked him. See this blanket? He gave me this.”

“Better report that too.”

“Hey, stop that.”

Jimmy Stewart stopped it. He began to ask Santander about the days before Fred's body was found. The manager shrugged.

“Nothing. I didn't see him but, what the heck, he could have been on the road.”

“Anyone visit him?”

“You mean the big fat guy?”

“He discovered the body. I mean before that.”

“No one but his girl. And don't even think it. She never stayed over.”

“You check on such things?”

“I just know it.”

Phil said, “His girl. Always the same one.”

“Of course. They were in love.”

“What was her name?”

“She worked at Notre Dame too. Mary. Mary something. You could look it up.”

“We will,” Jimmy Stewart said.

GRISELDA NOVAK HAD NEVER
personally known someone who died, not before Fred Neville, but even so she was ashamed that all she seemed to want to do was consider the effect of his death on her. She remembered glimpses of him around the Joyce Athletic and Convocation Center, she remembered him on trips with the Lady Irish to games away from campus, but most of all she remembered the dinner she'd had with him at Parisi's when he had been assigned to talk her out of leaving the team. Would that evening had been so etched in her memory if Fred were still alive? After all, it had been talking with Professor Knight that had changed her mind, not anything Fred had said. But she had sensed that he, like herself, aspired to be like Roger Knight.

When he had taken her unannounced to the Knight brothers' apartment, she had sensed that their entrance created something of a sensation, at least with Mary Shuster. Of course Griselda knew that there was something between Mary and Fred—she supposed everyone connected with Notre Dame sports knew about it—but when they came in, Mary gave Fred the cold shoulder, and Griselda realized it was because Fred had taken her to dinner. The woman was jealous! Griselda had to admit she had enjoyed that, incredible as the suspicion had been. Fred was so much older than she that it had never occurred to her that anyone would imagine they had been on a date.

It was a little much, though, for Mary to show up at the wake and funeral clad all in black, calling attention to herself and away from Fred. And then the woman named Naomi showed up and turned out to be Fred's fiancée. It had made Griselda curious to learn what exactly Mary's relation to Fred had been. She had certainly been upstaged by Naomi. What Griselda found hard to believe was that either woman had really cared for Fred. And wasn't it sick to be fighting over a dead man?

At the get-together at the university club Griselda became aware that she was the only member of the team there. Not even Muffin had come from the church to the club. But once she was there she decided to say. For one thing, she was hungry. For another, Roger Knight was there. So she witnessed the little scene at the table where Roger had been sitting with Fred's parents. She saw Mary take his seat when Roger went to get the old priest some food. And then Naomi showed up at the table and it looked as if there would be a catfight. But the old priest seemed to put a stop to that and Naomi walked away. Griselda watched her showing off to those who crowded around her and drew near. Someone turned, a man with a silly expression that got sillier when he saw her.

“Griselda! Hey look, Griselda Novak is here.”

The circle re-formed around her, with Naomi McTear a member of it, no longer the center. Griselda had a sweet feeling of revenge, for what she didn't know, but she did like these fans to be fussing over her rather than the sidelines color reporter from cable television.

“Griselda is the guard of the half century,” the man with the silly expression said to Naomi.

“I love to watch you play,” Naomi said.

“It's only a game.”

Everyone laughed. Is this the way people behaved after a funeral? But then look at herself, trying to score points against Naomi. The reporter did have a way of flashing her great big diamond.

“You're right,” Naomi said. “Most of you have lost a friend. I have lost the man I intended to marry.”

The circle re-formed and Griselda slipped away. It was difficult to say who was worse, Naomi or Mary.

“You knew Fred, didn't you?”

Griselda turned, and there was Mary Shuster.

“Of course.”

“You play basketball.”

“In my spare time.”

Under her black mantilla, Mary's face softened. “We met at the Knights' apartment.”

“I remember.”

“You came in with Fred.”

“We'd been to dinner at Parisi's.”

“Did you do a lot of that?”

“Not enough. But don't tell his fiancée.”

“She isn't, you know.”

“Her diamond could have fooled me.”

“It's meant to.”

“She isn't his fiancée?”

“It's a long story.”

“You'll have to tell me sometime.”

“How about now? I want to go home and change out of this dress.”

“You're through mourning?”

Tears formed in Mary's eyes and ran down her cheeks. She turned away.

“Please. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

Mary shrugged. Griselda took her arm and guided her through the room to the front lobby of the club.

“I'll go with you. I want to hear all about it.”

When they came outside, Griselda asked, “Is your car here?”

“Oh, we can walk. We live in Harter Heights.”

Griselda looked blank.

“It's just off Angela Boulevard.”

They set off. Most of the snow had melted now and as they passed Cedar Grove, Griselda said, “Isn't it odd that we didn't accompany the body to the cemetery?”

“Not in the circumstances.”

“I don't understand.”

“Then you haven't heard. They fear that Fred's death was not due to natural causes.”

“No!”

Was this among the things that Mary had offered to tell her? They went on in silence while Griselda contemplated the implications of Mary's astounding remark. The sun was shining fitfully but a stiff breeze was in their faces when they turned onto Angela. “It's not far,” Mary said, raising her voice against the wind.

Griselda nodded and ducked her head. Not due to natural causes. What did that mean? And then the grim thought occurred and she wondered if she really wanted to hear more. But, whatever the phrase meant, it was certain to become public sooner or later and she wanted to learn now what it meant. How discreet Father Rocca's words now seemed in light of Mary's remark. It was not the sort of thing one would want to announce from the altar after the funeral Mass.

The Shuster house looked like something from an old magazine. Mary opened the unlocked door and they went inside, hung up their coats, and headed to the kitchen where Mary proceeded to put on coffee.

“What a lovely house.”

“I've lived here all my life. This area used to be the favored spot for faculty. All our neighbors were professors when I was young.”

“Your father too?”

“Oh, yes.” Mary smiled wryly. “It is a lesson in something or other the way people who were prominent at the university are so swiftly forgotten when they are gone.”

The kitchen was old-fashioned but cheerful, with what was called a breakfast nook instead of table and chairs. Griselda slid onto a bench.

“I'll show you the house later if you'd like. My mother should be home by then. Now we can just talk.”

And so they did, with coffee mugs before them. Griselda sensed that Mary needed to talk more than she herself needed to listen.

“You must have noticed that Fred and I were very much in love.”

“When you visited him at the Joyce Center.”

She nodded. “We saw no need to hide it there. Now I am paying the penalty of our decision to keep our engagement a secret.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Two reasons. First, my mother. She is an incorrigible matchmaker and has been pushing me at men for years. When finally I met Fred and we fell in love, I wanted to keep it from her for a time. I suppose I was fearful that her reaction would be triumphant, finally getting her old-maid daughter off her hands.”

“Old maid!”

“I think my mother thought she was stuck with me forever. Of course I exaggerate.”

“What was the other reason for keeping it secret?”

“That was Fred's. When he told Naomi he wanted to break their engagement, she wouldn't accept it. I guess she was quite angry and threatening. She said she would sue him for breach of promise.”

“In this day and age?”

“It does sound somewhat Victorian, doesn't it? But he wanted time for her to get used to the fact and accept that they were no longer engaged.”

Griselda thought of the woman who strode away from the table where Roger Knight had been sitting with Father Carmody and the Nevilles. When she went to talk to the Nevilles, Mary had assumed the chair Roger had temporarily vacated.

“I thought you were going to fight at the club.”

“You can see what a forceful personality she has. She would have dropped Fred without hesitation if she had wanted to, but she could not accept being dropped.”

“She wouldn't give back the ring.”

“Oh, that is her mother's.”

“Her mother's!”

Mary nodded. “She gave it to herself. Anyway, those are the reasons we never announced it. And why I am now in such a peculiar position.”

Mary still wore her mourning dress, apparently having forgotten her intention to change.

“What did you mean when you said ‘not by natural causes.'” asked Griselda.

Mary held her mug in both hands and for a moment stared into it. When she looked at Griselda, there were tears in her eyes.

“I blame Naomi. If she would have accepted the end of their engagement, he would not have been so torn. I didn't realize how difficult she had made life for him. He was in a cruel dilemma. On the one hand, he had a fiancée he no longer loved, perhaps he never had, but she would not let him go. On the other hand, the woman he loved. He must have crumbled under the pressure.”

“Suicide?” Griselda whispered the word.

Mary sobbed. “Worse than having him gone is the thought that I should have done something to prevent it.”

“You had no inkling?”

“Only in retrospect. But not at the time.” She wiped her eyes. “He had an older sister who died in mysterious circumstances. Perhaps she was a suicide too.”

Griselda almost wished she hadn't come but of course what she really wished was that what she had heard could not be so.