Irish Gilt (17 page)

“Good,” Father Carmody said. “But just to make certain, you might specifically enjoin her to silence.” No need to add that a woman might find silence more difficult than a man.

“Do you think I should talk to Boris?”

“No need for that. You run along now and get some breakfast and change. I can get to Sacred Heart all right.”

Lohman left like one released from a great burden, and, watching him lope away, Father Carmody once more felt a massive weight on his shoulders. A weight that he intended to share with Philip Knight.

*   *   *

Curious students and faculty, plus prurient townies drawn by the insinuating accounts in the local newspaper, made the funeral of Xavier Kittock a well-attended event, but Father Carmody addressed his remarks to the mourners in the front pew. Natural death is shock enough, but to bury one whose death was due to violence calls upon the deepest resources of the homilist. Mrs. Nobile, sister of the deceased, was the closest blood relative, and she wept silently, bracketed by her husband and daughter. Boris Henry and Paul Lohman were on either side of a woman who must be Clare Healy.

The old priest went lightly on the grim stakes of life but avoided suggesting that even now Xavier Kittock was enjoying the beatific vision, no longer vulnerable to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. It occurred to Father Carmody that the devotees of Father Zahm who sat before him must know of that priest's interest in Dante. How in the modern world had the Florentine's robust faith in the great either/or of the next world survived? So Father Carmody consoled the mourners but did not canonize the departed. Afterward, the friends and family came along to Cedar Grove, where a plot had been found for the slain alumnus.

“This used to be the sixteenth fairway,” Father Carmody said, as he and Philip Knight walked away from the grave site.

“The final divot?”

“Ho ho. You have a car?”

Phil pointed.

“Good. I'll say a last word to these folks and be with you in a jiffy.”

While he spoke with Mrs. Nobile, her husband took the priest's hand and pressed something into it.

“What's this?”

“With our gratitude, Father.”

The glimpse Father Carmody took revealed a denomination he had never before seen on the legal tender of the nation.

“That's not necessary.”

“All the more deserving, then.”

Well, well. Father Carmody put the money into his pocket. Secular clergy were used to stipends and gifts on such occasions, he supposed, but he was not.

Boris Henry came up to him. “You gave Kittock a perfect send-off, Father.”

In the light of what he had learned a few hours earlier, Father Carmody found the remark freighted with ambiguity. Henry's gaze seemed untroubled, but Father Carmody had long since realized that the guilty do not often wear their sins upon their faces.

“I wonder who of us will be next?” Father Carmody sighed.

Boris Henry stepped back in surprise. “Not me, I hope.”

“More likely myself. Well, I am off.”

Philip Knight stood beside his car, gazing westward. “Was that the sixteenth green?”

“It was. This was the longest hole on the course, a par five. I was always happy to get a bogie.”

Now a fence separated the expanded cemetery from the remainder of the fairway and the green beyond.

“It's odd, a golf course becoming a cemetery,” Phil said.

Father Carmody had opposed halving the old course to accommodate residence halls and the cemetery, but he must not be tempted along that path of resentment. He was anxious to tell Philip Knight what he had learned from Paul Lohman. Not that he thought that even Phil would be able to cushion the university from further bad publicity.

3

Bernice had thought seriously about attending Xavier Kittock's funeral but reluctantly decided not to, mainly because Marjorie had thought it a good idea.

“You'd wear a veil, of course. It wouldn't do to be recognized.”

Then what was the point of going? Bernice imagined people looking at her, whispering to one another, fascinated by the tragic woman who had come to mourn her husband's victim.

“Ricardo would kill me.”

“How could he?”

They stopped at the dry cleaner's to pick up things Bernice should have claimed weeks ago. Marjorie professed to be moved by the sight of Ricardo's clothes—his good suit and some dress shirts.

“You send his laundry to the dry cleaner?”

Bernice just looked at her. Throwing things of little Henry's into the washer was one thing, but she was not going to be Ricardo's washerwoman. In any case, these clothes were the second batch of things he hadn't taken with him when he moved out, and she hadn't wanted to send him a bag of dirty laundry. The shirts were individually wrapped and then enclosed in a larger plastic bag.

“Let's have lunch,” Marjorie suggested.

Marjorie was back in the role of best friend, come to Bernice's side in her time of misfortune. How many women had a husband accused of murder? Bernice hadn't gone to work since Ricardo had been arrested. She reminded Marjorie that Ricardo was her
former
husband.

“Oh, I know that, all right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Good Lord, you're not going to be jealous, are you?”

“Jealous of what?”

“As you said, he's your former husband.”

Bernice would have liked to laugh at the hint that Ricardo had been chasing after Marjorie, but she found she was angry. If he had to see other women, why would he pick Marjorie Waters? The answer to that seemed suddenly clear. It was Marjorie who picked him.

“I don't want to have lunch.”

“Bernice, you have to eat.”

“I have errands. Where should I drop you?”

“I told you. I'm at your disposal.” She made it sound like the thing in the kitchen sink.

Marjorie seemed almost to be enjoying the drama in which Bernice found herself. Bernice wanted to free herself of this suffocating sympathy. She headed for Marjorie's apartment and came to a stop before it.

“Bernice, I mean it. You really shouldn't be alone.”

“I'll call you.”

Marjorie had no choice, but she took her time getting out of the car. When she went to her door, she put a lot of rhythm into her walk.

*   *   *

Finding a parking place downtown within walking distance of the County Building was no easy matter even though the once thriving center of the city had been depleted by the transfer to the malls of department stores and boutiques and just about everything else but banks. Bernice finally found a spot near the College Football Hall of Fame and walked three blocks to the County Building. Inside, she had to go through a metal detector, but that gave her time to ask the security woman where the jail was.

Trousered and in shirt and tie, poured into the outfit, the woman looked at her with faint curiosity. “Take the elevator.”

Upstairs, Bernice identified herself as Ricardo's wife and asked if she could see him. She was taken off to a room empty save for a table and several uncomfortable chairs. A clock on the wall moved so imperceptibly you would have thought that the earth was slowing down in its passage around the sun. After ten minutes, a door opened, and there was Ricardo.

He stopped after coming into the room and looked at her. “They said my wife was here.”

“Oh, Ricardo.”

Then, incredibly, she was in his arms. All her discontents seemed to evaporate, not least because she imagined Marjorie seeing this tender scene.

“How's Henry?”

“Fine.”

“Does he know I'm here?”

“Ricardo, he wouldn't understand if I told him.”

“Don't tell him. They're going to have to let me go.”

“Of course they are!” The thought that Ricardo could have killed X was silly. They sat side by side at the table.

“Do you have a lawyer?”

“I won't need one now.”

“Why?”

“The police have found something. I should have been let go hours ago.”

4

Paul Lohman told Father Car-mody, and Father Carmody told Phil Keegan, and Phil brought the news to Jimmy Stewart.

“Where is it?”

“In Boris Henry's briefcase.”

“And where the hell is that?”

“I thought you'd want to talk to Henry when you go out there to get the briefcase.”

“Good God, Phil, he could have gotten rid of that bag.”

“Lohman is keeping an eye on him.”

Jimmy didn't like it, and Phil didn't blame him. On the other hand, he understood why Lohman and Clare Healy had been reluctant to be any more directly involved than they already were in what was about to befall Boris Henry. The drive to campus was largely silent until Jimmy said, “I never thought Ricardo was guilty.”

“What's he like?”

“You're thinking immigrant? Forget it. It turns out he is a very educated man, no matter his current employment.”

“The wife doesn't suggest that.”

Jimmy nodded. “She seemed almost ashamed of him, didn't she?”

“How's his English?”

“As good as yours.”

“That bad?”

So they were once again on easy terms when Jimmy turned into the parking lot of the Morris Inn. Before they went in, Phil led Jimmy to the rental car Clare Healy had driven from Chicago. The briefcase was still visible through the window.

*   *   *

Boris Henry was in the bar with Paul Lohman and Clare Healy, and there was no apprehension in his manner as the two men approached the table. Paul pushed his chair back, and Clare did the same.

“Boris,” Phil said. “We'd like to talk to you alone.”

Boris looked excited. “Have you found it?”

“Clare and I will skeddadle,” Lohman said, avoiding everyone's eyes.

“What's the secret? Stick around, you can hear this.”

Stewart indicated to the others that they should go. Boris hunched forward at the table, accepting that he was to get the news solo. His manner seemed to suggest he now thought that was just as well.

Jimmy said, “Mr. Henry, why are you trying to fool my good friend Phil Knight?”

“Fool him?” Boris tried frowning. He tried a laugh. Finally he just looked at Jimmy.

“I think you still have that diary.”

“Why the hell would you think that?” Henry turned to Phil. They were all seated now. “What is this, Phil?”

“It has been suggested to the police that you have what we're looking for in your briefcase.”

Boris shook his head. “Do you think I would fake the theft of Father Zahm's diary?” His tone suggested this would have been akin to sacrilege. Suddenly, he looked hard at Jimmy. “Who told you such a thing?”

“Where is your briefcase?”

“Now, look here—”

“Boris, if the information is false, that can be established easily. Get your briefcase.”

Boris considered this. It was pretty clear he was as disgusted with Phil as he was with Jimmy Stewart. He got to his feet. “Come on.”

They followed him out of the bar and up the stairs to the second floor. A cleaning cart was in the hallway near an open door. Boris's room. They walked in, startling the maid.

“We'll just be a minute,” Boris told her. He stood by the bed and looked around the room. Of course, the briefcase wasn't there. His face screwed into thought. “It's not here.”

“Where might it be?”

“I'm thinking, I'm thinking.”

It was like a parlor game, with everyone but Boris knowing the answer. Eventually, he had it. “I think it may be in the car.”

“And where is that?”

“Clare has the key.”

“We can get it from her.”

“What a goddamn wild goose chase,” Boris muttered, and led the way out of the room.

Clare was in the lobby, waiting as if by agreement. She came with them into the parking lot, where she unlocked the car and stepped aside.

Boris looked in and then reached for and brought out the briefcase. He put it on the hood of the car. “We can do this right here.” He snapped the catches, and the lid opened slowly, as if to reveal dramatically the plastic bag. Boris just pushed it aside, to display what else the briefcase contained. He turned triumphantly. “So much for this nonsense.”

Jimmy had taken the plastic bag from the briefcase.

“What's this?”

Boris scarcely glanced at the bag when Jimmy held it up. Jimmy turned the bag slowly. “This your wallet?”

“Wallet?”

“And keys. Change. Handkerchief.”

“Let me see that.”

Jimmy prevented Boris from grabbing the bag. He slid the top of it open and took out the wallet. It opened in the palm of his hand. He turned to Boris. “Xavier Kittock.”

“Come on.”

“That's my line, Henry,” Jimmy said. “We can continue this downtown.”

For a minute, Boris looked as if he might take a swing at Jimmy, but then an icy calm came over him. He turned to Clare. “Call my lawyer in Kansas City and ask him to get the hell up here as fast as he can. Tell him the problem.”

5

Larry Douglas had returned to the headquarters of campus security, his workday complete, when he heard his name called. He turned, and there was Kimberley in shorts and halter, a sweatband holding back her hair, pulling a wheeled golf bag.

“I do like that uniform,” she cried, delighted. Thank God, he had taken off his stupid helmet before turning around. “Is the gun loaded?”

“Famous last words. You've been golfing.”

“Nine holes.”

“Alone?”

“No, I played with a couple of strangers. It's so good to be out in the sun and away from that dreadful morgue.” She inhaled deeply of the unrefrigerated air.

“You quit?”

Kimberley stood there, the picture of health, slim and beautiful, her face flushed from exercise. “Feeney said he would consider me on leave, but I'm not going back.”