Masquerade Read online

  10

  It was mid-morning before Koesler again encountered Father Augustine.

  Augustine got off the elevator at the first floor just as Koesler finished descending the stairs. Their paths merged as they turned to walk down the corridor. That was unfortunate as far as Koesler was concerned. Had they been going in opposite directions, a mere nod would have sufficed. Walking together in silence was awkward considering their contentious exchange a few hours earlier. Koesler felt distinctly uncomfortable.

  Yet it was Koesler who spoke first. “Well, Father, did you call the Chancery?”

  “Huh? What?” For all intents and purposes it appeared that Augustine had no idea what Koesler was referring to. “The Chancery? Oh, about that business of Mass this morning. Yes. Yes, I did. Uh-huh. Yes.”

  They proceeded a bit further in silence. “And?” Koesler asked.

  “And it’s damn hard finding the chancellor, a vice-chancellor, or an assistant chancellor on a Monday morning.”

  “But you did.”

  “What?”

  “Find one.”

  “Eventually. One of the assistants.”

  “And?” Koesler could sympathize with dentists who had to pull teeth.

  “He seemed bored by the whole business. Asked me if I knew whether you actually went through with the thing. Concelebrated. I told him I didn’t stick around to find out, but I heard you hadn’t.”

  “Then?”

  “He thanked me for calling. Told me to call anytime.”

  Koesler couldn’t help smiling. He could imagine the sort of day the Chancery priest had to look forward to. Maybe some pickets outside on Washington Boulevard protesting a Catholic school—or parish—closing.

  Maybe a priest getting arrested trying to invade the mayor’s office to get him to close some crack cocaine house or tear down some of the vacant dangerous buildings wherein school children were being raped. Maybe a parish delegation angry at their pastor for trying to lead them back to the thirteenth century. Maybe a parish delegation angry at their pastor for trying to lead them on to the twenty-first century.

  In any case, as he had anticipated, the Chancery wasn’t about to get too concerned about an unauthorized ecumenical worship service. Especially when less than ten people were involved—no TV cameras, no reporters, no notoriety. Particularly when the bottom line was that it had been celebratus interruptus.

  “You’ve got a funny diocese here, I must say, Father,” Augustine added. “Nobody seems terribly interested in the niceties of Canon Law.”

  “Vatican II hit us hard.”

  “So I’ve always heard. Never experienced it until this morning. With all this going on I’m amazed that your archbishop was named a Cardinal.”

  “Had to be. He was the first elected president of the U. S. Bishops’ Conference. Rome couldn’t overlook that no matter how hard they tried.”

  “Maybe. Well, I guess so. Anyway, it doesn’t matter much. I did what I had to do. Up to them now. I don’t care what they do. No skin off my hide. But, if I were you, Father, I’d be careful. You can be rock-solid sure somebody, sometime, is going to bypass your rather laid-back Chancery and go directly to Rome.

  “Well, good day.” Augustine turned to go into Sister Janet’s office, leaving Koesler alone in the corridor.

  Strange, strange man, thought Koesler. After all those heated words in the sacristy, he had expected discomfiture, at least, in their relationship for the remainder of this workshop.

  On the contrary, Father Augustine seemed to possess a most rare and uncanny ability to compartmentalize. Able to work himself into a sanctimonious frenzy then have almost no memory of it. Turn the outlaw in, to the authorities, immediately followed by washing his hands of the whole matter. Even slow to remember what it was all about.

  Koesler chuckled. He’d met Augustine for the first time last evening. The very next day Augustine accuses Koesler of engaging in an unauthorized ecumenical service. The poor Trappist must think Koesler to be utterly without regard for Church law.

  Nothing could be further from the truth. Koesler’s life revolved around the Church. He read ecclesiastical periodicals voraciously and faithfully. In short, his grasp of theological trends and developments was easily as up-to-date as anyone’s.

  Thus, in the matter of concelebrating with an Episcopal priest, Koesler knew he was on arguably solid ground. Nothing now stood in the way of Rome’s recognition of the validity of Anglican orders except what to do about women who wanted to be priests. It was seen as inappropriate to make the declaration of unity while the Anglican Church allowed women priests and the Episcopal Church had a female bishop. However, none of that had anything to do with historical accuracy and true doctrine.

  The way Rome felt about women priests, let alone women bishops, it was not likely the current Pope would put his stamp of approval on the validity of Anglican orders, no matter how valid they really were.

  In any case, the incident this morning between himself, Augustine, and Benbow was revealing.

  Obviously Augustine was strongly wed to the letter of the law. Yet to be determined was whether he inflicted this tight interpretation, this legalistic rigidity, on himself as well. Over the years, Koesler had met any number of people eager to demand of others slavish obedience to rules and regulations. But when it came to themselves, they were much more understanding and permissive. Of course there were those whose legalism applied as equally to themselves as to others. In which camp was Augustine? Perhaps time would tell.

  One thing about Augustine was certain: He could be cruel. And, indeed, this morning he had been brutal to David Benbow and, by extension, to Martha Benbow. Augustine had shown no sensitivity whatsoever in the delicate matter of liturgical practice.

  As he strolled the manicured campus of Marygrove College, Koesler wondered about this mean streak revealed by the Trappist. How strong was it? To what extremes could it lead?

  Last night, when the charade of Krieg’s murder was played out, Augustine was the only character in the psychodrama who never became a suspect. That was due solely to his being very much under the weather. What if it had not been make-believe? What if Krieg actually had been murdered? What if Augustine had not been taken ill? Or had he really been ill?

  Did anyone else on this “faculty” know about Augustine’s quick temper and his churlishly cruel streak? If the others knew, would Augustine have been a prime suspect?

  Interesting, if moot, questions. But purely hypothetical. As far as any of them knew, Krieg—who had not as yet this morning deigned to arrive on campus—was alive and well. There had been no murder. There were no suspects.

  So, Koesler decided to forget about it. For all practical purposes, the incident was over and done with. Undoubtedly, the Benbows would not return to attend any future liturgies. They had been pretty effectively scared off.

  Augustine thought he had learned something about Koesler. But the inductive reasoning process, arguing from one example to a general principle, would prove incorrect. Under ordinary circumstances, Koesler was anything but a lawbreaker.

  On the other hand, Augustine was an interesting study.

  Koesler had no first-hand knowledge of current monastic practices. He wondered if the monks still observed a “chapter of faults.” For centuries, members of most religious orders, men and women, held a daily “chapter of faults,” during which individuals openly and publicly accused themselves of violations of anything from the Ten Commandments to their monastic rule of life. And, as if that weren’t enough humiliation, others in the community were invited, again openly and publicly, to add to the accusations any faults that the individual might have forgotten, overlooked, or been too ashamed to own up to.

  If that practice was still in place, Koesler was grateful he was not a member of Augustine’s community. Without doubt, Augustine would make certain there was hell to pay for everyone.

  Father Koesler had no scheduled duties to perform in this workshop until early
afternoon. He had toyed with the idea of returning to his parish, if only to go through the mail and get a few other chores finished—make it a little easier on himself when these five committed days were completed. But experience had taught that when one stepped into one’s rectory office, one thing led to another. A whole day’s work could snowball from a simple, innocent visit to the office to open the morning mail.

  All in all, he decided to enjoy the gorgeous fall weather, walking through the cool shadows of Marygrove’s acres of trees.

  11

  By anyone’s standards, the schedule for the first day of this workshop was undemanding.

  Apparently, whoever had set it up—Jack Regan?—realized that with a five-day conference, there was no great call to cram in nonstop events. The schedule provided ample time for students and faculty to get to know one another informally, for the faculty to have the leisure to fully develop their material, for the students to have every opportunity of tapping the faculty for all possible information, suggestions, guidance, and encouragement.

  Morning was occupied largely with orientation-type activities: a tour of the campus, sale of books written by members of the faculty as well as some put out by P.G. Press. Sister Janet had the students gather in small group sessions for informal discussions on the nature of religious mystery novels.

  All of this was punctuated with coffee and, at the earliest session, doughnuts.

  There was only one major event in the afternoon. It was held in Alumni Hall. Since the group consisted of only 150–200 students, the large hall was shrunken by a room divider.

  This event was the first and, until the final session, the only time the entire faculty would appear together. Each member of the faculty presented a synopsis of what he or she intended to teach and treat in the individual classes during the week.

  Father Koesler, as the one and only “resource person,” sat with the faculty on the platform. But, since he would not be formally teaching any classes, he was not expected to make a presentation. As far as he was concerned, he was auditing this session.

  He found the present gathering fascinating due to the extraordinary interactions that had already gone on between the various members of the panel. Koesler had had the leisure to study the interplay since he was, in effect, a spectator.

  This was the first any of them had seen of Klaus Krieg since supper last night. Koesler wondered if the students could detect the tension flowing back and forth across the stage. It was, at best, uneven, since Father Augustine had not played any role at all in Krieg’s little psychodrama. Fortunately, in a sense, he’d been spared the emotional investment that make-believe fiasco had demanded. In all probability Augustine had been told what had happened. Still, that was in no way comparable to having gone through it.

  On another level, there’d been the altercation between himself, Augustine, and Benbow this morning. Koesler had expected some leftover bad feeling from that. Seemingly there was none. At least Koesler could not detect any, and he was not only on the lookout for a sign of ill will, he was expecting it.

  Since his brief conversation with Augustine after Mass, much of the anger he had felt was dissipated. Perhaps a similar type of meeting had diffused the hostility between Augustine and Benbow . . . though Koesler would have found it more difficult to forgive and forget had someone called him a heretic.

  While Marie, Benbow, and Winer evidenced some tension—at least to the eye of one who was on the lookout for it—Krieg seemed untroubled and at ease. Well, thought Koesler, why not? Up to this point, Krieg had been in the driver’s seat. So far, this had been Krieg’s show. The feeling Koesler got, from the nuances that he was picking up from the victims of last night’s charade, was that the tide was about to turn. Unless he was mistaken there were vibrations of a determination to exact some measure of revenge.

  Rabbi Winer, the last of the faculty to deliver a prepared talk, was nearing the conclusion of his allocution.

  Koesler dismissed further thought of the dynamics going on between those on the dais and began studying the students. One quick and easy conclusion he reached involved the predominant gender and median age of the group: decidedly female and, he guessed, in the forty-to-fifty age group.

  It figured. Most men and women employed outside the home could not get away for a full work week and probably would be unwilling to invest a vacation week on a writers’ workshop. Though there were a few who looked as if they might have made this sacrifice.

  Most of the students were women with gray hair and, judging from their bobbing heads, were wearing bifocals, maybe trifocals. There was also a sprinkling of young people, perhaps Marygrove students.

  The group’s reactions to the talks were interesting. Since Koesler did not recognize anyone in the crowd, his only means of deducing their purpose in attending was to note the manner in which they responded to the presentations. Still it was little more than a wild guess.

  Some, perhaps the majority, seemed intent, eagerly sopping up the words, encouragement, explanations of the faculty. Koesler assumed these were novice writers, unpublished or insufficiently published. He could picture them at home, borrowing time from their daily chores to grind out the pages of their work in progress. He could visualize them sending in their manuscripts and anxiously awaiting each day’s mail until the manuscript was returned with no more than a form letter rejection. If his scenario was correct, the major virtue of these people was perseverance. Disappointed but undaunted, they continued to mail in their submissions while hopefully learning more and continuing to write.

  That’s why they were at this conference: to learn. And that’s what they were doing now: learning from some who lived the dream of earning a decent, if not substantial, income from writing.

  It was unlikely that all these intent and intense students wrote mystery stories, let alone religious mysteries. That would have to be a rather narrow field. It was not that important what the faculty had written. What was of vital importance was that the faculty was published.

  And, while he was ascribing motives to the students, Koesler reminded himself not to overlook the one member of the faculty who did not need to be published. He was a publisher. The horse’s mouth, as it were.

  If only they could put it all together. To pick up tips and learn that elusive secret of how to prepare a manuscript for publication and then to understand what it was publishers were looking for in submitted work. The magic formula. Put it all together and one day maybe the students would be faculty at one of these affairs.

  There was another, much smaller, group in the audience; those Koesler assumed, were simply fans of one or more of the authors, and/or the publisher. Instead of wearing the earnest, eager expressions of the writers, these simply smiled. They took no notes; just smiled. They seemed determined to enjoy these five days and so, by God, they would.

  That pretty well took care of the students, with the exception of a very few who remained hard to pin down. Koesler put them on the back burner of his scrutiny. Because he could not figure them out, they piqued his interest.

  Winer was finished and the formal presentations were concluded.

  Sister Janet thanked the faculty and opened the floor to questions. At the outset, nothing was forthcoming. This did not surprise Koesler. It was a common reaction. Not that people didn’t have questions. Many of them were embarrassed to volunteer a question, fearing that the others would think it stupid or inane.

  Slowly, hesitantly at first, the questions began, until, encouraged that no one was going to pose the “definitive” question, hands were raised throughout the audience. In Koesler’s experience, this was the classic way question-and-answer sessions developed. He began testing his theories on who was who by the nature of the question.

  A smiling lady—no notepad at hand—directed a question to Sister Marie. How, the lady wanted to know, could Sister find time to write a book with all she had to do in Florida? (Very familiar with Sister’s book. A fan, Koesler guessed.)

/>   Marie’s response was that writing full-time was, by far, the ideal way to do it. But that was a literary “Catch 22.” One has to be successful at writing before one can afford to treat oneself to writing full-time. While pursuing that goal, there are few alternatives to working at a full-time paying job and writing concurrently.

  Others on the panel contributed illustrations of how they managed their time. Coincidentally, each of the writers held active religious vocations that made primary demands on their lives. Benbow attested that afternoons afforded the best opportunity to write. Marie traveled frequently; minutes squeezed out on trains, planes, and buses were most accessible for her writing. Winer’s best times were early mornings and Sundays. The other three expressed doubts: Sundays were the busiest days for Christian ministers, priests, and in this case, a nun in charge of education that was emphasized on Sundays.

  Good-naturedly, the three Christian authors chided Winer for working on Sunday. Just as affably, he reminded them that he was the only one among them observing the Sabbath—literally the seventh day of the week, Saturday.

  Sister Janet appeared inclined to let the questions roll on. On most occasions such as this, there was a time limit for Q and A. But there was nothing more on the schedule until dinner. The arrangement was fine as far as Koesler was concerned. He had found the question period to almost always be the most lively and scintillating segment of this sort of program.

  Without raising her hand, a youngish dark-haired woman shot a challenge at Winer. Didn’t he think, she asked, that a rabbi’s involvement with the world was too confined to make him the central character in a mystery novel?

  In response, the smiling Winer explained some of the responsibilities and talents required of the average rabbi.

  But, she persisted, what of the tendency of Jews to ghettoize themselves, to form their own tight-knit communities and become isolated from outsiders? What, she concluded, made Winer think the community at large would be interested in what this tiny handful of people did or thought?