Kill and Tell Read online

  “If you don’t mind, Father, can we skip the scripture reading? It’s kind of late—and I’m sorry about that—but neither of us has much time.” She seemed upset. About what, Koesler guessed he would be informed shortly.

  He nodded and returned the book to the table. He waited. She fidgeted.

  “I’m beginning to think I’m a failure as a wife.”

  Not many things surprised Koesler anymore, but her statement did. Koesler had always considered the Mercurys among the more stable couples in the parish, and Cindy one of the more efficient and dedicated homemakers. On the other hand, he had had similar thoughts about other couples who eventually had become divorce statistics.

  “Why would you think that?” he asked at length.

  “My management—or rather, mismanagement—of our budget.” She paused, then looked at him ingenuously. “Do you suppose having a deficit budget could be a sin?”

  He could not suppress laughter, even though her question was undoubtedly sincere. “If it is, then this entire country is headed for hell in a handbasket.”

  She smiled briefly, then appeared concerned again. “There are times, Father, when everything seems to be closing in on me. The bills keep piling up and I’m constantly shifting money from one account to another. Then I have to separate the creditors who charge interest on unpaid accounts and try to pay them first. Then come the hounding letters and phone calls. Eventually, I begin to feel guilty about it. And, I guess, that’s why I’m here.”

  In a way, Koesler was not surprised; yet in another way he was. He had spent much of his adult life amazed at people who, foolishly, he thought, lived above their means. So, it did not surprise him that the Mercurys were living over their heads. It did surprise him that the Mercurys could not afford to live at a level that was relatively modest compared with many in his parish.

  “I can understand why you might begin to feel guilty about this. And I suppose that a lot of those creditors try their best to make you feel guilty. But I really doubt that you’re committing any sin. Especially if you are not the one who’s running up those bills. Are you?”

  “Well, no, not really, Father. It’s Angie.” She said it with a sense of fatality. “But it’s not all his fault,” she added quickly. “It’s just that when you’re in show business, you’re never off-stage. The world really is, as Shakespeare said, a stage—at least for performers. Whether they’re working or, as they say, between shows, they have to act as if all is well.

  “Angie feels compelled to pick up the tab, get the expensive theater tickets, pay the taxi, throw the party . . . that sort of thing. If he doesn’t, everybody will know he’s between shows, or, worse, that he is working and making peanuts.

  “And the truth of it is, Father, that’s the way it is: He keeps working, but he might just as well be doing benefits.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Koesler knew he could not offer advice unless he understood the problem. “Why should your husband think he has to create an affluent impression when he can’t afford to? It’s been my experience that when people fall upon bad times, they try to reduce their lifestyle, tighten the belt, that sort of thing. We all understand that. It’s just part of life for most people.”

  “Not with show biz people, Father. I know. I’ve been there. Right after we were married, I had a brief theatrical fling with Angie under the theory that two actors can eat better if both are working. For a few years, we did just about everything in show biz. And we were just barely getting by. I know how he feels now. If you don’t act as if you’re on top, the word goes out that you’re cold, that you’re not a good property, not a good casting risk. And it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  “Why did you quit?” Koesler had long been interested in the theater but had no behind-the-scenes knowledge of it.

  “Well, a baby came along . . . and Angie’s luck began to improve. But if you can have good luck, you can also have bad luck. And that’s what we’ve had for longer than I care to remember. I’d join him on stage again, but there’s no future in that. I’d be more a hindrance now than a help. He wouldn’t even get the parts he gets now if I were in the package.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Koesler sensed he’d grasped only the tip of this problem, “how do you manage to carry things off as well as you do?”

  Cindy lowered her head in evident shame. “My brother Frank.” She looked up in anxiety. “This mustn’t get out!”

  Koesler shook his head. “You’re in confession. What you say here isn’t going anywhere else.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I’m sorry, Father, I forgot. Sometimes when I just sit here and talk to you, I forget I’m going to confession.”

  The priest smiled.

  “Well, anyway,” she went on, “for years now, my brother has given us—me—a very generous check just about every month.

  “You see, Frank and I are very close. We always have been. He can’t help himself, Father. He couldn’t let anything bad happen to me. He’s very generous. All the money he’s given . . . well, it’s not deductible or anything. It’s down the drain as far as he’s concerned.

  “But that brings up another problem, Father. As badly as we need Frank’s help, Angie resents it . . . resents it bitterly. He gets so angry that I try not to let him know whenever I get the check. But he knows of course that Frank is helping.”

  “Yes,” Koesler nodded, “St. Vincent de Paul had a lot to say about the ‘proud poor’ and how delicate the approach to them must be.”

  “That’s just it, Father: Frank is hardly delicate about his help, especially where Angie is concerned. Frank looks down on Angie and Angle’s theatrical career. So, here I am, in the middle between my husband and my brother, the two men I love most in the world. And they hate each other.” Her lips trembled. “Sometimes I get to feeling it’s my fault. There must be a way I can make those two be friends. If I could get a job . . . but I’ve looked, and there’s nothing. And if anything happened to cut off that money Frank gives us . . . well, I just don’t know what I’d do.” She pulled a handkerchief from her purse, covered her face, and began to sob quietly. “Sometimes I feel as if I’m cracking up, Father,” she managed to get out between sobs.

  Few things in life made Koesler feel more helpless than being in the presence of someone, particularly a woman, who was crying. There was so little he could do. There was little anyone could do except perhaps offer a shoulder on which to cry. Probably there were priests who could carry off such physical closeness and maintain their position. Koesler did not believe he was among them.

  On top of that, in a few minutes, he would be late for Saturday afternoon Mass. For the past several minutes, he’d been aware of the sound of the gathering crowd in the church. He glanced at his watch. Twenty past five. Ten minutes to go.

  “This much you must know and believe,” Koesler said, with as much reassurance as he could muster, “what’s going on is not your fault. I know there are lots of forces conspiring to make you feel guilty, but you have no guilt. All I can tell you at this moment is to pray. I know that sounds like a cop-out, but you’re dealing with forces and relationships that are really quite beyond your ability to control. It’s just that in situations like this we must turn to God with confidence. I think it was Lincoln who said something about how there are times when man has no other direction open to him than down on his knees.

  “And, too, why don’t you come back—maybe sometime next week—to the rectory, so we can talk about this at greater length. Maybe between the two of us we can come up with something to help this situation.”

  At the moment, Koesler did not have the faintest clue as to what to do about Cindy’s problem. For now, he resolved to do a bit of praying over this problem himself.

  Cindy was drying her eyes. She seemed a bit more composed.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Koesler rose, “I’ve got to begin Mass in just a few minutes. Why don’t you remain here till you feel better? And si
nce you didn’t have any sins to confess, there’s no need for any absolution. I’ll just give you my blessing.” He traced the sign of the cross in the air over her.

  She crossed herself. “I’m all right now, Father; really I am. Thanks. And,” she even managed a smile, “I’ll see you at the party tonight.”

  “What? Oh, yes: the dinner party. Yes, I’ll see you then.” Koesler hurried to vest for Mass. In concentrating on Cindy Mercury’s problem, it had completely slipped his mind that he had been invited to her house that evening.

  It could be awkward attending the party, now that he knew so much more about the hosts and one of their guests than he had just a few minutes ago. He hadn’t known anything of her brief theatrical background. Nor of their financial plight and its completely unnecessary—as far as he was concerned—cause. Nor of the pressure on Cindy as a result of the friction between her husband and her brother.

  Tonight’s party would be one of those many occasions when Koesler would have to virtually forget his intimate knowledge of what had been told him as a secret—or, at least act as if he had forgotten. Strictly speaking, Cindy had not gone to confession to him. But she had placed herself in a confessional situation. And Koesler’s responsibility would have to be the same as if all she had told him were protected by the fabled seal of confession. Yet it was, or could be, an awkward situation. Except that Koesler had lived through so many similar situations that keeping secrets was second nature to him.

  The 5:30 Mass was completed without incident. Although he experienced many a distraction as his subconscious led him down many blind alleys searching for some solution to Cindy Mercury’s problem.

  After Mass, in the rectory, Koesler searched the refrigerator, finding half a carton of ham salad, more than enough for a sandwich. Which, in turn, was enough to carry him through to tonight’s dinner.

  The seven o’clock Mass was taken care of in due order. As usual, it was very sparsely attended. He had tried several times to get the parish council to drop that Mass from the schedule. But he had not yet been successful. If the members of the council had to repeat the same liturgy, along with the same homily, over and over each weekend, they might not feel so strongly about retaining a Mass that had practically nothing else going for it except a rather long history.

  After the evening Mass, as was his custom, he locked the collection in the sacristy safe and turned out most of the lights, leaving on only those few that illuminated the area near his confessional. He also turned off the heat. More than likely, he would be the only one in the church for the next approximate hour that he would sit in the confessional. No point in heating the whole church for one person.

  He turned on the light in his side of the confessional and turned the collar of his topcoat up around his neck. He’d have to look into the purchase of a space heater. There might not be any good reason to heat the whole church for one. On the other hand there was no good reason why that one should freeze.

  He took a book from the nearby table. Twelυe and One-Half Keys, by Father Edward Hays, like Koesler, a diocesan priest. Hays was a contemplative and an artist who had written a series of books of prayer deeply valued by Koesler and often recommended by him.

  His hand began to shake from the cold. Koesler resolved he’d have to get a space heater, and soon.

  13.

  It was with mixed emotions that Koesler faced this evening’s dinner party. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy such gatherings. On the contrary, especially with his peers, he was known on occasion to be the life of the party. But so recently supplied with the background of conflict that Cindy Mercury had imparted earlier, Koesler would be seeing some of the partygoers in a new light. And he was not at all happy about that.

  When he and Ratigan arrived at the Mercury house, one car was already in the driveway. Ratigan recognized it as the Hoff-mans’. The Chases hadn’t yet arrived. Ratigan parked at the curb. He didn’t want to chance being hemmed in. He anticipated that he and Koesler probably would be the first to leave.

  Cindy Mercury greeted them at the door, and took their coats and hats. She was wearing a black evening gown with a deep “V” fore and aft. She looked every inch the professional dancer she once had been. Ratigan and Koesler appreciated the view. Both belonged to the look-but-don’t-touch school of the chaste clergy.

  Next they were greeted by Angie Mercury, then by the Hoffmans. Mercury was sporty in a maroon jacket, with tan slacks and a white open-collared shirt. Hoffman wore a dark blue business suit, while his wife was in a white suit, which, while it covered her amply, revealed that all of her curves were still in the right places.

  Before the clergy’s arrival, all had been seated in the living room. Now they resumed their places. Ratigan and Koesler found chairs at opposite sides of the large room.

  No sooner was Koesler seated than a waiter approached and inquired as to his drink preference. Koesler asked for a bourbon manhattan—yes, on the rocks and, as a matter of fact, lots of ice.

  Koesler noted that, across the room, a waitress was taking Ratigan’s drink order. But before she did that, she had removed an empty cocktail glass from the table before Hoffman and replaced it with a full one. He also noticed that Hoffman popped a pill into his mouth and washed it down with a swallow of his drink.

  From what Cindy had told him this afternoon, he marveled that this party was being catered. He’d seen the waiter and waitress and, judging by sounds from the kitchen, there must be at least one cook on hand. Despite Cindy’s “No one must know!” he wondered how many people present did know that, for all practical purposes, Hoffman was picking up the tab for this display of affluence. Possibly everyone but Ratigan.

  Then again, considering their close relationship, perhaps Ratigan, too, was in on the secret. Koesler smiled mentally as he considered that probably as far as the others were concerned, he was the only one who did not know. And, without Cindy’s confession today, that would have been true.

  Looking about the room, he reflected that, of the other five here, two of them had been to confession to him today. In this era of most infrequent confession, that was a bit of a coincidence.

  As usual, in gatherings such as this, the conversation became fragmented. The breakup began when Hoffman and Ratigan started the conversational ball rolling with today’s trends in big business. First to lose interest were the women. Cindy had leaned toward Emma and they began talking quietly between themselves. That left Mercury and Koesler, neither of whom was interested in either multinationals or women’s fashions.

  “From time to time,” Koesler opened the third topic, “I’ve wondered about your name. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone else named Mercury. If I’m not being too personal, what nationality is it?”

  Angie smiled. “Try Angelo De Mercurio, Father. Does that give you a clue?”

  “Italian, of course. But how—?”

  “Show business, Father. Angelo De Mercurio might look OK on an old-time fight bill, but, believe me, it doesn’t play on a marquee.”

  Koesler rattled his manhattan in an attempt to melt more ice. He wondered how many questions about his host’s life and lifestyle could be answered with the words “show business.”

  “Well, then, how long have you been Angie Mercury?”

  “So long I’ve almost forgotten Angelo De Mercurio. I was Angie Mercury before I married Cindy. So, she may not have won any prize, but,” he laughed engagingly, “she can’t claim she wasn’t warned.”

  Koesler made an embarrassed gesture as one tends to do when someone makes a self-deprecatory statement. “So you’ve been in show business that long . . . .”

  “Some kids want to grow up to be doctors, some lawyers, some cowboys,” Mercury looked meaningfully at Koesler, “some priests. Me, I always wanted to be an actor.”

  “Now that you mention it, most Catholic boys at least consider the possibility of becoming a priest. At least they used to. Didn’t the thought ever cross your mind?”

  “Oh
, yeah, sure, Father. But it wasn’t that I wanted to be a priest: I wanted to be an actor in a priest’s suit. Meaning no disrespect, but when you get all vested for Mass, that’s not all that different from getting into a costume. And, especially when you preach, among other things, I suppose, you’re trying to hold a crowd. And, I must say,” he raised his glass to Koesler, “you’re pretty good at it. But,” he took a sip of his drink, “you know right away, don’t you, whether you’ve got them or you’ve lost them?”

  Koesler nodded.

  “Well, that’s not all that removed from what an actor tries to do with an audience. So, in that sense I gave a few thoughts to becoming a priest. But, in the end, I would never have been satisfied with only one role, one stage, one audience. And besides, it was just about that time that I discovered that girls could be fun. And I wanted one of my own. And,” he looked across the room and smiled at his wife, “I got one!”

  There was such evident love flowing from him to her that Koesler was moved. These days, it was indeed rare to find a married couple who had so completely preserved the love affair with which they had begun.

  On second thought, Koesler decided that he had rarely encountered such a strong love at any time.

  “She is such a trouper, Father. I mean, show business is my life. Cindy likes it and enjoys it, yes, but I know she could easily live without it. And still, to help me and so we could be together, she joined me in forming an act after we got married. She already had training as a dancer, so we didn’t have to work on that. But everything else, I taught her. And was she a great pupil! We did the whole bit. Father.” He was growing excited in relating the experience, and the pride he felt for his wife was evident.

  “We played the Catskills, nightclubs, dinner theaters, the legitimate stage, the whole shot. We used to do those bits you still see on TV every so often . . . you know, where you get some volunteers from the audience and hypnotize them and give them a post-hypnotic suggestion and then they do silly things like clucking like a chicken. Or the one where one member of the team is blindfolded and the other goes out and holds up articles belonging to members of the audience and the blindfolded one identifies what the partner is holding. We got so good at it—and so bored with it—we used to reverse roles.