Dead Wrong Read online

  The only other confidante was the housekeeper, who, along with her family, was in this country illegally. Thus she was even more dependent on Ted Nash’s good will than was the architect.

  It was Ted’s conviction that it paid to protect one’s rear.

  Utilizing his key, Ted entered the suite.

  “THAT YOU, TED?” Brenda called from the kitchen.

  Nash smiled as he put down his briefcase and hung up his hat and coat. “If it’s not, it’s got to be Mandrake the Magician.”

  “It could have been Valeria.”

  “She hasn’t been here today?”

  “Oh, she’s been here. But she forgot her groceries. I thought she might have come back for them.”

  Nash reached the doorway to the kitchen. Brenda stood, her back to him, at the sink. She was mixing a pitcher of martinis.

  She was wearing a white, frilly blouse, and a dark, knee-length skirt. Black and white, his favorite colors. She never forgot. Besides, it was a sensible ensemble, considering this is what she’d worn to work at the chancery.

  Ted renewed his admiration for her figure. He reveled in her wasp waist, the curve of her full hips, the slope of her calves, her slender ankles. That was just one of many fascinating things about Brenda: One could admire every portion of her body separately. And that was one of the joys of seeing her fully clothed: It enabled one to appreciate sights that were otherwise lost in the beauty of her total nakedness.

  Ted could never understand how some thought Brenda plain. They just had not had the fortune to experience the complete Brenda. He had. And he could not get enough of her.

  He approached her. As soon as she felt him behind her, she leaned back against him. He smelled her straight brunette, shoulder-length hair. Vintage Brenda. He inhaled the fragrance of her shampoo. “Thank God for Palm Springs,” he murmured.

  She stirred the ice in the pitcher. “What’s in Palm Springs?”

  “Melissa and the kids.” In Brenda’s presence he never used the designation “wife” for Melissa. Melissa was certainly not fully a wife; and, by Ted’s peculiar lights, Brenda was at least as much a wife as Melissa. Somehow, it just didn’t seem suitable to use the term in either’s presence.

  “That means we’ve got the whole weekend,” Brenda said.

  “That’s what it means, okay. Any problems?”

  In no way did the query imply that a problem would be permitted to interfere with their time together. Merely that if Brenda had any prior commitment, it would be canceled or postponed. Brenda understood. She shook her head. “No, no problems.”

  “Great. Are you going to keep stirring until you melt that ice?”

  She laughed. “Go make yourself comfy. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  In the living room he kicked off his shoes and snuggled into the leather recliner. His chair. He looked about him. The decor was as appealing as any ad for interior design. Brenda had a talent for that— among other things. Ted felt good—very, very good.

  Brenda entered, bearing a tray with two martinis straight up and some cheese and crackers. She set the tray on the end table alongside his chair. She took her martini and sat on the couch across from him. “How was your day?”

  With a broad smile, he raised his glass to eye level.

  “That good!” she exclaimed. “You’re toasting it?”

  “We got the Ford Park deal!” he exulted.

  “Marvelous! None of the media thought you could pull it off.”

  He took a sip of his drink, then set the glass down and spread some cheese on a cracker. “Bleeding hearts! They all get upset about killing Thumper or Bambi. Well, we’re not killing them; they just have to move when they get in the way of progress.”

  “It’s a sure thing?”

  “It’s a done deal.” He cheesed another cracker, leaned forward, and offered it to her. “By the way, with the park gone there’s going to be room for much more than just the mall. We’re going to put up some additional condos. Should be a significant increase in population for that area. We may even buy up some of the existing buildings and gentrify them.” He gestured with a cracker. “This would be an excellent time for your boss to scoop up some of that land for a new parish. The final head count will more than justify the move. And if he waits until the development is well along, things will get tough.” He leaned back in the chair. “Matter of fact, if the Department of Finance and Administration doesn’t get off the dime very, very soon—like now—there just might not be any land at any price.”

  Brenda looked thoughtful. After a slight pause during which she took a small sip of her drink, she asked, “Now, how am I going to do this? Without, that is, blowing my cover … our cover.”

  “I’ve thought of that. The deal between Nash Enterprises and the city will be on radio and the tube tonight and in the papers tomorrow. Only the news about the mall, not the part about the condos and further developments. But the mall is the essence of the whole idea … and you can speculate as well as anyone else.”

  Her concern appeared to dissolve. “That’s pretty good. But how’s this: Isn’t this just about the same M.O. you used in the Conner-Jefferson development?”

  “Come to think … yeah, it is. Just about.”

  “So the possibility of your doing it again is strong … strong enough so that the archdiocese would be foolish not to move on it.”

  “You’re right! You’re absolutely right. The risk is minimal while the gain could be significant. Good thinking.”

  Ted felt a bit ambivalent about Brenda’s mental powers. On the one hand, he was pleased that she was so much more than a mere sex object. On the other, he occasionally felt threatened in that she might just possibly be significantly smarter than he. But for the moment, that emotion was buried deep beneath the surface.

  “As it turns out,” he went on, “you’re in a no-lose situation. If you make this suggestion, it doesn’t really matter whether McGraw moves on it or not. You’re going to be absolutely correct. If he buys your recommendation, he’ll be a very happy man. If he doesn’t, he loses … and so does the archdiocese. Either way, your stock climbs.”

  Brenda knew all that. But she let him think he had reached this conclusion on his own. “How about another one?” She didn’t wait for an answer.

  Watching raptly as she left the room, he marveled at her sinuous movement.

  “While we’re at it,” he said, loudly enough to be heard in the kitchen, “how was your day?” The times he had addressed the same question to Melissa, the interest was nonexistent and the words simply pro forma. He didn’t really care what the kids had done in school or what was the gossip in the beauty parlor. With Brenda, however, he was very definitely interested in what went on in the chancery. He found the inner workings of the Church fascinating.

  She returned and refilled his glass, then topped off her own drink, of which she had taken only a few sips. She returned to the couch, a smile tugging at her mouth.

  “Something did happen that I thought you’d find interesting. There was a letter that arrived a while back. It was addressed just to the chancery, correct street number and all. But because it wasn’t addressed to anybody specific, it was delivered to the Cardinal’s office. It was written in some foreign language, but none of the secretaries could figure out what the language was.

  “To make a long story short, the letter traveled all over the Chancery and the Gabriel Richard Building. Some of the younger priests in the various offices saw it, and so did just about all the lay employees. Nobody could figure it out.

  “Finally, they figured that since it had an Egyptian postmark it probably came from some missionary priest. So they sent it to the Propagation of the Faith office in hopes that someone in the office of the missions could at least identify the language.”

  “And?”

  “And the Prop office solved the mystery.” She paused. “It was written in Latin!”

  “Latin!” Ted roared. “It was written in Latin? And it we
nt through all the downtown bureaucracies and no one recognized it?”

  Brenda nodded vigorously. “Of course, the Cardinal didn’t see it. Nor did the few elderly priests who work there. Any one of them would have recognized it immediately.

  “And,” she added, “rumor has it that this isn’t the first time this has happened.”

  “Worse yet! To think that no one in the administrative offices knew or realized it was Latin. That really tells you something. And it makes you wonder whatever happened to the Latin Rite of the Roman Catholic Church.”

  Ted was on the verge of getting himself all worked up. For him it was just one more indication of the damage and destruction that had been inflicted on his Church as a result of that damned Ecumenical Council in the early sixties. It was bad enough that ranking lay people working at headquarters of the Archdiocese of Detroit could not even recognize the Latin language. Worse, some young priests, who represented the Latin Rite of the Catholic Church, but couldn’t and wouldn’t remember anything that preceded Vatican II, couldn’t even make out the tongue of their own rite!

  “Anyway,” Brenda said, “it’s a true story. Kind of interesting and kind of funny. I thought you could call that editor at the Free Press— Nelson Kane, isn’t it? It’s just the kind of story he likes. It should give him a whole column. Then he’ll owe you one.”

  “Good thought. Very good thought. I’ll give him a call tomorrow.”

  “Seems we’ve got something going here,” Brenda observed.

  “Huh?”

  “We’re helping each other one-up people who will then owe us. You gave me the ammo to get an advantage over Muggsy McGraw with that land parcel deal. And I give you a story that can win you a favor at the Free Press. Not bad.”

  “Not bad at all. And relatively painless. Now …” Ted held up his empty glass. “… how about one more, honey, before dinner?”

  Brenda, who still hadn’t finished her first drink, immediately got the pitcher and refilled his glass. She glanced at his eyes. They were beginning to glaze. Would he stay awake long enough to have supper? Would he be conscious enough for sex? She didn’t bother adding anything to her own glass. Instead, she went back into the kitchen. He watched her go, again appreciatively.

  Another great thing about Brenda: By now, Melissa would have been all over his case for having three powerful drinks on virtually an empty stomach. With Brenda, whatever he wanted he got. No fuss, no argument, no recriminations. Bless Brenda. “What’s for supper, by the way?”

  “Looks like a leg of lamb,” Brenda called back. “As usual, Valeria left heating instructions.” She grinned. If Valeria were a man, she’d be accused of having the belt and suspenders syndrome; she never left anything to chance.

  Brenda returned to the living room. “Just to let you know ahead of time: I probably won’t be home till late Wednesday evening. It’s Aunt Oona’s birthday. I really should drop in for the party.”

  “Juss as well,” he slurred slightly. “M’lissa is having some people over. I’ve already been informed I’ve got to be there.”

  Ted understood that Oona was not really Brenda’s aunt; it simply was the easiest term of reference. “Anything else cooking downtown?”

  “Not much,” she replied. “Outside of the Latin letter, most things seem to be in remission, or dead in the water, especially in our office. McGraw had an appointment with the Cardinal this morning. But it went nowhere.”

  “Oh? What about?”

  “The ADF.”

  Ted put his glass down definitively. “That thing is a mesh. That thing is a mess,” he corrected himself. “Should bring in three, four times what it does.”

  “That’s what McGraw thinks too. His idea was an old one. He keeps thinking the time is right for the Cardinal to okay it.”

  “Quotas,” Ted pronounced.

  “Yes. He thinks it’s feasible to set reasonable quotas for every parish. With most of the parishes banking with the chancery—and even with those who bank independently—McGraw is confident that we can set realistic goals for everybody.”

  “And if they don’t meet ’em?”

  “That’s McGraw’s fail-safe clause. We know they’ve got the money. If they don’t reach their goals during the drive, we simply take it from their reserves.”

  Nash smiled contentedly. “A fund-raiser’s dream come true.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Jussa way it oughta be. Just the way it ought to be,” he corrected. “Wassa matter with that? What’s the matter with that? The Cardinal didn’t buy it?”

  She shook her head. “He keeps going back to the goals Cardinal Mooney set when he started the ADF.”

  She knew that Ted was aware of Mooney’s design for the Arch-diocesan Development Fund. She also knew that at just this moment, he couldn’t recall the philosophy.

  “You remember, Ted: The idea was to explain the needs of the diocese. Services that were too complicated to be provided by individual parishes—things like a seminary, social services and so forth. Then, simply call on Detroit Catholics to rise to the challenge. No quotas, no demands.”

  “And what’s it got’ em? Two million tops … right?”

  “Uh-huh. But in this presentation today, McGraw proposed not only the setting of goals but publishing the results in the Detroit Catholic.”

  Ted smiled. “Show what each parish contributed? Uh … gave?”

  “Uh-huh. Show what each parish gave, along with the preestablished quota.”

  “Jus’ ’xactly. And the Cardinal didn’t buy it?”

  “No. Said it didn’t square with the intent of the ADF. We have to depend on the free will offerings of informed Catholics. He was particularly negative about publishing the results of the drive. Said it would embarrass the poorer parishes and the ones who for one reason or another didn’t, or couldn’t, contribute very much. He said what use was the money if it came from coercion? The Church ought to be able to rely on the growing generosity of Christians.”

  Ted’s lip curled. “Makes you wonder why they made him a … a … Cardinal, dunn’t it?”

  “I’d better get dinner going.” Brenda wondered whether she had waited too long. It was Ted’s habit to be abstemious with hors d’oeuvres. That meant that the drinks hit him harder. She usually tried to tuck the beginning of dinner between drinks two and three.

  “Whadja say it was?”

  “Lamb.”

  “Good. Tired of roast beef.”

  With that, Ted listed to his right and fell asleep.

  Brenda pursed her lips and shook her head. Too late. She went to the rear of his recliner and pushed the back down as far as it would go. He was nearly horizontal. Almost immediately he began to snore.

  She returned to the couch, picked up the remote control and turned on the TV. There wasn’t much to watch. Mostly game shows and reruns of old sitcoms.

  It didn’t matter. She just wanted some background noise.

  This evening would be the “B” format. Ted would nap for an hour or two. When he woke he would have trouble establishing clear consciousness. But he’d come around.

  They’d eat. Then probably they’d watch cable. Later they’d make love. Ted was very good at that. He was very active. And he was always careful to make sure she was completely satisfied.

  Her mind turned toward the coming Wednesday evening—Aunt Oona’s birthday party.

  Brenda’s presence at such occasions always turned out to be a mixed bag. She was very certainly expected to attend, but usually the party would end badly, with angry, hurtful words. There seemed no way out of it. Even the knowledge of how it likely would end could not excuse her absence.

  She wondered whether her “uncle” the priest would be there. Probably.

  They would all call him Father Bob. Even Brenda herself would be expected to follow suit. It was worse when the Koesler side of the family visited. Most of them were Lutheran. Then it became a battle of names: The Lutherans would go out of their way to call him
“Bob,” while the Irish would extend themselves just as far in calling him “Father.”

  What a family!

  There were stirrings from the recliner. Apparently, Ted was not going to nap as long this evening.

  Brenda busied herself in the kitchen, reheating the meat, potatoes, and vegetables, and tossing the salad.

  Repeatedly, from one or another of the sisters, she’d heard how the Monahans and Koeslers had lived in adjoining flats on the corner of West Vernor and Ferdinand across from what had been the Stratford Movie Theater. They might just as well have been brother and sisters as cousins.

  Yet, as close as they had been as children, now they treated a visit from their priest relative as if Moses were coming down from Mount Sinai with the Ten Commandments. And they treated him not as the kid with whom they’d grown up, but as some sort of cultic abstraction.

  As far as she was concerned, she liked Bob Koesler—Father Bob. He had helped to get her the job with the archdiocese. That was more important than he realized.

  The snoring had stopped. There were sounds of stretching movements. Ted was coming around.

  Without turning, she knew he was standing in the kitchen doorway looking at her.

  “You know something?” The slur in his pronunciation was gone. “I couldn’t live without you.”

  “That’s nice.” She smiled. It was true: He couldn’t live without her.

  C H A P T E R

  5

  TRAVELING SOUTH, a motorist would ordinarily take Interstate 75. However, this was weekday rush-hour traffic, so Father Koesler chose the alternate and ancient route of Jefferson Avenue. The traffic was not nearly as clogged as that on the freeway, the traffic lights were favorable, and it was the shortest distance between two points.

  The two points were downtown Detroit, where Koesler lived, and Grosse Ile, where Eileen Monahan lived and where the birthday party for Oona Monahan was to be held.

  Via Jefferson, he would drive through the heart of River Rouge, Ecorse, Lincoln Park, Wyandotte, Riverview, and Trenton. All old cities and all known by Detroit-area natives as “downriver.” All bordered on the Detroit River as it flowed toward Lake Erie, the next in the chain of the Great Lakes.