Dead Wrong Page 6

  “Face it, Uncle Bob,” Brenda said, “you and dogs just don’t hit it off.”

  “But that’s not true. I usually get along fine with dogs. It’s just Eileen’s dogs …”

  “It’s the odor,” Oona said definitively. “Read about it just the other day. They can smell fear. Carries over in the perspiration.”

  “That’s probably it.” Maureen entered the room, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’ve been spooked by so many of Eileen’s dogs that you just take it for granted that they’re all killers. You start out scared of them and they know it. That’s why you never got along with any of Eileen’s dogs. Oh, I’ve got to admit, some of the earlier ones were pretty vicious. But this one, Rusty, he’s a pussycat. He didn’t bark at any of us.”

  “Well, maybe … maybe,” Koesler admitted. “Before I come next time, I’ll bathe in antiperspirant and deodorant. And I’ll try my very best not to sweat when I get here.”

  “Animals sweat. Men perspire. Women glow.” It might have been a humorous remark, but not coming from Oona.

  “Anyway,” Maureen said, “dinner’s about ready. Want to eat first or give the presents?”

  “Let’s do the presents,” Brenda said enthusiastically. “I want to see what Aunt Oona got.”

  “Some of us are hungry,” Mary Lou said. “We’ve been working on the dinner most of the afternoon and we want to eat it.” She made it obvious whom she was singling out.

  “Lou, gimmee a break,” Brenda said. “I’ve been working too. A little overtime as a matter of fact. For Pete’s sake, it’s no big deal. You want to eat first, that’s fine.”

  “Well, then, come on everyone,” Eileen invited cheerily.

  As they all moved to their places in the kitchen, Koesler stopped at the half bath to wash up. He could not disregard the two girls. Many’s the occasion that had been ruined by their bickering. It was as if the world might be big enough for the both of them, but not anything as confining as a house or, a fortiori, a room, no matter how spacious.

  For a pair who had spent so much time growing up together, the two certainly differed sharply from one another and were usually at odds.

  They were in sharp contrast in appearance. Brenda was tall, with straight dark hair, attractive bangs, and a willowy but sensuous figure. Mary Lou, a strawberry blonde with thick curly hair, tended to hold on to baby fat. Not large but a bit lumpy. Mary Lou seemed to spend a lot of time on the verge of pouting, if not actually in tears. Brenda tended to look on the bright side as often as possible.

  Neither woman had had an easy time of it growing up. Their most formative years had been spent in the uncertainty of a series of foster homes. Neither had been abused in any of these homes. But they had lacked any sense of security or stability. The experience had to have traumatized them to some degree.

  Then there was St. Vincent’s Orphanage. The Sisters of Charity did their best to instill a strong sense of religion in their girls. They also tried to provide an atmosphere of caring and love. If there was failure in this, the fault frequently lay with the institution that sought to limit religious women’s genuine expression of warm emotion.

  In any case, Mary Lou gave indication that she might make Oona’s birthday party somewhat unpleasant. It would not be the first time. The food would be good. It always was. The tension might make it difficult to digest.

  Koesler joined the others. They were standing at their places waiting for him to lead a prayer before dinner.

  “Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, our Lord.”

  “Amen,” they answered.

  It was an ancient and traditional Catholic grace before meals. But the three sisters at least were slightly ancient and quite traditional ladies.

  There was so much food on the table that some time was spent simply passing dishes around until everyone had an opportunity to partake of everything. After everyone had finally settled into eating, Koesler asked, “So, Brenda, what’s new in the Archdiocese of Detroit?”

  “You don’t know?” Maureen twitted good-naturedly. “You’re a priest. You’re on the inside. You ought to know everything that’s going on in the Church.”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Maureen. I’m pretty far down the information line. Brenda’s at the top.”

  Brenda swallowed some mashed potato, then said, “Hard to say. Almost nothing happened today. There are days like that, when it’s just business as usual. But not many. One thing I can say about the chancery: More often than not, it is not a dull place to work.”

  “You ought to be grateful you work there,” Mary Lou said. “If it hadn’t been for Father Bob …”

  “I didn’t have that much to do with it, Mary Lou.” Koesler sought to defuse the engendering of bitter words. “Brenda just happened to apply at the right time. They were adding staff at the chancery. All I did was to give her a letter of recommendation. Believe me, my letter could have been as much a hindrance as a help. It all depended on who in the chancery happened to read it.”

  “Just the same—”

  “Wait a minute …” Brenda was as anxious as the others to head off Mary Lou and her chip-on-the-shoulder attitude. “We did have a celebration of sorts today. But it was a celebration of a nonevent. I guess that shows how hard up we are for excitement.”

  “A nonevent?” Maureen said. “I don’t—”

  “We didn’t get a shipment of bones.” Brenda was smiling.

  “I still don’t—”

  “As far as anyone can remember,” Brenda said, “today is the tenth anniversary of not getting bones from Rome.”

  “Bones from Rome. It’s got a nice ring,” Koesler said. “Let me guess: relics?”

  “Right on, Father Bob.”

  “It wasn’t that hard. Bones from Rome would almost have to be relics of the saints. But after that, I haven’t got a clue.”

  “You don’t?” Brenda chuckled. “Who do you think used to put all those relics in the altar stones so you could say Mass on them?”

  “Who put them in the stones? Well, if they didn’t come all put together, I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “Excuse me,” Eileen interrupted, “but what is this all about?”

  “It seems to me,” Maureen said, “that we learned something about this in school. Doesn’t the altar where you say Mass have to have a relic—a bone or some such—of a saint? A martyr? Doesn’t it have something to do with the catacombs?”

  “That’d get you a hundred percent, Maureen,” Koesler said. “Or at least ninety-eight. Christianity in ancient Rome became an outlawed religion. So the early Christians there had to be very secretive about where they met. Many of them gathered in the catacombs, which were underground cemeteries. Many of them were eventually buried in those catacombs. The majority of them were martyrs. Eventually the Eucharist was celebrated over the tombs of the martyrs.”

  “And that’s where this custom came from—having a relic in the altar?” Eileen asked.

  “Uh-huh. Not so long ago the Church made a distinction between ‘permanent’ and ‘portable’ altars, which had nothing to do with how heavy or how light they were, but how they were constructed. If the altar was ‘permanent,’ the relic—just a sliver of a bone from one of the saints—would be placed in the altar. If it was ‘portable,’ the relic was placed in a rectangular stone and the stone was placed in the altar.

  “There also was a cloth into which a relic was sewn. That made it convenient for, say, chaplains, who were obliged to use whatever surface was at hand for an altar—an ordinary table or a rock … or maybe the hood of a Jeep. But you can see how much importance the Church placed on continuing that tradition.”

  “Which gets us back to your celebration today,” Maureen said to Brenda. “What is this about not getting a shipment of bones?”

  “Yes,” Koesler asked, “why would they send just bones? I thought the relics were sent from Rome already in their reliquaries—thei
r containers?”

  “Apparently not,” Brenda said. “They used to send a bone—a tibia or something—along with authenticating papers. Then one of the chancery priests would get the job of shattering the bone into tiny fragments for the altars.”

  Koesler laughed. “Knowing the gang at the chancery, they probably called him ‘the bone guy’ or just ‘Bones.’ Who was it … anybody down there remember?”

  “They were talking about that today. They weren’t sure who it was. Somebody said it was a priest who later became bishop of Saginaw.”

  “It may well have been. His name slips my mind. It is … uh …”

  “But how come they stopped doing that?” Maureen asked. “Didn’t you say you were celebrating a nonevent?”

  “Apparently it’s not as firm an obligation anymore. Plus somebody said that the rule now is that the relic is placed under the altar— and it’s not supposed to be a sliver anymore,” Brenda said.

  “A recognizable piece of human anatomy?” Koesler immediately regretted he’d said that. In another group such an observation might have encouraged a ribald stream of humor. But not in this setting. He had little to fear.

  “Well, that seems to make sense,” Eileen remarked.

  “They even got rid of the closet where the bones were mashed,” Brenda said.

  “How do you get rid of a closet?” Maureen wanted to know.

  “When they renovated the chancery a while back,” Brenda explained, “they just extended the hallway.”

  “The closet became part of the hallway?” Maureen asked.

  “Uh-huh. The closet used to be right across from the archives. Now that area is wide open.”

  “So then,” Mary Lou said, “the saints who contribute their bones to altars don’t have to be martyrs?”

  “Most of them are,” Koesler said. “But I guess they don’t have to be.”

  Koesler and the others had almost forgotten Mary Lou. After her unsuccessful attempts to foul the mood of this party, she had been quiet. And, thanks mostly to Brenda, the ensuing conversation had been light and jovial. Just as it should be.

  Now Mary Lou had reentered the flow. Her tone had not improved. Koesler feared the dinner was about to be torpedoed.

  “Then just about any saint could qualify to be an altar relic … right?” Mary Lou pressed.

  “I suppose—”

  “How about Mary Magdalene?”

  “Hmmm …” Koesler thought for a moment. “I suppose … I guess so … if you could find her. Far as I know, no one’s ever found her, or identified her grave. Which brings up—”

  “I was just thinking,” Mary Lou said, “Mary Magdalene was a whore … a slut, an adulteress.”

  “Well, yes …” Koesler feared he knew where this was leading. “… but that was before she became a disciple of Christ and changed her life.”

  “But before she did that,” Mary Lou persisted, “before she changed her life, she slept with lots of men. She wouldn’t have given a damn whether her partners were married or not … would she?”

  “Mary Lou!” Maureen spoke loudly, in a shocked tone.

  “See, Brenda, there’s hope for you after all. If Mary Magdalene could change her life, so can you. Adulteresses can get into heaven, can’t they, Uncle Bob?”

  “Mary Lou!” Eileen was on the verge of tears.

  Koesler, in extreme discomfort, looked around the table. Everyone seemed as uncomfortable as he—with the possible exception of Oona, who, oddly, seemed to be enjoying the contentious atmosphere Mary Lou was creating. Brenda seemed on the verge of being ill. Her face was ashen.

  “Dear Brenda, sweet Brenda!” Mary Lou continued, undaunted by the reaction she was getting. “There seem to be so few ways you could become a saint. You’d have to give up Teddy, your sugar daddy. Or … or … maybe somebody would do you the favor of making you a martyr!”

  “Mary Lou!” Maureen leaped to her feet and pounded on the table. “That’s enough!”

  C H A P T E R

  6

  FATHER KOESLER was slow to claim that anything was the worst, the best, the first, the last, the earliest, the most, etc. Long experience had taught that no sooner did someone proclaim anything the ultimate than someone else was sure to top it.

  However, if this evening’s birthday party for Oona was not the worst celebration he had ever suffered through, it certainly ranked.

  He parked his car in the garage adjoining St. Joseph’s and entered the rectory. He checked the messages on the answering machine. No emergencies. Nothing that could not wait till tomorrow.

  He dropped some ice into a tall glass and concocted a gin and tonic. As he did so, he found himself casually whistling a tune, the words to which wore a witless path in his mind. “The sun’ll come up tomorrow; put your bottom dollar on tomorrow, come what may.” A nice melody. The dumbest lyric he’d ever heard.

  He had a little time on his hands. He hadn’t planned on the evening’s ending as early as it did. Parties with his cousins seldom lasted long, but this evening’s had set a new record both for brevity and discomfort.

  After Mary Lou had drawn the odious comparison between Mary Magdalene in her most disreputable days and Brenda, things pretty well fell apart. Mary Lou kept up a steady offensive, and Brenda, without offering a word in her own defense or any denial of the charges, burst into tears, fled the house, and sped away. Very heated words were exchanged between Mary Lou and Maureen. Eileen pursued peace, but it eluded her. Oona, almost unnoticed, slipped away from the table, retreated to the living room, and opened her presents. No one would ever know whether she oohed or aahed. No one paid any attention to her. She seemed content.

  Koesler had breathed deeply, made a fervent if futile effort to shut down his sweat glands, and somehow made it to the gate, hounded by Rusty. While the endeavor was extremely brave on Koesler’s part, it should be noted that the dog was thrown off balance and befuddled by all the clamor and commotion.

  Brenda was gone, with every indication she would not return this night, perhaps ever. Mary Lou had withdrawn to the guest room, slamming the door behind her. Eileen was attempting to console Maureen, who was teetering between anger and misery. Oona was trying on a new bathrobe. It seemed to fit.

  What a family!

  Koesler eased himself into a comfortable chair to think it through.

  Whatever else was awry between Brenda and Mary Lou—and he thought there must be more to it—Brenda’s alleged affair with Ted Nash clearly was the present problem.

  Coincidence, that old Charlie Nash should have called him in just a few days ago—the purpose being to get Koesler to intervene in what Charlie was convinced was an adulterous affair between his son and Koesler’s “cousin”?

  Rumors of such a relationship were so flimsily founded that Koesler rarely if ever adverted to the possibility there might be anything to them. Then, suddenly, Charlie Nash revives such rumors—forcefully; and with no evident connection between them, Mary Lou voices her own suspicion—no, accusation—that the rumors are true.

  Koesler was puzzled. He had seen for himself that Brenda had offered no defense, no denial, this evening. It couldn’t be because she was slow; on the contrary, Koesler was well aware that, if anything, she was extremely bright, imaginative, and witty. He’d had occasion in the past to trade barbs with her, and she always gave as well as she received. Nothing in his experience with Brenda would have foretokened this evening’s defensive behavior.

  She had not denied or disputed Mary Lou’s insults, but had absorbed them without challenge.

  So, what if the rumors were true? What if she and Ted Nash actually were having an affair?

  Koesler’s brow furrowed. There’d been plenty of opportunity for Brenda to consult with him. She worked downtown; so, in effect, did he. She was mobile. Such mass transit as existed in the metro area was, at best, undependable and inconvenient, so Brenda drove to work Monday through Friday. It would have been simple for her to hop in her car and vis
it him here at St. Joe’s. She could have done it during her lunchtime or after work. She knew he would be especially available to her. And she knew him well enough to know that he would be open and not judgmental.

  She had made no attempt whatsoever to consult him.

  Koesler had his own way of dealing with that sort of attitude. Hands off. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and all that sort of thing.

  But this was different. The way this family relationship had developed, Brenda might just as well have been a blood relative. He cared for her—and for Mary Lou too, for that matter—the way he would for a real cousin.

  Particularly now, as he reflected on his closeness to Brenda, he began to worry about her.

  Charlie Nash made it clear that Nash Enterprises, this impressive company he had built from the bottom up, was precious to him. Perhaps more precious than anything else on earth. On earth or in heaven.

  Now that he was reconsidering it, he thought that Nash’s appeal that Koesler convince his cousin to break off the affair was by far the most considerate, humane solution Nash was going to offer.

  After that might come who knew what.

  On the strength of his one meeting with Nash, Koesler had come to believe the man would stop at nothing to preserve his baby. If that meant that Brenda would have to be physically removed, so be it.

  Brenda murdered? It was a possibility. Did Brenda understand that? How would she react if she did know her life might be in danger?

  It was next to impossible to know. But Koesler’s best guess was that Brenda would rise to the challenge. She was not the type who would be intimidated.

  Koesler began to put the whole thing together. He would have to get involved. He would not be able to live with himself otherwise. If something were to happen to Brenda, it would at least partially be his fault. He was convinced of that.

  But what to do?

  Getting through to Brenda would be like walking through a brick wall. And how much time did he have? No one could tell. Yet the very fact he had been summoned to Nash’s apartment, as well as the urgency in the older man’s voice, indicated time was definitely a factor.