Body Count Page 9

  “And at the Freep?”

  “Karma at last. When the winner she picked left town, the guy who took his place near the top of the totem pole was someone she had royally screwed—and I don’t mean sexually.”

  “Aha! A variation on the Golden Rule: Be nice to people on the way up; you’re likely to meet the same people on the way down.”

  “Exactly. It was a foregone conclusion; he made life so miserable for her, she had no alternative. Somehow—and I’ve never been able to figure out how—she walked away with a fat severance check.”

  They rested their voices for a few moments and sipped their drinks. Pringle got up and moved to the railing to watch the action. Having again spotted Lacy De Vere, née Sally Dean, she could scarcely take her eyes off her. Pat sat and sipped. After a couple of minutes Pringle returned to the alcove.

  “I still don’t get it,” she said at length. “According to your story, when she left the Free Press, she was at the bottom of the heap. Now she’s got practically a new body and one of the most feared word processors in Detroit. I mean, how did she get from there to here?”

  Pat shrugged. “You can’t keep a bad apple down. As far as her body is concerned, as some astute observer once remarked, Lacy doesn’t get a new wardrobe; she just gets reupholstered.”

  Pat was thoughtful for a moment. “Actually, I’m one of the few who knows where she went after the Freep. For some incomprehensible reason, she confided in me—and I have no idea how many others—just before she left the paper and this town. She got a job—if you can believe this—teaching journalism at Mankato College in Minnesota. With that cachet in her suitcase, she got a few honest jobs and began the overhaul and repair of her body. Her ultimate aim was just what she’s accomplished: to return and become a force to be reckoned with.”

  “But to really get even, wouldn’t she have to be back with the Freep … or the News?”

  “Don’t sell the Reporter short. Especially since the JOA, the Suburban Reporter has become a pretty popular and potent vehicle with a growing circulation. Personally, I don’t think she’s done settling the score. But God knows what she’s got in mind—uh-oh.” Pat nodded toward the far end of the railing along the stairs. “That’s what comes of talking about her. The ESP is working: She must have spotted us. Here she comes.”

  “That’s okay,” Pringle said. “Now that you’ve filled me in on her background, she’s not nearly as intimidating.”

  “Good. But don’t let down your guard for an instant. Just remember: The first ten priorities in Lacy De Vere’s life are the things she wants. And she’ll do anything and use anybody to get them. So watch it.”

  For a fleeting instant Pat considered bailing out. She would never be in the mood to mingle socially with Lacy De Vere. But actually, the urge to beat a hasty retreat was more for Pringle’s sake. Pat glanced at Pringle, who had stood and moved to the railing with a smile of anticipation. Pat rose to join Pringle. This did not bode well. Why was she put in mind of the unsuspecting doe in the sights of the hunter?

  As she approached them, Lacy resembled a powerboat sweeping aside from its path all lesser obstacles, in this case, people.

  When she reached them, Lacy dove directly at Pat, embraced her, and kissed the air. “Pat,” she enthused, “how good to see you again.”

  “Hi, Lacy.” Pat’s tone was noncommittal, several degrees less enthused than Lacy’s.

  “It’s been too long,” Lacy said. “Where’ve you been keeping yourself?”

  “Working. Writing.”

  “Of course you have. I read you just about every day. As usual, your stuff is good and, more often than not, on page one.”

  It was obvious that this last remark was a fishing maneuver for a reciprocal compliment. But Pat withheld comment.

  “And who’s your lovely friend here?” Lacy pursued.

  “Lacy De Vere, meet Pringle McPhee.”

  “Pringle McPhee! At last! I’ve wanted to meet you but our paths haven’t crossed till now.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “Of course I do. I’ve read your byline in the News Frequently. Everybody says you’re the next Pat Lennon.”

  “Lacy,” Pat said, “there’s no need for a new Pat Lennon. I’m not retiring. And I’m not writing my autobiography—or my obit.”

  “Of course you’re not, dear,” Lacy said with mock affection. “It’s just that Pringle here is going to be knocking you off the front page one of these days.”

  “Oh, no!” Pringle protested.

  “Page one is big, Lacy—no ads. There’s plenty of room for lots of bylines,” Pat said.

  “Well, of course there is, sweetie.” Lacy regarded Pat head-on. One of them had thrown down a gauntlet and the other had picked it up. It didn’t really matter which had done what; the battle was joined.

  “Besides,” Lacy continued to address Pat, “there have been rumors lately that your work has begun to slip a bit. I mean, ever since your lover boy … your significant other—my glory! what do they call paramours these days?—anyway, ever since good old Joe Cox slipped the tether and ran off to Chicago.” The touché was implicit.

  Pringle gasped. It was common knowledge that Joe Cox had been lured from the Detroit Free Press to the Chicago Tribune by an offer he found impossible to refuse—especially in the face of the hodgepodge that the JOA had made of Detroit’s newspapers. It was also common knowledge that Cox and Lennon had been living together for more than ten years. Common knowledge, that is, mostly to the local media people. Readers of both metropolitan dailies knew only that Cox and Lennon were the premiere reporters on their respective papers, and that Cox had moved on.

  But now, that information was grist for Detroit’s foremost gossip columnist.

  Pringle went livid. “Pat’s work hasn’t slipped one bit. She’s as sharp as she ever was. And that means she’s the best. And besides, you’re insinuating that she and Joe have broken up. That’s not only untrue, it’s malicious!”

  Only by a stretch of the imagination could Lacy’s smile be described as sincere. “Whether Pat’s stuff is as good as it ever was is in the eyes of the reader. And an informal Reporter poll says she’s slipping.”

  “And when you publish the results—as I’m sure you’re about to,” Pat said, “I suppose you’ll qualify it as ‘unscientific’”

  “What’s science got to do with anything?” Lacy was still smiling. “As for absence making the heart grow fonder, my sources tell me Mr. Cox’s testosterone has gone berserk. He’s at Chicago’s Playboy mansion more often than Hugh Hefner.”

  “That’s a lie!” As she took a threatening step toward Lacy, Pringle stumbled.

  “Careful, sweetie,” said Lacy, “you don’t want to depend too much on that gimpy leg.”

  Pringle gasped again. “How did you—?”

  “It’s my business to know … and to tell. That car that ran you down did a lot of damage, didn’t it? Any scars left, my dear—to discourage pouring that beautiful body into a bikini?”

  Pringle’s lips were a thin line. “No scars, Sally Dean! How about you? Some stretch marks? Some remnants of the stitches?”

  Lacy threw back her head, laughing uproariously. “Ancient history, sweetie! I see Pat’s filled you in. Well, once upon a time there was a Sally Dean. But she is no more. Once I was on the bottom, struggling. Now I’m on top. Like some of the saints who started out not all that good, then turned their act around and got to be perfect at what they did.”

  She laughed again. “Yes, dear Pringle, there are those who would like to dig up old Sally Dean. But most of them are too busy worrying about what Lacy De Vere knows about them. And what Lacy De Vere is going to write about them.

  “All’s fair, Pringle, dear. And by all, I mean everything.”

  Pringle was strongly tempted to throw the dregs of her drink in the woman’s face. Pat, sensing Pringle’s impulse, shook her head “no.” Lacy too perceived what had almost happened.

  She w
agged her finger close to Pringle’s face. “Don’t even think about it, sister. You’ve got to learn to look one step ahead. You need to stay on the good side of me. Otherwise I’ll destroy you. Not right away. When you least expect it. Now, that’ll give your phobias a chance to work overtime.”

  Again, Pringle was caught with her mouth hanging open. How does she know … ? How can she know … ?

  Sensing the unspoken sentiment, Lacy repeated, “It’s my business to know. And it’s my business to tell.”

  “Come on, Pringle,” Pat said, “let’s get out of here.”

  As they turned to leave, Lacy called after them, “Oh, and Pat dear, let’s do lunch someday soon.”

  “Maybe,” Pat said over her shoulder. “Then we’ll see who eats what.”

  Outside The Fast Lane, everything was refreshing. They’d left behind the smoke and the noise and, above all, Lacy De Vere.

  Although Pat Lennon lived in a nearby high rise, she would not consider walking these streets at this hour. She would have taken a cab; however, Pringle’s car was only a few steps away.

  When they arrived at the car, after having paid the parking attendant, Pat noticed Pringle scanning both the front and rear seats before entering. Sound procedure, but in Pringle’s case it was, along with her growing list of obsessions, one more manifestation of her frame of mind.

  They drove the few blocks to Pat’s apartment building in silence.

  Before leaving the car, Pat turned and asked, “You okay?”

  “A little shook up. This is the first time I ever met anybody I could so thoroughly dislike so quickly. But there’s not much she can do to me, as far as I can see. She seemed to be aiming mostly at you. So I guess I ought to turn the question around: You okay?”

  Pat smiled and nodded. “It’ll take much more than Lacy De Vere to reach me.”

  “But that poll she was talking about—“

  “Remember, Pringle, and don’t ever forget: Lacy De Vere is out for number one, first and foremost and always. If she can make a point, she won’t let anything as insignificant as a mere lie inhibit hen”

  “So?”

  “So I seriously doubt that the ‘poll’ ever saw the light of day. You poll readers on features, comics, columnists. You don’t poll readers for their opinions on reporters. Most readers don’t know whose byline is on what. Pringle, you and I don’t get our pictures in the paper. We do our job, but nobody knows who we are. That ‘poll’ was one of Lacy’s less spectacular inventions, okay?”

  “I suppose. But what about what she said about Joe?”

  Pat’s smile was tight. “Probably nothing but an educated guess. I don’t think Joe will ever run out of wild oats. It’s one of the reasons we never married—not by any means a major reason, but a reason nonetheless.”

  “You and Joe are okay, then?”

  “I guess. We get together once or twice a month. But this commuting between Detroit and Chicago gets tiring after a while. I’ll be honest: It hurt like crazy when he left. Now it’s not so bad. I even kind of enjoy the peace and quiet. I never thought I would. But now it would be tough to go back to living with someone again.”

  As Pat stepped out of the car, she stopped and turned back to Pringle. “Just remember: Lacy De Vere looks out for number one exclusively. If you get in her way, you gotta know you’re at very least in for a head-on collision.”

  8

  Father Koesler was used to surprises. They happened to him often enough.

  Last night he had been juggling a series of appointments, along with an unusual number of phone calls. So many, indeed, that he’d asked Father Dunn to take the phone and see if the busy pastor couldn’t return the calls later.

  One of those calls he returned was from one Marlene Pietrangelo.

  He had no idea who this Mrs. Pietrangelo was until she identified herself as the penitent who had visited him last Saturday evening in the confessional. They had discussed in general terms the Church teachings and positions with which she disagreed. Although she hadn’t been to confession in two years, she’d declined confessing at that time. So instead of the Sacrament of Reconciliation, they’d had a chat. It was not definite, but she had mentioned that she might return. Koesler was surprised she’d called so soon.

  She had, she said, a problem she hadn’t specifically brought up on Saturday. She wanted to see him now. Accent on the now.

  Koesler had an appointment with Lieutenant Tully the next morning. But there was something in her voice, an urgency that couldn’t be ignored. This might well be a fish that wanted to take the bait and might well lose the appetite if not hooked now.

  Fortunately, she was able to be at St. Joseph’s at 7:00 Tuesday morning. One more indication of her earnestness: a willingness to travel from a northern suburb to downtown Detroit at that early hour.

  She arrived at precisely 7:00. He tried to lead her direcdy to the heart of the matter, which turned out to be that she was in a second marriage without having had the first annulled,

  Another surprise.

  Koesler mentally reexamined their conversation of Saturday. It had been there, but well concealed. Among the positions of the teaching Church with which she disagreed were birth control, divorce, remarriage, and abortion. As it turned out, the only one of these she had not acted on was abortion. What had appeared at the time as a theoretical difference of opinion was actually a conflict between practice and an apparent law.

  Some nonthreatening questions elicited the fact that hers would not be a complicated case. Her first marriage—to another Catholic-had been by civil ceremony and never ratified by a Catholic priest. Both that marriage and the subsequent divorce had taken place without benefit of clergy. Yet she had assumed that when Catholics married—by any legal means—the union was recognized as valid by the Church. And that was why she and Mr. Pietrangelo had therefore also been married by a judge: Their erroneous understanding was that it was impossible for them to be married “in the Church.”

  Koesler was happy to explain that this was one of life’s most easily rectified problems.

  For an annulment of her first marriage, all that was needed were recent copies of the original couple’s baptismal records, on which there would be no notation of marriage—a clear indication that they had not had an ecclesiastically recognized wedding. For a valid marriage, a Catholic couple needs a priest and two witnesses at their exchange of consent. The marriage license signed by the justice would show that a priest did not perform the marriage. The “clean” baptismal certificate would indicate they never had a priest convalidate their union. A fact to which they would of course attest. And, voila! Perfect grounds for the simplest of annulments.

  Only one further consideration. The Pietrangelos were having difficult financial times; could they afford the process?

  Again Koesler was able to deliver good news. In the matter of annulments, more often than not there was no happy news. So he was particularly pleased that this woman had a case that would require only the simplest and least complicated procedures in the annulment field. And it would not cost her a penny.

  He was uncertain how many dioceses footed the bill for Tribunal fees, but he hoped they all followed Detroit’s example. Here, the local Church court simply charged nothing for cases that remained on the local level. About the only matter that had to be sent to Rome was the Privilege of the Faith case, which involved not a declaration of nullity, but a dissolution of a nonsacramental marriage in favor of one between two Catholics. While a Privilege of the Faith case was extremely complex—having to prove that a baptism never happened—and quite expensive, the Detroit Tribunal absorbed the cost. The sole procedure not covered by this policy was an appeal; anyone wishing to appeal a decision was on his or her own financially.

  By assuring Mrs. Pietrangelo that she had an excellent chance to have her marriage convalidated and further assuring her that the process would be free of charge, Koesler had made her day. And because she was extremely happy about all thi
s, so was Koesler. Almost.

  There was still the matter of having to “help” Lieutenant Tully solve a mystery, the solution to which Koesler already knew. Boxed in as he was by the sacred seal of confession, he was skating on the thinnest of ice. He had never been in a situation precisely like this in his entire life. He would have to be more alert and guarded than he had ever been.

  Certainly more astute than he’d been with Marlene Pietrangelo. She was by no means the first person who had fooled him by disguising her actual motive behind a smoke screen. A few pointed questions would have brought out the fact that it was her marital state that troubled her, not some hypothetical disagreement with Catholic morality.

  Koesler was in the process of psyching himself up to cope with the unpredictable questions and unintentional pitfalls that Tully would throw at him, when the doorbell rang. With a prayer to the Holy Spirit for guidance, Koesler went to let Tully in.

  But Tully remained on the porch. “I wonder if you can go with me to St. Waldo’s. We can talk on the way. And there’s something I’d like you to do for me when we get there. Can you go now?”

  “Well, sure … just wait till I get my coat and hat.”

  Tully was wearing neither hat nor coat. He considered this to be a fine September day. Cool, yet not cold. But to every man his distinct metabolism.

  Once in the car and on their way, Tully asked, “What time do you have to be back?”

  “Oh, there’s no hurry. I don’t have an appointment until 7:00 this evening.”

  “Then you don’t have any daily service?”

  “Mass? Yes, as a matter of fact. At noon. But Father Dunn agreed to take it.”

  “You’ve got an assistant?” Tully was given to think priests were an endangered species. But then he’d asked Koesler aboard for the very reason that he knew very little about this subject.

  “No, no.” Koesler shook his head, almost dislodging his hat. They didn’t make cars for tall men wearing hats. “I doubt St. Joseph’s will ever have an associate pastor again.”