Green Thumb

by Ralph McInerny

  He was shaken from his reverie by Maddie’s nagging voice.

  “Go see Boswell before you collapse.” Her voice was heavy with disbelief.

  “Your wish is my command.”

  “That wasn’t a wish.”

  She hung up. Swithins searched for and found the appropriate buttons on the diabolical little device that seemed a leash Maddie Yost had him on. (Dangling prepositions were okay in the demotic style to be cultivated.) He stuffed it back in his briefcase with symbolic violence. Boswell indeed. Boswell was fighting a losing battle with the big chains, trying to run a bookstore on the old model. The truth was, Swithins liked the place. He and Boswell had spent many happy hours in the back room, sipping red wine and reviewing the disappointments of their lives.

  “Of course I want to write,” Boswell had confided, sniffing. His nervous sniffing was a constant of his conversation. “That is why I envy you.”

  Ah, if Boswell only knew how that confession made him plummet in Swithins’ estimation. The reporter had sufficient self-knowledge to realize that anyone who envied him was on a very low rung of the ladder of life indeed. Boswell had rummaged in a drawer and come out with a legal pad whose top sheet was covered with a penciled scrawl. “Notes for my novel,” he said sheepishly.

  Boswell ran a modest space ad in The Shopper that featured quotations from his favorite authors: Edna Ferber, Sinclair Lewis, John Bannister Tabb—choices that betrayed his age and his hopeless lack of fit in the contemporary scene.

  Swithins drove to the mall and was soon ensconced with Boswell in his back room. Mrs. Hitts, his clerk, a deaf old lady who worked for peanuts out of love for books, minded the store.

  “Of course I’ll renew the ad,” Boswell said. He seemed in a manic phase. “John Bannister Tabb has worked his magic. I have had an extraordinary visitor.”

  “Who?”

  “You may not know him. Professor Roger Knight.”

  “But I do know who he is.”

  “He spent an hour with me.” Boswell rolled his eyes in ecstasy. “We talked of everything.” He sat forward. “He and his brother are investigating the murder at Notre Dame.”

  Swithins’s belief in Providence came roaring back. Maddie’s importunate call suddenly seemed less an interruption of his Chicago dreams than an integral part of the scenario.

  “And what did he say?”

  “Oh, we talked of poisons. The man is a thesaurus of trivia. Of the best sort.”

  “Do they have a suspect?”

  “An old girlfriend, apparently. A classmate of the deceased.”

  “Maureen O’Kelly?”

  “That’s the one. But mainly we talked of John Bannister Tabb. I didn’t realize he was a priest.”

  “Knight?”

  “Tabb.”

  While Boswell reminisced about Roger Knight’s visit, Swithins resumed composing in his mind his dispatch to Chicago. OLD CLASSMATE TARGET OF MURDER INVESTIGATION AT NOTRE DAME.

  “What’s that sound?” Boswell asked.

  Swithins snapped out of it and looked at his briefcase. “I’ve got to go.” He rose.

  “Is it an alarm clock?”

  “More or less.”

  33

  When the history of Notre Dame is written, the names of the occupants of the Old Bastards table in the university club are unlikely to figure in it. Their academic careers had been undistinguished, they had left little mark on the place where they had lived out their days, yet in their own minds they were the epicenter of local events. At lunch the following day, the topic was the funeral of Mortimer Sadler, which had taken place that morning in the basilica of the Sacred Heart. Only Bruno had attended, and the others listened patiently to his unnecessarily lengthy description of the send-off that had been given a son of Notre Dame who had met his end in so equivocal a way.

  “Who preached?”

  “One of the vice presidents.”

  A groan. The multiplication of those bearing that title was a frequent topic of complaint at the table. There were now vice presidents, associate vice presidents, and assistant vice presidents in obscene number.

  “We’ve become a Mexican army—all generals.”

  Bruno regained the floor and attempted to give a resume of the homily but was hooted down. None of the Old Bastards had held a classroom of students in thrall, but they were convinced to a man that they could have given a better sermon than the superfluous vice president.

  “And I didn’t even know the dead man,” Armitage Shanks said.

  “Neither did the preacher,” Bruno said. “It was a terrible performance. He thought he was addressing the widow but he was looking in the wrong direction.”

  “How did she take it?”

  “Like Niobe, all tears,” said Bruno, surprising himself with the remembered phrase.

  “Was he buried in Cedar Grove?”

  “He will be buried in Minneapolis.”

  “At least he had his funeral here.”

  Silence fell as each considered that he, too, had such an appointment in Sacred Heart if not in Samarra, God only knew how soon. It is a peril of longevity that one outlives those who might have mourned him or at least shown up for the funeral. A month before, one of their number had succumbed and the members of the table had distributed themselves around in different pews in Sacred Heart, trying unsuccessfully to create the impression of a good turnout. The deceased represented one fewer attendant at their own final obsequies. The thought had brought on unsimulated sorrow. But for whom else do we weep at funerals if not ourselves?

  Armitage Shanks called them to order by asking if the murderer of Mortimer Sadler had been found.

  Bruno looked wise. “If only I was at liberty to say.”

  “You are. Say it.”

  “The university has put Philip Knight onto the case.”

  “Who is he?”

  “You know who he is.”

  “Remind me.”

  “The brother of Roger Knight.”

  “Obscurum per obscurius,” murmured Angoscia.

  “The fat endowed professor.”

  “Endowed with fat?”

  “He too is a private investigator.”

  “A professor!”

  “Before he joined the faculty. The two brothers worked together.”

  “And they named him an endowed professor?”

  “The Huneker Professor of Catholic Studies.”

  “And they will solve the case?”

  “The brother will.”

  “The other brother.”

  Debbie came sailing across the dining room to the table and pulled out a chair and sat. Her arrival drove gloom from the assembly and they all turned dentured smiles on her. But her manner was solemn.

  “Have you heard?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “One of the students was taken to the hospital to have his stomach pumped out. He had the same poison in him that killed the man on the golf course.”

  Appropriate murmurs and cries of surprise.

  “What is his name?”

  “Sadler.”

  “No, no. The student. Sadler is the man who was murdered on the golf course.”

  Debbie got huffy, as if her story was being questioned. “Well, that is the name I heard. Sadler.”

  “The student?”

  “Yes. Paul Sadler.”

  PART THREE

  34

  Paul Sadler had made it to the elevator and descended to the first floor, which is why Father Casperson, hearing a weak scratching sound on his door, looked out and found the young man lying on the floor outside his room. His first instinct was to give absolution, after which he dashed to the phone and called 911. Next he called campus security. By the time he returned to Paul, he was certain Paul was dead, and he knelt beside him to pray. He was still kneeling there when the campus police arrived. They were followed soon after by the ambulance, and Father Casperson gave way to the paramedics, who were unsure what the problem was.


  “Is he dead?” the priest asked in a strained voice.

  “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  “Sure.”

  On the ride to the hospital, the priest spoke compulsively, saying that he had imagined filling in for the rector of Morrissey would be a restful stress-free time. He had never faced an emergency like this. As he spoke, his eyes never left Paul and his expression told what he dreaded.

  In the ER, the doctor on duty assumed it was a drug overdose and ordered the patient’s stomach pumped. This misconception saved Paul’s life. Within hours, the poison in his system was identified. The police were notified at once, and Jimmy Stewart came, with the persistent Cal Swithins hard upon his heels. Stewart barred the reporter from entering the room in the ER where Paul still lay, awaiting transfer to a room in Intensive Care.

  “How’s he doing?” Stewart asked the nurse.

  “You’ll have to talk to the doctor.”

  He showed her his identification.

  “You’ll still have to talk to the doctor.”

  “Where is he?”

  In reply, she pressed a buzzer and then left on squeaky running shoes. Paul’s eyelids fluttered and Stewart leaned over him.

  “What happened?”

  The eyes opened. “Where am I?”

  Stewart told him, adding what had been already done. “Tell me what you remember.”

  The story was hardly audible and less than coherent, interspersed with groans as Paul felt the effect of the stomach pumping. A doctor came in in the midst of this, and ignored what was being said. His name tag read ARINZI.

  “Deadly nightshade?” Stewart asked him.

  Arinzi nodded. “That makes two, doesn’t it?”

  “Three.” Stewart got out his phone and punched a number. “Phil? Look, will you go over to the Morris Inn and have a talk with Maureen O’Kelly.” He added a cryptic account of what had happened. “I’ll meet you there.”

  As he was heading for the outside door, Swithins fell into step beside him.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ask the doctor.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “You’re not under arrest.”

  “Ho ho. I know he was brought here from Notre Dame.”

  “I hope you can account for your whereabouts.”

  He slid into his car, and Swithins grabbed the top of the door and held it.

  “You can’t ignore the press.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. Are you thinking of becoming a reporter?”

  “I’m with the Chicago Tribune.”

  “I never read it.”

  Stewart pulled the door shut and Swithins let go before his fingers were crushed. He drove away as Swithins ran to his car. When he reached the first intersection, Stewart could see in his rearview mirror that the reporter was following him. He really didn’t give a damn. It was ridiculous to think a thing like this could be kept a secret.

  The boy was the nephew of Mortimer Sadler, who had died of poisoning four days ago, but what that meant Stewart could not guess. If they could discover why Mortimer Sadler had been poisoned, some explanation might be found. The best theory they had now was that an undergraduate grudge lay behind the death of Mortimer Sadler. That pointed to Maureen O’Kelly. But what reason could she have for poisoning the nephew as well as the uncle? If she had poisoned either. But at the moment, it was the only lead he had. He hoped Phil Knight had found Mrs. O’Kelly in the Morris Inn.

  Dr. O’Kelly had come from Minneapolis but had registered in a separate room from his wife. Samuel Sadler was also in the Morris Inn, as were the daughters of Mortimer; Vivian stayed with the mother, the other girls in another room. Anger rose in Jimmy Stewart as he reviewed the events of the past days. But if he was angry to have poisonings going on in his jurisdiction, the most recent one seeming an almost personal affront, he could imagine what Phil Knight must be thinking. After all, his task was to protect the reputation of the university. Well, there was no way Notre Dame could avoid bad publicity now.

  When he pulled into the parking lot of the Morris Inn, Swithins was riding his bumper.

  35

  The normally sedate air of the Morris Inn was again disturbed as Jimmy Stewart, with Phil Knight beside him, began once more to question those of the class of 1977 who had taken part in the reunion organized by Mortimer Sadler. They were joined now by family members who had come for the obsequies of the fallen alumnus. As news spread of the near-death experience of Mortimer’s nephew, Paul, disquiet pervaded the lobby.

  Roger Knight had decided to come to the inn after Phil received the call from Jimmy Stewart and dashed off. His thoughts were of Francie and Vivian as he directed his golf cart across the campus. The two girls had returned to what would normally have been the idyllic peace of summer only to be swept up in events that affected them poignantly. Vivian had lost her father, and Francie’s mother was now the principal interest of the investigation.

  When Roger waddled into the lobby, he created the usual stir with his massive presence. Mrs. Sadler with her older daughters occupied the couch and chair before the fireplace, but it was the man in the corner, frowning over a book, that drew Roger. Samuel was a spare man with a goatee and wispy mustache, his eyes blinking behind thick glasses.

  “I am Roger Knight,” he said, coming to a puffing halt before the seated man.

  “Ah.” The man rose and put out his hand. “Samuel Sadler. My niece has told me of you.”

  “Such sad events,” Roger said, easing himself carefully into an inadequate chair.

  “I am about to leave for the hospital to see my son.” He lifted the book he held. “I found this on that shelf.”

  The book was an outdated textbook in electrical engineering.

  “Why on earth is this on display?” Samuel said.

  “How will you get to the hospital?”

  “I suppose I will call a cab.”

  “In South Bend? Nonsense.”

  In a far corner, Jimmy Stewart and Phil were talking to a composed Mrs. O’Kelly. Roger told Samuel Sadler to wait and lumbered over to his brother.

  “Phil, I must use the car.”

  Mrs. O’Kelly gave him a radiant smile. “You’re Professor Knight.”

  Roger took her hand and she rose as if he had tugged at it. “Francie goes on and on about you,” she said.

  “She is a wonderful young lady.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is your husband here?”

  “He just checked in. He’s in his room.” Mrs. O’Kelly nodded her head at Jimmy and Phil. “I am being grilled by these two.”

  “Do you intend to drive?” Phil asked, with something like terror in his tone.

  “Perhaps Samuel Sadler will take the wheel. We are going to the hospital to see his son.”

  Samuel joined them. Roger was surprised that he and Mrs. O’Kelly did not know one another. He bowed in a courtly manner to Mrs. O’Kelly when she identified herself.

  “How dreadful about Paul,” she said, touching his arm.

  “More dreadful about Mortimer.”

  “Yes.”

  “It was an impressive service. There must have been a dozen priests in the sanctuary.”

  “A Notre Dame farewell,” Roger said.

  “What was that they sang at the end?”

  “The ‘Salve Regina’?”

  “No, the English hymn.”

  “Ah. ‘Notre Dame Our Mother.’”

  “Beautiful.”

  “It brought tears to my eyes,” Maureen O’Kelly said. “I don’t know when I last heard it.”

  Phil said, “It is sung after every basketball game.”

  “Really?”

  Phil asked Samuel if he would do the driving, and Samuel suggested that then there was no need for Roger to come to the hospital.

  “But I want to talk with you.”

  Phil gave the keys to Samuel. “Be sure you drive.”

  �
��How will I know the car?”

  “Roger can identify it.” Phil told Roger where he had parked.

  * * *

  The hospital was ten minutes away, and Roger and Samuel exchanged small talk on the way. For the first time, Roger realized how tense Samuel was. Of course. He was going to visit his son in Intensive Care. But it was Mortimer he mentioned.

  “It was the kind of funeral he would have wanted.”

  “Perhaps not so soon.”

  “Was Mrs. O’Kelly serious when she said she was being grilled?”

  “Let’s see Paul first.”

  The patient lay on his back, awake, staring at the ceiling. His face lit up at the sight of his father.

  “Dad!”

  “I thought you were boycotting your uncle’s funeral.” He leaned over the bed and kissed his son. “And to think it was this.”

  “I’m all right. So they tell me.”

  “You must come back to Minneapolis with me.”

  “Dad, I’m working here.”

  “They can release you. You must take it easy for the rest of the summer.”

  Roger Knight came forward, and Samuel explained his presence. “The police are talking with Mrs. O’Kelly.”

  Paul glanced at Roger. “I’m sure it’s just routine.”

  * * *

  “It is a strange feeling to outlive one’s younger brother,” Samuel Sadler said an hour later.

  Roger had directed him to the apartment just east of campus when they left the hospital, suggesting that the Morris Inn would continue to be disrupted by the investigation into the poisonings, stirred to new heights by what had happened to Paul.

  When Roger showed him his workroom, his guest moved reverently along the shelves. He looked at Roger. “No old textbooks here.”

  “There you’re wrong. I still have the books that introduced me to the classics.”

  “Latin and Greek?”

  “Latin and Greek.”

  “That’s different. You have quite a collection of philosophy, too.”