Killing Cassidy

by Jeanne M. Dams

  I came out in a state of shock.

  “Alan, a woman priest! And Rite II! The old liturgy was beautiful, and reverent, and dignified. This new one—” Words failed me.

  “Hardly new, surely. The revisers have been at it for years, love—in England, too, you know.”

  “I know, but the old priest at St. Paul’s kept things the way they were. I’ll bet this—this person they’ve got now can’t even remember the 1928 prayer book!”

  “The important things are still the same,” said Alan firmly.

  “Sez you! And I put on one of my favorite hats, too,” I added with utter irrelevance.

  After the second service we attended, however, I was forced humbly to admit that my husband could be right. If St. Paul’s had abandoned many of the outward and visible signs that were dear to me, the inward and spiritual grace was, for the most part, still there. It was conspicuously missing from Parson Bussey’s church.

  The building, though rather small and shabby, was a standard white frame church with a dispirited steeple and narrow gothic windows. Plain, somewhat dirty windows looked out on a cornfield on one side and an old cemetery on the other, with a rather run-down house, presumably the parsonage, next to the cemetery.

  The preacher himself was a tall, gaunt man with the dark, sunken eyes of the fanatic. From the first it was obvious that loving kindness was not the order of the day at the Church of the All-Consuming Fire.

  “At least there aren’t any snakes,” I said in an undertone, halfway through the lengthy, ranting sermon.

  “Yet,” Alan replied ominously.

  There were no snakes, but everything else that could be dreamed up by a somewhat demented fundamentalist mind was incorporated into the morning’s exercises. I refused, even in my mind, to call it a worship service. The all-pervading theme was the hell-horror that awaited the sinner. The way to avoid the flames and pitchforks, apparently, was to purge from one’s life anything resembling joy, to exhort one’s friends and neighbors to do the same, and to devote one’s wordly goods to the church in order to speed its message.

  “Alan, we shouldn’t have come. I don’t think I can stand any more.” They were singing a loud hymn in which the torments of hell were described in excruciating detail and equally excruciating rhyme.

  “We can’t leave now. Surely it’ll be over soon. Then we can have a word with the—er—leader, and slip away.”

  It wasn’t that easy. I’d thought the hymn was the last gasp, but everyone sat down again after the Amen, and Parson Bussey went back to the pulpit to make announcements. The sermon that evening was to be entitled “The Devil within Us.” Everyone was instructed to attend and bring a neighbor. The Thursday-night prayer meeting would be at the home of Brother Graber, immediately after supper. Attendance had been dropping off, the parson said menacingly, and added grim warnings to the effect that if the congregation was really interested in salvation, they’d better forget about television Thursday night and show up to spend an evening wrestling in prayer. Television, it appeared, was the devil’s own invention anyway.

  There was a little stirring among the flock at that pronouncement. I sensed dissension in the ranks, especially among the men who wanted to watch Thursday-night football, but nobody’s remarks were clearly audible. This congregation might not always agree with their preacher, but they were afraid of him.

  Or else they hold him in awe, I told myself. Don’t let your own prejudices influence your ideas, Dorothy.

  Everyone was to remember, Parson Bussey went on, that next Saturday was the day appointed for painting the church. He expected all able-bodied men to help, and announced that the ladies would prepare a luncheon for the workers. Something about the expression on the female faces in the congregation told me that was the first they’d heard of it, but again, no one protested.

  There was a brief pause. Was he finished at last?

  No.

  “Brethren, we have this morning two visitors among us. Praise the Lord that two sinners have seen the light and been moved to join us! Brother and Sister, will you come up and tell us your names, that we may pray for your salvation from the terrible toils of sin and damnation?”

  There may be worse fates than being hauled up with one’s dignified English husband before a fire-breathing preacher and then being prayed over, at length. Yes, just possibly there may be, but I wouldn’t like to say for sure. I, myself, have been in danger of my life more than once, and I don’t recall those experiences as being anything like as horrific as this one. My only prayer during the ordeal, that a thunderbolt would come down from heaven and strike us all instantly dead, was not answered. The sky remained blue and serene, and the preacher’s instructions to God continued.

  After an eternity or two, it was finally over. The last of the curious flock dispersed, and we were left alone with Parson Bussey, who had seized Alan’s arm and was apparently prepared to preach at him indefinitely. I wanted, urgently, to go home and take a lengthy shower, but one look at Alan’s face told me I’d have to wait awhile. He’d suffered, and he didn’t intend that his suffering should be in vain.

  The preacher finally gave him an opening. “Brother Nesbitt, what holy inspiration led you and your good wife to seek out salvation this morning? To leave the paths of idol worship and the ways of the devil and repent? To tread the narrow way of salvation and leave behind the fleshpots—”

  “Actually,” said Alan in crisp English accents, “it was more a matter of wanting to talk to you.”

  Parson Bussey looked severely annoyed at being cut off in the middle of his peroration. “Brother, it is I who should talk to you, to save you—”

  “We wanted a word or two about Professor Cassidy.”

  The preacher dropped his viselike grip of Alan’s arm. “You knew the professor?”

  “No. My wife, however, had been his friend for many years.”

  Parson Bussey, like Jerry, apparently preferred to ignore my existence, but he turned to me now with a frown. “Sister Nesbitt—”

  I’d had enough. “My name is Martin. Mrs. Martin.”

  “But—this man is your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  Oh, you’re one of those, said his look. “Sister Martin, I’m sorry to hear you associated with Mr. Cassidy. He was a grave sinner, an idolator, who refused to listen to the word of the Lord. I tremble for him now, suffering the torments of the damned—”

  “Mr. Bussey.” I had the pleasure of his reaction to the title. He got everybody else’s wrong, but he didn’t like it when I refused to give him any honorary address. His mouth set in a hard line. “Mr. Bussey, Dr. Cassidy was my friend for many years. He was one of the finest men I’ve ever known, and a devout Catholic. I’m quite sure you don’t need to worry about his eternal fate. And it wasn’t my impression that he refused to hear your—your message. I was told you visited him shortly before his death.”

  “And where did you get that information?” His face was so granitelike I was surprised he could move his lips.

  “I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter. I simply wanted to talk to anybody who talked to him in those last few weeks, see how he was feeling, if he was happy. If you didn’t see him, fine.” I wanted that shower more than ever.

  “I didn’t say I didn’t see him. It was my duty to spread the word of the Lord to him, however much he might insult me. The last time I called on him was about a week before he was taken sick. We talked for almost an hour. I am sorry to say it was a complete waste of my time. He remained as stubborn as ever. I wondered at times if he was even listening!”

  I remembered about the hearing aid and felt a little better. Kevin had managed to put one over on the preacher.

  “However, you will be happy to know that he did do one thing that may yet save him from some of the agonies of hellfire. Perhaps I moved his heart after all. Perhaps he knew that his soul was soon to be required of him. That last time I saw him he lent me some money, interest-free, for the use of my church.
It enabled us to buy the paint we need so badly, and will facilitate other repairs. I trust”—he turned back to Alan—”that you will wish to help with the painting. It is a holy work, making seemly the house of God.”

  “So sorry,” Alan murmured. “I believe we’re expected at the synagogue that day, aren’t we, Dorothy?” He nodded briefly to the preacher, whose mouth had dropped open, and led me away without another word.

  “Synagogue, indeed,” I said to him in the car. “That was wicked of you. I just wish I’d thought of it.”

  “Well, my dear, I had to do something, and kicking the man in the teeth seemed neither wise nor charitable.” He glanced in the side mirror. “Do start the car, love. I believe he has thought of something else he wants to say to us.”

  I gunned the engine and shot off with a squeal that many a teenage boy would have admired. “If I ever see that man again,” I said fervently, “it’ll be way too soon. That was the worst couple of hours I’ve ever spent in my life.”

  “A policeman’s lot—or even an amateur sleuth’s—is not a happy one,” Alan agreed. “It’s a good thing the effort wasn’t totally wasted. We learned one thing.”

  “The money. You know, Alan, I’m beginning to think you have a point about the money. And I don’t intend to say one word more about it until tomorrow.”

  “The lawyer?”

  “The lawyer. And, come to think of it, we did get one other little bit of information out of that disgusting performance.”

  “If you are referring to any fragment of theological wisdom—”

  “Don’t be silly. No, it’s just that we’ve met the first person who didn’t like Kevin. That could be significant, don’t you think? And now that’s enough of that. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’ve got to get to a shower and wash off the smell of curdled piety.”

  We spent a pleasant afternoon, walking over the campus, searching out tigers. I got enough exercise to be more than ready for an early night. Just as I was falling asleep, Alan murmured one last comment.

  “Hmmm?”

  “I was remembering what you said about the people in your hometown. How friendly they were.”

  I was too sleepy even to retaliate.

  Monday morning I got lucky. An early call to Ms. Carmichael’s office reached only the receptionist, but she said that a scheduled court date had been postponed, and Ms. Carmichael was therefore free all morning. If we could come in about ten?

  “Ten it is,” I said jubilantly, and hung up.

  “I heard that,” said Alan, coming out of the bathroom clad in a towel. “We’ve time for a leisurely breakfast, then.”

  “Plenty of time, especially—listen, my dearest love, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I don’t want you to come with me this morning.”

  His expressive eyebrows rose. “The secret sleuth at work?”

  “Don’t be silly. No, it’s just that she has a down on men right now. The lawyer, I mean. She’s divorced, and quite recently, is my guess.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “How do you know? I was just going by the level of bitterness in her voice when she talked about it.”

  “Ah, women and their intuition.” I threw a pillow at him. “As a mere male, I rely on evidence. There was still a pale stripe on her ring finger. She’s removed her wedding ring only recently.”

  I looked at him admiringly. The towel had slipped when he dodged the pillow, so it was not only his mind I was admiring. Alan in his late sixties is still a fine figure of a man.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Martin. I presume you brought me your expense account?”

  Even for a lawyer, the woman was a model of brisk efficiency. I needed to slow things down a little, work for an us-girls-together atmosphere. “No, actually, it was something else I wanted to talk to you about, and I wish you’d call me Dorothy.”

  If I was hoping for a reciprocal invitation, I didn’t get it. She simply nodded. “Dorothy it is, then. I’m at your disposal.”

  Well, I was ready, even if she was being more formal than I’d hoped. “You see, I’ve become worried about those expenses. They’re fairly high, what with plane fare for two of us, and at the highest rates going, and then the hotel and all …” I waited for some response, but there was only an I’m-listening tilt to her head. I plunged ahead.

  “You see, I’ve been talking to people about Kevin, his friends and neighbors, and it seems he was still making lots of his famous loans. You know about his loans?”

  “Yes, indeed. I bought this practice from Dr. Cassidy’s former attorneys, who drew up the paperwork for the loans.” She hesitated and seemed about to say more, but finally shut her mouth firmly.

  “Well, then, you know he laid out a lot of money over the years. And I know he never expected to be paid back, though I suppose some people did pay.”

  “Some.”

  A clam was loquacious by comparison. I struggled on. “Anyway, he’s been retired for years, living on a pension and social security and whatever interest his investments brought in. And I’m just wondering. What with all the money he kept giving away, he surely couldn’t have had a great deal left at the end. Will there really be enough in the estate to pay our expenses? Because if not, we’re perfectly prepared—”

  She tapped her pencil on the desk. “The estate has not yet been settled, of course,” she said slowly.

  “No, probate takes a long time. I know that. But surely you know how much will be left, roughly, after all his obligations are met. It’s your job to know.”

  “Yes, I know.” She tapped her pencil again, and then sighed. “Very well, Dorothy. I suppose it’s a legitimate question. In any case, I will have to file a preliminary inventory of the estate fairly soon; the essentials will then be a matter of public record.

  “I do not propose to give you any figures, but I will say that you are quite right in your suppositions. Dr. Cassidy’s charity had nearly exhausted his savings. I may say that both his bank officials and I tried to point out the dangers of his actions, but he refused to take us seriously.”

  I nodded. “I can just hear him. ‘You can’t take it with you’ was always one of his favorite sayings.”

  “However, you need not worry about your expenses. There is quite sufficient money left to meet them. Dr. Cassidy was very specific in saying that you and your husband were to stay in Hillsburg as long as you liked—no, I believe his exact phrase was ‘as long as she thinks necessary’—at his expense.”

  “I see.” I was thinking fast. “Ms. Carmichael, what would have happened when Kevin’s money was completely gone? Would his pension and social security have been enough to keep him going? I’d hate to think of him living in poverty, after helping so many people all these years.”

  “He spent very little on himself, you know, and his pension was reasonably generous. At his recent levels of expenditure, his resources would have been adequate.”

  “Yet you and his bankers tried to talk him out of spending his savings. You spoke of ‘dangers.’ Why, if he was really going to have enough money?”

  She rose, a wintry smile on her face. “It is the nature of bankers and lawyers to wish to preserve money, Mrs. Martin. Now, if there’s nothing else, I’m really very busy.”

  She walked briskly out the door, leaving me staring after her, my mind working furiously.

  She’d reverted to my surname. And why hadn’t she answered my question?

  9

  ANYTHING?” Alan was lounging in the easy chair, his feet propped on another chair, when I came back to the hotel room. He tossed his book toward the bed; it slid off and landed upside down on the floor.

  “I’m not sure. That is one very closemouthed lady.” I reached down to retrieve the book, a thick, oversize paperback with a plain brown back cover. “What’s this? It looks dull.” I handed it back to him

  “Not what one might call action-packed, but it has its points.” He showed me the front.

  “
Wills and Probate: The Basics of Settling an Estate,” I read. “Good grief, Alan, are you a mind reader?”

  “It was a fairly simple deduction, said Sherlock Holmes, tucking his violin under his chin and playing a few melancholy notes.” Alan bowed his imaginary fiddle. “A man has died. You have gone to visit his solicitor. Ergo, you are interested in his estate. I thought I’d while away the time by consulting the law myself, so I searched in the bookshop next door and found this. It’s written for the layman, so it’s almost comprehensible. I was reasonably certain you wouldn’t extract much information from Ms. Carmichael.”

  “You’re right about that. She did, grudgingly, confirm what I’d already guessed, that Kevin really didn’t have much money left.”

  “I’m curious about your working hypothesis. I’m certain you have one.”

  “Well—it did enter my head that, if his great-niece was in serious need of money, she might have decided to speed Uncle Kevin on his way before he could give every cent of it to other people. That’s assuming she was his principal heir. I’d hoped Carmichael the Clam might give me a few hints, but nothing doing.”

  “Hmm. I’m not sure we have a credible motive there, Dorothy. If the woman needed money, could she not simply have asked the professor for it? He was spreading it about by the pailful, apparently.”

  “If she was on good terms with him. He never talked about her, remember. Maybe there was some sort of family feud.”

  “In that case, would he have been likely to leave his money to her?”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. It’s so frustrating not to know.”

  “Ah, that is precisely where my research will be of help. This book has a section that summarizes estate law for each of your fifty states. I looked up Indiana, and it appears quite likely that the professor’s—sorry, Kevin’s—estate will have been opened by now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s the first step in probate. The details are somewhat technical, but the relevant point for our purposes is that the will is deposited with the court.”