Breaking the rules, Agnes thought. “Tetzel?”
“That’s it.”
“Let me take another shot with your rifle.”
“I ought to give you the damned thing. I can’t hit the side of the garage.”
Agnes lowered the rifle to her hip and squeezed the trigger, and a pellet bounced off the side of the garage. “That’s easy.”
The pressroom in the courthouse was empty except for Rebecca Farmer.
Agnes dropped into Tetzel’s chair. “How are things going in men’s rest rooms?”
“Don’t laugh. It’s become a series. Read the one about Naples.”
“I don’t have to go to Italy to be pinched.”
“Lucky you.”
“Where’s your partner?”
“Partner! Did you check across the street?”
“He’s not there. I understand he’s writing about Madeline Schutz.”
Rebecca needed help remembering who Madeline was. She didn’t know what Tetzel was working on. “He spends most of his time on his novel.”
“His novel.”
“No one’s ever seen it, of course.”
“He and Madeline have a lot in common.”
“How so?”
“Two novelists.”
“Make it one.”
“Is Tetzel married?”
“Married! Have you taken a good look at him?”
“You have?”
“How can I help it, sharing this office with him.”
“I hope he hasn’t tried any Neapolitan stunts.”
“I’d break his arm.”
“Apparently he’s eloped with Madeline.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I have it from an eyewitness.”
“To what?”
“Now be nice. Where do people elope to nowadays?”
Rebecca picked up the phone and punched numbers angrily.
“Who are you calling?”
“His cell phone.”
Rebecca scowled into the middle distance and then came alive. “Tetzel! The cops are after you.”
Pause.
“They think you eloped with Madeline Schutz.”
A frown. She slammed down the phone.
“I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”
8
Willie had wet-mopped the center aisle of the church and was now balanced precariously on a stepladder dusting the tops of the stations that stood out from the wall. Jesus falls the third time. Willie was trying to avoid falling the first time. Above him, the stained glass windows were alive from the sunlight outside. They were daytime objects. Once the sun went down they weren’t much to talk about. Willie was talking to himself. He considered it a kind of prayer. He always felt out of place in church, given his checkered history. On the other hand, he liked to think of God as an accomplice. He heard a door open and close, and he shut up, looking busy. Probably Marie Murkin come to call instructions to him. Footsteps approached.
“Willie?”
He turned carefully and looked down. A once familiar face looked up at him. Holloway! Willie nearly lost his balance. Holloway grabbed the ladder and kept it steady. If there were any more rungs, Willie would have climbed higher. As it was, he went slowly down to the now grinning Holloway.
“Still reading the Bible, Willie?”
They had all kidded him in the place when he got interested in the Bible. Who would have thought it would be so interesting? After a while he had given up trying to convince them that he was into it for the story.
Holloway had been his cellmate at the end. He stood now gaping at the stained glass windows. “The chaplain told me you was working here.”
“Let’s go outside.” His earlier thought that Marie Murkin might drop in had returned. He took Holloway’s arm and hurried him toward the main door. In the little alcove, Holloway wanted to examine the pamphlets, but Willie kept him going.
“You don’t seem glad to see me, Willie.”
“You don’t want to meet the housekeeper.”
“Afraid of competition?”
Willie laughed. “Maybe you should meet her. Ever work in a church?”
“Funny you should ask.”
They sat on the front steps and lit cigarettes, and Holloway spoke of the first time he’d gotten into trouble. Prying open the poor box in his parish church. “I told the priest I thought the money was meant for me. I didn’t have a dime. So he gave me a couple bucks.” Holloway might have been giving the explanation of his life of crime.
“How long you been out?”
“Doesn’t the suit tell you?”
“I got rid of mine in days.”
“I’ve been reading about this place, Willie.”
Willie was trying to figure out a way to get rid of him. He had too good a thing going here to have it screwed up by Holloway. He could imagine Marie Murkin’s reaction if she found he was being visited by former companions in Joliet.
“Is it true you live in the basement of the church?”
“Come on. I’ll show you my place.”
He took Holloway along the sidewalk on the far side of the church, away from the rectory, and to what had once been the main entrance of the school. Holloway was impressed when Willie whipped out his keys and let them in. Willie put a finger to his lips as they went down a flight. In a moment they were at his door and then safely inside.
Holloway stood where he stopped, turning slowly around, his mouth open, his eyes alight. “This is yours?”
“I thought of renting an apartment somewhere, but this is gratis.”
Holloway took off his cap and slapped it against his leg. “It’s enough to make a man go straight.”
Now that he could, in the privacy of his own quarters, enjoy Holloway’s envy, Willie waved him to the chair. “No, no. The easy chair.” He went to the little fridge and got out two cans of beer, tossing one to Holloway, who caught it in his lap.
“Ouch.” Holloway quaffed the beer with closed eyes. He kept them closed as he rested the can on his belly and gave out a long sigh. He opened his eyes. “Remember dreaming of moments like this?”
It would have been easy to fall in with Holloway’s mood, to recall their daydreams about the outside when they returned to it. The main element of those dreams was that no one would be directing your life, telling you what to do, counting you off, looking in at you sleeping. Marie Murkin aside, Willie had it all right here, and Holloway’s envy became menacing.
“Who’s your parole officer?” Willie asked.
“Please. Not while I’m drinking.”
“Have him get you a job.”
“It’s a her. Phyllis. I think she loves me.”
“How could she help it?”
“I said I’d been reading about this place. Those stained glass windows. Tell me about them.”
“The stained glass windows?”
“Phyllis says they are priceless.” Holloway dipped his head and looked at Willie. “I told her nothing is priceless. Except her, of course.”
“Be careful. She’ll steal your heart away.”
“How are they anchored, Willie? Up on that ladder, you must get a good look. Are they cemented in or what?”
“What are you getting at?”
Holloway crushed his empty beer can and waited for another. Willie brought it to him. He felt like bringing it down on his head.
“Just one of them, Willie. Depending on how they’re set in, it would be a quick job.”
Willie snatched the second can from Holloway’s hand and bent over him, furious. “Cut that out! Don’t even think it. You pull a stunt like that and we’re both back where we belong.” He stood. “Besides, what would you do with a stained glass window if you had one?”
“You want to hear the plan?”
“No! There is no plan. Holloway, it’s been good seeing you, but you are as much trouble as you ever were. What have you been out, days, weeks, and you’re this anxious to go back? Grow up, for God’s sake.”
Holloway looked up at him like a naughty dog, then began to nod his head. “You’re right, Willie. You’re right. It was just a crazy dream. Give me the beer.”
There was a knock on the door, and the two men froze. Willie saw that he hadn’t thrown the latch when they came in. He split his lips with a finger, pulled Holloway from the chair, and led him to the john. Once he had him out of the way, he went to the door. It was Marie Murkin.
“You just going to leave that ladder standing like that in the church?” She was sniffing, picking up the smell of beer.
“I’m on break. I was about ready to go back.”
“You can forget that for now. I put away the ladder. I put away the mop and bucket.” Marie had her head inside the door, looking around. “What a sty.”
“Thanks for taking care of the ladder, Mrs. Murkin. I appreciate that.”
She glared at him, to see if he was smarting off, then softened. She withdrew her head. “You can finish up tomorrow.”
When Willie closed the door on her, he put up the chain.
The john door opened, and Holloway looked out. “Is the coast clear?”
Willie looked at him, angry, but pitying, too, a brother under the skin. He had to get rid of Holloway before he moved in with him. Maybe he could move in with Phyllis.
9
Susan felt that she was running a boardinghouse. First Amy Gorman, and now Madeline Schutz, who had shown up on her doorstep saying she was in danger of losing her life. The dramatic phrase lost its force because of the silly smile Madeline wore as she said it. “I quote my rescuer.”
Susan looked beyond Madeline, where a car was pulling away from the curb. “Anyone I know?”
“He’s a reporter. The one who did the piece on me. Tetzel?”
“He says you’re in danger?”
“It’s quite an exciting story.”
It was mistaking Bobby’s body for Madeline’s that had brought first Amy and then Susan and Madeline together. So Susan took her inside, relieving her of the duffle bag as they went.
“Be careful. My computer is in there. I hope you can lend me a nightie. I left in a hurry.”
Susan had to agree that it was an exciting story. Halfway through it occurred to her that it was some stunt the reporter was pulling so he could make another story of it. It seemed pretty far-fetched that a crime committed in Kenosha, Wisconsin, could involve Madeline, even if the crime had been committed at the house that published her books.
“Argyle House itself is a crime.” Susan had heard the saga of Madeline’s witless agreement. Only an aspiring artist could understand her vulnerability when the chance for publication was dangled in front of her. Susan knew all kinds of artists who would sell their souls in order to get into a gallery. Well, their bodies, anyway—and galleries that were probably less impressive than Argyle House. “Maybe this will get you out of your contract.”
“I never thought of that!” Almost immediately second thoughts came. Get out of her slave contract with Argyle House and have to find another publisher?
Susan got Madeline settled with her computer in a far corner of her studio, turned the portrait of Fulvio to the wall, and tried to get back in the mood. No easy task. How could she drive from her mind all the hullabaloo about the Devere Foundation? First her father called all in a snit because Grandma Jane had made use of her discretionary powers as director and given away some money. That’s what the money was for. It wasn’t theirs anymore; they had to give it away. The only decision was the choice of beneficiaries. It wasn’t the money but the recipient that made Susan sympathize with her father.
“Carl Borloff!”
“I know what you think of him.”
“Isn’t backing his stupid magazine enough?”
“You’re not impressed by Sacred Art?”
Why go on about it? Art critics are like sportswriters, nerds who couldn’t play a game to save their lives pontificating about those who can. Susan doubted that Carl Borloff could draw a straight line, not that there was much of a market for straight lines nowadays, so what qualified him to rank artists and works of art? She wondered if Angelo Menotti’s reputation could survive Borloff’s enthusiasm.
Her father explained that there wasn’t much they could do about the money already given to Borloff, but they could certainly veto the long-term agreement that his mother and Amos Cadbury had drawn up. Amos Cadbury! Susan thought of her doomed effort to get the family lawyer to let her give away her money. So why was she complaining about Grandma giving money to Carl Borloff? Because he was a fake? Where would her own money go if she could get rid of it?
“Susan, this is one board meeting you must attend. Hugh has agreed to be there.”
“Hugh? I don’t believe it.”
“I wish the two of you had a more robust sense of family.”
“Dad, it’s not the family, it’s the money.”
“Do you think it’s tainted?”
“Of course not.” It suddenly occurred to Susan that her father worked very hard and that his success had not made him remote from Hugh and herself. What a petulant spoiled brat she must sound like to him. She promised her father that she would attend the board meeting of the Devere Foundation.
“Thursday at three. At home.”
“Right.”
Home. The Devere Home. Grandma on the upper floor and her son in one wing and her daughter in the other. Hugh had kept his room there, but Susan had her house in Barrington. With two guests.
Amy Gorman listened while Susan explained that Madeline would be staying in the house for a while.
“Where will you put her?”
“I’ll sleep on a cot in my studio. She can have my room.”
“Susan, she can take my room. It’s time I went home.”
“Nuts. You can’t go home until they lock up whoever put the body in your garage. Madeline’s on the run, too. Maybe from the same man.”
“I am not on the run.”
“You know what I mean.”
“The thought of my house gives me the creeps. I really think I must sell.”
“That better wait until the body in the garage is cleared up and forgotten.”
They went into the studio, where Madeline looked up from her computer. Susan mentioned what she was working on.
“The Empyrean Chronicles!” Amy exclaimed.
“You read them?” Madeline asked, coming alive.
“My son does. He’s in Iraq. Paul.” Amy seemed to be surveying Madeline for eligibility as a daughter-in-law.
What a matchmaker she was. She insisted that Susan and Fulvio were destined for each other. “Think of it. Your aunt meets him on a cruise where he is impersonating a sailor. He turns out to be the grandson of Angelo Menotti, the great discovery of the Deveres. Anyone in the room could see the sparks fly when you two first met,” she had said.
“Amy, go make yourself a drink. Lots of ice. After that, a cold shower.” Susan was glad that she had turned her portrait in progress of Fulvio to the wall.
Amy made herself a drink, and Susan popped a bottle of white wine. Madeline didn’t want wine. “I still have to write a page or two in order to complete my daily stint.”
“How many pages do you do a day?” Amy asked.
“As many as possible. I have three more volumes to go.” She flourished an object that was attached to a cord she wore like a necklace. “My USB storage device. Everything I’ve ever written is on this little baby.”
“What if you lost it?”
“What if a meteor four times the size of Earth slammed into Chicago?”
Susan got Madeline settled in her room and then sat down with Amy, who had made herself a second drink.
“Hard day at the office,” Susan commented.
“Who’s she running from?”
“A man who was a pal of Bobby Newman. Maybe the pal who killed her and hung her in your garage.”
Fulvio came before they had even begun to think of dinner. With a drink
and a half in her, Amy was in a beaming mood, so Susan kept her distance from Fulvio lest Amy beam them up the aisle.
“I have another houseguest, Fulvio. Someone I think you’ll like.”
Amy made a face. She had other plans for Madeline.
Fulvio perked up when Susan told him of the man Madeline was hiding from. A man who had been sketched by a woman who knew Bobby Newman. “As soon as Madeline recognized the man in the sketch she was packed off to me. I should let her tell her own story, though.”
Susan went down the hall and called, “Madeline!” She followed her voice up the stairs. Maybe, exhausted from her daily stint, Madeline was taking a nap.
Indeed, that was what she was doing. Susan didn’t have the heart to wake her. She would have to meet Fulvio some other time.
10
Traditionally, Amos Cadbury’s role at meetings of the Devere Foundation board had been as mediator, as voice of reason when disagreements became too sharp, as both involved and an impartial spectator. On this occasion, he arrived at the Devere house with the criticisms of James heavy on his heart. It was not often that his legal work was called into question, and indeed not even James had suggested that there was anything unusual, legally, in the agreement that Amos had drawn up at Jane’s request. He had drawn up an agreement in order to shield Jane’s decision from the charge that it was arbitrary, even whimsical. Extending the agreement into an indefinite future had been couched in provisos that neither Jane nor Borloff seemed to notice. Those carefully inserted restraints were to ensure, among other things, that the whole board must go along with Jane, with the proviso that even her discretionary grant could be voided by the board.
Who can be his own advocate effectively? Amos had not defended his work in any detail when confronted with James’s displeasure. “Your quarrel is with your mother, James. Not with me.”
“You aided and abetted her.”
“That is not an apt description of legal help.”
“Would she have gone ahead without you?”
“James, she already had. She had written a letter to Borloff. The agreement was to supersede that letter and tighten matters up.”
It was not any reluctance to explain what help he had been to Jane on the Borloff matter that weighed on Amos now. The real cloud over the board meeting was the apparent disappearance of Carl Borloff.
Stained Glass Page 16
