Till Death

by William X. Kienzle

  During a brief period of sexual delight he had forgotten all his troubles, even Dora. Now he was back in the land of reality. His going away might just give Dora an opportunity to put things in perspective. All she had to realize was that she’d had intercourse with a drunk. The sex had been fueled by the alcohol that had removed all sense of restraint, not to mention awareness.

  He wanted this vacation as an escape. And, for the first time, he wanted anonymity as much as or more than Lil did. “Someplace we could go and not be recognized,” he repeated. “How about Tom Becker’s cottage? You know, the one on Old Mission Peninsula in Traverse City. It would be a miracle in reverse for anyone to recognize us there. The place is self-sufficient. All we’d have to go out for would be groceries. We don’t have to do that together. What say a month—more if we need it?”

  Her eyes were aglow. As if she were a child at Christmas.

  Just as suddenly she grew serious. “I forgot about closing up—the school, I mean.”

  “Tomorrow is the last day! You already said that.”

  “I know. It’s the last day and graduation. But there’s paperwork to finish. It has to be done.”

  “But you don’t have to be the one to do it. What about your assistant principal? You’re always bragging about how efficient she is. Why not let her take this responsibility? It’ll be good for her.” Rick believed about three-quarters of what he was giving Lil as reassurance.

  She twisted a lock of her hair. “I could do that.” Pause. “But what about you? You can’t just up and leave your parish.”

  “I’ve got that Basilian priest from Assumption University in Windsor. He lives in a houseful of priest-teachers. I can leave the parish in the capable hands of Father Chircop and never look back. Whattya say, kid? How about a little R and R? We’ve earned it.”

  “Oh yes, darling. When can we leave?”

  “I’ll just check with Tom and make sure the cottage is vacant. I’ll call him now.”

  Rick got a reply on the third ring. Lil could tell by the growing smile on his face that the place was theirs.

  She, of the two, always was the cautious one. It was a kick to be spontaneous for a change.

  Things looked dark. But Dora was not about to give up.

  She knew she would make Rick a good wife. And she’d be an excellent mother to his kids. Their kids.

  Okay. So he had been under the weather the other night. Still, they had given themselves to each other with abandon. It would not be burdensome to engage in wild, steamy sex whenever they felt the urge. Why would he turn all that away? Why would he reject her? Her offer was on her part unconditional.

  She thought she might have unearthed the core problem. It well could be Lillian Niedermier. If this were so, she, Dora, had been blind-sided.

  Lillian! That sweet young thing! She too had served at St. Ursula’s. But her life there had never touched that of Father Casserly. They were ships that never even passed in the night.

  Was he actually shacking up with her? Dora didn’t want to jump to conclusions. All she knew for certain was that after their tiff Rick left his rectory. He drove to a large apartment complex in Warren. He entered a building that did not list him as an occupant. But it did list an L. Niedermier. Coincidence?

  It stretched credulity.

  If Rick and Lil were living together without benefit of clergy, that would explain a lot.

  Prescinding for the moment Rick’s being a priest, he could qualify as one of the Detroit area’s most eligible bachelors. All right, so he’s sixty. He looks and acts anything from twenty to thirty years younger. He’s a very successful priest. Whether it comes to raising money or giving spiritual direction, it would be nearly impossible to top him. Is he goodlooking? Some people improve with age. Rick certainly started handsome and got better. He must have had a bevy of women throw themselves at him.

  So why is he still a priest and still single?

  Is it a triumph for celibacy? Is it an accident? Is God saving him for good old Dora?

  Or—and this is the torturous—alternative, have Rick and Lil been playing house for God knows how many years?

  Dora decided she would back off for a couple of days. Give the matter a little time for her to make plans and get on this case seriously in the coming week.

  Dora got ready for bed, musing that the way this situation was playing out, there was good news and bad news. The bad news was that a woman, a younger woman, might have staked a claim on the man she herself loved. The good news was that Rick Casserly had had an ulterior reason in rejecting Dora’s offer of herself. He hadn’t turned her down because she was, somehow, repulsive.

  No, Dora was confident of her beauty. If she could get rid of this female specter, she could land her man.

  Eighteen

  Dora had a fitful weekend. She vacillated between hope for a happy and assured solution and fear that the cause was already lost.

  On this early June morning, at least the weather was promising. Not too hot, not too cool, and a high sky whose color would be described by Detroit Lions football fans as Honolulu blue.

  She decided to try Rick first. She dialed the rectory number and was not at all surprised by the sound of the woman’s voice at the answering service. Dora had been informed by countless clergy that in the good old days not having a priest available to answer a phone was a sin that cried to heaven for vengeance. Nowadays, it was as easy to get Donald Trump to answer his phone as it was to find a priest at the rectory. Without volunteering her name, Dora asked for Father Casserly.

  “Father is not available. If this is an emergency, I can give you a number to call.”

  “This isn’t an emergency, but I do have to talk to Father. Can you give me a number where I can reach him?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have that information. But if this is an emergency …”

  “Can you tell me when he will be available?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have that information. But …”

  “Can you tell me who is saying the Masses while Father Casserly is gone?”

  “That would be one of the numbers you can call in an emergency.”

  “Would you?”

  “Certainly. The priest is Father Chircop and the number is …” Dora quickly wrote down the number. Thank you.

  The conversation had been calm and polite with no sarcastic overtones. All business. Dora’s mother might have been dying and the service operator would have had the same rational, professional tone.

  Dora dialed the Detroit number for Windsor’s Assumption University.

  “Assumption,” the woman identified.

  “May I speak to Father Chircop?”

  “Father isn’t here. He’s helping out at Holy Redeemer parish today. Would you like that number?” There was the slightest French accent—not unexpected in this bilingual country. The secretary sounded chatty. An advantage for Dora.

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure you have the information I’m looking for. Is Father going to substitute for Father Casserly for weekend liturgies?”

  “Let me look up his calendar appointments.”

  There was silence for about a minute. Then, “Yes.”

  “Does the appointment schedule say how long that will be?”

  Another pause. “It says at least a month. Maybe more. Do you want to talk to Father Chircop? It’s real easy to get him.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. Does it happen to say where Father Casserly will be?”

  “No. Father Chircop doesn’t know either. I remember him saying that before he left this morning.”

  So.

  One down, one base to touch.

  If Niedermier was at work, Dora would be willing to chalk all previous coincidences up to chance.

  She dialed the number for St. Enda’s school. Should Lil come on the line, Dora was prepared to hang up immediately.

  It was Lil’s secretary.

  “No,” the secretary answered Dora’s question,
“Ms. Niedermier is gone for the summer. You just missed her. If you want to get in touch with her, you might try about the middle of July. She may be back then.”

  Thank God for secretaries who talk too freely.

  Coincidences!

  It was now more than likely that they were together. And more than likely they had been together for a long time in the past.

  Dora gave brief thought to tracking them down. She believed it would not be all that difficult. But what would she gain when she found them? Confrontation would be counterproductive at this point. At this point, indeed, she had to step back and evaluate whether there was any hope at all.

  Rick might have been right when he urged her to get a life.

  She would have to give this serious thought. What she decided to do now, at this crucial time, surely would influence her entire future.

  It had been a pleasant June if you liked warm, dry weather. Just a week ago, on the twenty-first, summer had officially arrived. Now municipalities and individuals were planning fireworks and patriotic displays honoring Independence Day.

  The mother of all these area celebrations would be held a few days prematurely. It would be breathtaking. A barge would be anchored in the middle of the Detroit River. On the shores of Detroit and Windsor huge crowds would gather. Boat traffic on the river would be halted. And for about an hour, rockets, each more spectacular than the previous one, would light the sky and the booms would echo among the downtown skyscrapers.

  Pat Lennon, editor-in-chief of Oakland Monthly, had invited Father Koesler to lunch. She had done that from time to time when she wrote for the dailies, sometimes to get reliable background on a “Catholic” story, sometimes just to renew their friendship.

  They had first met over twenty years ago. The occasion was a series of murders of Detroit priests and nuns, a case that was popularly labeled the Rosary Murders. At that time, Pat had been premier reporter for the Detroit Free Press, while Koesler was editor of the weekly Catholic newspaper. Together, and with the work of others, they broke the case and solved the mystery of the killings.

  From time to time they continued to be helpful in solving other crimes having to do with the Catholic Church—he as resource person, she as investigative reporter.

  In between, they were just friends.

  Today they were to meet at 11:30 A.M., “to beat the crowd,” at the Northern Lakes Seafood Company on North Woodward, in, appropriately, Oakland County.

  As was his custom, Father Koesler had arrived ahead of time. Lennon spotted him immediately. He was wearing—what else?—black clericals and the roman collar. She smiled and wondered if he wore the uniform while bathing or taking a shower.

  The few priests still in harness generally wore civvies when not involved in parochial duties. Some never wore clericals. A few, Koesler among them, dressed the way priests used to dress—because they were the priests who always used to dress that way.

  When Lennon reached the table, Koesler was studying the menu. He made an awkward attempt to stand but it ended looking like an aborted curtsy.

  “Chivalry is not dead; it’s just a little ill,” she said as she slid into the seat opposite him in the booth.

  The two smiled. They were genuinely fond of each other.

  The twosome did not draw any attention. It was a couple of generations since the days when priests were not to be seen alone with a woman. The days when, in case of an emergency requiring a priest and a woman to be alone in a car, one of them was to sit in the backseat.

  Besides, if he were an Episcopalian priest, Pat could have been his wife.

  After giving them time to consult the menu, the waitress came to take their order. Neither would have a drink. Both opted for a salad.

  At the time of their last meeting, Lennon had not yet been hired at the magazine and Koesler had been contemplating retirement.

  In response to his question, she was explaining life at a monthly magazine. “Actually,” she said, “it suits an aging newshound. Things gradually slow down. No longer do I hit the ground running. Of course when you get down to deadline time, it gets frighteningly like a daily paper. But I’m fifty-five now and I can use the slower pace.”

  Koesler liked the unconcern with which Pat voiced her age. “I’m sure,” he said, “that fifty-five sounds elderly to you, but just think of being a septuagenarian!”

  She smiled. “You look as if you’re holding on quite well.”

  “Thank God. And, please God, some more.”

  She told him about being practically shanghaied into taking over the then-failing magazine. “So, you see, I never really got to experience retirement. What’s it like?”

  “Retirement,” he answered, “is pretty much what you make it.” He told her of helping out at various parishes, and generally keeping busy accepting parochial invitations. “For me, the big thing was no more meetings or worries about the effect of rain on a patched roof.”

  Their salads were served. Lennon asked for decaf coffee. Koesler ordered iced tea. They ate for a while in silence, comfortable in not needing to talk.

  Then, “There is something I wanted to talk to you about.” It was said almost with a sense of embarrassment. Pat did not want to create the impression that this was turning into a business luncheon; that had not been her intent.

  Koesler was unconcerned. “Ask away. If there’s any way I can help, I’ll be happy to. Part of the luxury of my retirement.” He put down his fork and gave her his full attention.

  “Okay.” Her fork followed suit. “Remember the two people who hired in at the magazine—Dora Riccardo and Jerry Anderson? Each of them had a laundry list of references. Since she had been a nun and he had been a priest, I called you. I always do when I have a ‘Catholic’ situation.”

  “I remember, okay.”

  “And then you said you didn’t know either one well enough to respond.”

  “Yeah. And I referred you to Father Casserly. I never heard from you again regarding the matter. I assumed Rick had answered your questions satisfactorily. I’ve seen their bylines and credits in the magazine. So you did hire them. Is something wrong?”

  “Something troublesome, I think. Let me give you some background.” She thought for a moment. “They came to the magazine at a perfect time. I was cleaning house and I wanted quality people around me. For the first time, the magazine could afford to pay a decent wage, so I wasn’t ashamed to recruit good people.”

  “Has there been a problem with either Dora or Jerry?”

  “No … not till recently.”

  “How long has the problem been going on?”

  “About a month ago … maybe a little less.”

  “That would be approximately when we had the Ursula get together.”

  “The what?”

  As succinctly as possible, Koesler described the annual meeting of those who at one time or another had been stationed at St. Ursula’s parish under Father Angelico.

  “If you don’t mind,” she said, “that’s weird?” She made it a question out of deference to Father Koesler. Lennon’s immediate reaction to the Ursula routine was that it was weird, period. But just in case Koesler might have considered the whole procedure as normal, she left the door open with a question mark.

  “And,” she went on, “Anderson and Riccardo were in that category?”

  “Both qualified.”

  “I guess that explains part of what’s going on.” Lennon resumed eating. So did Koesler. Then his brow knitted. “What do you mean, ‘part’?”

  “Dora came to the magazine just a tad before Anderson. In fact, she sort of steered him to us. In the beginning, everything worked out well. Both of them needed to learn a lot. But, as I correctly anticipated, they were good students and workers—”

  “What made you think they’d work out?” Koesler interrupted.

  “Partly their previous professions. I assumed they would be conscientious and have a good work ethic. Secondly, they were entering the marketplace cons
iderably older than most beginners. They would know that they had to make up in a hurry for the deficit. They were starting on an uneven playing field. And they knew it.”

  “But they both did well.”

  “Un-huh. But as an aside, almost from day one, he was coming on to her like there was no tomorrow. Oh, no harassment or anything like that; he kept it subtle. And she seemed to handle it all right. Anyway, they kept their private lives pretty much out of the office.

  “And,” she added with an authoritative air, “I know what I’m talking about when it comes to office romances.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “something happened, as I say, about a month ago. She seemed to become somehow dependent on him. He covered for her. Oh, the work was getting done—which is all a manager should be responsible for—but I sensed this could blow up any day.

  “So,” she concluded, “I’m interested in what you have to say about that meeting.”

  He collected his thoughts before he began to speak. He told her, as best he could remember, about the argumentation and debate that had transpired. When he finished the narration he added, “I don’t see how any of what went on during the meeting would have an effect on their work habits.”

  “If you’ll pardon me,” she said, “I’d like to go over this business of Anderson’s leaving the priesthood.”

  “Sure.”

  “As one who keeps up with the news, and as a journalist, I know this quitting the priesthood is by no means rare. There was a time when they came pouring out. That’s slowed now?”

  “A trickle.”

  “So there’s very little media coverage anymore? In effect, it’s been done.”

  Koesler nodded.

  “But Jerry’s quitting got all that press solely as an aftermath of the wedding he performed?”

  “That plus his work in the core city with his basketball program. Otherwise his departure would just have been noted in the Detroit Catholic as taking a leave of absence.”