He watched Eliot grow. There would be no fat nicknames for his son. He supervised the child’s diet, made sure he got plenty of exercise, and was enrolled in a local gym as soon as he was old enough. No one was ever going to call his son “Porky.”
Eliot inherited his parents’ intelligence. By the time he was six years old, he could converse in Italian, German, French, as well as English. At eight, he was taking lessons with the city’s finest piano teacher, herself an alumna and presently teaching at Curtis Institute of Music on Rittenhouse Square. The child was a prodigy in languages, music and--something of an anomaly--sports. Celeste oftentimes stood back in awe of the perfect creature to which she had given birth. Nelson, had he been living millennia earlier, would have built an altar to his son and on it offered sacrifices to the young god.
Adolescence came and Nelson watched the changes taking place in his son’s body. He was becoming a man, with some of his mother’s Italian coloring and dark hair and Nelson’s deep blue eyes. Nelson knew his son was handsome and that he would have to keep an eye open lest the boy’s ego become inflated. Others might make too much of the boy’s looks, thereby destroying the simple modesty Nelson and Celeste had instilled in him since childhood. True self-confidence, the two parents had often told the child, came from one’s inner strength coupled with a genuine concern for others. Physical beauty, they pointed out, was nice, but it did not take the place of inward beauty.
For a graduation present from high school, Nelson and Celeste bought Eliot an automobile, a silver convertible, the envy of the boy’s friends. The following September, Eliot enrolled at Temple University.
Nelson began to realize that something was nagging him, that something was not going according to schedule. Somewhere, the scenario he had gone over so many times in his own head about his son’s emergence into manhood had skipped a passage. Something--he did not know what--was missing. Never mind, Nelson lectured himself, his son was too intelligent for anything to go wrong.
During Eliot’s second year of college, Nelson noticed his son was quieter than usual. He stayed home during spring break. Nelson had suggested the lad go away for a week or so with some of his friends, or if he didn’t want to do that, then maybe Nelson and he could go together, maybe to their summer house on the New Jersey shore, just father and son, where they could spend time talking and getting to know one another better. Eliot refused. He said he preferred to stay home, that maybe they could talk there just as well. There was something about the way the boy said they could talk that shook Nelson.
Several times in the two weeks he was home away from college, Eliot came close to talking to his father. Each time, something happened--a business telephone call, a visitor, Celeste coming into the room--to halt the conversation between father and son. Nelson was beginning to realize just how much his son wanted to talk and, whether consciously or not (Nelson wasn’t sure) he, Nelson, was afraid to have that conversation, afraid of what it might be his son wanted to tell him. Nelson knew Eliot was spending some time with the assistant priest at Saint Alban’s, Father Mazell. The thought had occurred to Nelson that possibly Eliot was thinking of entering the priesthood. Not an all-together unpleasant idea, Nelson told himself. After all, with Eliot’s gifts, who knew how far he might go in the church? Bishop? On the other hand, it dawned upon Nelson that Eliot might be seeking the priest’s guidance for a more serious problem. If only he, Nelson, could talk to his son. He had never been able to communicate with his own father, and that same reticence was now keeping him from talking to the young Eliot Paquette.
Finally, school reopened. On the morning of the Friday of that first week, Nelson watched from the front window as his son ran down the steps and jumped into his car parked at the curb and headed off for college. Nelson turned away from the window and caught his wife staring at him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He tried to smile. “Nothing, dear, absolutely nothing. Just thinking, that’s all,” he told her and went slowly up the staircase to his second floor study to get his briefcase. As he climbed the stairs, Nelson feared one thing: The moment which had been lost might never return. If it was gone, the words his son had so desperately wanted to tell him would never be uttered, unless he, Nelson Paquette, saw to it that the moment was recaptured. However depressed he might have felt that morning as he left the house to go to his office, Nelson had no idea his whole world--his perfect world--was about to come down around him with a crash that he would feel for years to come.
At work, Nelson couldn’t keep his mind on business. He kept thinking about Eliot, seeing him over and over again throwing his books on the back seat of his car, and driving off for school. It was noontime when he picked up the telephone and called home. Celeste answered.
“Dear, what’s El’s schedule?” Nelson asked his wife.
She told him she thought their son would be finished with classes by three o’clock or so and would be home after that.
“I have to go to the shore this afternoon,” he told her. “Problems with the new contractor we hired for that addition. I’ll head down there as soon as I can get away from here. I should be finished around dinnertime. Try to get El to drive down and meet me there. We’ll have dinner. Maybe stay over and come back tomorrow. He loves the seashore this time of year.”
“It’s Friday evening. He may have plans,” she pointed out.
“I know, but if you use your influence, he’ll change them.”
“I don’t know….”
“Please? It would mean a lot.”
“A father and son dinner without mother?”
“A father-and-son-who-both-love-you dinner,” he insisted.
“I’ll do what I can,” she assured him and told him how much she loved him and urged him to drive carefully.
By three that afternoon, Nelson Paquette was on the Atlantic City Expressway. He got off at Exit Two and followed the flow of traffic to Ventnor. He went directly to the contractor’s office and asked to see Mr. Williams who, it turned out, had not yet come back as promised. Nelson tried to explain his problems to the secretary and was about to leave when Mr. Williams showed up. He grabbed Nelson’s hand, slapped him on the back, and took him into the back office. It was almost six-thirty by the time Nelson emerged, satisfied his problems would be handled properly.
He thought of calling Celeste to see if Eliot was coming down. No need to, he told himself. She could convince their son to do anything she asked. Of course, Eliot would be at the beach house. Nelson got into his car outside the contractor’s office and headed across the island to the beach block where their summer home was. As he crossed Pacific Avenue, he felt his heart beat faster. There, ahead of him, in the driveway next to their house, was Eliot’s car. His son had come down to be with him. Before the evening was over, Nelson swore to himself, he and Eliot would have a long talk, the likes of which no father and son had ever had before.
Without moving in his chair, Nelson reached behind him and pressed a button on the underside of his large mahogany desk and by doing so, returned to the present.
“Mr. Paquette will see you now,” the blond secretary told Pat. She stood up and opened the door behind her.
Pat entered the room with three walls lined with bookshelves. A desk stood between him and the window and behind that desk, the tallest chair he thought he had ever seen, its back to him. As he walked closer to the desk, the chair began to circle towards him slowly, as though with great effort. He stopped in his tracks. As the front of the chair with its burden came into view, he could see it was occupied by a man who not only filled the oversized chair, he rippled over the sides of it like so much expensive wool suiting which had been stuffed with flesh to the point where it threatened to split at the seams. The face which topped this human mountain was as full as the body which supported it and almost as wide. Chin cascaded from chin. Eyes which must have once openly looked out onto the world now seemed destined to remain no more than slits as folds of fat hung over and below the
m and sucked them down into dermatological quicksand. A shock of once-light brown hair, now white, lay disinterestedly atop this mound.
“Please do come in,” Nelson Paquette said. As slowly as the chair had swung around to face Pat, the whole corpus now stirred. It rose and rose until it reached its full stature and began a sudden tidal wave of fat with the hazy glare of the window behind it and threatened to engulf Pat unless he managed to get out of its path. Fortunately, it stopped and ebbed enough to spare his life and the future lives of a pair of chairs between him and the desk. A limb moved away from the mass and extended itself.
“Mr. Montgomary,” Nelson Paquette said and gestured his visitor was to occupy one of the chairs. Nelson started the journey back to his seat behind the desk and accomplished the no-small feat of fitting himself once more within the confines of the chair’s arms.
“I trust you will not think me rude, Mr. Montgomary,” Nelson began, “if I remind you of what I said on the telephone a few hours ago. I do not have much time today and I would appreciate our getting right to the point. I have no use for or time for small talk. If this concerns the death of Father Mowbray, then I am at a complete loss to understand why anyone would think I could shed any light on that subject. The police have already questioned me and, as I just said, I don’t for the life of me find any connection between myself and that unfortunate--if misguided--priest.” He finished his statement with a gesture of helplessness, both hands raised slightly.
“There is often something one does not realize is important that may shed some light on a murder,” Pat said. “A little, seemingly inconsequential thing. If I may, I would like to ask a few questions. For starters, when was the last time you saw Father Mowbray?”
“Three days ago. The morning of the day of his death. It was only for a few minutes. I was escorting a heating contractor through the church premises for the purpose of getting an estimate on some work. We were just coming up from the crypt under the main part of the church when we almost physically ran into Father Mowbray. We exchanged a few banal pleasantries and we were on our way. Where he was going, I have no idea.”
“Was he leaving the premises?”
“I doubt it. He was evidently going down to what we used to call the basement. It is now the office area.”
“The crypt you just mentioned?
Nelson shook his head and his jowls flapped. “No, no, not at all. There is a basement--or more properly speaking, a lower level--which is under the parish house and the cloister portion of the church. From there, one passes through one of the heater rooms. It houses the furnace which heats the church proper. From there, one may go down to the crypt. It is virtually never used. Of no practical value today. The ceiling is quite low and there is a dampness there year round. We were down there. Father Mowbray was headed in the opposite direction, to the part of that level which houses the church offices.”
“Where Grace Everett works?”
Nelson nodded silently.
“And you saw nothing more of him until he was killed?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you know of any reason anyone might have for killing him?”
“Really! A most unfair question, if ever I heard one. What am I to answer? If I say, ‘No,’ I am a hypocrite, for surely you have heard by this time--Saint Alban’s being the hotbed of gossip it is most of the time--that I had no earthly use for him, either as a man or as a priest. If I say, ‘Yes,’ then I must proceed to either incriminate myself or another and since I know of no other specific person who might have wished him dead--although it would not shock me should I so discover such a person--that leaves only… moi!”
“Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Did you kill him?”
The reverberation of a flattened palm slapping the top of the desk almost hurt Pat’s ears. Nelson threw back his head and exposed a sinkhole in the middle of his face caused by the fleshquake which struck his whole body. He looked at Pat. “You’re priceless!” he shouted between roars of laughter and continued slapping the desktop. “Absolutely priceless. I must say.” Somewhat rapidly for the volume involved, Nelson’s body stopped shaking and his laughter dwindled down to a chuckle, then stopped as he realized the young man seated across the desk from him was not sharing his enjoyment. Pat’s fixed stare was directed towards him. When stillness and silence once more took over his body, Nelson took a deep breath.
“I’m waiting for an answer. Did you kill Father Mowbray?”
The full moon which was Nelson’s face now turned crimson. He sputtered something which did not resemble words and placed both hands on the desk in front of him. “Of… of… all.” He could not go beyond one word in sequence. He was also having difficulty catching his breath. “I… I… never.”
“I’m not here to accuse,” Pat said, his voice exceptionally calm. “I’m asking because someone has to ask. It is owed to Father Mowbray. Regardless of your opinion of him, I think he was a good man and someone has got to start asking that question. We must find out who murdered him.”
A transformation was coming over Nelson Paquette as Pat spoke. Whether the shrewd businessman, the concerned Christian, or some other influence was at work, it was impossible to tell, but he now spoke with a composure that rivaled Pat’s.
“No, sir, I did not kill Father Mowbray,” Nelson said, slowly, deliberately. “I have said it before and I shall continue to say it: I feel no particular loss at the death of our curate. What I do feel, however, is indignation that such a crime should occur and especially that it should occur in Saint Alban’s Church. It is intolerable! If, on the other hand, anyone should even imply that I had anything to do with his death, if you should feel that I was the one who pulled the trigger of that gun, then you would be wrong.”
“But you did hate him?”
“You are wrong. I did not hate Father Mowbray. I despised him, the way I despise all faggots. Too goddamn many of them as it is, especially in the priesthood nowadays. Must be all those robes and candles and incense and not having to work for a living that attracts so many queers to that vocation.” He smirked as he spit out that last word. “It wasn’t that way years ago when I was a lad, when priests knew what was sinful and weren’t afraid to speak out against it and didn’t spend their time flitting around and acting like swishy queens. Today we have priests who are just a bit too fond of fondling altar boys while everyone says, ‘Isn’t it nice the way Father So-and-so is so good with the young ones.’ But I didn’t kill Father Mowbray, and you want to know how I can prove that? If I had killed him, it would never have been on church property. I have too much respect for it to do it there. I would have found some other place to do it. Besides which,” he added as he leaned back in his chair, “I was here the entire afternoon on Wednesday at the time the police say Father Mowbray was killed. My secretary can vouch for that. It’s a shame someone didn’t kill him while he was screwing that nelly he’s been running with lately, the one the stupid police had in their hands yesterday and let go. They should have hanged it on him when they had the chance.”
“Why did you hate Father Mowbray so much?”
“Why? Why, Mr. Montgomary? Because….” He stopped and remained silent for so long Pat wondered if he was all right. Then Nelson looked up at the younger man. His face had dropped to resemble a sad bloodhound, there was moisture around his eyes, and his voice was shaking. “Mr. Montgomary, I pride myself that the things which have happened in my life have never once shaken my faith. I am still active in my church. I donate not only money but many hours of my time to its well-being. But it was another priest… a priest who took my son and my wife away from me. I am alone in the world today because of a priest like your precious Father Mowbray.”
“I don’t under--”
“A few years ago, when my son Eliot was in college, he seemed to be experiencing a certain… certain problems. I have never forgiven myself that I did not have a better relationship with him and that we weren’t able
to talk and discuss it. I finally made arrangements to meet my son at the house we had at the seashore. Eliot loved that house. That, too, is now gone. We were to meet there one Friday evening, just father and son, and spend the night together. I planned to get closer to my son, find out what was bothering him. As I drove into the driveway, I saw his car there. I presumed his mother had told him of my plans to meet him there, but I found out later she hadn’t been able to reach him. He had gone there to the beach house on his own. I knew none of this as I opened the back kitchen door of our summerhouse that Friday evening.
“As I entered, I called out to him. There was no answer. I went through the living room, then up the stairs to the second floor. I thought I heard a sound up there, coming from Eliot’s room. I knocked, then opened the door without waiting. What I saw, the sight in front of me, I shall never forget. Eliot was there… in bed… but he wasn’t alone. Father Mazell, the curate of St. Alban’s at the time, was in the bed with him.
“I used my influence with the bishop to get that priest removed from St. Alban’s. Where he went I neither know nor care. But that was the easy part. My son was angry with me and I forced him out of our home. That, more than anything else, Mr. Montgomary, killed my wife. She never got over it, never accepted the fact that I had thrown our son out of our home and that he and I were so alienated. She just gave up all desire to go on living, and a few months later she died. And you ask me why I hated Father Mowbray? I hated him, his kind, and all he stood for. And, if that is all, sir, I must say good day. As I told you, I am very busy.” The room itself seemed to shake as Nelson Paquette stood up.
Pat, too, rose from his seat and turned to leave, but not before thanking Nelson for his time and for the information he had given him.
Nelson stared and looked puzzled as Pat delivered his last statement.
“You’ve been of inestimable value in our investigation,” Pat said. “I have made a note of your whereabouts on Wednesday afternoon. You were in this very office, right?”
Aisle of the Dead Page 16
