Relic of Time

by Ralph McInerny

  “Because you were raised Catholic, my love. You renounced Satan and all his works and pomps.”

  So she had. Why was disbelieving in Satan harder than disbelieving in all the rest?

  Of course Catherine hadn’t known Myrna was on her way until she showed up. After the body was taken away, Catherine once more took possession of her room. It was either that or go to the El Toro Motel.

  “That’s where I’m staying,” Myrna said.

  “That’s silly. Stay here.”

  “You act like the chatelaine.”

  “That’s what I’ve been, more or less.” No need to tell Myrna that Jason had thrown her out of the house.

  “Catherine, when I told you about Jason I had no idea you had designs on him.”

  “How could I have? I didn’t know him then. Actually, it went the other way. And then became mutual, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  It was amusing to watch Myrna react. Well, after all, Jason Phelps had been the great love of her life. Only the difficulties of academic employment had made her leave him. Later, well, it was too late. “They couldn’t afford me and I can’t afford California,” she had once explained to Catherine. At the time it would never have occurred to Catherine to say that Myrna could have lived with Jason. Now she realized why Myrna had sounded so funny when Catherine had telephoned her weeks earlier, after getting settled in. She had left little doubt as to what “settled in” meant.

  Now, Myrna asked, “Did he drive all the nonsense out of your mind?”

  “Oh, the sessions we had. Sessions of sweet, silent talk. That isn’t right, is it? I don’t know what I would have done without him.”

  Myrna simply could not control her expression when she was annoyed. Annoyed? The woman was jealous.

  “I will stay here, Catherine. I’m going to check out of that motel.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “There’s no need for that.”

  “Myrna, I’ve been so lonely.”

  What memories the motel brought back. While Myrna went to pack, Catherine wandered into the bar, to find Neal Admirari sitting at a table with a beautiful, if slightly plump, woman across from him. It was the panic on his face that drew Catherine to the table. Neal scrambled to his feet.

  “This is Lulu. My wife. This is Catherine, Lulu.” He acted as if his wife had come upon them in bed together.

  “I thought all the media people had decamped.”

  “Neal is writing a book,” Lulu said. “Will you join us?”

  “A book!” cried Catherine, sitting down. This was more fun than teasing Myrna.

  Neal was nervously explaining to Lulu who Catherine was. “She was Jason Phelps’s companion. Is that the right term?”

  “Jason never called me that.” The devil. Lulu smiled complacently. Well, a good look at Neal without the fog of desire explained why. Catherine found it hard to believe that she’d been smitten by this unprepossessing man.

  Myrna had come to the entrance and was peering into the bar. Catherine waved, and Myrna wheeled her suitcase bump-ily over the flagged floor to the table. To Catherine’s surprise, Neal greeted Myrna.

  “Don’t tell me you’re checking out.”

  Myrna gave him a look. Lulu was regarding Myrna with interest. What would she have seen but an almost anorexic woman with short hair and a sour puss? If Lulu had to suspect someone, Catherine wanted it to be her. No, she didn’t want that, not really. Had she ever found Neal Admirari attractive?

  “You and I are practically permanent residents here,” Neal said. “I will feel deserted.”

  “Well, now you have me,” Lulu purred. Poor Neal was going to catch hell if Catherine was any judge. But because of Myrna?

  “Catherine, can we go?”

  “Oh, do have a drink with us,” Lulu trilled.

  “I don’t drink,” Myrna said, a statement in several senses.

  A shocked silence fell. Catherine got up. “It’s so nice to meet you at last, Lulu. Neal is like a new bridegroom.”

  “That’s what he is.”

  “Really!”

  Myrna had begun to wheel her suitcase toward the exit of the bar. Catherine shrugged to the newlyweds and went after her.

  “What a loathsome man,” Myrna said in the car.

  “He’s writing a book.”

  “He doesn’t look as if he can read.”

  “You made quite an impression on him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Myrna, it’s not your fault if men find you attractive.”

  Whew. Myrna smiled smugly. What a temper the woman had.

  They got Myrna settled into her room. When Catherine told her it had been Jason’s, Myrna hesitated. “I am not superstitious.”

  “His ghost only walks at night.”

  “Stop that. Can you imagine what Jason would think if he heard you?”

  “I think he does.”

  “Catherine, please! What arrangements shall we make?”

  She meant Jason’s body. “That’s what I wanted to talk with you about, Myrna.”

  “No funeral. No public ceremony. He’ll be cremated. We’ll bury him here.”

  And that was why they were standing in the yard, having buried the urn containing Jason’s ashes some fifteen yards from the doors of his study. When Crosby came up the path, they were observing a minute of silence.

  Crosby wanted to see where Jason’s body had been found. As he said this, he glanced down at the freshly covered grave. Myrna gave the mound a final pat with the shovel.

  “We’ll plant flowers later.”

  “Oh, he’ll love that.”

  Myrna glared at her. Inside, when Catherine described how Jason had been found, fallen forward on his desk, Myrna shuddered.

  “I’ll leave you two alone.”

  After Myrna was gone, Catherine said, “She’s an incorrigible matchmaker.”

  Crosby didn’t understand, or pretended he didn’t, which was just as bad.

  VI

  “Is that paint dry?”

  Traeger was almost surprised when Crosby called, not because he knew the number—think of all the calls they had exchanged during that wild-goose chase to Pocatello; all he’d have to do was review his calls—but because he was back on the job.

  “Has he fired me?”

  “How can he fire you if he can’t find you?”

  “So we’re working together again.”

  “Right. Now where can we get together?”

  Will Crosby was a straight shooter, no doubt of that, but Traeger was wary nonetheless. It was one thing for Crosby to have his cell phone number; it would be something else to know his whereabouts.

  “How did Hannan describe your job?”

  “To find you.”

  “And then?”

  “Vic, I know you didn’t do any of those things.”

  “So do I, but a fat lot of good it’s doing me.”

  “Do you know George Worth?”

  Traeger’s wariness came back. He was sitting in Worth’s office as they talked. But Crosby couldn’t possibly know that, could he? Or was he fishing?

  “I know him.”

  “He gave me good advice. All we have to do is find the one who’s guilty and you’re off the hook.”

  “You needed Worth to tell you that?”

  “Sometimes it’s good to have the obvious stated.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “I just left Don Ibanez’s hacienda and am driving down the valley.”

  “Do you know where Palo Alto is?”

  “I can find it.”

  “Route 101 will bring you there.”

  “Where in Palo Alto?”

  “There’s a bookstore called the Old Curiosity Shop. Just ask for it.”

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  “You should be there before I am.” No need to tell Crosby he was already in the neighborhood.

  “The Old Curiosity Shop. Who r
uns it, Little Nell?”

  “Wait until you see her.”

  After hanging up, Traeger had second thoughts, but then he had third thoughts. If he couldn’t trust Crosby, he was in very deep doo-doo indeed.

  “Were you talking to yourself in there?”

  “A call from my partner.”

  “I thought you were single.”

  “An old colleague. He was working for Hannan before I was, but we were on the same job. Now that I’m missing, Hannan has brought him back.”

  “To find you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You trust him?”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  He thought of going as a jogger and checking out the bookstore to make sure Crosby had come alone. Any associates he might have would get in place early. But if Traeger jogged back and forth past that store, they would get more curious about him than the bookstore. Besides, he would be taking his backpack and joggers don’t wear backpacks.

  “Would you like me to ride shotgun?” Lowry asked.

  Traeger thought about. He liked it. “You can go as you are.” He walked to where secondhand men’s clothing was piled or hanging from rods. He picked an old gray sweatshirt and a tattered pair of jeans.

  “Tennies will go nice with those.”

  Anything but sandals. His feet were still sore from that trek to the border from Mexico City. Without a couple of truck rides, he would have been crippled. He found a pair of running shoes, huge, maybe a size fourteen. They felt nice and loose when he got them on. The bookstore was five blocks away, but they walked.

  Lowry took up vigil on the bench near the Old Curiosity Shop and opened the book he had brought. He meant to read, of course, but in the circumstances the book seemed a prop. There were benches on the opposite side of the street, at intervals of twenty-five yards, shaded. The bench Traeger wanted was already occupied by a hawk-faced woman with orange hair and a malevolent expression. She watched Traeger watching her. He whispered to her.

  “What?”

  “Is that paint dry?”

  She sprang to her feet, nearly losing her balance, and tried to get a look at her bottom. She appealed to Traeger. He shook his head.

  “Why didn’t they put up a sign?”

  Her purse, on a long strap, almost touched the sidewalk.

  “When did they paint it?” she demanded.

  “God only knows.” Traeger sat down and brought out his cigarettes. She gasped as if he were a flasher. With his arm on the back of the bench, Traeger watched her stomp away, her purse swinging rhythmically. He lit his cigarette, got out his laptop, and put his backpack on the bench to discourage company. He found that he was in a Wi-Fi area and checked the news of the day. The Drudge Report featured his photograph under which, in caps, was written FUGITIVE. That picture was at least ten years old, but Traeger hadn’t changed that much. He switched screens, checked his email, and found a message from Dortmund. “Watch your back.” Just that. He felt like the lady who thought she had sat on wet paint. He put the computer away.

  Across the street, Lowry was supine on his bench, head on its armrest, hat pulled over his eyes. His open book lay on his chest. Some shotgun.

  It was nearly two hours later that the car came slowly up the street, the driver leaning forward, scanning the storefronts. He went past the bookstore, parked, and sat in the car for several minutes before getting out. It was Crosby, in a suit and carrying a briefcase. He walked slowly past the bookstore to the bench where Lowry lay. At the sound of his voice, Lowry sat up and Crosby stepped back, all apologies. Traeger swung his backpack over a shoulder and crossed the street.

  “Is this man bothering you?” he asked Lowry.

  “Hello, Traeger. Now what?”

  “We’ll use your car.”

  Lowry had a meal to prepare, so Traeger and Crosby went to George Worth’s office to decide on a plan of action.

  “You left by the window?” Crosby asked when Traeger told him about the encounter with Arroyo in Justicia y Paz. He seemed to be enjoying the narrative too much.

  “Luckily I saw the parking lot filling up with police cruisers.”

  Crosby liked it when Traeger told him of parking in the lot across the street and waiting for Arroyo.

  “The hunted becomes the hunter.”

  Traeger scowled. “But he got away.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “It’s where we want him to be. That’s where you come in.”

  Traeger listened while Crosby made the call to Justicia y Paz and told them he had been hired by Ignatius Hannan to track down the rogue agent. He was told to hold. He took the phone away from his ear and held it out so Traeger could listen. Not Muzak to soothe the savage breast but “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The door opened and Lowry came in, still wearing his apron. The guests were being fed.

  “Will Crosby.” Crosby was addressing the phone, which was back at his ear. “Miguel Arroyo?”

  Ah. Crosby again explained the mission he was on, insisting that he needed to talk to Arroyo.

  “Where?” Crosby looked at Traeger, but Lowry took the phone from him.

  “Miguel? Lowry. Here’s my suggestion. Why don’t we meet in Santa Ana, at Bishop Sapienza’s? Of course I’ll be there.”

  He listened for a moment. “Right. Good. Más tarde.”

  Lowry hung up the phone. “Neutral territory. I don’t think he’d have agreed to come here. Besides, Santa Ana splits the distance.”

  “Is he in San Diego?”

  Lowry looked dumb. “I didn’t ask.”

  But he recouped by explaining the attractions of a Santa Ana meeting. “Arroyo thinks Sapienza is a fan of his.” The bishop, when Lowry reached him, said that he would be happy to host the great confrontation.

  It was a half hour later when the three men set off for the rendezvous in Santa Ana.

  When Traeger asked Lowry if the Catholic Worker house could get along without him, he said, “George Worth is coming back.”

  VII

  “Have you been naughty, Neal?”

  Lulu found an item on Zenit announcing that the resignation of Emilio Sapienza, bishop of Santa Ana, California, had been accepted by the Holy Father. The bishop was quoted as saying that he planned to spend his remaining years serving the poor more directly than he had been able to do as bishop. She read it aloud to Neal, who was lying on the bed in their room in the El Toro, and he just grunted in reply.

  But Lulu was so excited that she forgot all about their first real argument. What in the hell had Neal been up to out here? Every floozy in the bar acted as if she knew something Lulu didn’t. Neal’s indignant reaction when she mentioned this made it clear that something had been going on.

  “Catherine seems pretty chummy, Neal.”

  “So was the wife of Bath.”

  “Is that a confession?”

  “Lulu, sweetheart, you’re not wearing your stole.”

  “What did she wear? If anything?”

  “The wife of Bath? A terry-cloth robe.”

  “Have you been naughty, Neal?”

  If he hadn’t been, why did he get so angry? He wasn’t going to be quizzed in this way, God damn it. If she didn’t trust him, what kind of a marriage was this anyway?

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask her when you had the chance?”

  “Because I already knew the answer.”

  He stormed out of the room and Lulu went into the bathroom and cried. But it didn’t come easily; she had to force the tears, putting her face up close to the mirror and trying to see herself as a betrayed wife. Rosita, who did the rooms, probably knew everything that went on in this crummy motel, but Lulu could not bring herself to question the woman. Instead, she called the desk and asked if Myrna had checked out, knowing that she had.

  “Myrna.”

  “I don’t know her last name.”

  There was humming on the line and then, “Myrna Bit
tle? She’s no longer staying with us.”

  “Darn. When did she check in?”

  “She checked out.” The clerk became audibly less cooperative. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Good heavens, no. How many days was she here?”

  After a pause, the clerk said, “Five days.”

  “That’s what I thought. Thank you.”

  Myrna, thin as a rail, who seemed never to have learned how to smile? She tried to imagine it. She couldn’t. Catherine, now, well, Lulu knew the type. But Catherine was staying in Jason Phelps’s house. Lulu went back to the bathroom, rinsed her face, put on some lipstick, and went down to the bar. Neal was in a booth, glowering.

  “Can I buy you a drink, handsome?”

  “Ask my wife.”

  “She says it’s okay.”

  She sat next to him and bumped him over with her bottom. “I have a confession to make.”

  He looked warily at her.

  “While you were away? I don’t know what came over me, Neal. It was a regular orgy. There were three or four of them.”

  “Let’s go back to the room.”

  Afterward, exhausted, he napped, but Lulu couldn’t get to sleep so she got up and logged on and found the item on Zenit. She was still researching when he awoke.

  “I am going to do an article on that man, Neal.”

  “Definite or indefinite?”

  “Sapienza, Neal. Think of it.”

  Neal thought of it. Of course he knew how Sapienza had distinguished himself from the other bishops as soon as he was installed in Santa Ana. He had sided with the migrant workers in every dispute; he had marched; he had spoken out. But every time he was written up there was mention of Disneyland and Busch Gardens and that diminished the impact of the story, as if Sapienza were engaging in California radical chic. Neal began to respond to her enthusiasm. He sat up. He got dressed.

  “You’re right. What in the hell are we doing here?”

  “Messing around.”

  “We can do that anywhere.”