Ash Wednesday

by Ralph McInerny

  “Hmm.”

  “Everybody was pretty excited, of course.”

  They sat there and thought of the vehicle that supposedly had forced Schmidt into Helen Burke’s lane, thus forcing her into the bridge abutment. Even if true, how could there be anything premeditated about it?

  Maxwell said, “I’m still awaiting word on Schmidt’s Detroit address before he moved in with the widow.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “You got anything for me?”

  “Marie Murkin likes him.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “The parish housekeeper.”

  “Tell her to be careful.”

  * * *

  Dr. Pippen was fascinated by the story of Helen’s will that was embedded in the story Tetzel had written about Jason Burke.

  “The son, of course. But all those distant cousins.”

  “And there’ll be more.”

  “How so?”

  “Nathaniel Green’s will, when he goes.”

  “Oh, Cy, that poor old man.”

  Pippen had responded to the story of Florence Green’s death and Nathaniel’s trial and conviction with unfeigned sympathy. His release from prison had been the subject of another Tetzel tearjerker and enlisted Pippen’s sympathy even more. Nathaniel’s decision to leave most of his money to his vindictive sister-in-law won her permanent allegiance.

  “Is it true that the case will be reopened, Cy?”

  “No.”

  “But that story in the paper …”

  “Was a story in the paper. Tell me what you know of oxygen.”

  “We’d be dead without it.”

  “Exactly.”

  He told Pippen about the oddity of Florence Green’s life support system. “Nathaniel said he had removed the mask from her face and thus killed her. How soon that was noticed at the nurses’ station is hard to say. In any case, the oxygen petcock on the wall had been turned off.”

  “Before or after?”

  “By whom is the question. Until I talked to him, Nathaniel never mentioned turning it off, only removing the mask.”

  “I suppose a nurse would have turned it off when she saw what he had done.”

  “But turning it off could have alerted the nurses’ station.”

  “You must have looked into this at the time.”

  She might have kicked him in the shins. Cy had been kicking himself ever since he remembered the oxygen tap. Nearly a decade later. His only consolation was that memories of such long-ago events were untrustworthy.

  “What will the one who got the house do with it?”

  “Madeline Clancy? Who knows? She’s unmarried.”

  “If she wants to sell, Dr. Kildare and I might be interested.” Kildare was her name for the ob-gyn she had married.

  “I’m told it has a ballroom.”

  “Shall we dance?”

  Cy said nothing. His expression did not change. But his stomach turned slowly over at the thought of gliding across the floor with Pippen in his arms.

  Eugene Schmidt came back to tell Father Dowling that his difficulties with the doctrine of the Trinity were all cleared up.

  “How did that happen?”

  “Natalie explained it by means of the three-leaf clover.”

  “Many have found that helpful,” Father Dowling said carefully.

  “So what’s next?”

  “How far have you gotten with the catechism?”

  “Natalie gave me this.” He pulled out an old Baltimore Catechism. “She says this is much simpler. I like the way it begins.”

  “ ‘Why did God make me?’”

  Schmidt nodded. “That gets you right into it, doesn’t it?”

  Father Dowling’s interest in this unusual catechumen had been quickened by Amos Cadbury’s intention to have the man’s past looked into. Someone named Maxwell had been asking around, arousing Marie’s indignation.

  “What’s the world coming to, Father Dowling? We’re surrounded by spies.”

  “What did he want to know?”

  “The family’s put him up to this, you know.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “He didn’t have to! Who else would it be?”

  “You told him all you know?”

  “I gave him an earful, certainly.”

  “Marie, why would you think the family hired him?”

  Marie made an impatient sound. “Natalie. Especially now that she’s inherited all that money.”

  “Eugene was interested in her before that happened, wasn’t he?”

  “Of course. Not that Natalie didn’t already have plenty.”

  “Really?”

  Marie’s expression was a knowing one, but her lips were sealed. Who knew what plenty meant for Marie Murkin? Or Eugene Schmidt, for that matter. “Did you tell the investigator that?”

  “If he needs me to tell him, he’s not much of an investigator.”

  “Does he know your net worth, Marie?”

  “Ha.”

  “For all we know his coming around to see you was just a ruse.”

  “A ruse?”

  “Maybe Eugene Schmidt isn’t the only one attracted to handsome widows.”

  “He can eat his heart out for all I care.”

  And off she went to her kitchen.

  * * *

  It was Phil Keegan who told Father Dowling what had been learned thus far about Eugene Schmidt.

  “A broken-hearted widow in Detroit?”

  “Un-uh. She married someone else.” Phil contemplated the ash of his cigar as if it were a symbol of lost hopes.

  “Before he left?”

  Phil didn’t know. He would put the question to Cy. Meanwhile he had come to watch the Cubs on television. During a lull, he said that someone was loading up Jason Burke with liquor. First there had been a refrigerator full of beer at his shoe store, and then a case of scotch showed up in a back room. Jason had thought his clerk, Eric, was trying to lead him astray so that his own importance to the business would be clear.

  “And?”

  “The kid laughed when he was told the cost of a case of scotch. He has a base salary and gets a cut on each pair of shoes he sells. Buying beer and liquor for the boss just doesn’t figure in his budget.”

  Amos Cadbury came by the next day and wondered if the Detroit widow wasn’t reason enough to warn Natalie that she was being pursued by a fortune hunter.

  “His interest dates from before the inheritance, Amos.”

  “She had money then.”

  “Her own?”

  Amos nodded.

  “But how could Schmidt know that? Most of the seniors were surprised to learn that Helen Burke was so well off. If she told Schmidt herself, she wouldn’t need any warning, would she?”

  Amos wasn’t sure. “You couldn’t have a conversation with her, could you, Father Dowling?”

  “About that? Good Lord, no.”

  Amos nodded. “I couldn’t do it myself.”

  Two days later, Natalie and Eugene came to the rectory to announce that they intended to marry. They had decided not to wait until Eugene became a Catholic.

  “Is that your intention, Eugene?”

  “There are one or two difficulties still, Father.”

  “I see.”

  “Original sin, for one.”

  Natalie smiled tolerantly. “I told him all he has to do is believe it, not explain it.”

  Father Dowling wondered how long Natalie would have had to wait if Schmidt’s conversion was a condition of their marrying. He got down to business, explaining that he would want Eugene’s baptismal certificate. The little mustache twitched.

  “I don’t think I ever was baptized.”

  “Oh, Eugene. You must have been.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Of course you don’t remember. You were a babe in arms.” The description was fraught with tenderness.

  “Sure I would.” Eugene seemed to be thinking. “We were Baptists.”r />
  “No infant baptism,” Father Dowling remarked. “Were you ever married before?”

  The couple exchanged a look. Natalie said, “We’ve talked about that, Father. It wasn’t what you would call a marriage anyway.”

  “A wedding chapel in Las Vegas,” Schmidt said sheepishly. “I had met her the night before in one of the clubs. I was very young.”

  “You divorced?”

  “She divorced me.” “Ah.”

  Eugene Schmidt’s past became more mysterious as the interview continued. What had he done for a living?

  “What I haven’t done would be a better question, Father. I’ve been a rolling stone.” He took Natalie’s hand. “Now I’ve come to rest at last.”

  Natalie wanted a May wedding, and Father Dowling booked them for the first Saturday in May. Weddings were now a rare event at St. Hilary’s. Perhaps Schmidt’s past would become less mysterious before then.

  At least Eugene Schmidt’s Nevada marriage seemed cleared up. Father Dowling mentioned it to Amos Cadbury, who passed on the information to Maxwell.

  Two days later, the lawyer called. “There is no record of a divorce in Nevada, Father.”

  Father Dowling looked at the appointment book, open on his desk. Would he have to X out that entry for the first Saturday in May?

  “There is no record of a marriage, either,” Amos said.

  “It all sounded very vague, Amos.”

  “Vagueness seems to characterize the man’s past.”

  Father Dowling talked to Eugene alone.

  The dapper little man seemed surprised. “You checked up on it?”

  “Amos Cadbury is the family lawyer, Eugene. He thought it best to look into it.”

  Schmidt laughed. “Do you know, Father, I’m really not surprised. I’m afraid neither of us was completely sober at the time.”

  “What was the woman’s name?”

  After some moments, Schmidt said, “Holly. Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s what it was. Holly.”

  “A last name?”

  “She was more interested in acquiring mine.”

  “There seems to be no record of the marriage.”

  Schmidt threw up his hand. “Now I wish I hadn’t mentioned it.”

  “Are there other things I should know, Eugene?”

  “As I told you, Father, I’ve been a rolling stone, but there’s nothing else that could prevent my marrying Natalie.”

  Father Dowling wished he could believe the man. Did Natalie realize what she was getting into? He had seldom seen a young bride more enthralled with her prospective husband than Natalie Armstrong was with Eugene Schmidt.

  He decided he would ask Madeline Clancy’s advice on how to deal with this sensitive subject.

  Tuttle heard about Maxwell from Peanuts, who had seen the investigator with Cy Horvath.

  “What’s he looking into?”

  Peanuts didn’t know. His was a limited curiosity, but Tuttle was glad that the slow-witted Pianone had at least taken notice of Maxwell and brought the information to him. Now the question was, what could he do with it? A little scouting around told Tuttle that Cy Horvath was now on the same quest as Maxwell. What that quest was emerged from a chat with Herman the German in his basement apartment at St. Hilary’s school.

  “Geez,” Herman said, accepting the six-pack Tuttle had brought to smooth the waters. “What’s the guy wanted for, anyway?”

  “You’d probably know better than anyone else.”

  “Me!” Herman was alarmed. Ratting on Schmidt or anyone else was not in his repertoire. “You want one of these?” He pulled a can loose from the plastic rings from which six cans swung like toneless chimes.

  “Thank you.”

  Herman reluctantly handed over one of the beers, took another for himself, and put the four remaining in his fridge. It looked empty to Tuttle.

  “You fix your own meals or what?”

  “I eat at the rectory.”

  Tuttle was surprised, so Herman went on to explain his early dinners in the rectory kitchen. “But it’s what she prepares for him.”

  “Him” would be Father Dowling. “Herman, people would kill to get a job like yours.”

  The only fly in the ointment was Marie Murkin, who seemed to think she was Herman’s boss. “I got a boss other than the Father it would be Edna Hospers.”

  “A wonderful woman,” Tuttle said unctuously. “I suppose you knew her husband … before.”

  Herman shrugged. “It all depends on what you mean by ‘knew.’”

  “You ever think of running for president?”

  Herman didn’t get it. Well, maybe he hadn’t followed the news closely when he was in Joliet. “He was out here the other day,” Herman said.

  That did not seem a special event to Tuttle, until Herman mentioned Earl had been checking out the center’s shuttle bus.

  “Was there damage to it?”

  “Ask him.” Herman tipped back his can and drank thirstily.

  Tuttle nodded, as if making a note of the suggestion. “Did Maxwell talk to Eugene Schmidt?”

  “Ask him.”

  Tuttle nodded at this sage advice. “Wasn’t Schmidt driving the bus when the accident happened?”

  “Accident! He says it was all his fault. For days he talked about nothing else. Swerved right into the path of her car without looking into the rearview mirror. All the old people were whooping it up behind him, and then some guy cut in front of him and he swerved into the right lane to avoid getting hit. The bus went bumping onto the shoulder and nearly turned over. When Schmidt got out, he looked back and saw the car crumpled into the bridge abutment.”

  “You sound like you were there.”

  “I got it, blow by blow. He couldn’t shut up about it. He practically begged the police to run him in.”

  Herman finished his beer and crunched the can. “Another?” he asked as if he were willing Tuttle to say no.

  “I’m fine. I brought the beer for you.”

  Herman got a fresh can from the fridge and popped the tab. He settled back in his chair now. He was still three cans to the good, and he was ready to shoot the bull with Tuttle.

  “You were Nathaniel Green’s lawyer, weren’t you?” Herman asked.

  “Was? I still am.”

  This was a delicate point. Nathaniel had yet to come to him since the reading of Helen Burke’s will. Not that he was a beneficiary or anything, but as Tuttle saw it his client had been absolved of the will Tuttle had drawn up for him, leaving the lion’s share to his sister-in-law.

  “Call him,” Hazel had urged. Reading about all that money changing hands had her salivating. Surely some portion of it should come to Tuttle & Tuttle. Tuttle liked the thought so much he didn’t tell her how unlikely it was. Of course, Nathaniel had promptly paid the bill Hazel sent him after Tuttle drew up his new will.

  He had been as surprised as anyone that Helen hadn’t left the whole bundle to her son, Jason. Jason was a loser, but blood is thicker than water. Unless Nathaniel changed his will, Madeline Clancy and Natalie Armstrong were in for another bonanza when the old man died.

  “He around?”

  “Who?”

  “Nathaniel Green.”

  “They don’t check in with me, Tuttle.”

  “You two have more in common than anyone else here, Herman.”

  “Nathaniel didn’t kill his wife,” Herman said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he confessed.”

  “That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “To a priest. He told me. Look, it’s like Schmidt claiming he’s responsible for that accident. If he was, he would have shut up about it.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Now he’s getting married.”

  “Nathaniel?” Tuttle sat forward in alarm as if prey he had been stalking had been jumped by another predator.

  Herman gurgled. “Ha. No, Schmidt.”

  “Come on. Who’s the lucky lady, Marie Mur
kin?”

  Beer improved Herman’s sense of humor. His laughter made Tuttle feel like a wit. “Natalie Armstrong.”

  Tuttle fell back. “She’s loaded.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Herman said.

  “What am I thinking?”

  “The lady comes into money and right away Schmidt goes for her.”

  “It would be a powerful incentive.”

  “He was sweet-talking her long before the accident.” Herman made it sound like proof of true love.

  “They’re really getting married?”

  “They’ve talked to the priest. Schmidt doesn’t even have to turn Catholic first.”

  Herman crunched his empty can and took another beer from the fridge, not offering Tuttle one this time.

  Here was food for thought. No wonder Amos Cadbury had put Maxwell on the trail of Eugene Schmidt. The man had been a frequent presence at the St. Hilary senior center for months, but where had he come from? Who was he? Tuttle could understand that Amos Cadbury did not like the thought of a stranger coming to town and marrying a woman whose lawyer he was. Particularly when that woman had some money of her own, had just come into a packet from Helen Burke’s will, and stood to add to all that when Nathaniel Green bit the dust. Whatever secrets there might be in Schmidt’s past would not be secret long.

  Tuttle went off to the courthouse and looked into the pressroom. Only Rebecca was there.

  “Where’s the ace reporter, sweetheart?”

  “The two of clubs is across the street.”

  “I have half a mind to give the scoop to you.”

  “Half a mind is all you’ve got, Tuttle.”

  Why couldn’t he josh with Hazel like this? He could propose to Rebecca and she would go right on hitting her keyboard.

  “Too bad about the smoke-free ordinance.”

  Rebecca tossed her head. “We’re protected.”

  “Then you haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what!” She swung from her computer and looked open-mouthed at Tuttle.

  “Of course, it’s just a rumor.”

  “For God’s sake, tell me.” She was nervously lighting a cigarette although a half-smoked one still tilted from her ashtray.