Dangerous Habits

by Susan Hunter

  “Hi, Father Lindstrom. I’m sorry it’s kind of late, but I know you’re a night owl.”

  “Yes, yes I still am. In fact, I’m just having a cup of tea,” he said. “Can I interest you in one?”

  “Sure, that would be great.”

  Father Gregory Lindstrom was the parish priest during most of Lacey’s troubled years. He’s been a good friend to our family. I really like him, even though I haven’t been a practicing Catholic since I was 12.

  He led me into the kitchen, and as he fussed around putting the kettle on to boil I asked, “How’s retirement? Everything you hoped for?”

  He half turned as he set the gas flame to the right height and gave me a rueful smile.

  “I’m afraid I’ve found that my expectations and the reality are quite different. When I was serving as a parish priest, I was anxious for the time when I could spend my days fly fishing, researching, reading and thanking God for the privilege. But after a few months, I found myself praying to Him for some real work to do.

  “It seems I value leisure only when it’s measured out in small doses. So, when the bishop called and asked me to return to St. Stephen’s while Father Sanderson is undergoing cancer treatments, I was only too happy.”

  The kettle whistled, and he prepared the tea, handing mine to me in a cup bearing the image of Mr. Spock. As he sat down at the table with his own mug, I saw it bore the phrase The Truth Is Out There. He noticed my glance. “Father Sanderson is a diehard Star Trek fan. I’ve always been an X-Files man myself.”

  We sipped for a few minutes in companionable silence, and then Father Lindstrom spoke. “Leah, I’m delighted to see you, of course. But a visit at this hour is unusual. Is there something on your mind?”

  I was finding it unexpectedly hard to get started. I began by dancing around the topic.

  “Did you know Sister Mattea Riordan, the nun who died recently?”

  “I had spoken to her once or twice but, no, I can’t say that I knew her. Was she a friend of yours?”

  “More of an acquaintance. It’s quite an operation they have out there. The Catherines. DeMoss, I mean. Why do they wear those old-fashioned habits, do you think? Most of the nuns I know—well, actually I only know two other nuns—but both of them just dress pretty regular, you know, pants and blouses and things.”

  He gave me a look that said he knew the clothing preferences of religious orders had nothing to do with what was on my mind, but he gave my inane question the same thoughtful attention he gave to every conversation.

  “There are quite a few orders that either never gave up or have returned to traditional habits. It’s a form of identification as a community, and it signifies a new way of life, like taking a new name when you take your vows, as I believe the Catherines do. A habit is a sign of commitment and perhaps a sort of protection.”

  “Protection? From what?”

  “We all wear habits, Leah, physical or emotional, as a way to protect our secret selves. I have a habit of dispassionate observation to preserve the illusion that my soul is untouched by the messier pangs of human emotion.” He paused and took a sip of his tea.

  “You have a habit of cynical wit to mask the pain of a loss-filled life. The physical habits the Catherines wear may be important to them as a way to help protect their integrity as a community of faith. But they are far less interesting and certainly far less dangerous than the emotional habits we all use to cover ourselves. Don’t you agree?”

  And, we’re done. A look-see at my psyche was definitely not where I wanted to go then. Or ever. Father Lindstrom’s incisive observation did have the benefit of plunging me right into the subject I’d come to discuss.

  I set down my cup and opened the floodgates, telling him everything that had happened since Sister Mattea’s body was found. He didn’t say anything, just let me unload my suspicions, my guilt and my theories.

  “So, everyone thinks I’m overreacting. Mom is really mad, because I questioned Paul Karr tonight, and Ellie thinks I’m going to give Max a heart attack, or make him lose the paper, or both, and Coop just thinks I’m on the wrong track and too stubborn to admit it. And what if I am? What if all of them are right, and I’m all wrong?” I wound down. I half-expected him to tell me something about letting go and forgiving myself and letting God take care of things and blah, blah, blah. But I should have known better.

  “What about you, Leah? What does your experience, your instinct, your heart tell you?” He had taken off his black plastic rimmed glasses and was carefully polishing the lenses.

  “That Lacey’s death wasn’t an accident. That she was crying for help for years but I didn’t hear her. That now I do, I can’t ignore it. I have to find the truth. I have to know the answers.”

  “Well, then. Does it really matter what others are telling you? Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flows the springs of life.”

  “You know I’m not much into the Bible stuff. That is the Bible, right?”

  “Yes. Proverbs 4:23. Follow your heart, Leah, but be careful. It can lead you toward the darkness as well as toward the light.” His eyes behind his thick lenses were steady and serious.

  A little shiver ran through me and a sudden suspicion arose. “You know something, don’t you, Father?”

  He shook his head. “About Lacey’s death? No.”

  “What then?”

  He took a last sip from his mug of tea. “Finding the truth isn’t always the same as finding the answers, Leah. It requires great discernment to know which is most important.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When you need to understand, you will.” He stifled a small yawn, and though I was far from satisfied with his answer, I felt guilty when I looked at my watch and saw it was nearly 12:30.

  “I’m sorry for keeping you up, Father. I’d better get going. Thanks for, well, thanks for being here.”

  “My door is always open, Leah.”

  Finding the truth about Lacey was always on my mind, but work that week didn’t give me much chance to do anything about it. In addition to the regular paper, we were putting out a special section: Summer Fun in Grantland County, allegedly a celebration of the wonders of Wisconsin—our piece of it, anyway. In reality, it was an attempt to generate additional ad revenue. Max and the sales guys had been beating the bushes for business from the local pontoon factory, the festival and fair committees, restaurants, canoe rentals, and any other business remotely linked to summer activities.

  That meant writing a ton of puff pieces designed to please the advertisers who purchased space in the section. It went against every journalistic bone in my body—and it used to Max’s, too. It was a sign of how desperate he was for revenue. Other times I might have mouthed off, but things were not that great between us at the moment, so I shut up, hunkered down, and cranked out the copy.

  On Saturday morning, I was at the office writing a piece describing the joys of kayaking down the Himmel River, with quotes from expert kayaker Punk Onstott. Punk, not coincidentally, was the owner of Onstott Hardware & Sporting Goods selling a full range of quality kayaks and accessories. I paused for a minute and leaned back in my chair for a good stretch, then jumped when I saw a figure looming in the doorway. “You scared me! What are you doing here, Miguel?”

  He looked perfect, even on a weekend morning, wearing dark wash skinny jeans, a navy striped shirt, a close fitting gray vest and a pair of Converse sneakers. He sat down on the corner of my desk.

  “I could ask the same, chica. If I knew you were here, I would’ve brought you a chai latte. Of course, if you showed up to meet me and Coop at the Elite, like you were supposed to, you could’ve got your own.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot! I just—”

  “Hey, I’m cool. Coop’s the one who was not so happy. What’s with you two?”

  “He thinks I should leave Lacey’s death alone. That I’m not being objective, I have too much guilt to see things clearly.”

  “Well,
do you?”

  I shook my head. “Of course, I feel guilty. I am guilty. I did about a thousand and one things wrong, and if I hadn’t maybe Lacey would be alive. But that doesn’t mean that everything I’ve found out doesn’t count.”

  “Dígame. And don’t leave anything out.”

  I’d done my best to avoid Miguel since my meeting with Cole. I didn’t want Max getting mad at him for getting caught up in my Lacey drama. I should have known that wouldn’t work for long. I told him my current working theory. Miguel was a much more receptive audience than anyone else had been to date.

  “So, if I accept that Cole is telling the truth, which at the moment I do, then I have to find out who abused Lacey, because there’s a damn good chance that he had something to do with her death. So far I’ve talked to Paul Karr—”

  “Your mamá’s boyfriend?” His eyes widened.

  “He’s not her boyfriend.”

  “No?”

  “Well, she’s a little old for a ‘boyfriend,’ don’t you think?”

  He laughed. “Chica, just because you got no social, don’t try to step all over your mamá’s. She’s a pretty lady. She should have some fun. So should you, but you, you are so obstinada! But I’m not giving up.”

  “Yeah, well, whatever. I want her to have fun. And I know that Paul’s always seemed like a good guy, but…”

  “So why did you accuse mamá’s boyfriend?”

  “You sound like my mother,” I snapped. “I didn’t accuse him. I just asked some questions; that’s what reporters do. Don’t you want to be one of those when you grow up?”

  He looked surprised. And hurt.

  “I’m sorry. That was nasty. I should be snapping at myself. I’m so frustrated. I feel like I’m going nowhere. Maybe I’m too close to this. Maybe I shouldn’t do it.”

  “Chica! Don’t talk crazy. You have to try. You always have to try for your family.”

  I knew he understood in a way that Coop couldn’t. When he was 16, Miguel’s older cousin was collateral damage in a robbery gone wrong in Milwaukee. Miguel was a witness, and got a beatdown to keep him from testifying, but he did anyway. Afterward, his mother sent him to Himmel to live with his Aunt Lydia and Uncle Craig.

  “You can do it. I can help you. I’m a professional reporter, mi querida. It says so right here on my notebook.” He held up the narrow flip-top pad most journalists use to take notes. The brand we used at the Times had the words Professional Reporter’s Notebook on the front cover. I laughed.

  “You’re right, Jimmy Olsen, it does.”

  “So, who do you think besides Paul Karr?”

  “Miller Caldwell.”

  “The bank guy? The one who’s running for senator? You think he abused Lacey?”

  “He could have. He had plenty of opportunity. Lacey took care of the Caldwell kids all the time. She even went on trips with them once in a while. And he was at the Catherines’ the night Lacey disappeared.”

  He still looked skeptical.

  “But Miller Caldwell—he gives big money, I’m talking serious dinero, to that foundation for abused kids.”

  “I know. He’s also on the board at DeMoss Academy. But think about it. Maybe he protests too much. Maybe he does so much good to make up for doing so much bad.”

  “I don’t know, chica. I think—”

  “Look, I’m not saying he’s the one. But you asked. Then there’s Father Hegl.”

  “The priest at DeMoss? Why?”

  “He knew Lacey before she went there, and he never said a word to me. He had plenty of opportunities to be alone with her when he was directing The Wizard of Oz. And he’s a charmer if you like the type. He’d be able to manipulate a teenage girl, and smart enough to figure out what would keep her quiet after.”

  “OK, well, let me help. I’ll take the padre, see what I can find out about his back story.”

  “No, seriously, I can’t let you do that. I’m likely to make a lot people mad, including Max, and I don’t want you tangled up in that.”

  “Too late, chica. I already wrote it down in my notebook. Now, it’s official. I gotta follow the lead.”

  I hadn’t talked to Marilyn Karr since Lacey’s funeral and then it had been a stilted thank-you-for-coming conversation. She had looked very Vogue in a black dress, her carefully highlighted auburn hair pulled back in a French twist, her expert make-up unmarred by tears of sympathy. She didn’t reach out to hug me the way most people did, just held out her hand for me to take, then withdrew it and gave me a slight nod.

  I had never gotten over the habit of calling her Mrs. Karr, and around her I always felt as though I should be apologizing in advance for social errors she could see in my future.

  But for this conversation we needed to be on equal footing. I wanted to check Paul’s story. If his car really wasn’t working, and Marilyn really did get home around 11:30 just as he was getting there too, that would mean he hadn’t been back at the Catherines’ running into Lacey after Cole dumped her. I practiced calling her Marilyn in my head until the name came easily before I punched in her number.

  “Marilyn? Hi. It’s Leah, Leah Nash.”

  “Leah?” she sounded surprised as well she might. The last time I had called her was never.

  “Yes. Hey, I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday afternoon, but do you have just a minute to talk?”

  “I am rather busy—”

  “This will just take a minute.”

  “Well,” she hesitated, but curiosity got the better of her. “Yes, I suppose so, Leah.”

  “Great.” A brief but awkward silence fell as I tried to summon up the appropriate tone for the questions I was going to ask.

  “Great,” I repeated.

  “Yes,” she said with some impatience. “I really would appreciate it if you got to the point?”

  “Right. Sorry. Marilyn, do you remember the night of the DeMoss fundraising dinner, the night my sister Lacey disappeared?”

  “Your sister? Leah, I don’t understand—”

  “You do remember that she disappeared the night of the dinner, right?”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose so. It’s been so long—”

  “You were at the dinner with Paul, and he left early with Miller Caldwell.”

  “Yes,” she said, obviously puzzled. “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “Was Paul just getting home when you got back from the dinner around 11:30? Was he walking because he had car trouble?”

  She didn’t answer immediately, and in the pause that followed I heard what sounded like wine glugging into a glass and then a long swallow. Possibly Marilyn enjoyed a late afternoon cocktail hour. “Why don’t you ask your mother about Paul’s whereabouts that night?”

  “My mother?”

  Another swallowing sound. “I know Carol Nash is seeing Paul. Probably was seeing him for years before our divorce.”

  “That’s not true. My mother wouldn’t do that.”

  “Oh really? Well, all I know is Paul left me at the dinner with some ridiculous excuse about taking care of Miller’s tooth. And he never came back. It was humiliating. I’d like to forget everything about that night. I wasn’t even seated at the bishop’s table. Sister Julianna was. And Reid Palmer was. But not me. No, not the person who served as fundraising chair for three years. No. I was seated next to Sister Margaret and one of the DeMoss scholarship winners. It was unbelievable!”

  She said it as though she’d been relegated to sit in the fireplace ashes next to Cinderella. I tried to get her back on track with Paul’s movements that night, but she was determined to air her grievances.

  “You must have been glad when the night ended. When you got home—”

  “It was an interminable evening. Sister Margaret would not stop bleating about her mundane duties, and that scholarship child talked of nothing but her pathetic ‘future.’ And then Reid deliberately undermined me.

  “He said he ‘forgot’ the large-scale drawing of the new rec cente
r I wanted to use in my after-dinner speech. He said he’d go to the administration building to get it right away, but he didn’t come back until my speech was over. In fact it was after eleven and the dinner was over before he showed back up. Everyone was leaving.

  “Oh, he was so apologetic, said he had trouble locating it. He poured on that phony Southern charm. But I wasn’t fooled. I was a threat to his dictatorship on the board, so he ruined the recognition I should have gotten that night.

  “I resigned the next morning. And I take great pleasure in knowing they still haven’t raised the funds to complete that center.”

  “I’m glad you found the silver lining. I’m sorry the evening was so disappointing.”

  “I never think about it. I’ve moved on.” Another long swallow.

  “I don’t want to keep you, Marilyn, but I did just want to clarify that after the dinner, Paul arrived home about the same time you did, around 11:30.”

  “He wasn’t home when I got there. I have no idea when he got in, but his car was in the driveway when I got up the next morning. I don’t have any more time for this now. Or ever. If I were you, I’d ask your mother where she was that night. Goodbye, Leah.”

  And we’re done. Or at least Marilyn was.

  Paul’s tone was frosty when I called to check Marilyn’s version of the story.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Paul. I just had a conversation with your wife—your ex-wife—that has me confused.”

  “I think you’re confused about a lot of things, Leah.”

  “Marilyn said you weren’t there when she got home, and she didn’t see you again until the morning. And your car was in the driveway when she got up.”

  “Of course it was. I called the garage, and they jumped it and drove it back home for me.”

  “You didn’t say that before.”

  “You seem to be under the impression that I owe you some kind of minute-by-minute accounting of my life. I don’t. Marilyn is either misremembering—an unfortunate side effect of her drinking—or she’s lying.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “She enjoys wreaking havoc. Maybe she has that in common with you.”