Irish Coffee

by Ralph McInerny

  “He wanted out,” she said simply. “He said there was someone else.”

  “Mary Shuster?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, all that is moot now.”

  “I had refused to let him break our engagement.”

  “You needn’t tell me this.”

  “I know. Did Fred ever mention me to you?”

  “No.”

  “And you were a good friend. I know that. He spoke of you to me.”

  “The fact is, I had no idea there was anything between Fred and Mary. Sometimes I think I miss all the obvious things.”

  She looked at him through half-closed eyes. “But not the important things?”

  “Being caught between two women can hardly be called unimportant.”

  “Not to the two women anyway. I had no idea it would drive Fred to do anything so desperate.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She drank some coffee, then spoke into the mug in a whisper. “Suicide.”

  “Do you think that’s what it was?”

  She looked surprised. “Don’t you?”

  “It’s possible, of course. Logically possible. But knowing Fred as I did I find it hard to believe.”

  “I feel the same way.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  She thought about it. “Friday. I came in on Friday to cover the Saturday game. I was there when he briefed the media.”

  “On Saturday?”

  She nodded.

  “He didn’t come to his office on Monday. His body was discovered on late Tuesday. Where do you stay when you’re in town?”

  She shifted her weight. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Is that all?”

  “What else could there be?”

  Silence. And then, “Nothing. I saw him on Sunday too. That was the last time.”

  “Ah.”

  “Not where I stay. Not at his apartment. We had a late breakfast at the Morris Inn.”

  “And that was the last time?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you returned when you heard that he was dead?”

  A little gasp. “I still can’t get used to that.”

  “You said you wanted to talk.”

  “And we are. I wanted to make a better impression on you than I had in the university club.”

  Roger sensed that there was something she wanted to learn from him rather than something she had come to tell him. He asked her about her job and she dismissed the question. “None of that seems important now.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Chicago. I have a brother there who hates Notre Dame.”

  “Poor fellow.”

  She laughed. “That’s the sort of thing he hates.”

  She stayed for forty-five minutes, then rose to go. At the door, she turned and kissed Roger on the cheek, then hurried out to her car. He watched her get in, start the motor, wave, and drive off. Strange woman.

  Roger pondered the significance of her visit but did not mention it to Phil. His thoughts turned to Fred’s apartment. When he and Greg had examined the computer there they had agreed there was nothing on the hard drive relevant to Fred’s death. As they left, the policeman on guard tried the door of the apartment to make sure it was locked, and then restored the yellow tape before sinking with a sigh into his chair. He smiled, and said, “Tough duty.”

  He indicated the bug in his ear and the wire that led to the radio in his pocket. “Rush Limbaugh.”

  The day after Naomi’s surprise visit, Roger returned with Greg to Fred’s address. He knocked on the building manager’s door and had to knock twice more before a man looked out angrily over the security chain.

  “Mr. Santander?”

  “Who are you?”

  “A detective.”

  The manager stared at Roger and then laughed.

  “You have met my partner. He was here with Jimmy Stewart.”

  “So?”

  “Could we come in for a minute?”

  “Who’s he? Another brother?”

  “Ah, you noticed the resemblance.”

  “Just a minute?”

  “If that.”

  The door closed, the chain was unhooked and the door opened.

  “No need even to sit, Mr. Santander.” Roger fumbled in the large pockets of his hooded jacket. He found what he wanted and handed it to Santander.

  “Is she the one?”

  “That’s her!”

  “Well, thank you. That’s all.”

  “But what’s it mean?”

  “We’re still working on it.”

  Santander was as reluctant to let them go as he had been to let them in. He stood in his open door and Greg assisted Roger to the car.

  “Brother,” he mumbled.

  “In a large sense of the term. All men are brothers.”

  “What did you show him?”

  “A photograph of Naomi McTear.”

  6

  “I HOPE YOU REMEMBER ME, Professor Knight.”

  “Ah, yes,” Roger said. The fellow who had come half on the run to greet him when he entered the sports information office looked familiar.

  “Anthony Boule.” The smile was replaced by a mournful expression. “I was a friend of Fred Neville.”

  “Of course. You can show me his office. I have been asked to check his computer for any light it might shed on recent events.”

  “The police asked us to keep it locked.”

  “I am here at the behest of the police.”

  A woman behind Anthony spoke. “Lieutenant Jimmy Stewart called to tell me you were coming.”

  Anthony stepped aside and a lanky young woman stood and thrust out her hand. “Thelma Maynooth. I have the key.”

  The two of them convoyed Roger to a door and Thelma unlocked it.

  Anthony said, “I thought the police took the key.”

  “This is a master key.”

  “Some security.”

  “Anthony, I could hardly turn over the master key to them. What if someone lost his key?”

  “Who locks their door anyway?”

  She ignored him. Her smile seemed to reveal more than the usual number of teeth. Something glittered at the side of her nose. It seemed to be a sequin. She turned and unlocked the door.

  “If there’s anything you need?”

  “Thank you.”

  Roger went into Fred’s office with Anthony following. He called out, “Thelma, bring us coffee, will you?”

  “Have you broken a leg?”

  “Great kidder,” Anthony said. “What are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Anthony took the great hooded coat with Notre Dame Swimming lettered across its expansive back. It was something Phil had picked up for Roger, courtesy of Fred. It had seemed to have a new significance when he told Griselda of floating across the pool in naval boot camp. Anthony hung the jacket on a coat tree and pulled out the chair behind the desk. He looked at it and then at Roger.

  “I’ll see if I can find something more comfortable.”

  “That will do.”

  Roger lowered himself tentatively into Fred’s chair, squeezing his bottom between its arms. “I may need help getting out of this.”

  Anthony laughed, but it was not a skeptical laugh.

  Roger swung the chair to the right and rolled up to the computer and turned it on. Thelma appeared with a cup of coffee and put it on the desk.

  “Thanks a lot,” Anthony said.

  “I am sure Professor Knight would prefer to do what he has to do alone.”

  Good girl. She took Anthony’s arm and led him from the office, pulling the door shut as they left.

  It has been thought that graphology would go the way of other outmoded arts—plastering, bookbinding, calligraphy—with the advent of the computer. But then it had been thought that paper would become obsolete too and far more paper was consumed in the age of the computer than i
n the age of the typewriter. The typewriter had proved to be a personalized tool, at least when used by someone like Ezra Pound. His typewritten letters had been utterly distinctive, but then he had spelled words whimsically too. Each user of a computer tends to use it in his own way, if only in the naming of files. A feature of Fred’s use was his eschewal of capitals and all punctuation other than dots in his e-mail messages. Roger began by scanning the files on the hard drive. Egan was there, doubtless the duplicate of the file he and Greg had found on the computer in Fred’s apartment. A file named ad meipsum caught Roger’s eye, and he called it up on the screen.

  It was a diary of sorts, written in the manner of Fred’s e-mail messages, block paragraphs preceded by a date. 12.©.02 marked the first entry, so the file had only recently been begun.

  Call her not naomi that is beautiful but mara that is bitter…mary has far more cause for bitterness and she is wonderfully understanding far more than I deserve…in 19th century novels like ralph the heir a man cd get engaged inadvertently, trapped by a heedless remark but this is the third millennium and a moments weakness should not carry a life sentence…post coitum triste indeed…she has taken to wearing a ring of her mothers and calling it her engagement ring…what I lack is ruthlessness…I cannot even get angry with her…I too feel that my fall has obligated me and she senses that and that is her leverage…dear God I cannot explain it to Mary, only hint, which is bad enough…the thought of asking tom to intervene comes and goes but I know that wd do it…he hates nd and consequently me and wd likely do anything to prevent his sister from being permanently connected with nd

  Roger pushed away from the computer and picked up the coffee he had been given by Thelma. As he brought it to his lips, he stopped, thinking of the cup that had been found on Fred’s bedside table. But he sipped it with relish and put it on the desk, remembering Santander’s identification of Naomi as the woman who had visited Fred’s apartment during the days he had stayed away from this office.

  “He was sure?” Phil asked.

  “He didn’t hesitate.”

  “I have to let Jimmy Stewart know.”

  “Of course. But I wanted to tell you first.”

  “What led you to show Santander Naomi’s photograph?”

  “A hunch.’

  “Thank God you had it. It may mean nothing, but it definitely takes Mary off the hook.”

  Stewart came immediately to the apartment to hear the story of the identification from Roger himself. Then he fell silent.

  “So what does it mean?”

  “She falls into the category of the woman scorned.”

  And Roger developed the thoughts that had been forming in his mind since leaving Santander. By Naomi’s own admission, she had been holding Fred to an engagement that was at best equivocal. That had been one of the reasons for his and Mary’s secrecy about their informal but far less equivocal engagement.

  “He wanted to dump her?”

  “He hadn’t even proposed to her.”

  “But the ring she was flashing for all to see?”

  “She put it on her own hand. It belonged to her mother.”

  Phil shook his head at the wiles of the woman.

  Stewart said, “She left town?”

  “She was on her way to the airport when she stopped to talk.”

  “Roger, why didn’t you tell me this yesterday?”

  “One, it probably doesn’t mean anything. Two, I thought of the effect on Mary if it became known that Naomi had visited him in his apartment.”

  “She wasn’t staying there, was she?” Stewart asked.

  “No.” Roger paused. This had not occurred to him. “Her network owns several apartments in Hoosier Residences. She was coming from there when she stopped to see me.”

  “You should have told me at once,” Stewart said.

  “He’s right, Roger.”

  “Of course, he is.”

  “You said she was on her way to Chicago? To catch another plane?”

  “She mentioned Chicago as her destination. I suppose you could check that.”

  Stewart said grimly, “I am going to check a number of things.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Phil said.”

  So it had been a somewhat crestfallen Roger who had set off for the Joyce Center in his golf cart, maneuvering along the snowy campus walks. His only consolation was that in talking to Naomi his worst suspicions had dissolved. She had been forthright, telling him far more than she had to. She needn’t have told him anything at all. But now, with Fred’s ad meipsum file on the screen before him, he could imagine that her visit had been intended to allay any suspicions he might have had. She had provided him with what would have been her motive, a woman scorned. He remembered the expression on Phil’s face. Naomi might very well be a wily woman indeed.

  He scanned through other entries in the file and came to the last, dated the Thursday before the game Naomi was in town to cover.

  It was a mistake to run up to chicago to see tom…I took the south shore and that is always a treat, having called beforehand to see if tom was there…we agreed to meet at a German restaurant…we ordered a schooner of beer and his manner did not make it easy to bring up naomi…i said something banal about how nice that a brother and sister had both ended up in sports…not as players, he said, and that seemed the end of that topic…he brought up what I had come to talk about…are you and naomi seeing one another…well, we had dinner with you…I sensed something…I shrugged, wondering what next…leave her alone, neville…I mean that…she has a great career but it wd be over if she were connected to nd…you know what I mean…tell me…how serious are you about her…I told him I was in love with another woman…that seemed to provide him momentary relief, but then he asked, does naomi know…then I tried to explain to him the dilemma I was in and he did not like the description of his sister as someone chasing after a guy who was anxious to drop her…she thinks we’re engaged, I said…thinks…I never proposed…she started wearing her mother’s ring and calling it our engagement ring…he had noticed her wearing that but had recognized it as his mother’s and didn’t see any further significance in it…he wanted to know if I had told naomi of the other woman…I’ve begged her to forget me…we hadn’t ordered any food but he waved for more beer…he was steaming…when it came he chugalugged a glass and then leaned toward me…I don’t believe a goddam word you’ve said…why did you come to me with this cock and bull story…so I told him…I hoped you wd talk to her…he sat back and glared at me…you are one arrogant sonofabitch, do you know that? Will you talk to her? He leaned forward again…I will talk to you…leave my sister alone…I don’t know what your game is but I never heard such a story in my life…promise me you will leave her alone…by then I was mad too…promise me you’ll tell her to leave me alone…that’s when he dashed what beer was left in his glass in my face and got to his feet. This is your treat, neville…you can pay the bill…he left and I wiped his beer off my face…in a way it was a successful trip…I am sure he will talk to naomi

  Roger finished his coffee. The scene Fred described was vividly before him. He wished he had found this file before taking to Stewart. Here was something more for him to check out.

  The door opened and Anthony looked in.

  “Everything going all right?”

  “Come in.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sit down.”

  Anthony shut the door and sat across from Roger, bright-eyed and receptive.

  “You knew Fred pretty well, I suppose.”

  “We were colleagues.”

  “What was there between him and Naomi McTear?”

  “Naomi! He was going out with Mary Shuster.” Anthony added quickly, “I don’t know how serious it was.”

  “But you knew both young women.”

  The corners of Anthony’s mouth went down and his shoulders went up.

  “Sure. Not all that well. Naomi was a pro and we dealt with her as one. Mary used to st
op by at the end of the day to see Fred.”

  “He never talked to you about them?”

  There was a moment during which Anthony had the look of a man about to lie. But he thought better of it. “No. We talked about everything else, but not that.”

  “His poetry?”

  “Poetry?” A quizzical smile formed on Anthony’s thin lips. The look of a man who thought his leg was being pulled.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Did Fred write poetry?”

  “He was a man of many parts. In some ways a man of mystery.”

  “You can say that again.”

  7

  AFTER SHE LEFT ROGER Knight Naomi told herself that talking with Roger Knight was just a little insurance before she talked with Tom. She would be equally frank with him this time. Two days ago she had been in Nashville, having covered the Tennessee game. Tom had called and just barked an order into the phone.

  “I want to talk with you, and I mean now!”

  “Tom?”

  “It sure as hell isn’t that leprechaun.”

  He slammed down the phone.

  Naomi had been in the shower when the phone rang and she had wrapped herself in a towel and scampered into the bedroom, certain the phone would stop ringing before she got to it. If it was someone from the channel they would have called her cell phone so she had no idea who it might be. Once it might have been Fred. She had snatched up the phone to hear the irate voice of Tom.

  What was wrong with him? It was one thing not to be an Irish fan but he seemed really to hate Notre Dame. It had been a mistake to introduce Fred to him.

  “What a wimp,” he had said afterward.

  “He is not.”

  “God made Notre Dame Number One.” He said it with a sneer.

  “Tom, he never said that.”

  “But he thinks so, doesn’t he?”

  “Well, you’re nuts about the Cubs.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “And Fred’s job is Notre Dame sports information.”

  “It’s not a job with those guys. It never is.”

  Of course she knew what underlay his rage. There is no one more bigoted than a fallen-away Catholic and Tom had plummeted like Lucifer from heaven when he fell in love with a twice-divorced woman and had been told there was no way in the world he could marry her in the church. That had been Lucille, long an item in the past, but Tom’s bitterness on that occasion had not gone away. He had been an irregular attendant at Mass before that, but then he had sworn he would never enter a Catholic church again. He seemed to think he was punishing the church. Ever since, his attitude had hardened. He was a small-bore version of Julian the Apostate, not content simply not to believe. He had to hate and oppose the thing he had left. And given Notre Dame’s prominence in sports and the fact that it was the premier Catholic university in the nation, it followed as night the day that Tom must hate and loathe Notre Dame and everything—and everyone—connected with the university. All this had been clear as could be after the disastrous dinner at the Carriage House. Tom was programmed to hate Fred Neville.