Dead Wrong

by William Kienzle

  Running through the outskirts of this area in an endless circle was the People Mover, a series of automated cars that, filled or empty, rattled regularly on their elevated tracks.

  Ordinarily, Brenda Monahan brown-bagged it for lunch at the chancery. At one time, downtown workers had had an abundance of fine restaurants available for lunch or dinner. Famed and prized eateries such as the Money Tree, the Pontchartrain Wine Cellars, and the renowned London Chop House now were but a memory.

  Today, however, Brenda was going to lunch with her “sister,” Mary Lou.

  The last time they’d been in each other’s presence was at Oona’s dreadful, aborted birthday party, a party shattered by Mary Lou’s pointed denunciation of Brenda’s affair with Ted Nash. A casual observer might reasonably have assumed that the two young women would never converse again.

  But this was not their first—nor would it be their last—falling-out. Over the years, the relationship had gone repeatedly from wrangling to reconciliation, marked by a long trail of apologies on the part of Mary Lou—followed by a reciprocal trail of forgivenesses on Brenda’s part.

  For now, a state of peace and sisterly concern existed between the two.

  The occasion for this luncheon was a celebration of Mary Lou’s new job. She was about to become secretary and general business manager at St. Raphael parish in Garden City. It was a desirable position with a good salary, and she would be working for a good priest who was the closest thing Detroit had to Mother Teresa.

  Rather than meeting in Brenda’s office, the two women met in the lobby of the chancery. It was easier than subjecting Mary Lou to the building’s obstructive security system.

  As soon as Brenda exited the elevator, the two began chatting. They kept up their animated conversation throughout the trip to Greektown on the People Mover. They were a bit early for the noon crowd. And even at lunch hour, few restaurants had much if any overflow patronage; they were seated immediately.

  Each ordered coffee and Greek salad, appropriate, they thought for a Greek restaurant. They were correct on both counts.

  “Well,” Brenda said, “are you happy with your new job, Lou?”

  “I’m pretty sure I will be. That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.” Brenda was the only person who called her “Lou.” Mary Lou enjoyed the informality. If the name had displeased her, all could be sure she would let that be known.

  “You wanted to talk to me about St. Raphael’s?”

  “I want to know what I’m getting into.”

  Considering Mary Lou’s track record, Brenda considered it a smart move for Lou to get a second—or even third, or fourth—opinion. With her patchwork employment history, it behooved both Mary Lou and any prospective employer to check things pretty thoroughly.

  “I don’t know all that much about Raphael’s,” Brenda said. “Mainly the finances, I suppose.”

  “I’m supposed to be business manager of the place. It wouldn’t hurt if I knew how sound it is.”

  Brenda nodded. “Okay. When you got the job, I looked into St. Raphael’s. I guess I was as concerned as you are. It’s not swimming in dough, but it’s solvent. Didn’t you get any of this information from Father Pool?”

  Mary Lou sighed. “I couldn’t find out too much about the place. He was too busy finding out about me.”

  “Huh?”

  “He wanted to know if I was satisfied with everything. My office, the furniture, the machines. Was there anything I needed or wanted?”

  Brenda giggled.

  “Honestly,” Mary Lou said, “it was like I was interviewing him rather than vice versa. He couldn’t have been more solicitous. But, the bottom line is, I didn’t find out much about the parish.”

  “Well,” Brenda said, “right there you’ve got the good news and the bad. He couldn’t be a better guy to work for. But he’s the opposite of an efficient money man.”

  Mary Lou seemed suddenly worried. “Have I done it again? Am I in over my head? Is this another six-month job?”

  Brenda waited while the waitress served their salads. Then she spoke. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. Father Pool may be a living saint. He just doesn’t pay much attention to a Dun & Bradstreet rating. This is his third parish as pastor. While he didn’t leave the others bankrupt, they did end up hanging on the fiscal ropes. He just doesn’t pay that much attention to finances. For instance, he doesn’t accept stipends for just about anything—baptisms, weddings, funerals, luncheons after funerals. About the only thing he accepts is a fee for rental of the parish hall for wedding receptions … and then only because he wants to discourage couples from using the hall for that.

  “See, he thinks receptions like that ought to be held in commercial halls. But rather than forbid the use of the parish—because he doesn’t want to hurt the couple’s feelings—he charges for the hall’s use. And, of course, the people couldn’t care less about the money; they expect to pay for a hall, whichever one they use.”

  “Well, for heaven’s sake—”

  “That’s not all,” Brenda continued. “He never, ever, talks about money from the pulpit. He just obviously is more concerned about people than finances. And that seems to be the way his flock prefers it.”

  “Oh, my God!” Mary Lou, feeling she might have lost her appetite, laid her fork down. “I’m business manager for a place that has no business.”

  “It’s not as bad as all that.” Brenda smiled. “Actually, you’re in better shape than it seems.”

  “Oh?”

  “As much as Father Pool doesn’t want to hurt his parishioners’ feelings, much more he doesn’t want to offend you. When it comes to parish finances, you can write the ticket. I’ve got it pretty well figured out based on his personality and history. You’re never going to get him to talk about or ask for money. But that’s okay. You’ll be the one who schedules weddings, funerals, baptisms. Get the money up front. There’s nothing wrong with that. The stipends for these services are set by the archdiocese. Just don’t require any more than the law does.”

  “What if people complain to him?”

  Brenda shook her head. “No problem. He knows the people should make their offerings. He just can’t bring himself to ask for them—or even accept them. You get them. He won’t object. In fact, he’ll be grateful you’re taking care of what he knows he should be doing.

  “Then, he’s got the pulpit, but you’ve got the parish bulletin. Keep an open, running account in the bulletin of the parish budget as compared with the weekly offerings. Keep after the parishioners through the bulletin.

  “They know the place can’t run on good will alone. Oh, they like to think it can, especially since they’re never reminded that they need to support the place. But at Raphael’s, the people have the money; it’s just that they would rather keep the money than give it away … a natural enough sentiment.

  “The thing is, Lou, you can do it. It’s right down your alley. It’s practically made to order for you.”

  Mary Lou tentatively picked up her fork and resumed eating. At length, she said, “You know an awful lot about this thing, don’t you?”

  “What thing?”

  “This Archdiocese of Detroit.”

  Brenda smiled. “I work for it.”

  “You’re a secretary! I’ve been a secretary more times than I like to remember. Depending on the boss, secretaries know as much as they want. As much as they want to get involved, that is. But you know an awful lot about the Detroit Church.”

  “I guess so,” Brenda admitted. “But see: It worked out pretty well for you, didn’t it?”

  “I have to admit.”

  As they ate in silence for a few moments, Brenda studied Mary Lou. She was dressed up, rather more than usual. And she looked good.

  Ordinarily, Mary Lou’s hair looked the same whether she had just gotten out of bed or had just washed and combed it. All those tight little curls. But today it looked different. She must have had it cut and shaped. It could
still be improved. But better.

  She’d paid more attention to her clothes too, and it showed. By and large, with a good bit of attention, she might just be stunning.

  And if she were, then what?

  Then a man. A serious man. Not somebody who would chase her till he caught her and then discard her. No, for this, she would need help and support. That Brenda could and would supply.

  If Mary Lou were to find Mr. Right, most of her problems would be solved. No more drifting from one job to another. No more insecurity and loneliness. Fulfillment.

  It would be almost as big a consolation and joy for Maureen as it would be for Mary Lou. Maureen worried a lot over the ultimate insecurity of her “daughter.” Seeing her settled down and reliably cared for would put Maureen’s concern to rest.

  While Brenda’s evaluation of Mary Lou’s upcoming job situation was accurate in every detail, Brenda knew that she had oversimplified Mary Lou’s ability to handle the problems she was about to encounter.

  Could Mary Lou actually accomplish all this fiscal stability in the face of almost no encouragement or support from the pastor? The feat would require a strong personality. Did Mary Lou fit the bill? Maybe.

  But in her heart, Brenda doubted it.

  And then what? Lou would be out of another job and at loose ends. Maureen would be distraught. Back to square one for the umpteenth time.

  No, marriage was the answer. Or somehow, a sudden influx of a great deal of money. But where in the world would that come from?

  When Mary Lou spoke again, Brenda was so lost in thought she was startled.

  “Did you get me this job?”

  “Me! What gave you that idea?”

  “The way you explained everything so well. It’s as if you planned the whole thing.” She fluttered a hand at Brenda. “Don’t get me wrong; I’m grateful. If I’m supposed to be grateful to you, I am. I just wanted to know.”

  Brenda smiled and shook her head. “If you want to blame somebody—or thank somebody—the somebody would be Uncle Bob. He and Father Pool are about the same age. Pool hasn’t been a priest as long as Uncle Bob. He did some time in the army before he went to the seminary. Otherwise they would almost have been classmates. But they’re friends. Uncle Bob knew Father Pool was looking for a secretary and manager, so he told him about you. But not I …” She laughed. “I don’t have that kind of clout.”

  The waitress refilled their cups.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Mary Lou said as she stirred her steaming coffee, “what are you doing there anyway?”

  “Where?”

  “The chancery. Don’t get upset, but I’ve wondered about that for a long time. I mean, you could get a job anywhere practically. You’ve got the talent. Why would you work for the Church?”

  “Because it’s interesting.”

  “How interesting could any job be?”

  “It’s different. It’s more different than any other place I can think of. It’s so interesting that I haven’t got time to tell you how interesting it is … how interesting it can get.”

  “Okay. So it’s interesting and it’s different. So will my job be at St. Raphael’s.”

  “No, no. Lou, no parish job can compare with working in the central Church structure.”

  “Well, there’s one thing that’s comparable.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The salary.”

  “Lou, you don’t know what I make.”

  “More than I will at Raphael’s, but still not much. The Church just doesn’t pay. It certainly doesn’t pay as much as you could get almost anywhere outside. And you’ve got the talent, Brenda: With your brains and experience, you could work almost anywhere you wanted. Even without knowing exactly what you make, I’ll bet you could triple it tomorrow.”

  “Lou … Lou …” Brenda seemed to debate within herself about what to say next. “Lou, money is not that important a factor right now.”

  It was as if a light bulb lit over Mary Lou’s head. “You mean … because of … Ted Nash?”

  Brenda gripped her cup so tightly her knuckles whitened. “Lou …”

  “I know. I know. You don’t want to discuss it. But you can talk about it with me. I’m not going to get all moral on you again like I did at the party. I’ve thought it over. And I decided I was wrong. I’m not your conscience or your guardian angel. But … we might just as well be sisters, you know. And the whole thing doesn’t make sense.”

  “What … doesn’t?” It was obvious that this topic was painful for Brenda.

  “You! Working for peanuts when you could have almost any job you wanted and you could almost name your salary. On top of that, you’re involved with a married man who is probably going to stay married. So that relationship is going nowhere. Whereas … you could have just about any man you wanted. That’s what doesn’t make sense!”

  Brenda drained her cup and paused a few moments. “I really don’t want to talk about this, Lou. And if we’re going to remain ‘sisters,’ let’s not ever mention this again. But … look at it this way: My relationship with Ted—whatever it is—makes it possible for me to not be concerned about money. So, I can work for ‘peanuts’ without having to worry about a salary … see? That makes some sense. And, Lou, if it doesn’t make a lot of sense to you, take it on faith.”

  “Faith?”

  “Faith in me. Take it on faith in me … okay?”

  A pause. Then, “Okay.”

  “Now, I don’t want to rush you, Lou, but it’s about time for me to get back to work.”

  “Oh … oh, sure.” Mary Lou had only a small portion left of her salad. She proceeded to finish it.

  While Mary Lou ate, Brenda had nothing better to do than study her once more. There was something about Mary Lou that engendered in some others an urge to watch over her. Brenda was one of those who felt called to protect Mary Lou. The question was, from what? Brenda’s intuition suggested she would soon know.

  C H A P T E R

  9

  AS HIS ENCOUNTER with Father Deutsch had demonstrated, it was not easy for Father Koesler to get an appointment with Ted Nash.

  Nash’s secretary had been very firm about the channels that must be taken before a meeting could be arranged with Mr. Nash. Mr. Nash was, after all, a most busy executive. At this point she began to list the many and varied ventures that fell under the umbrella of Nash Enterprises.

  Koesler had not realized that the Nashes, father and son, had so many irons getting hot in far-flung fires.

  However, for the sake of Brenda—and to beat Deutsch at his own game—the normally mild-mannered Koesler was unaccustomedly determined. He made it clear to the secretary that he, a holy, Roman Catholic priest, would take no for an answer only from the Catholic lips of Mr. Nash himself. Most reluctantly—and only because she had doubts that Deutsch had handled this matter correctly—did she permit Koesler to talk to Nash.

  Nash quickly concluded it would be easier to grant Koesler a few minutes than to be bugged by so dogged a priest.

  And so, Koesler now sat in the waiting area of Nash’s private office complex in downtown Detroit’s Penobscot Building, where Nash Enterprises occupied three full floors. He had arrived ten minutes early for his 11:30 A.M. appointment. It was now 11:35 and he was getting edgy. Since the appointment had been scheduled for a mere half hour before noon, it seemed obvious that Nash had allotted just thirty minutes, which Koesler did not think was at all adequate. Now, if he was correct about the luncheon break, he had only twenty-five minutes—and counting.

  After her initial glare, Nash’s secretary had paid Koesler no attention whatsoever—her way of evening the score for his insistence on this interview. Koesler was beginning to feel the martyr. If the silent secretary had been a feral carnivore, it was likely his life would have been demanded.

  Just as he was imagining his bones being pounded into slivers for placement in a reliquary for some seldom-used altar stone, the buzzer on the secretary’s desk
sounded.

  She nodded at Koesler and said, in an icy tone, “You may go in now.”

  Ted Nash obviously subscribed to the dictum: No one’s office shall be more plush than the boss’s.

  The operative word was “too.” Everything was too large, too showy, too tasteless, and too pretentious. Koesler couldn’t swear to it, but the flowers and plants that decorated the office space appeared artificial. The office definitely made a statement. That Ted Nash was somewhat insecure? If so, the insecurity was probably buried deep.

  Nash rose from his extra large executive chair and circled the king-size desk with hand outstretched to greet the priest. If one were given to hyperbole, it seemed almost possible to play hockey on the desk’s surface.

  “So good to finally meet you, Father Koesler,” Nash said with some enthusiasm. “Up until now, I’ve just read about you from time to time. The police and those investigations. The homicides and such.”

  It was a more effusive greeting than Koesler had expected. He was, after all, not the most welcome guest Nash would receive. Particularly since Deutsch, the in-house priest, should have handled and disposed of whatever was on Koesler’s mind.

  Koesler shook the outstretched hand. “Good of you to see me, Mr. Nash. But please, forget about those investigations. They were mostly the media’s invention. At most, I was just on the periphery. It’s just that the media like the idea of a simple parish priest and murder. It’s like those pictures of nuns playing baseball or on a roller coaster in the good old days: They were almost as compelling as a boy and his dog.”

  Nash chuckled. “Now, now, Father; remember: He who doth not toot his own horn, the same shall not get tooted.”

  “Sounds like a good slogan for Nash Enterprises, but not for a parish priest.”

  “And a pastor. We must be nearly neighbors. Father Deutsch tells me you’re at St. Joseph’s. Now there’s a parish with a history. If it weren’t for the skyline we could see your church from one of these windows.”