“—Uncle Raymond.”
“Your Uncle?” Baldewin’s surprise was obviously as great as Kyle’s and my own.
“Absolutely, without a doubt,” I confirmed as I pointed to my twenty-something-year-old uncle in the picture. “I have no idea who the other GI is, but that is Uncle Raymond standing next to this Father Mason.”
I gave the old clipping to Joe to read. According to Baldewin, and corroborated by Joe, the newspaper article stated that Mason and Baldewin’s uncle were commissioned by the Vatican to investigate war refugee issues near Linz that had been made worse by the growing anti-Soviet sentiment at the time. For a brief respite from their arduous task, the two men went hiking in a forest near the American and Soviet zones border. On their woodland excursion, they came upon Father Steinmetz, face down, a few feet from the path they were on.
The article said that the men found Steinmetz alive, but he was bleeding heavily from what looked like a gunshot to the chest. As the two men tried to give assistance, Mason and Baldewin’s uncle also came under gunfire a few yards away from the Soviet sector’s direction. Father Mason received a minor gunshot wound to his upper right arm during the attack, and Baldewin’s uncle took a bullet in the leg. Luckily, two American soldiers on patrol, hearing the gunshots, came to the besieged group’s aid. After the Americans exchanged gunfire with the unidentified assailant or assailants, the soldiers brought the two priests and Baldewin’s uncle to a nearby military hospital. It was there that Father Steinmetz died of his wounds.
At this point, I asked if the assailants were ever identified or caught. The simple answer was no. According to the newspaper clipping, the American authorities filed a formal protest with the Soviets at the time, but nothing had ever come of it.
“Of all of my Uncle Max’s stories about what he did during and after the war,” said Baldewin, “he never spoke about his trip to Linz with Padré Mason. I learned about it when I was going through his things after he died and found that newspaper clipping.”
“Did you ever mention this to Father Mason?” I asked.
“Some years ago,” Baldewin said, “he and I had lunch at a café near the Curia Generalizia, shortly after my Uncle’s death. We were reminiscing about my Uncle Max and how he and Padré Mason helped downed Allied pilots. In our conversation, I mentioned the newspaper article that I found. I recall that Padré Mason was a little surprised by my discovery. He even spilled a little of his coffee when I told him about it. I asked the Padré about what had happened near Linz, but he said that he didn’t remember much about it other than he and my uncle were helping refugees.”
“Really? He didn’t say anything else?”
“No.”
“A man dies, people get shot . . . He got shot, for crying out loud. He must have remembered or said something.”
“He said that the shock of being shot hurt his memory. He said that it was sad that my uncle got shot and that Padré Steinmetz died. But he did not remember much more than what the newspaper reported. Though he did say that while he and my uncle were in Linz, Rome asked them to help a priest get out of the Austrian Russian zone. That was the real reason why the two of them were walking in the woods that day. These details, Padré Mason said, were not revealed to the press at the time. Before I could ask him for more information, he changed our conversation to my new appointment at the security section at the Vatican.”
Quickly sifting through the scant details of Baldewin’s story, I asked, “What was Father Mason’s position?” I mean, besides being a priest, what did he do in Rome?”
“He was a cleric, a priest.”
“I mean, besides being a priest, what did he do in Rome? What was his job?”
Seeing our confusion, Joe helped to translate.
Baldewin bounced his head and answered, “He was a special advisor to the Holy See. I cannot say more.”
“Can’t,” I quipped, “or won’t.”
Baldewin gave me a knowing grin and said nothing.
Joe, ever the diplomat, jumped in. “Please, Firmino, can you tell us anything more?”
“I can say this, but . . . ah, it may mean nothing. After that lunch with Padré Mason, after I told him about the clipping—” Our friend stopped and glanced at his tapping finger on the table.
“Yes, go on,” I said, straining to keep my impatience in check.
“I was curious about my Uncle Max, about him getting wounded while on his trip to Linz.” Baldewin paused again.
“Please tell us, Firmino,” said Joe, gently taking hold of Baldewin’s shoulder.
“I did some private research. In my new position in Vatican security, I had some privileges. So, I tried to see what I could discover about the Linz, ah, mission. And I couldn’t find anything.”
“How is that helpful?” I bellowed and slapped the table.
My outburst set Joe and Baldewin into chattering again. When they stopped, Joe turned to me. “Richard, you don’t understand. Firmino couldn’t find anything.”
“Yeah, I know. Your friend just told me.”
“No, Rich, you’re not getting it. Firmino says that he couldn’t find anything about Mason’s mission to Linz, nothing about refugees, or anything about displaced person issues concerning the area around Linz at the time. There was nothing about any attempt to get Steinmetz out of the Soviet Sector and to the Vatican. And more importantly, for Firmino, he found nothing about his Uncle Max being on assignment to Linz either.”
“Nothing? How thoroughly did he research this?”
Another brief, side conversation in Italian took place, which concluded with Joe nodding his head. “Firmino researched into the matter as far as he could without causing a stir. He found nothing.”
“So, the article in the L’Osservatore Romano may have been some sort of . . . eh, cover story?”
“That is certainly a possibility, Rich.”
“Fine. Where does that leave us?”
“Firmino said it could mean many things. There ought to have been documentation of his uncle’s trip, but Firmino just couldn’t locate it. Or maybe the documentation was lost or destroyed over the years for many possible reasons. Or the trip was an informal fact-finding mission. If that were the case, the paperwork would be thin or maybe even nonexistent.”
I let out a long breathy sigh of frustration.
“Firmino thinks that Mason and his uncle may have been on an unofficial mission. He can’t prove it, but that is his gut feeling.”
“Why would it be unofficial?”
Baldewin, undoubtedly catching our drift, shrugged his shoulders.
“Who would have initiated such an assignment?”
Another shrug.
“And the background information on Steinmetz, where did you get that?”
“Internet and library . . . and, how you say . . . yes, newspaper archives.”
Though Baldewin was cooperating, I wondered what he knew that he wasn’t telling us. Lost in speculation, I ignored the sound of crunching gravel outside and passed the newspaper clipping to Peterson. I asked him to take a cell phone photo of the article for the record and return it to our guest.
“Does anyone need a refill or a sandwich?” asked Kyle, standing next to the sink and waving the coffee pot.
“A sandwich, Kyle?” said the voice entering the kitchen through the back door.
“Morgana,” said my brother, with noticeable surprise. “You’re home early.”
“Richard, have you been making sandwiches out of the ham that we were to use for tonight’s dinner?”
A recent conversation about my making a Chinese rice dish suddenly came to mind. “I haven’t. Kyle was.”
Morgana quickly had her coat off. “John, good to see you.”
The deputy straightened up in his seat and warmly responded, “It is good to see you too. Much going on at the college?”
“A lot of fuss about the opening of some historical documents,” Morgana replied as she noticed Baldewin for the first tim
e. “And we have another guest.” Morgana approached the table and presented her hand. “I don’t believe that we have been introduced. I am Morgana MacKenzie, Richard’s wife.”
“I am Firmino Baldewin . . . ah, a friend of Padré Joseph’s.”
“We met at a conference in Rome,” said Joe.
“And he works for the Vatican,” I interjected.
“And he is under arrest,” added Peterson.
“Detained would be the more appropriate word,” corrected Kyle.
“Detained?” Morgana repeated as her eyes slowly began to widen and cast a steely gaze in my brother’s direction.
“Well, just let us say that Mr. Baldewin—”
“Kyle,” said Morgana in a chillingly calm and deliberate manner, “what happened to my kitchen chair?”
#
CHAPTER 14
And so, within the few short moments of Morgana’s arrival, my attention abruptly switched from international intrigues of the past to the ominous refectory events of the present. As fast as a TV news junkie surfs for headlines, Morgana pontificated a litany of men’s character flaws. She went on about their abuse and lackadaisical attitude toward domestic resource consumption, absence of self-imposed dietary restrictions, inability to clean up after themselves, and many other such things. True, her critiques most assuredly were aimed at Kyle, but yours truly did not escape her wrath unscathed.
When Morgana finished her recommendations for gender improvement, she asked pointedly, “Has anyone done anything about Uncle Raymond’s funeral arrangements since this morning?”
Kyle and I stared at each other.
“How about Uncle Raymond’s wake?” my wife inquired further, looking as if she knew the answer. “Has that been finalized? Have notices of his passing gone out to his friends?”
“Kyle has Uncle’s address book,” I quickly said, knocking the ball of responsibility out of my court into my brother’s.
“Kyle?” said Morgana in her inquisitor’s tone.
“Ah, yes,” calmly replied Kyle. “It’s all being taken care of while we speak.”
I prayed that my brother wasn’t overstating his hand, knowing that there would be hell to pay if he were. The bill, of course, being paid by me.
“Joanie Sinclair, my dispatcher, said that she would help out with the phone calls and notifications.”
“Really?” pressed Morgana.
“Oh, yes. Joanie was glad to help. She has a penchant for calling people on the phone and giving out information. She works part-time as a newspaper reporter.”
“Good. So, when is the wake?”
“The wake? Ah, yes, give me a sec.” Kyle’s hand furiously began to struggle to get into his right hip pants pocket. “I got a message from the funeral home about that very thing.” As soon as his stodgy fingers completed their retrieval, they ploddingly danced on his cell phone’s screen.
“And ?” remarked Morgana, not hiding her annoyance.
“And, here it is. Everything has been confirmed. Uncle Raymond’s wake will be held on the day after tomorrow between 4PM and 8PM. The funeral mass will be at St. Bridget’s at 8AM on the following day. And, yes, Joanie knows this, and she is letting everyone know the details.”
Whether Kyle’s information was what he actually read off his phone, or, if, in fact, he was reading anything, he did stop Morgana’s inquiry in its tracks.
“Oh . . . well, ah . . . good, Kyle. Well done . . . I suppose,” said Morgana with traces of both contriteness and wariness in her voice.
“Anything else that I can help you with, Morgana?” asked Kyle with noticeable gloating in his voice. “We are in the middle of conducting some police business at the moment.”
“Ah, yes, there is something else.”
“And what is that?”
“Where is my kitchen chair?”
“Your chair?” replied Kyle without hesitation. “Why Rich and I dropped it off to have its stretcher fixed.”
“Its what?”
“Its stretcher. The chair had a loose stretcher.” Kyle pointed with his foot to the bottom of the chair that Baldewin was sitting on. “That spindly crossbar thing that stretches across, attaching the two legs together.”
“You broke—”
“I didn’t say broke,” countered Kyle. “I said that we noticed that the stretcher was loose. Didn’t we, Rich?”
“It was very loose, Morgana,” I said, knowing full well that it became loose after Big Boy broke one of the legs that it was attached to.
“So on our way to Uncle Raymond’s, we dropped the chair off to have it repaired before something worse happened to it. As they say, ‘A penny’s prevention is worth a pound of cure.’ The chair should be ready in a couple of days.”
I could see in Morgana’s eyes that she wasn’t completely buying the story. “Father Joe, is this true?” she asked, catching both my friend and brother by surprise.
“Really, Morgana,” said my old friend as Kyle and I held our breaths, “I would be the wrong one to comment. I don’t know anything about woodworking or about furniture. Those things are a little out of my field of expertise. Now, if you asked me if the early Christians were influenced by an Essenic tradition, I would have an educated opinion on the subject.” Joe chuckled at his poor attempt at levity.
“So you are saying—”
“Simply put, Morgana, the dowel-like thing connecting the chair legs was very loose. Rich and Kyle thought that it should be fixed. And we dropped the chair off at a woodworking and repair shop on the way to their Uncle’s place.”
Before my inquisitive wife tossed out another question, Joe expertly supplied a diversion. “And a curious thing happened at the shop,” quickly added my friend, “I met Bernice Boxer, a sister of someone whom I had dated back in my college days. I don’t know how long it has been since I last saw either one of them . . .”
And so the table conversation drifted calmly from broken chairs to forgotten college romances, and then to a recap of what had happened at Uncle Raymond’s. Morgana learned about my first encounter with Doug Mapledale and how we had met Baldewin. Peterson read from his notes to fill in the few details that we had learned about Father Mason and his connection to Uncle Raymond.
“So,” concluded Morgana with some satisfaction, “you people really have been busy. You didn’t just sit around the kitchen and waste the day.”
“How could you ever think that, Love?” I said.
“Because it comes to you and your brother, so very easily.”
Joe tried to cover a giggle with his coffee cup. “She’s got your number.”
“Don’t you snicker, Joe,” playfully warned Morgana. “Priest or not, you’re just as bad as these chuckleheads. Of course, Deputy Peterson, I don’t mean to include you in my assessment.”
“Thank you, Mrs. MacKenzie. I much appreciate it.”
“As for you, Signore Baldewin.”
“Please, call me Firmino.”
“Very well, Firmino,” continued Morgana with a slight nod. “I don’t know you. So, I will hold my opinion of you for the moment.”
“Grazie. I hope to be worthy of your high standards.”
“I knew that there was something I liked about you. You seem to have what we call here in the States, Old World charm.” Morgana punctuated her assessment, giving him a winsome smile. “Now,” she said as she poured herself a cup of coffee, “that I heard about your day, let me tell you about my mine.”
“Well, I would love to hear about it,” quickly piped up Kyle, “but Peterson and I must be off. Oh, Mr. Baldewin, where are you staying?”
“The Two Fifes & Three Drums Inn.”
“Good. Do I have your word that you will not leave town?”
“I am here until the end of the week, Sheriff.”
“Let’s hope everything is cleared up by then. Joe, do you need a ride? Peterson could give you one.”
The deputy’s head abruptly popped up from his notepad. His eyes were wide as a
deer’s in headlights. “What was that, Sheriff?”—clergy always made the young deputy uncomfortable.
“You can drive Father Joe back to the abbey,” repeated Kyle with a grin.
“Sure, if he needs a ride. I can do that.” Peterson swallowed hard.
It was then that I had a flash of an idea. Hoping that my old friend was as perceptive as I remembered him to be, I asked, “Firmino, why don’t you give Joe a ride to the abbey?”
“Great idea,” said Joe without hesitation. “If that is okay with you, Firmino.” Joe caught my drift and sailed with it. “I will show you around the place. We can chat, have a glass of wine, talk. I will even give you dinner at the abbey. How does Pasta Carbonara sound?”
“I don’t want you to trouble yourself.”
“No trouble at all. Remember, I owe you for coming to my rescue.” Then with a broad smile, Joe enthusiastically declared, “Sheriff, Firmino will take me back to the abbey.”
“I would be happy to drive you to the abbey,” said Firmino turning to face Kyle. “If it is permitted.”
All eyes turned to my brother.
“Sure, no problem,” said Kyle, laying it on thick with a tone of authority. “Just stay in the area. I will phone you when I need you.”
So with the promise of a meal, the pending summary of Morgana’s day, and the county’s never-ceasing need for police assistance, our house divested itself of all visitors.
As the last car left our driveway, Morgana sat next to me and looked at me. “You look tired, Dear.”
“That I am, Love.”
Morgana then snuggled my arm. “Poor thing, you really have had it hard in the last twenty-four hours—Uncle Raymond’s death, the break-in at his place, you being shot at. And to top things off, you spent most of that time with Kyle.”
“He’s my brother; I care about him. I worry about him. I really do. But it feels like every time I’m with Kyle for more than an hour, my blood pressure goes up ten degrees. I never knew retirement could be so dangerous to my health.” I winced, recollecting how close I came to getting a bullet in my head. I took Morgana’s hand, brought it to my lips, and kissed it. “Enough about me. Tell me about your day.”
The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery Page 15
