The Widow's Mate Page 9

  “Frank Looney?”

  Wally had nodded. The famous, or infamous, Looney family. “But that’s all over. My cousin Jim is a Jesuit, and Frank is straight as an arrow.”

  When she parked, she looked toward the school, wondering if Greg was there. How the years fell away when she was with him; they might have been kids at school again, in that very building. He was full of memories of those days. The past, if you got far enough back in it, was like a soothing shower.

  “Of course, we were all nuts about you.”

  “Oh, sure. Why didn’t you marry?”

  “I did.”

  “Tell me.”

  He looked at her, then shook his head. “It’s not a happy story.”

  “It can’t be as sad as mine.”

  “In a different way.”

  “Are you retired or what?”

  “Oh, I have a business plan. All I need is money.”

  He told her about the driving range he’d had in California, and his tone told her how much he had enjoyed it.

  “So why did you leave?”

  “The state decided to run a freeway through it.”

  “Then you must have made money.”

  “Oh, I did. Then I remembered how Wally made his money, with money, and tried my hand at that. I might just as well have run it all through a shredder.”

  Money had never been a problem with Wally, and he had left her amply provided for. When he went missing, people kept coming back to that since it suggested his disappearance was part of a plan. Only in the most private compartment of her soul could she admit that thought. Her great fear during the investigation was that information about Wally’s fooling around with other women would be turned up. When she had hired Tuttle, she had been aware of his reputation. Amos Cadbury’s reaction told her exactly what he thought of his fellow lawyer. The truth was that she had never expected Wally to be found. They had gone together forever by the time they married, and they were too used to one another. She had watched him grow bored with her, but then she was a little bored with him, too, not that she would ever have been unfaithful. Men are so different. The thought that he had deserted her made weeping easy when she was questioned about him.

  As the years passed, their life together seemed almost as unreal as his disappearance. She found that she didn’t mind living alone. Her only regret was that they had never had children. God knows they had tried. Maybe that was the reason he had begun to stray. Left well provided for, she had sought diversion in cruises, in travel. She would arrive in a city like Rome ready for systematic touring, having read up on it for months before leaving. But how much diversion can one stand? There was the consolation of religion, of course, and she had become in her way devout. How ironic to remember that Wally had told her that when they were in St. Hilary’s school and he an altar boy, he had dreamt of becoming a priest.

  When his body was found and she was shown the ring she had put on his finger on their wedding day, it seemed proof that for years he had been living his life, ignoring her, not caring at all about the pain his disappearance caused her. She had looked at it with tear-filled eyes but could only shake her head when the ring was offered her. It seemed to mock her life and the grief she had sincerely felt when she could convince herself that something awful had happened to him or that he had amnesia and just didn’t know who he was. If Amos Cadbury had been shocked by her refusal to take the ring, he managed not to show it.

  She sat now in her car, staring at the school she and Wally and Greg had attended, and Cyril Horvath, too. Whenever Cyril had talked with her, she had the sense that he knew far more about her and Wally than he let on. Some old people were moving slowly around on what used to be the playground. Luke thought she was crazy, spending so much time there. Well, it was crazy. You would think she couldn’t wait to be old.

  Of course, it was being with Greg that explained it. It wasn’t being old, it was being a school kid again.

  “All I need is money,” he had said about his plans to open a driving range. “I found a perfect spot, out in Barrington.”

  “How much money?”

  He told her, just a guess. It didn’t sound like much to her. People who saw them together would think what she had thought when she saw Luke with Maud. Was that what she wanted? She realized it wasn’t. How stupid to let him use the garage apartment. Luke’s anger seemed to indicate that he thought there was something going on between her and Greg. Well, there wasn’t, and there couldn’t be. Getting that money for him would be the easiest way to put an end to it without having to confront him.

  Melissa got out of her car and went rapidly along the walk to the rectory. Mrs. Murkin came to the door in response to her knock. The housekeeper looked surprised, then delighted, but finally settled for a bland, wide-eyed waiting look.

  “Is Father in?”

  He was. Mrs. Murkin showed Melissa to a front parlor and marched off down the hallway. There was a delightful aroma of pipe smoke in the house, competing with the smell of baking. Then Father Dowling was with her, tall, thin, regarding her with the most kindly eyes.

  21

  Father Dowling had heard the story first from Edna, just an aside as she was bringing him up to date on the center, then from Marie, who spoke with a stiff and staring look that made it clear she thought he had to do something about this. Phil Keegan had also passed on what he had heard from Cy. Gregory Packer was living at the Flanagan home. Only Marie had put it quite that baldly, adding, “With Melissa Flanagan.” She had adopted a kind of chant tone for this recital, and “Flanagan” came out in a flutter of neums. Phil just sounded disgusted when he told the story.

  “It must be a very large house,” Father Dowling said. A pastor has wide responsibilities, but he did not know that his writ ran to this sort of thing.

  “Oh, he’s not in the house. There’s an apartment over the garage.”

  “Marie will be relieved to hear that.”

  He said this on the assumption that Marie Murkin was keeping her ears open as she pushed a dust mop around in the hallway outside Father Dowling’s study.

  “What does Cy think of these arrangements?”

  Phil half rose and pushed the door shut. “We’ve learned quite a bit about Packer in recent weeks.”

  Father Dowling had already been told that Greg had spent time in Joliet and was now on parole, but that was recent history. It seemed that Greg had remained in California after getting out of the navy.

  “And he married.”

  Father Dowling waited. Half the people in the world were married to the other half.

  “The woman that Wally Flanagan had been having an affair with.”

  “He married her!”

  Phil seemed pleased with all the information on Packer Cy had managed to gather.

  “Had he known her before?”

  “He was in the navy. She was in Chicago.”

  That Packer should meet and marry the woman who had gone to San Diego in the expectation that Wallace Flanagan would join her there invited speculation.

  “Of course, we thought Flanagan might have used Packer’s name. They went to school here, you know.”

  “Did Wally Flanagan go to California?”

  “If he did, he left no trail. With the woman, Sandra Bochenski, there was the wedding record. Packer was even easier. After the marriage broke up…”

  “Is there a record of that, too?”

  “Packer divorced her, charging desertion. That was when he married the woman whose driving range he was managing.”

  “A busy fellow.”

  “A bad apple.” Phil said this with the quiet conviction of one who had been dealing with Gregory Packers all his life. The idea that people might change was only an abstract possibility for him, given his years of experience. Father Dowling’s own experience taught much the same lesson, which is why what most of us need is mercy rather than justice. Now Packer was a frequent presence in the parish center and had moved into the garage apartment
at the Flanagans’.

  Marie’s attitude toward the former altar boy had changed radically. Her account of his dropping into her kitchen out of the blue had been almost breathless, and for a time she had just tossed her head at the mention of his name, but as of late she seemed quite enamored of the man all over again. “He’s Edna’s responsibility, not mine.”

  “I thought you were in charge of altar boys,” Father Dowling had commented.

  “Hmph.”

  Altar boys were a thing of the past now. Father Dowling found that he preferred saying Mass without one, not that there were all that many boys in the parish anymore. Nor did he enlist the aid of eucharistic ministers, who swarmed over the sanctuary in most parishes, their help unnecessary and making the distribution of Communion a protracted and distracting process.

  “Maybe you ought to talk to Melissa,”

  “Doesn’t she know about his checkered past?”

  “She’s a woman.” Phil seemed to think that covered a multitude of weaknesses. Well, he had a lot of poets with him on that score. Frailty, thy name is woman. Father Dowling made no promises, not that Phil expected one.

  Now Melissa had come to the rectory. “I want you to say a Mass for Wally. My husband.”

  “Of course.”

  She opened her purse, and he put up a staying hand. “No need for that.”

  “But I would like you to say more than one.”

  “How many?”

  She looked at him sadly. “Of course, you know the story. What on earth was he doing all those years after he left me?”

  “The police are looking into that now.”

  “They are?” She seemed undecided whether to feel good about it. “After all these years?”

  “Well, the finding of your husband’s body brought it to their attention again.”

  “But that, too, is years ago.”

  Uncertain if he should tell her that it was at Amos Cadbury’s urging that the investigation had been undertaken until its completion, Father Dowling remained quiet, allowing Melissa to reflect on his silence.

  “Sometimes I think I don’t want to find out.”

  “I can understand that.” How much did she know? He had no inclination to tell her that the woman her husband had planned to run off with had married his boyhood friend Gregory Packer, who was now living in the apartment over her garage.

  She turned and looked out the window. “I think I’ve done something stupid.”

  He waited.

  She faced him again. “You know Greg Packer.”

  He nodded.

  “I’ve let him use an apartment over the garage, and my father-in-law is furious.”

  “And you think it was stupid to do that.”

  “I should have thought of what it would look like to others.”

  “Gossip?”

  “It’s silly, of course, but suddenly it struck me how others might interpret it.”

  “I assume it’s temporary.”

  “But I didn’t say for how long. He’s trying to get settled.”

  “It probably would be wiser if he settled somewhere else. Than in the apartment, I mean.”

  “To me, he’s just a little boy I used to know. Most of the time, we talk about what we did as kids.”

  She seemed to want him to say something, but he didn’t know what that might be. “So how many Masses would you like said?”

  “Once a month?”

  The Mass book was there in the parlor. He opened it and began to write. This time when she opened her purse, he did not stop her. Marie would never forgive him if he did.

  * * *

  “I suppose it’s all confidential,” Marie said when Mrs. Flanagan had gone.

  “Not all.”

  Marie perked up.

  “You’ve made a conquest.”

  Marie was puzzled. “But I haven’t spoken two words to her.”

  “I meant Gregory Packer.”

  Marie stepped back, biting her lip, then fled down the hall.

  * * *

  A call from Amos Cadbury the following day told Father Dowling how Melissa had decided to solve her problem. “She wants to lend him the money to open a driving range.”

  “Ah.”

  “You’ve heard about the episode in California.”

  “Are you afraid she might marry him?”

  “Good Lord. Don’t even think it. Luke would hit the ceiling.”

  “What advice did you give her?”

  “She’s a grown woman, Father. If she wants to waste money on that fellow, there is little I can do to stop her.”

  As it turned out, Amos would be involved in the transfer of money. “I want to make sure he uses it for the purpose for which it is given. I’ve asked him to come see me.”

  * * *

  Gregory Packer did not show up for the appointment. Amos, not used to being stood up, had his driver take him to the Flanagan house, going around to the garage. He mounted the steps to the apartment and was surprised to find the door unlocked. He pushed it open. The late Gregory Packer lay on the floor in a dried pool of blood.

  Part Two

  1

  Cy, having been informed directly by Amos, picked up Dr. Pippen in the coroner’s office and set off for the Flanagan house.

  “What’s so hush-hush?”

  “I want to take a look before sounding the alarm.”

  Pippen shrugged. Then she was distracted by the neighborhood. “Such lovely houses! What happened?”

  “Progress.”

  “Some of them seem in pretty good repair.”

  But not all. Many a young family who took on one of the grand old houses in this part of Fox River was surprised by what it cost to maintain such a place.

  “Is this your old neighborhood, Cy?”

  “Where I grew up is now a freeway.”

  “More progress?”

  “Believe me, the house was no loss.”

  Nonetheless, he wished it were still there so he could at least drive by and look at the house he had grown up in. Greg Packer’s house, a duplex, had gone to eminent domain as well. Of the three old friends, altar boys at St. Hilary’s, only Wally had a house that still stood, and he hadn’t given a damn.

  Amos Cadbury’s driver had backed the lawyer’s car down the driveway, effectively blocking it. He was standing beside the rear door, on the lookout, and when Cy drove up, he tapped at the window. Amos emerged slowly from the backseat and waited for Cy and Pippen to come to him. The venerable lawyer bowed to Pippen and then looked wordlessly at Cy. He nodded toward the garage.

  “Will you need me, Lieutenant?”

  “You’re not leaving?”

  “Oh, no.” Still, it was obvious that Amos would have liked to flee the horror he had come upon.

  Cy swung up the driveway with Pippen at his side, a bag slung over her shoulder, her ponytail swishing. Only God knew how delighted Cy was by their proximity.

  The door to the covered stairway was open, but before going up, Cy looked around. He was beginning to wish that he had treated this as an ordinary case, but the anguish in Amos Cadbury’s voice had prompted this unusual procedure. Pippen, too, was looking around. She said to Cy, “See anything?”

  He shook his head and started up the stairs.

  Amos had left the door of the apartment open, too, and again Cy looked about before going inside. He went around the body, and then Pippen was kneeling beside Gregory Packer.

  “Dead?”

  “As a mackerel.”

  While Pippen called for the medical examiner’s team, Cy walked slowly through the apartment.

  The living room looked as if it had been tidied up, and the kitchen was unusually spick and span for an aging bachelor’s. No dishes in the sink. The place mats on the table seemed to protect the wicker basket that served as a centerpiece; it was empty. It seemed unlikely that Greg Packer had been such a fastidious housekeeper. Cy eased open a cupboard. Stacks of dishes and cups. Neat as a pin. This place would have
to be dusted for fingerprints. Then he noticed the rubber gloves draped over the edge of the sink. Even so. Only a professional would leave no fingerprints at all.

  Pippen was back on her cell phone, wondering where in the world the truck with her crew was. They were on their way. Cy called the police lab to get their crew out here as well. Then he stood and looked down at the dead body of his old classmate. The moment called for prayer. He pulled out his phone and called the St. Hilary rectory.

  * * *

  Father Dowling got there before either of the crews. He knelt beside the body, eyes closed, a ribbonlike stole over his shoulders. His lips moved, and he made the sign of the cross over the remains of Gregory Packer.

  “He’s already dead, Father,” Pippen said.

  He nodded, but his expression suggested that at the moment he was open to theories that death comes on long after the so-called vital signs are absent.

  Pippen’s crew then arrived, and Cy went with Father Dowling to Amos Cadbury’s car, which had now been backed into the street to admit official vehicles. The lawyer looked at the priest.

  Father Dowling nodded. “I gave him conditional absolution.”

  “Rest his soul.”

  Cy cleared his throat. “Tell me all about it, Mr. Cadbury.”

  2

  The violent death of Greg Packer brought a stunned stillness to St. Hilary’s parish.

  In the senior center, men and women who had been more or less ignored by Packer when he was with them, preferring to be alone with Melissa Flanagan, now remembered him with affection, even grief. Memories that over long lifetimes had learned the art of selection brought back a Greg Packer who had been one of them. He had never played bridge or shuffleboard, he had not played billiards, and few could have recalled anything he had said to them or vice versa, but when the news came, it seemed a call for mourning.