Extreme Unction: A Lupa Schwartz Mystery Page 5

  Schwartz announced that he wished to speak with Carl, Sam and Marjorie alone at this time. He would return the following day to speak with the remaining brothers and sister. He explained that he had chosen the three he’d named since they were the married ones, and their families would need them to be free the following day. Schwartz followed the three he’d named into the partitioned dining room, and then slid the doors shut behind them. “Well…,” I said after an uncomfortable silence.

  “Would you care for something to drink?” Matthew, the youngest of the Hanson brothers, an insurance salesman, asked me. “Let’s all move into the kitchen,” he suggested. “I believe Sara was just about to start preparing lunch.”

  Sara, Carl’s wife, smiled warmly and led us into the kitchen. Peg sat on a barstool and gestured for me to do the same. This left the other two brothers, Matthew and Lewis — a writer for the department of agriculture — and Marjorie’s husband Melvin to stand while Sara made sandwiches and poured drinks.

  Matthew broke the ice again. “So you’re a writer,” he said to me. “Lewis is a writer too. He writes news releases and such for the government.”

  “Yes,” I said, “so I hear. That sounds like interesting work, Lewis,” I lied.

  “It’s not,” he said. “I spend most of my time talking with scientists who feel they have to extol projects which I don’t understand in order to justify them to me. Then I spend the rest of my time just fact checking and making sure the information’s readable for people with an eighth grade education.”

  “Tell her about the plant guy,” Matthew said.

  “What plant guy?” Lewis demanded.

  “The — what do you call it — the Nightshade guy. The Belladonna.”

  Lewis grew tense and stole a leeward glance at his sister. “I’d just as soon not,” he said.

  “Oh, come on, man,” Matthew said. “It’s really interesting. I think she’d enjoy it.”

  “No,” Lewis said.

  Matthew ignored his brother’s discomfort, and told the story for him. “He was sent to do a story on this scientist who was working on an anesthetic made with a form of Nightshade. What was the drug called again?” he asked turning to his bothered brother to fill in the blank. Giving in to the futility of resistance, Lewis supplied the word Atropine. “Yeah,” Matthew continued, “Atropine. Anyway, when Lewis shows up for the interview, the guy can’t even talk. It seems he’d been working these long nights, and he’d fallen asleep at his work station. As he was sleeping, some of the chemicals got onto his hands. When he woke up, his hands were tingling like they were sleeping — you know, and he thought he’d probably just cut off the circulation by resting his head on them. So he goes to his sink and runs water on them, then he takes a big drink from his cupped hands, and the next thing you know, he’s practically poisoned himself. That’s why he can’t talk. It affects the vocal chords. It was the Atropine that made his hands feel like that.”

  The entire time that he was telling the story, Melvin and Lewis were shifting away from Peg. They had almost leaned to the point of tipping, while Sara busied herself concentrating on the drinks so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact with anybody. Finally, she had filled the glasses with ice and cold tea. She began distributing them and announcing her contributions. “Here we go,” she said. “Iced tea for everybody. Matthew, here you are. Lewis. Melvin, here’s yours. Miss Hoskin, I hope you like lemon. And Peg, extra sugar, no lemon, just the way you like it. Well, drink up everyone. Can I get anybody anything else? Okay, then, I’ll start on those sandwiches.”

  “I suppose you’re wondering about that odd display,” Peg said to me once the activity had calmed. “They’re worried that the mention of that poisoning story will set me off. You see, Lewis told that story the night Coneely suggested poisoning our father. They were all chiming in with their little jokes and taunts, and Lewis said he had just the poison to do the trick. Didn’t you Lewis?”

  “Stop it, Peg, please,” Lewis said.

  “Why? Are you afraid they’ll name you as a suspect? Well why not? You work in a huge government complex in D.C. Surely you have access to Chlordane. They’re going to find that out. Then there’s me. I could be a suspect I suppose. You see, Miss Hoskin, I work for a lawn care company that used to be an exterminating company owned by one of Carl’s old friends, Jerry Clarke. I’m just a secretary, but we do kill insects as part of our stock and trade. I suppose if I really wanted to, I could get hold of some insecticides. Melvin here is an Engineer at a glass company, but he must have some pals in the chemistry labs. Don’t you, Melvin? I think we’re probably the most likely suspects. After all, they can’t blame this on the priest.”

  “Please stop it, Peggy,” Sara said.

  “Yeah, Peg,” Matthew said in an off-the-cuff sort of tone. “You’re bringing the whole group down. We all know you opposed the whole euthanasia idea. Nobody thinks you did it. Unless you think maybe the lady doth protest too much. Could that be it? Wouldn’t that be a fine line to walk? Wanting people to think you opposed it so they won’t suspect you of doing it? Nah, that’s giving you too much credit.”

  Peggy stood at that point and huffily left the room. Melvin called after her, but from the door she shouted, “If Schwartz doesn’t need me until tomorrow, then I don’t have to stay here.” Sara had put the sandwiches (grilled cheese) onto the hot griddle. She called after Peg and ran from the room after her.

  “Smooth move, salesman,” Lewis chided his brother. “You know she’s sensitive about anybody suggesting she had any involvement in Dad’s death.”

  “She suggested it herself,” Matthew said defensively.

  “That’s different,” Melvin offered. “We all know that she’s being childish. We don’t have to rub it in.”

  “So,” I said, “do you all think the priest did it?”

  Melvin threw up his hands and followed out after the ladies. Matthew was grinning impishly at me, and Lewis was shaking his head. “Who do you think we think did it?” Lewis asked me in a tone that bespoke the rhetoric. “Either it was Coneely, or one of us committed the perfect crime for no reason on Earth. To have done this, one of us would have had to convince Coneely to implicate himself before the fact; that person would have had to have had access to a poison that’s been banned since 1988; and that person would have had to be willing to kill a dying relative who would probably have died within a day or so anyway.”

  “You all wanted to see your father’s suffering ended, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “The kind of planning you’re talking about isn’t about mercy killing. It’s about personal motivations, or political ones,” Lewis suggested conspiratorially.

  “What did any of us stand to gain?” Matthew said. “Money?”

  “Money? Matthew can tell you; the insurance was useless and the estate would have been spent out the same whether he died when he did or a year from now,” Lewis finished.

  “Clout?” Matthew suggested.

  “Clout?” said Lewis filling the gap. “If one of us killed Dad, that person is a pariah. We wanted the suffering ended, but we are devout Catholics.”

  “But didn’t you want your father’s case to be a test case? Weren’t you all — except for Peg — helping Father Coneely change the rules about mercy killing?” I asked.

  “Dad wanted to be allowed to die with dignity,” Lewis said. “We’d passed that stage. He should have been allowed to go when he wanted to, but none of us has the right to make that call for him. It’s complicated. It’s — it’s complicated. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He stood and went upstairs leaving me alone with an Insurance salesman. I’d have to remember to thank him later.

  “They’re all so touchy,” Matthew said as he sat on the stool that Peg had vacated earlier. “When you work with actuaries every day, death becomes just another part of life, an eventuality like a job layoff or a child’s marriage. It’s something you prepare for and then face down. Otherwise, it takes you by surp
rise. They’re all in denial. I think the priest did it, sure. But I think he had help. Tell Schwartz that I’ll tell him all about my theories tomorrow, would you? Help yourself to the sandwiches.” He stood and left by the back exit. It was the shortest meeting I’d ever had with someone in his profession, but I still felt that I’d been taken for more than what I’d gotten in return.

  I turned off the griddle, since the cheese was beginning to ooze and burn, and I waited patiently for Schwartz. Eventually he came out of the dining room, and finding me alone, he allowed himself a smile. However, now that I’d told him what had transpired, he smiled again, but for an altogether different reason.

  Chapter 7

  Beverly Seanesy was not the most enthusiastic teacher I’d ever had. Her approach to teaching me how to bluff my way through a confession was to tell me once how each stage was supposed to work, and then she’d tell me to repeat it from the beginning as each successive stage was described building on what I’d learned to that point so far. However, thanks in part to some summer stock theater I’d done in my college days, I was able to learn my lines in the minimal time I’d been allotted by Schwartz who came up from the garage at the appointed time looking like the proverbial canary swallowing cat.

  He wouldn’t tell me what he was looking so smug about, so when we walked out to see the 1964 Ford Thunderbird waiting to take us into town, I naturally assumed it to be the cause of his self-satisfaction. I was still shaking my head at how little it took to make a man feel superior, as we pulled away from the house. Then Schwartz said to me (with the same smug attitude,) “There’s been a change to the script.”

  “Pardon me?” I said.

  “I’ve developed a theory about what happened to Mr. Hanson. You’ll still be making a confession to Coneely, only the gist has changed.” For the rest of the trip to St. Bart’s, he explained the changes to me, but he wouldn’t tell me what had happened to make him think he had gleaned the secrets of the ages, and he wouldn’t tell me what he hoped to learn from the scripted confession.

  ***

  I waded through the thick aroma of incense to locate a vacant pew near the confessionals. I genuflected as Beverly had taught me, and put down the kneeler. I knelt before the ornate statuary and the carved stone image of the crucified lord, and I prayed. This part was also according to Beverly’s instructions; but even had it not been procedure, it’s what I would have been doing at that moment. I was feeling especially lax in my religious obligations at that instant. I was surrounded by people who had dedicated their very children’s lives to God; people who made regular (or at least semi-regular) pilgrimages into their sacred realms; people who valued their salvation and their savior and who followed what they considered to be His creed. While I had gone to work every Sunday for as far back as I could remember just so that I’d have an excuse not to have to sit through a sermon. Not to mention the fact that my very purpose here today was to violate the sanctity of the confessional with half-truths and scripted lies.

  In my head and in my maker’s ear, I tried to rationalize my actions as serving a societal need for justice if also my professional need for a great story. At the same time as I prayed to God, I was praying to the memory of Edward R. Murrow and all of the other demigods of journalistic integrity. I knew that by following Schwartz’s script, I was creating the story more than reporting it. I had become a player in the event more than an observer. Yet, I rationalized it by assigning it to the greater good. Finally, it was my turn in the confessional.

  I waited for the sliding door that would signal me to begin. When the grate which separated me from the confessor showed movement on the other side, I began with the script. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I said. The next line would have been my first lie. I was to say that it had been three weeks since my last confession. Schwartz reasoned that Coneely didn’t know my religion, so it would be better if he thought I was a Catholic. Fortunately, I didn’t have to make the decision of whether to risk damnation by committing a venal sin while receiving a holy sacrament. The instant Coneely recognized my voice, he interrupted.

  “Miss Hoskin,” he said, “is that you?”

  His deviation from the proscribed form surprised me, but I recovered quickly and said, “Yes. Yes, Father, it’s me.”

  “I didn’t know you were Catholic,” he said.

  “Well,” I said, “um … I’m here professionally actually.”

  “You want me to help with your story?” he asked incredulously.

  “No, I want to tell you something. I have ... I need to tell you something. It’s um, well, Schwartz has an idea where the Chlordane could have come from, but he has no idea how to prove it. He thinks you can help.”

  “Me?” the priest asked turning from profile to full face on the other side of the grill.

  “The problem is, he doesn’t want me telling you this,” I said. Technically, I was still telling the truth. What Schwartz wanted was for me to tell the priest that I had gotten evidence by snooping in Schwartz’s file; but since I had not gotten it that way, I couldn’t say anything so that Coneely could pretend that he had thought of it himself, so I’d be in the clear.

  “For goodness sake, why?” Coneely asked.

  “Well, he doesn’t think you have a strong enough self-protection instinct. He thinks maybe you know more than you’re letting on, maybe something you learned in confession but because of the sanctity of confession, you won’t say anything.” This part was all also the truth, though it wasn’t in the script.

  “Well,” Coneely said, “even if that’s true, I can’t confirm or deny it. You understand?” I nodded, but I don’t know if he could tell. “So what is it you want from me?” he asked.

  I explained to him what I’d been instructed to tell him, though for all he knew, the plan had originated with me. At the end of it all I said, “But, please remember, I wasn’t supposed to tell you this.”

  “I have never violated a trust made in the confessional,” he said. “Thank you for coming to me.”

  “Do you want me to make an Act of Contrition now?” I asked.

  “What for?” he said. “You’re not Catholic.”

  ***

  I gave Schwartz a word-for-word run through of what had been said in the confessional. He fell silent for a brief while, and afterward he said the one word that he could have said to make me feel better about having deviated from the script. He said it almost coyly, with a devilish grin that bespoke a lot about how much he understood about my motivations.

  The word he used was, “Satisfactory.”

  Chapter 8

  The greatest compliment my father’s employer ever gave on a job well done was the single word, “Satisfactory.” The fact that Schwartz was using it with me now completely changed the dynamic of our relationship. It meant that he had come to trust me, and that my judgment had proven sound enough to warrant perhaps further trust. It also indicated that he had a better understanding of my motives than I had assumed he did. It was, therefore, a double edged sword.

  When we arrived at the Queen Victoria-style residence, Schwartz was confounded by the presence of a car parked in front of his driveway. He parked on the street before the offending vehicle, a black 1986 Pontiac Fiero GT, and he surveyed it looking for a sign that he might know its owner. Having satisfied himself that the car belonged to a stranger, he took out a card and scribbled the name of the offense in the blank space. He then placed the card on the strange vehicle’s windshield and proceeded to flatten all four tires with his valve-core remover. He made a brief stop at his own car to retrieve some emergency tire fixer from the glove box, set it on the other car’s hood, and we went into the house.

  He walked straight to the hall phone, intending (I suppose) to call the police, when he noticed the light blinking on the answering machine. “Beverly!” he called, and she entered the hall from the kitchen.

  “Yes, Lupa?” Beverly said sweetly.

  “Did that priest happen to call whil
e we were out?” he asked with a confident smile on his smug face.

  “Yes, he did. He said he had an important and confidential message for you, so I suggested he call back and leave it on the machine.”

  “Excel…,” Schwartz began. Then he stopped short, reconsidered and said, “Satisfactory.” He removed the tape from the machine and gestured for me to follow him into his study thanking Beverly as we walked away.

  Once he got behind his desk, he pulled out a small tape recorder and placed the recording from the machine in. “I knew that he would call,” Schwartz said, “but I didn’t think it would be this soon.”

  “The tape is confidential,” I said. “I probably shouldn’t listen.”

  Schwartz just pulled a face and shook his head abruptly. “I’m bound to no confidence,” Schwartz said even as he pressed the play button.

  Fr. Coneely’s voice began in an unsure manner. “Mr. Schwartz, this is Fr. Michael Coneely. I’ve um — I’ve had an idea of sorts that I think could help us. That is … help you to solve the case. Since Chlordane has been banned for nearly a decade and a half, I got to thinking — whoever has access to it must have had it in safe keeping for all of this time, right? So what if at mass this week, I make a sermon about how I’m being persecuted for an unpopular belief I hold, and during the sermon I make an analogy between my persecution and the pall that a toxin leaves in its wake. Then I could mention that poisons like Chlordane leave a toxic vapor where they are stored that lingers long after the poison is taken away. I could put the fear of God into the poisoner so that he would worry that the police could still trace him by the vapors. Then all you would have to do is show up with a warrant to serve on each suspect. The one who resists would be the guilty party, right?

  “Oh, and Mr. Schwartz, if anybody asks, let’s say that this was your idea. It wouldn’t be right for me to take any credit for trapping a killer. Call me back, please, and let me know what you think. Please. Thanks. Bye.” The line clicked off.

  Coneely had wasted no time in violating the confessional bargain without actually violating privilege. He’d sworn not to tell that I had told him this, but he’d never sworn not to tell this itself. Of course the plan was ridiculous, and Schwartz knew it. That was why I hadn’t understood what good it would do for me to suggest it to Coneely. Still, the priest had clutched it to his bosom like a mother cat saving her babies from a house fire. Still though, I had no idea what Schwartz had gained by this ruse.