You have set our iniquities before You, our secret sins.
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Psalm 90
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Charlotte Priebe had fulfilled her mission and brought Leo Corbett to Lars Anderson. The three of them had sat in the great man's office and Leo's prospects had been explained to him.
“What if I don't want to sell?”
“Because you want to live in the house your grandfather built?” Anderson said understandingly. “Don't worry. That will be preserved. You will have the house, the lodge, lots of land. And a ton of money from selling the rest.”
Leo tried to look skeptical, but Charlotte knew he was hooked. Because he was hooked on her. Suddenly the axioms of the market economy dawned on her and she wondered why she was delivering this sacrificial lamb over to Lars Anderson with only the prospect of an avuncular nod of gratitude and a bonus to boot. But what bonus could compete with what Leo stood to make if his claim against his grandfather's estate was recognized?
“It's in your self-interest,” she explained to Leo, crossing her legs and watching his eyes cross in response. She looked significantly at Lars Anderson. “Maybe I should explain it to Leo, without pressure, setting out the advantages.”
Lars, the old devil, took the bait and she led Leo off to the officers' dining room.
“What an interesting life you've led,” she said later, when they were settled in a little bar on State, hors d'oeuvres and a bottle of Peruvian red ordered.
He had led an interesting life, one reversal after another. She commiserated with him as he told of his geological father and autistic mother. Her own parents had been consigned to the dustbin of history, as someone had once called it. Leo was delightfully literate, his academic failures not having interfered with his education. They were on Proust when their salmon came, with new asparagus and a white wine suitable for the main course. The Peruvian red remained on the table. Leo had swilled that as if its purpose was to slake one's thirst rather than excite the palate. Sitting across from her, calf-eyed, responsive, Charlotte saw him as a huge mound of clay for her to mold.
“I myself come from a humble family.”
“Better than a humbling one.”
“And now you have been awarded your grandfather's charter membership at the country club.”
“Do you golf?”
“You could teach me.”
Midafternoon found them at the practice range, Leo full of theory and hands-on instruction. She backed into him as he positioned her hands on the club. His breath was hot and eager in her ear. Would he believe that she was a vestal virgin? Doubtless he was equally inexperienced. Mrs. Leo Corbett. She tried it out
in her mind, but what she saw was the map in Lars's office, with the huge unbuilt-upon expanse that had been Maurice Corbett's seigneurial domain. They would keep the original estate and sell off the rest to Lars and live as high on the hog as one could get.
“Why don't we go to my place?”
“I certainly wouldn't want you to see mine.”
Of course, she knew where he lived. On the drive to her condo on the North Shore he vented his resentment against fate and she gave ear as only a designing woman can.
“I blame my father as much as my grandfather,” he said.
“There is plenty of blame to go around. Why did you choose Tuttle as your lawyer?”
“What does âchoose' mean when you have only one possibility?”
“Leo, we could have our pick of lawyers.”
The significance of the third-person plural did not escape him. She bumped against him as they crossed the parking garage to the elevator. She almost felt sorry for him.
The rites of initiation are seldom unique. In her apartment, she plied Leo with more drink, later she went into her bedroom and disencumbered herself of her street clothes. She was wearing a black peignoir when she called to him.
“Leo, could you come in here?”
She had pulled the blinds but only to a point where a sufficency of light came through. He stood in the doorway, unable to see clearly at first. When he could, she undid her peignoir and let it slip to the floor. There was an agonizing moment when she feared he would bolt for the door. Then he lunged for her. Like an operation under sedation, it seemed over before it began.
Post coitum, business. She explained to him, keeping any touch of treachery from her voice, that she did not want to see
Lars Anderson take advantage of him. She ran her fingers over his hairless chest. “Leo, you are in the driver's seat.”
And barely awake. She slid down in the bed, and brought his sleepy head to her bosom and rocked him gently. She was confident now that she could carry her point with Leo Corbett.
He slept for three hours. When he awoke, the blinds were opened, she was dressed and had coffee on. In the interval, she had thought of herself in bed with Leo and tried to discern some fundamental attitude toward what she had done. She had acted out of blatant self-interest, but Leo was so naive she felt the need to look after him. The carnal solace she had given him, the first gift of herself, in retrospect no longer seemed a mere investment. Charlotte was now of a mind that she could truly like Leo. But the first order of business was legal representation.
“Tuttle is a clown, Leo. We are up against Amos Cadbury, the best there is in Fox River. And as the lawyer who drew up the deed of transfer of the estate, and wrote your grandfather's will, he is deeply involved in the outcome. He will fight to the death to sustain your grandfather's will.”
Leo followed this docilely. She was the teacher, he was the student. Her few years with Lars Anderson had taught her much about the way things were done in the real world.
“So what do we do?”
She could have hugged him for that “we,” and she did. “I could talk to Amos Cadbury.”
“Are you a lawyer?”
“As your friend and advisor.”
“What about Anderson?”
“What about him?”
In the ensuing silence, she could almost hear the gears of his mind turn.
“It's just you and me?”
“If that's what you want.”
She turned into his arms and lifted her face. Anderson was ruthless, but there were weapons he did not possess.
“So what would you say to Cadbury?”
“No lawyer wants to go to court. What we want is a compromise.”
Leo bristled. “He won't. Tuttle said ⦔
“Forget Tuttle.” She ran a finger along his pouting lower lip. “I don't say that Cadbury would be immediately forthcoming. The idea has to be put into his mind first. Men like to decide for themselves.” A mistake, that, but he seemed not to notice. She outlined for him the approach she would take with Cadbury. If that didn't work, they would see about lawyers.
“I'll have to tell Tuttle.”
“Would it be easier if I did?”
“Would you?”
“If you want.”
So that was settled. She liked his loyalty to Tuttle. Maybe she should have been less ruthless about dumping the clownish layer. She did not want Leo's sense of loyalty to be attenuated.
“Maybe we can keep Tuttle on, in some capacity.”
Leo liked that.
“After all, he took you on when others might not have.”
“I met him in the courthouse.”
“I'll call at his office.”
He squeezed her. She squeezed back. She was beginning to like Leo. And it didn't hurt to imagine Lars Anderson's reaction when he realized he would have to deal with his former administrative assistant in the matter of the Corbett estate.
“I should get home.”
“Leo, I wanted to cook for you.”
“I live on pasta and microwave dinners.”
“Not anymore.”
He saw the wisdom of staying the night with her. The following day, she suggested he move in. Why should they keep two places? It was all so easy that again she felt pity for Leo, but what ground was there for pity if they were going to be a team?
“I'm so glad I never married,” she whispered later that night, snuggled up with Leo in her no longer virginal bed.
“Me, too.”
In the morning, she left him there and in her car called Lars on her cell phone.
“Everything's going according to plan,” she said.
“What's the plan?”
She giggled for an answer, hung up, and continued on her way to Tuttle's office. Leo had said the little lawyer had met with Cadbury, and Charlotte wanted to be briefed on that. But second thoughts arrived. Tuttle was already out of the picture, even if neither he nor Leo realized it. Coolness is all, as Shakespeare did not say. She drove instead to the office where she administratively assisted the great Lars Anderson.
“I'd like to see the Corbett boy again, Charlotte.”
The boy had become a man since Lars had last seen him and she had become a woman. It was surprising how little difference it seemed to make, one more move in a game that was slowly revealing itself. An hour later, she called Amos Cadbury's office and asked to see him the following day.
“And who should I say wishes to see him.”
She repeated her name, then added, “I am Lars Anderson's administrative assistant.”
A pause while this registered. “Would two this afternoon be convenient?”
“Perfectly. Thank you.”
She would jettison Tuttle only after she talked with Cadbury.
The Lord knows the thoughts of man, that they are futile.
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Psalm 94
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Cy Horvath went out to St. Hilary's to talk with Edna Hospers about the flown Stanley Morgan when he remembered that Morgan had taken Edna and her kids to a Cubs game. But he was intercepted on the walk by Marie Murkin when he was on his way from his car to the school.
“Lieutenant Horvath, is it true that you suspect Stanley Morgan of this dreadful murder of Father Nathaniel?”
“Have you seen him?”
“What a question.”
“He seems to have run away.”
“Who can blame him? Innocence didn't save him before.”
“He made quite an impression on you.”
“I pride myself on being a judge of character, Cyril Horvath.”
“You seem to have a bad judgment of mine.”
“Only as a policeman.”
“Have you any idea where he might have gone? As a judge of character?”
She adopted a tragic look and shook her head. “I wish you would forget about him and start looking for the real murderer.”
“Any ideas?”
“I could recite several plausible names. Father Nathaniel had a knack for antagonizing everyone.”
“But as you know, Morgan says he went to jail because of Nathaniel.”
She let him go then. Surely Father Dowling would not question the reasonableness of wanting to find Stanley Morgan and ask him a few questions. But as he continued to the school, he wondered if Edna Hospers would also have taken the part of the skedaddled Californian.
Every time he entered the Senior Center and saw the old gents and ladies whiling away their day, he wondered if he and his wife would end up there in their old age. But he doubted that any of the people there now had imagined this future for themselves. He had to admit they seemed happy enough. Maybe they didn't think of these as their twilight years, just today, to be followed by tomorrow, the way it had always been. A cry went up from a bridge table, triumph in the afternoon. He headed for the stairs and went up to Edna's office.
“Got a minute?” he asked, looking in the door.
She actually jumped. “Lieutenant Horvath!”
“That's me. I was just wondering if I might end up downstairs after I'm pensioned off.”
“That will be a long time from now.”
“Care if I sit?”
She waved grandly at the chair and pushed herself backward in her own chair.
“Have you heard about the murder of Father Nathaniel?”
“Yes.”
“Remember the guy who came here looking for some priest he said he'd known in California, some ex-priest?”
“You mean Stanley Morgan.”
“That's right.”
“He took me and the kids to a ball game.”
“Here's the funny thing, Edna. It looks like the priest he was looking for was one of the Athanasians. Actually, Father Nathaniel, as they're now calling him again. Stanley Morgan went over there and under another name said he wanted to make a retreat. He was staying there in the lodge when all this happened.”
“You think he killed that priest?”
“I don't know. I want to talk to him. But I can't. He's disappeared.”
Edna had her hands flat on her desktop and looked at him with an expectant expression.
“You probably got to know the guy better than anyone else did, going to the ball game and everything. Is there anything you can tell me that would be of any help?”
Her chin angled up, her head cocked left, she gave it some thought. She shook her head. “I don't know what it would be. You don't spend a lot of time at the ball game talking.”
Cy stood. “Well, this is just a long shot, of course. But we don't have much to go on. I wonder if he might try to get in touch with Marie Murkin.”
“What on earth for?”
“He's on the run, Edna. I don't think he just stepped out to
go to the drugstore. He packed and left. He's gone. So where might he go? I understand he hit it off with Marie Murkin.”
“Then you should be having this conversation with her.”
“I tried to. She thinks we're persecuting this nice man who had tea with her in the kitchen. With his record, he's going to know we'll be looking for him ⦔
“His record?”
“He did some soft time in California for some kind of financial fraud. Didn't you know that?”
Edna had stood, too, and seemed to have bristled at what Cy said. “I guess I did.”
“Anyway, he could come here. Stupid, sure, but if he's our man he's running scared. I didn't want to alarm MarieâI don't think she would have listened to me anyway. What I'm asking is, keep an eye out, will you? He's got to be somewhere.”
Edna nodded and then said, “Just call you at police headquarters?”
Cy fished out a card. “My cell phone number is on there. Try that first.”
Down the stairs, another pause at the door of the former gym, looking in at the old people, making sure they were all old people, and then out to his car where he sat thinking for several minutes and then pulled away.
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“Was that a cop?”
Edna had waited for Lieutenant Horvath to pull away, counted to ten, and then went up to the third floor. She nodded to Morgan's question.
“He expects you to come here.”
“What did you tell him?”
“He thinks you'll go to the rectory, to Marie Murkin.”
He shook his head. “Too risky. So is being here. I shouldn't have come.”
“Now that you're here, you'd better stay. You wouldn't get far if you tried to leave town.”
He seemed to sink into himself. “You're right. And now they'll be watching this place.”
She stayed with him, he seemed so forlorn, even if she was worried about being away from her office. If someone called, they would assume she had gone downstairs.
“You have a car, don't you?”
“Stanley, I can't let you take my car.”
“You could say it was stolen.”
Suddenly he scrambled to his feet, his eyes looking wildly past her. Cy Horvath stood in the doorway.
“Stanley Morgan?” He showed his identification. “My car is downstairs. Why don't you and I just walk down together and go out to the car. No need to alarm anyone. All right?”
Edna's heart nearly broke as she saw the dejected resignation on Stanley's face. But then, he suddenly brightened.
“Good idea. Let's go.”
Edna stood at the head of the stairs, watching the two men go down, the cop and the criminal, the man she had offered asylum to. Cy Horvath hadn't said a word to her.