Masquerade

6

Well, now, this was awkward.

Koesler stuck his head through the partially opened doorway. This, indeed, seemed to be the place where he was supposed to be. But if there had been conversation going on, it very definitely had halted with his appearance.

The small group in the dining room stood looking at him. Expectantly? It appeared they hoped he would do something, anything, to get this show on the road. If that was what they were expecting, they were about to be sadly disappointed.

More rapidly than it takes to tell, he took stock of each person in the group. There was no real need for ‘Hello, I’m. .’ badges. A simple process of elimination disclosed who was who.

He knew the nun in the modified habit. Sister Janet Schultes. The one who’d gotten him into this mess. Standing next to her, also in a modified habit, also wearing the telltale IHM blue. . that must be Sister Marie Monahan. He could see her Irish ancestry in her fair complexion, ruddy cheeks, luxuriant eyebrows, and dancing eyes. She and Janet could be sisters. Not only were they dressed alike, they evidently were of the same vintage-although Marie had obviously had a few extra desserts, something that in the traditional habit wouldn’t have made much difference. Actually, it didn’t make that much difference now, it merely contributed to her matronly appearance. In any case, she exuded friendliness and warmth.

The next one was the easiest. In the traditional full habit of the Order of the Cistercians of the Strict Observance, he had to be Father Augustine May. Of medium height and build, he had inquisitive eyes behind thick glasses, a rather prominent nose-and no need for the carefully cut monastic tonsure: He was almost completely bald. The remaining hair, around his ears and circling at the back of his head, was trimmed close.

Another easy one was the gentleman in the stark clerical collar. Roman Catholic priests occasionally wore such an unadorned collar. But usually their clerical collars were all but completely hidden by a rabbat, an extension of the black vest. This specific collar, plus the fact that one of the participants was an Episcopal priest, made it more than likely that this was the Reverend David Benbow. Koesler reminded himself that Episcopal and Anglican priests were also addressed as “Father.” He didn’t want to offend, particularly over something as inconsequential as a title.

Father Benbow somewhat resembled the actor Michael Caine. The thinning, wavy blond hair, the slightly amused, almost supercilious smile. He was fairly tall, slender, and of a rather ordinary rectangular build. And there was something else: He was holding a half-full martini glass complete with an olive on a toothpick. That was noteworthy only in that the woman standing beside him was holding an identical half-filled-with-olive martini glass. It put Koesler in mind of. . oh, who? Bill Powell and Myrna Loy, Nick and Nora Charles. Except that as far as Koesler could recall, Nick Charles had never posed as a priest-Episcopal or Roman Catholic.

No matter.

As to the woman standing next to Reverend. . uh, Father Benbow, that was open to debate. She was not one of the authors. There was only one woman author, Sister Marie, and he had already identified her. This woman was somebody’s wife. Rabbi Winer, Father Benbow, or Klaus Krieg? Time for a guess. Standing next to Benbow, holding the identical drink-voila! Mrs. Benbow.

The only contrary argument might be that she seemed a bit older than Benbow, but that happens. She, like Sister Marie, had put on a few extra pounds that undoubtedly were unwelcome. Something else: She seemed almost to err on the side of modesty. What did they used to call that in the good old days? A Mary-like dress. Long sleeves, high neckline, below-the-knees length and some winsome lace at collar and cuffs. Koesler doubted that she dressed like this ordinarily, but, all in all, he liked it. The modesty was a refreshing change from what one too often encountered at affairs such as this.

The final person to be identified-there were a few obvious students waiting tables-was more of a challenge. He was standing apart from the others, although he, like the others, was holding a partially filled glass.

The problem was that he could be one of two people. If Koesler was correct in guessing the identity of the others, this final character in the drama was either Rabbi Irving Winer or Klaus Krieg.

He couldn’t have been more than five-foot-six or-seven inches tall. At 150 to 170 pounds, he was a bit rotund. Wisps of hair reached across the top of his balding head. Koesler had never met the rabbi and, at best, had only seen photos of Krieg in ads for his TV show. Koesler had never seen the show. In the ads Krieg might have borne some faint resemblance to this man.

But the tipoff was the clothing. It bordered on the nondescript. A blue pinstripe suit, vested, unpressed; a gold watch chain across the round tummy; and scuffed black oxfords. All in all, not the garb of one as reputedly wealthy as Klaus Krieg.

So, Koesler concluded in a tentative way, this man is Rabbi Irving Winer.

Or, not.

In any case, it seemed time to test his skill at amateur detection. He approached the least certain of his guesses. “Rabbi Winer?”

“You must be Father Koesler.” The rabbi took the priest’s outstretched hand.

Success.

Now Koesler moved from one to the other with far greater assurance. “Father Benbow.”

“Father Koesler.”

“Mrs. Benbow.”

“Please, call me Martha.”

“Certainly.

“Father May.”

“Father Augustine, really.”

“Certainly.

“Sister Marie.”

“Father Koesler.”

“And last but not least, our hostess, as it were, Sister Janet.”

“So glad you are here, Father Koesler. I was beginning to worry.”

Sister Marie glanced at her watch. “Jan, for goodness’ sake, it’s only 5:20!”

“You don’t understand, Marie. Father Koesler has a reputation for being early, not to mention on time.”

Koesler smiled as he reddened. “I’m afraid that’s true. Today was the exception that proves the rule.” He wasn’t going to go into his Tigers-induced nap nor even the forgetful Jesuits.

In response to Janet’s invitation, Koesler requested tonic water. It was delivered on the rocks with a thin slice of lemon. He scanned the sideboard containing the liquor bottles. Ordinary selection; none of the various bottles bore an expensive label. In keeping, he thought, with Marygrove: never really wealthy and now leaning toward serving the poor.

Koesler turned back to the assembled group. Everyone seemed ill at ease. Strangers to one another, none appeared confident enough to get the verbal ball rolling. Well, at least everyone had a drink. But. . “Uh, isn’t someone missing?” Koesler gave voice to the obvious, something at which he excelled.

“The Reverend Krieg,” Sister Janet said. “He’ll be here shortly, I’m sure.”

The mention of Krieg seemed to unplug the floodgates. “With any luck,” Benbow remarked, “his plane went down.”

“David!” Martha Benbow exclaimed. “What a dreadful thing to say! That’s not very Christian.”

“Nonetheless-” Benbow began.

“Nonetheless,” Augustine interrupted, “I’d have to agree, with one proviso. I’m sure none of us would want it to cost the lives of innocent people, but I certainly would not mourn the demise of that man.”

“Of course, no innocent lives. .” Benbow corrected himself.

“Life is precious,” Winer stated. “That is why we salute ‘L’chayim.’ But I will join you two gentlemen: If there is one person on this earth today who would do the world a favor by leaving, it is Klaus Krieg.”

“My God! I can’t believe it!” Sister Marie exclaimed. “Is it possible we’ve all had the same experience with that man?”

“Why, Sister,” Martha said, “you mean you feel the same as the men?”

“It comes in the form of a confession, I’m afraid-but, yes, I do. Even though each of us writes murder mysteries, I have no doubt we all have a special reverence for life. So it comes as a shock to face up to the truth. And the truth, it seems evident, is that we all have been touched by Klaus Krieg and we all have concluded that the world would be better off without him. And I cannot think of another single human being I feel that way about.”

Though Sister Janet appeared troubled by this outpouring, she said nothing.

It was Koesler who spoke. “This is impressive. I’m on the outside looking in. I’m no writer. I have no idea what you’ve gone through with this man. I’ve never even seen his TV program, and I’ve just read one book his company published.”

“Which one?” Benbow asked.

Koesler was at a loss. “For the life of me, I can’t recall the title. It had something to do with priests.” He glanced at Benbow and was reminded that there was more than one variety of priest at this conference. “Roman Catholic priests,” he added.

“Celibates!” Winer exclaimed. “That would mean they were all in bed with uncounted numbers of women.”

“How did you. .?”

“No, I haven’t read the book,” Winer quickly declared. “The literary-if one can use that term in connection with Krieg’s efforts-the literary device is unvarying. The parish priest-the celibate-is in his rectory all day. Meanwhile, all those housewives are in their homes all day. Everyone is bored, so. . If it had been about a rabbi, he likely would be charging usurious interest, indulging in ‘creative’ bookkeeping, and carrying on with the wife of the president of the synagogue-just for spite.” Winer shook his head.

There was a pause, as if no one had anything to add.

Father Augustine cleared his throat hesitantly. “Did any of you. .”

Koesler noted a slight slur in his speech.

Augustine began again. “Have any of you been contacted by P.G. Press to write for them?”

Now the floodgates were opened wide. In reinforcing testimony, each of the writers told of Krieg’s invitation, the persistent pursuit-unrelenting assault, really-that Krieg’s organization had engaged in. There was no particular order in their narratives. Details spilled out as one’s experiences reminded another of a similar ordeal. Each had been romanced with extravagant promises.

Fortunately, in each instance, the writer had bothered to check into P.G.’s publication history. The sleaze factor was so obvious it was unmistakable. In keeping with Father Augustine’s information from his friend in the ad agency, each writer had received the good advice from one or another source to have nothing to do with P.G. Press.

And yet, even with the effusiveness of their testimony, Koesler got a nebulous impression that something was being held back.

It was as if these writers were eager to share their individual dealings with Krieg, that they experienced some relief, some catharsis in getting off their chest what had been a miserable episode in each of their lives. Yet each seemed to stop short of complete revelation.

Koesler could not in any way testify to this impression he harbored. He could not substantiate it.

His ponderings were interrupted by Sister Janet’s announcement that dinner was ready and all should take their places at the table. The announcement was almost a command-less an invitation to dine than a direction to cease this trend in the conversation.

Koesler found Sister’s attitude understandable. After all, even though she hadn’t planned or instigated this event-that had been the brain child of her predecessor-she was the hostess for this workshop. If all did not go smoothly, the buck would stop at her desk. And things were not unruffled when four members of the “faculty” wished the fifth speaker dead.

But, willy-nilly, dinner was going to be served. So the writers who had been so animated in describing their battles with Krieg now filed passively to the table. Koesler noticed that Augustine and Benbow freshened their drinks before being seated.

Sister Janet led a traditional before-meal blessing.

There was no particular seating arrangement; each took a place at random. The Benbows sat together. Sister Janet took a place next to Martha Benbow; Sister Marie sat next to Janet. This left the four men together. No boy-girl-boy-girl at this table. There was, of course, one unoccupied seat.

“We’re not going to wait?” Martha Benbow asked.

“For what?” her husband responded.

“For the Reverend Krieg.”

In view of the just concluded detailed excoriation of Krieg and his communications empire by nearly everyone in the group, this brought a moment of shocked surprise. Then someone snickered. That broke the ice; everyone roared with laughter. They weren’t laughing at or about Krieg; having done everything short of hanging him in effigy, they all found the idea of waiting dinner for him the height of irony.

When the laughter came under more individual control, the group took note that soup and salad had been served. Somewhat more relaxed, they began to eat.

“I have some little experience with writers. .” Sister Janet spoke rather forcefully. She did not want the conversation to revert to Klaus Krieg again; that would be counterproductive to the harmony and good humor she’d hoped would mark this conference. Thus, the effort to steer the table talk along less controversial lines. “So. .” she proceeded, having gained everyone’s attention, “I feel I’m safe in assuming that none of you has a lot of time for reading. In my experience, this seems to be a common complaint of writers.”

She paused, looking around the table. Her guests, spooning soup or passing salad dressing, nodded agreement and/or facially reflected the futility of finding time, particularly for light reading, while pursuing a writing career.

Sister Janet, having established her premise, pushed on. “Well, I enjoy a little more luxury in this than you do. I’ve been able to read some of all your work.” She turned to Father Benbow. “I haven’t read all your books, Father Benbow. You have been productive. But I have read a couple.

“I think it’s marvelous that you all have been able to communicate an authentic religious experience.”

Sister Marie moved her empty soup bowl aside. “You’re right, of course, Sister. I’ve wanted to read something by each of you. Especially since I knew we all would be getting together for this conference. I just haven’t had the time. But I did learn enough about all of you to know that you all did the very same thing I did. It seems we all followed that sage advice to ‘go with what you know.’ Many of the characters in my book, along with the main character, are nuns. And no one needs to tell me about nuns.

“I’m aware that the protagonist in your books, Father Benbow, is an Episcopal priest; in your book, Father Augustine, a Trappist monk; and in yours, Rabbi Winer, the main character is a rabbi and the setting is a synagogue.

“That’s what you had in mind, wasn’t it, Sister Jan? The authentic religious experience?”

“Exactly. And, as I read your books, I marveled at how each of you was able to invite your readers into your particular religious framework. The interesting thing to me was how you all seemed to accomplish so much with anecdotes.

“And this is what I was getting to: I think it would be interesting if each of you would recount an anecdote from one of your books. The ones that you use all seem to have a purpose in the plot.”

Koesler, feeling more completely left out than he had in a very long time, considered this to be a rather elite exercise in show-and-tell.

“Why don’t we start with you, Sister Marie? Would you tell the story of the nun on the train?”

Marie was reluctant to chance having the just-served beef Stroganoff cool off. Nonetheless, it seemed time to sing for her supper.

“It’s not a perfect example by any means,” Marie began, “but, okay, here goes.

“The story involves a nun on a train. It doesn’t matter where the train is going, say, Chicago to Los Angeles. It’s dinnertime the second day out and the nun goes to the dining car. All the seats are taken except one at a table where two well-dressed men are seated. They invite her to join them. The trio have a pleasant time, and, after dinner, the nun makes to return to her stateroom. But the two men urge her to stay. They contend that since they’ve enjoyed each other’s company at dinner, and since the evening is still young, she should accompany them to the club car.

“Reluctantly, she agrees. So they go to the club car. The waiter asks if they’d like to order drinks. The men each order a Manhattan. They ask if she’d like a drink. She declines politely but firmly. They urge that she join them in a drink. She finally agrees, but she must see to it that no scandal is given: She’ll have a martini, but asks that it be served in a coffee cup.

“The waiter tells the bartender, ‘Two Manhattans up, and a martini in a coffee cup.’

“The bartender looks up and says, ‘Is that damn nun still on this train?’”

While the others were laughing at the story, Sister Marie was able to down a couple of bites of dinner. It was delicious, but definitely cooling.

After the laughter died, Marie added, “That story was helpful in my book because after the nun tells it, she is able to point out the flaws. And they are, of course, anachronistic errors. If the nun was wearing a habit which was that easily recognizable, she undoubtedly would belong to the pre-Vatican II Church-which would date the story sometime no later than the early sixties or any time before that. However, if a nun was traveling anywhere in that era, she would certainly be accompanied by another nun. Nuns simply did not travel alone back then.

“On the other hand, if she was traveling alone, it would place her in the post-Conciliar Church and in all probability she would be wearing ordinary lay clothing with probably no more than a small gold cross to denote her religious status, so that it would be unnecessary for her to worry about taking a martini in a coffee cup for appearance’s sake.

“And when my fictional nun gets done explaining all this, the reader has an added insight into the differences between the pre- and post-Conciliar Church.”

“Now, if that incident had been contained in a P.G. book,” Father Benbow said, “there wouldn’t have been that much time spent in the dining car and the threesome would not have repaired to the club car. All three would have. .” He let his thought drift off unuttered. After all that had been said about the P.G. Press, nothing more need be added.

“Your turn, Father Augustine.” Sister Janet did not want the group’s attention to revert to Krieg. Indeed, she was becoming more grateful that the Reverend Krieg had not yet arrived. “Why don’t you tell us that delightful story you have in A Rose by Any Other Name-the one about the Trappist and the bishop?”

Augustine continued to cut his food and eat it. Koesler noticed that the monk’s hand trembled ever so slightly and his enunciation seemed determinedly articulate. Koesler thought the pattern might be described as overspeak.

“Well,” Augustine said finally, “all right; if you wish. It’s an apocryphal story, you see. In it, a group of monks are working in the field. Being of the Strict Order, they are forbidden to speak to each other-or to anyone, for that matter. So they work all day in complete silence. No one can tell what they’re thinking.

“One day, as it happens, a bishop visits the abbey.” He looked around the table. “Now comes time to explain that while the rule forbids the monks from speaking to each other, they are permitted to speak to their Father Abbot or to a ranking prelate-which would have to be at least a bishop.

“Anyway, this one day, a bishop visits the monastery. The monks are working in the fields as usual. The bishop goes for a walk in the field, ostensibly for exercise, though mostly to see what the monks are up to.

“He comes up to one monk who is digging away at the potato crop. Now the bishop considers himself a better-than-average amateur psychologist. So he says to the monk, ‘Brother, you look very, very sad.’

“The monk stops digging and looks at the speaker. He sees the pectoral cross, recognizes him as a bishop, and realizes they may speak to each other. ‘You’re right, bishop,’ he says, ‘I don’t feel at all happy. Not at all, at all.’

“I guess,” Augustine threw in as an aside, “I guess the monk must’ve been Irish.”

The others chuckled their appreciation.

“Anyway,” Augustine continued, “the bishop becomes interested in the monk and decides to analyze him and free him of his depression. ‘Don’t tell me, brother; let me guess,’ he says to the monk, ‘it’s the hours you keep. In bed by 6:00 or 7:00 in the evening, up at 2:00 or 3:00 to sing Matins. Up again at 6:00 for Lauds. Those hours could wear anyone out in time. That’s it, eh, Brother-the hours?’

“The monk thought that over and said, ‘Not really, bishop. I couldn’t say that was it. No, not really’

“Undaunted, the bishop tried again. ‘Well, Brother, if it’s not the hours, it’s probably your vehicle of sleep. After all, a lumpy straw mattress on bare boards. I meant to mention that to Father Abbot; how can anyone expect you to function when you have to try to get your rest on such a machine of torture? It’s the mattress, isn’t it, Brother?’ The monk thought about that for a while and finally he said, ‘No, bishop. No, I don’t think it’s the mattress.’

“The bishop considered this for a while. It was unlike him to take two straight strikes. So he said, ‘Brother, I think I have it. It’s the food. No meat, no eggs, strictly vegetarian diet, day in and day out. All the while preparing meat from scratch on your farm and serving dandy cuts of meat to your guests. That’s an exquisite kind of torture. It’s like the forbidden fruit: You can’t have it and yet it’s dangled before you. No one could take that endlessly. I don’t blame you for your depression. It’s the meals, isn’t it?’

“The monk leaned on his shovel and thought quite seriously. Then he said, ‘Sorry, bishop, but I don’t think so. You have a good point, but- no, I don’t think it’s the menu.’

“Now the bishop has had his three guesses and he has struck out. But bishops get to play by their own rules. So he gave the matter some deep critical thought. After all, no one was going anywhere; they had all the time in the world. At length, he snapped his fingers; he’d solved the question.

“‘I have it, Brother’-the bishop fairly bounced-‘how could I have been so blind? It’s right here before me. I’ve been walking around in the middle of it all this time and haven’t paid the slightest bit of attention to it. It’s the silence! Here you are, working, praying, eating, living shoulder to shoulder with your fellow monks, and you don’t even know what their speaking voices sound like. How can anyone expect a man to live so close to his fellow man-probably, all things considered, his closest friends on earth. Men you will bury. Men who will bury you. And you never speak to them. That’s it, isn’t it? It’s the silence!’

“The monk started to nod as a small smile began to form. But gradually his expression changed to one of doubt and then disagreement. He shook his head. ‘Gee, I’m sorry, bishop, but that isn’t it, either.’

“The bishop was completely baffled. He didn’t mind swinging at this puzzle all day long; it didn’t matter how many strikes he took. The problem now was he couldn’t think of any more afflictions the Trappists faced. Yet this poor monk was clearly troubled. The bishop had set out to free him of his psychological dilemma, whatever it was, but had failed. It wasn’t the hours of sleep and prayer, it wasn’t the impossible mattress, it wasn’t the strictly limited diet, it wasn’t the pervasive silence.

“‘Brother,’ the bishop said finally, ‘I give up. I can’t figure out what’s depressing you.’

“The monk thought a bit more and then said, ‘Well, bishop, I’ll tell you: It’s the whole damn thing.’”

It was a funny story well told, and Augustine’s audience appreciated it, even if at least one of them had heard it before. Still, all, including Father Koesler, enjoyed it.

Koesler himself was known for his anecdotal homilies. Many of his friends thought of him as a “story man.” A few of his confreres occasionally referred to him as “Inspector Frank Luger, NYPD,” an allusion to a character in the “Barney Miller” TV sitcom, who virtually lived in the past and constantly told stories about “the good old days with Foster and Brownie and Kleiner.”

And, Koesler thought, why not? It starts when one is a child and discovers that one of life’s greatest pleasures is to listen to adults tell stories. Skilled raconteurs were so generally appreciated that not only did audiences want to hear the same stories over and over-but without having a single cherished word changed. Finally, the Gospels demonstrate that Jesus Himself was an inveterate storyteller. Nearly everything He taught was couched in a parable.

Koesler noted that even as Augustine told his story, the monk continued to eat his dinner. And, as he did so, his hand shook less and his speech became more steady. Though there had not been all that much amiss to begin with in any case.

Koesler was the only one in the gathering who gave such attention to detail. From long experience, he did not expect the others to notice what was obvious and of possible interest to him.

As the laughter died down, Augustine raised his fork to quiet the group, and added, “Don’t anyone bother telling me what P.G. Press would have done with that story. I read one of their books, Ignosce mihi, Domine. I know that if Krieg had had anything to do with it, the monk and his abbot would have had more than words together. And the bishop probably would have been establishing a special relationship with the sheep on the farm.”

Another round of laughter.

Sister Janet tapped her glass with a knife.

A startled Koesler was put in mind of that most gauche of all customs at wedding banquets, when repeatedly tapped glasses urge spousal kisses, over and over. Such was not the case here. For one, the seating arrangement isolated the girls from the boys. For another, one woman was married and the other two were nuns. Some things deserved to remain sacred.

“Thank you, Father Augustine,” Sister Janet said. “Now, Rabbi Winer. There were so many homey stories in your book, Rabbi. Maybe you could tell the one about the lady who was giving birth for the first time.”

Now that his attention had been drawn to Winer, Koesler noticed that the rabbi had only toyed with the Stroganoff. Perhaps he was not feeling well. If that was the case, Winer might have been wiser not to consent to this five-day-long conference. However, with the invitation to contribute his anecdote, the rabbi brightened noticeably.

Winer chuckled. “All right,” he said. “The story takes place in Paris and involves a married couple. The husband is French, his wife is Jewish, and they have a Jewish obstetrician.

“She has been pregnant a little more than nine months, by someone’s count. And all she and her husband know is that it says in the book that nine months is term. Something should happen now, but they’re unclear as to what. The only one who is calm about this is the doctor. This very definitely is not his first delivery.

“Suddenly one sunny afternoon, she begins to have pains, severe pains. Her husband remembers reading in the Bible that in pain shall women bring forth children. This pain seems to qualify.

“So the husband calls the doctor and tells him that his wife is in pain. Should they all meet at the hospital forthwith?

“‘What is your wife saying?’ the doctor asks.

“‘Wait!’ the husband says, ‘I didn’t know I was supposed to pay attention to that.’

“He leaves the phone, listens to his wife for a minute, then returns to the phone. ‘Doctor,’ he says, ‘she is saying, “Mon Dieu!”’

“‘Not quite time yet,’ the doctor advises.

“Time passes, but the pain doesn’t let up. In fact, it gets worse. The husband does not want to become a pest, but feels he has to do something. The only thing he can think of is to call again.

“‘Doctor,’ he says, ‘it’s worse, much worse. Is it time to go to the hospital yet?’

“Patiently, the doctor asks again, ‘What is she saying?’ Once more the husband checks.

“‘Doctor,’ he says, ‘she’s saying, “Sacre bleu!”’

“With a smile in his voice, the doctor says, ‘Not quite yet, my friend.’

“In no time, the man is back on the phone. ‘Doctor, I’m sure this must be it. I’ve never seen anyone in such pain.’

“‘What is your wife saying now?’

“‘She’s saying-’

“‘Oy, gevalt!’” A strong voice from the dining room door completed the sentence.

In a suddenly flat voice, the rabbi concluded his story: “‘It’s time,’ the doctor said.”

“Praise God!” the newcomer proclaimed.

While it was a funny story, only the stranger in the doorway laughed. And he laughed heartily, completely oblivious to the fact that he laughed alone. Anyone else, thought Koesler, might well have been embarrassed.

Again relying on the process of elimination, Koesler identified the newcomer as Klaus Krieg. Amazing how much Krieg physically resembled Rabbi Winer. They were approximately the same height and build. And yet how different their physiognomy. Winer was nearly bald while Krieg had a full head of dark sculpted hair. . or was it a toupee? Koesler leaned toward the rug hypothesis. Though if it were, it would be one of the better, more expensive ones. Also, Krieg’s attire appeared to be many times more expensive than Winer’s.

But by far the greatest difference between the two men was in their facial expression.

There really wasn’t much to say about Winer’s visage. Not only did his features constitute what some would consider a typical Jewish face, but there was an aspect of sadness that never seemed to leave him, even when, as he had just done, relating a humorous anecdote.

Krieg, on the other hand, exuded nothing less than complete confidence and self-satisfaction. When Koesler first saw him, Krieg, having stolen Winer’s thunder, was laughing at Winer’s joke, which he, Krieg, had just completed. Now he had stopped laughing, but a smug smile still played at his mouth-a smile that put Koesler in mind of all the ads he had seen for any of the televangelists. They, as well as their entire entourage, always oozed that same smug, self-satisfied smile. The only exceptions Koesler could think of offhand were the Jimmies-Bakker and Swaggart-when caught at good old moral turpitude. When you came right down to it, a tearful televangelist was refreshing if rare.

Sister Janet almost knocked over the chair in her haste to greet the newcomer. “Reverend Krieg,” she said, “welcome to Marygrove. I hope you don’t mind that we started without you.”

“Not at all, Sister.” Krieg spoke without looking at her. He was keenly and confidently studying the others at table. “We’ll just make ourselves to home.”

With that, Krieg nodded to a companion Koesler had not hitherto noticed. The man, evidently an assistant, responded immediately to his employer’s casual gesture. He went directly to one of the waitresses and quietly conferred with her. The young women seemed cowed as the man shook his head vigorously. The two then left the dining area, presumably headed for the kitchen.

For no reason Koesler could imagine, Sister Janet seemed embarrassed. “I’m sure you know the other participants in the workshop, Reverend,” she said, after a slight hesitation.

“I have met Father Benbow. . and Father Augustine”-he inclined his head in each cleric’s respective direction-“but, my loss I’m sure”- with a smiling hint of a bow-“I’ve never met the other authors in person. However, I’m well aware of who they all are and what they’ve done.” He emphasized the final few words, seeming to invest them with a meaning that eluded Koesler.

The empty chair obviously was his, so Krieg made his way to it. As he did so, he greeted each of the others without introduction, correctly as it turned out.

Martha greeted him politely. The others’ response was stony silence. At most there was an almost imperceptible nod. Father Koesler was puzzled by the measure of animosity that seemed to be projected toward Krieg. It struck Koesler as inordinate, even from people with a basic difference of opinion over religion. True, their differences were radical. Still, he was surprised at the intensity of their reaction.

Krieg then caught Koesler off guard by recognizing him. “And last, but by no means least,” Krieg said, “we have the formidable Father Koesler.”

It was one of those rare occasions when Koesler was at a loss for words. He did not share in whatever it was that the others felt with regard to Krieg. Until this moment, Koesler had been enjoying his spectator role.

“Well, really, I. .” Koesler faltered.

“No false modesty now, Father,” said Krieg. “You may think that only Detroiters are aware of your amazingly successful periodic forays into murder cases. But your reputation extends far outside this city, I assure you.”

“Thank you.” It was not a particularly apt sequitur, but it was all Koesler could come up with in response.

As Krieg seated himself, Sister Janet spoke. “Reverend Krieg, before you came, we were in the midst of having each of our writers share with us a favorite anecdote. I think it was proving an excellent means of getting acquainted. I was just about to ask Father Benbow to tell us a story. Father, why don’t you tell us the one about the bishop and confirmation?”

Benbow hesitated, then said, “I think it’s gone. I’m afraid I’m going to have to beg off. The atmosphere just isn’t right for any more funny little stories.”

From their silence, the others seemed to concur. But not Krieg. “Well,” he said, “I’m sure we regret your decision, Father Benbow. I’ve read all your books-in point of fact, I’ve read all of all your books,” he said, regarding each of the others, “but”-returning to Benbow-“I agree with Sister: The story of the bishop at confirmation is a masterpiece, a little gem. Sorry you don’t feel up to it. I’ll just recommend it to everyone here just in case any of you don’t know the story. And”-Krieg began to chuckle-“I’m not going to tell which of Father Benbow’s books has that particular story. You’ll have to read them all and find it for yourselves. But I will say this: You’ll have a fine time hunting it down.”

Koesler could not get over Krieg’s ebullience. It was as if there were an underlying joke at the funeral and Krieg was the only one who was getting the point.

Followed by Krieg’s assistant, the young waitress reentered the dining room bearing a tray containing Krieg’s delayed dinner. Nervously, she set the dishes before him. He glanced at each, smiled, and nodded to his aide, who then positioned himself alongside a cabinet near the door. His stance was one the military would term “at ease.”

As Krieg began toying with his food-it was steaming hot-Sister Janet said as genially as possible, “We’ll forgive you, Father Benbow, just this once. But how about you, Reverend Krieg: Would you honor us with an anecdote?”

Krieg waved a forkful of food. It seemed a means of cooling the food, as much as a gesture of response. “Now, Sister, I’m not as talented as these good writers. I’m just a minor publisher who preaches some.”

Everything about the man belied that statement, from the cut and quality of his attire, to the manservant who anticipated every need, to the immediate preparation of an alternate dinner. Koesler took note of what had been served Krieg. The salad and vegetable seemed identical to that which had been served the others. The major substitution was the piece de resistance, which appeared to be a cheese omelet and milk, along with coffee and cream. Koesler wondered if the substitution and the fuss and bother it caused was not just another statement Krieg used to reinforce his own importance.

Sister Janet was nearly pleading as she implored Krieg for a story from his vast reservoir of experience as publisher and preacher.

Krieg granted her plea, while continuing to pick at his food. “Far as I know,” he began, “this is a true story. Billy Graham tells it. Seems Billy was preaching in one of those humongous cathedrals in England. He was up in a high, ornate pulpit, goin’ after sin and the sinner, Praise God!

“Well, Billy was gettin’ pretty worked up, in that way of his. He started hammerin’ on the pulpit and swayin’ to and fro and shoutin’ and yellin’ and wavin’ his fists in the air. About the time he had the crowd as scared as they was ever gonna be, he stopped dead-just froze. You could have heard a pin drop. He had that bunch of sinners in the palm of his hand.

“Just at that moment, a small child in the front row said, just loud enough to be heard in that vast, silent church, he said, ‘Mama, what are we gonna do if he gets out of that cage?’”

Krieg threw his head back and roared. “Praise God!” he shouted through the laughter that he shared with Sister Janet, Martha Benbow, the man at the cupboard, and Father Koesler, who cut short his mirth when he saw the four writers accord the story no more than a brief smile.

However, their near deadpan response to a genuinely funny anecdote did nothing to faze Krieg’s appreciation of his own joke. He was still wiping tears from his eyes after all other laughter ceased. At the end of it all, once again, he proclaimed, “Praise God!”

Koesler concluded that the phrase could become a bit wearisome.

Krieg touched napkin to lips. He’d finished his meal without a touch of dessert. He’d eaten very little. Koesler wondered how, if this were a representative meal, Krieg maintained his roly-poly shape. No exercise, probably-and undoubtedly this was not a typical intake.

At a nod from Krieg, his assistant unlocked and opened the cabinet, whence he extracted a variety of bottles, which he placed on the serving ledge.

Koesler took note. These were not the inexpensive liquors served before the meal. Even a casual glance at the labels revealed these to be among the highest quality and cost.

“I’d like to invite you all to join me in an after-dinner drink, if you would. It would be a nice ending to a delicious meal, and a pleasant warming for the evening ahead.”

It was one of life’s embarrassing moments. No one did or said anything.

Whatever chemistry was going on here, a goodly portion of it was escaping Koesler. Yet he thought it uncivil, if not ungodly or un-Christian, to give no response whatsoever to an invitation that, to all appearances, seemed sincerely offered.

So Koesler responded. And in doing so, he thawed the antipathy of the others. He was followed to the array of liquors and liqueurs by Janet and Martha, then by Benbow, Winer, Augustine, and Marie. Last came Krieg, looking pleased that the logjam of opposition was at least showing some movement.

Koesler, first to arrive at the cupboard, inspected the display. None of the bottles was small. In some cases the booze was in full gallon containers. There were no price tags, but a gallon of Chivas Regal, twelve years old, did not come cheap. The same could be said for Cutty Sark, Dewar’s White Label, Glenmorangie ten years old, Canadian Club, Jack Daniel’s Old Number 7 Tennessee, Bushmills, and Bombay Dry Gin. Then there were the liqueurs: Solignac Cognac, Frangelico, Grand Marnier, Galliano, Benedictine, B and B, Amaretto di Saronno, Chartreuse, and E amp; J Brandy.

The quantity and variety were overwhelming.

In honor of that half of his heritage which was Irish, Koesler poured a shot of Bushmills into a snifter. He rolled the amber liquid around the base of the glass, occasionally inhaling the sweet-smelling bouquet.

Standing off to one side, Koesler, between occasional sips, checked out what the others were doing. Krieg’s assistant/companion stood nearby. At six-foot-three he and Koesler were of equal height. There the comparison pretty much ended. The associate was built like a brick armory, with no discernible neck, just a granite-like head that melded into massive shoulders.

Extending his hand, the priest introduced himself. “Hi. Father Koesler.”

The associate snorted, looked impassively at the priest, and said, “No. Guido Taliafero.”

Hand still extended, Koesler hesitated. Then he understood. “No, I’m Father Koesler.”

“Oh.” Guido nodded and took the outstretched hand. Koesler was prepared; he slipped his hand as deeply into Taliafero’s as possible. Koesler knew, from the school of hard handshakes, that the greeting would hurt less if his palm were wrung than if his fingers were squeezed. Still, there was pain, Koesler swallowed it. “Worked for Reverend Krieg long?” he said, finally.

“No.”

“Oh. . uh. . what did you do before you came to work for Reverend Krieg?”

“Played football.”

“That figures. But I don’t place the name. Wait a minute; yes, I do. There was a Taliafero. But wasn’t he a quarterback?”

“Not NFL. Canadian League.”

“Oh. .uh. .well, nice meeting you, Guido.”

“Same here.”

And that was that. Taliafero remained at his post, in an “at ease” stance. Koesler felt awkward trying to continue this monosyllabic conversation; he moved off to a vantage whence he could more easily observe the others. As their drinks were poured, he noted their choices: Janet, Amaretto; Marie, Benedictine; Martha, Galliano; Benbow, E amp; J Brandy; Winer, Frangelico; Augustine, Chartreuse and then Grand Marnier; Krieg, Frangelico.

Neither the drinks nor the momentary lull in hostilities appeared to have healed the situation. Janet and Marie were off by themselves. Benbow, Winer, and Augustine seemed to have found some common ground; at least they were talking among themselves. Augustine gave some indication that he was not feeling all that well. Martha was talking to Krieg. Whatever her husband’s problem with the publisher, Martha did not seem to share it.

Krieg, catching sight of Koesler standing by himself, motioned him over. Koesler joined him and Martha.

“So, Father,” said Krieg, “did you know that Martha here is in real estate? Very successfully, too.”

“No, I had no idea.”

“Not only that,” Krieg continued, “but she’s been thinking of doing some writing. She’s been telling me some of her ideas. Promising. Very promising.”

“Reverend Krieg has been most encouraging,” Martha said. “It certainly motivates a person when a publisher says he’s willing to read your work. I don’t think I would consider taking time from my schedule to write unless I were sure the completed version would be read. But now. .”

“Praise God!” Krieg said.

“You’re thinking of writing for P.G. Press?” Koesler asked Martha.

“At least tentatively,” Martha said.

“Have you ever read any of the books the Reverend’s house publishes?” Koesler asked.

“Not yet. But I surely will. First chance I get.”

Lady, thought Koesler, are you in for a surprise.

At that point, Sister Janet spoke loudly. “If I may have your attention, everyone. .” She got it. “According to our schedule, those of you who will be conducting seminars tomorrow-namely, Fathers Benbow and Augustine, Rabbi Winer and Sister Marie-should go to your conference rooms on the second floor at this time. The locations are in the folders you will find”-she gestured-“on the table near the door. There will be facilitators in the conference rooms to brief you on the students you may expect tomorrow.

“Martha Benbow, Father Koesler, and I are to go to the Denk Chapman room here on the first floor.” She addressed the two named directly. “There are some last-minute details that I could use your help with.

“Reverend Krieg, your conference room is not quite ready. So, if you would, please, remain here in the faculty dining room for a brief while longer. One of our facilitators will come to get you in just a short while.

“Shall we go now?”

Koesler noticed Krieg nodding to Guido Taliafero. The guard acknowledged the signal, then left the dining room, disappearing in the direction of the building’s front door.

Glasses were deposited on table, folders located, and the group began to disperse.

As Koesler left the dining room, he saw Taliafero’s massive form silhouetted against the front door. Beyond that, just outside the entrance, was a white stretch limo, standing in what Koesler knew was a no-parking zone.

Indicating the limousine-in-violation, Koesler asked, “Krieg’s?”

“Yes.” Janet sighed. “I’m afraid so.”

The man has ways of impressing others, thought Koesler, with his celebrity, his wealth, his importance. His clothing-the finest cut; the most expensive material. Guido Taliafero-a lackey, present whenever needed; performs tasks, even leaves, with only the slightest signal to indicate the command. The liquor-the finest labels in more than adequate supply. And now, a stretch limo-two people in a vehicle easily large enough for an entire wedding party. What next, Koesler wondered.

The trio walked along the corridor. As they entered the Denk Chapman room, Martha Benbow spoke. “You know,” she confided, “I thought Reverend Krieg rather charming.”

“But then,” Koesler said, “you really don’t know much about the man, do you?”

“You mean watching his program on TV, or reading any of his publications.” She was a bit defensive. “No, I don’t know all that much about him.”

“Judging from the reaction of the others, to know him is not necessarily to love him.” Koesler wondered how much Martha’s opinion of Krieg was predicated upon his professed interest in publishing her work sight unseen. “But I must admit that I can’t quite fathom the intensity of feeling I sensed in the dining room. Do you have any clue?”

She thought for a moment. “No, I can’t say I have. But I must admit I’m troubled by it. It’s not like David to think or speak that way. I mean, I’ve seen him in ecumenical and like groups. He’s always been the very model of a most understanding Christian gentleman. The type whose bottom line is, ‘Well, I guess we agree to disagree.’” Her brow furrowed further. “But not with Reverend Krieg.

“I must agree with you, Father Koesler. It’s not only David; the others seem to manifest the same inexplicable animosity toward the Reverend Krieg. I simply don’t understand it. And it troubles me.”

A sudden roaring clap resounded.

“Good God!” Martha exclaimed. “What was that?”

“An automobile?” Koesler hoped it was, but knew it wasn’t. “A backfire?”

“A gun!” Sister Janet shuddered. “Gunfire! It’s on this floor! The dining room!”

They turned and raced back toward the dining room.

It was the dining room, no doubt about that; high-pitched screams were emanating from within.

As Janet, Martha, and Koesler entered the room, a hysterical waitress was being calmed by another waitress.

Koesler saw the body immediately. Crumpled on the floor, it looked like a pile of laundry that had been carelessly dropped. That is, if you could believe a laundry bag of expensive pin-striped blue silk.

In seconds the first three were joined by Benbow and Winer and then Marie, who dashed breathlessly into the room. She gasped at the sight of the inert figure. Almost prayerfully, she breathed, “Oh, my God!”

Koesler was first to approach the body. Krieg’s white-on-white shirt was now almost completely red. Koesler could discern what appeared to be a small dark hole on the upper chest. Blood was trickling from Krieg’s mouth and nostrils. The priest stood frozen.

Not so Janet. Quickly she knelt next to Krieg and placed her fingers against his carotid artery. She looked up at the others and said, wonderingly, “He’s dead! My God, he’s dead!”

At that moment, a young woman burst into the dining room. “It’s Father Augustine,” she gasped. “He’s dead!”