Sara Paretsky - Killing Orders

Uncle Stefan took me to one side. “Really, Victoria. By now you should know better than to pay the least heed to Lotty when she is in such a tantrum. If you are letting her overset you it is only because you are very tired.” He patted my hand and insisted that Murray go to a bakery and buy some chocolate cake. “And none of that Sara Lee or Davidson cake. I mean a real bakery, young man. There must be one in your area.”

So Murray returned with a hazelnut chocolate cake and whipped cream. Uncle Stefan cut me a large slice, poured cream over it, and stood watching me eat it with anxious benevolence. “So, Nichtchen, now you are feeling better, right?”

I wasn’t, not really. Somehow I couldn’t re-create the terror I’d felt earlier dealing with O’Faolin. All I could think of was Father Carroll’s probable reaction to my antics in his chapel.

But at three-thirty I’d followed Uncle Stefan into the backseat of Murray’s Pontiac Fiero.

We reached the chapel early and were able to get seats in the front row behind the wooden screen. I was assuming that Rosa, hard at work on priory finances, would attend the service, but I didn’t want to run the risk of her recognizing me, even in the gloomy half light, by turning around and peering.

Around us people joined in the service, knowing which chants permitted group singing, which ones were solo performances. The four of us sat quietly.

When the offertory announced the beginning of the mass, my heart started beating faster. Shame, fear, anticipation all crowded together. Next to me Uncle Stefan continued to breathe calmly while my palms turned wet and my breath came in short, gasping chunks.

Through the rood screen I could see the priests forming a large semicircle around the altar. Pelly and O’Faolin stood side by side, Pelly small, intent, O’Faolin tall and self-assured, the chief executive officer at an office picnic. O’Faolin wore a black cassock instead of the white Dominican robe. He was not part of the order.

We let the congregation file past us to receive communion. When Rosa’s ramrod back and cast-iron hair marched by, I gently nudged Uncle Stefan. We stood up together and joined the procession.

Some half dozen priests were passing out wafers. At the altar the procession split as people quietly went to the man with the fewest communicants in front of him. Uncle Stefan and I moved behind Rosa to Archbishop O’Faolin.

The archbishop wasn’t looking at people’s faces. He had performed this ritual so many times that his mind was far from the benevolent superiority of his face. Rosa turned to go back to her seat. She saw me blocking her path and gave an audible gasp. It brought O’Faolin abruptly to the present. His startled gaze went from me to Uncle Stefan. The engraver grabbed my sleeve and said loudly.

“Victoria! This man helped to stab me.”

The archbishop dropped the ciborium. “You!” he hissed. His eyes glittered. “You’re dead. So help me God, you’re dead.”

A camera flashed. Cordelia Hull on the job. Murray, grinning, held up his microphone. “Any more comments for posterity, Archbishop?”

By now the mass had come to a complete halt. One of the more level-headed young brothers had leaped to retrieve the spilled communion wafers from the floor before they were stepped on. The few remaining communicants stood gaping. Carroll was at my side.

“What is the meaning of this, Miss Warshawski? This is a church, not a gladiator’s arena. Clear these newspaper people so we can finish the mass. Then I’d like to see you in my office.”

“Certainly, Prior.” My face felt red but I spoke calmly. “I’d appreciate it if you’d bring Father Pelly along, too. And Rosa will be there.” My aunt, rooted at my side, now tried to make for the door. I held her thin wiry arm in a grasp tight enough to make her wince. “We’re going to talk, Rosa. So don’t try to leave.”

O’Faolin started justifying himself to Carroll. “She’s mad, Prior. She’s dug up some old man to hurl accusations at me. She thinks I tried to kill her and she’s been persecuting me ever since I came out to the priory.”

“That’s a lie,” Uncle Stefan piped up. “Whether this man is an archbishop I couldn’t say. But that he stole my stocks and watched a hoodlum try to kill me, that I know. Listen to him now!”

The prior held up his arms. “Enough!” I hadn’t known the gentle voice could carry so much authority. “We’re here to worship the Lord. These accusations make a mockery of the Lord’s Supper. Archbishop, you will have your turn to speak. Later.”

He called the congregation to order, and gave a pithy homily on how the devil could be at our side to tempt us even at the very gates of heaven, and had everyone join in a group confession. Still holding on to Rosa, I moved away from the center of the chapel to one side. As the congregation prayed, I watched O’Faolin head toward the exit behind the altar. Pelly, standing near him, looked wretched. If he left now with O’Faolin, he made a public statement of complicity. If he stayed behind, the archbishop would never forgive him. His choices flitted across his intense, mobile face with the clarity of a stock quotation on an electronic ticker. At length, his cheeks flushed with misery, he joined his brothers in the final prayers and filed silently with them from the chapel.

As soon as Carroll was out of sight, the congregation burst into loud commentary. Above the clatter I listened for a different sound. It didn’t come.

Rosa started muttering invectives at me in a loud undertone.

“Not here, Auntie dear. Save it for the prior’s study.” With Stefan and Murray on my heels, I guided my aunt firmly through the gaping, chattering crowd to the hallway door. Cordelia stayed behind to get a few group photos.

Pelly was sitting with Carroll and Jablonski. Rosa started to say something when she saw him, but he shook his head and she shut up. Power in the word. If we were all still alive at the end of the session, I might try to hire him as her keeper.

As soon as we were seated, Carroll demanded to know who Murray and Uncle Stefan were. He told Murray that he could stay only on condition that none of the conversation was either recorded or reported. Murray shrugged. “Then there isn’t much point in my staying.”

Carroll was adamant. Murray acquiesced.

“I tried to get Xavier to join us but he is getting ready to go to the airport and refuses to say anything. I want an orderly explanation from the rest of you. Starting with Miss Warshawski.”

I took a deep breath. Rosa said, “Don’t listen to her, Father. She is nothing but a spite-filled-”

“You will have your turn, Mrs. Vignelli.” Carroll spoke with such cold authority that Rosa surprised herself by shutting up.

“This tale has its roots some thirty-five years ago in Panama,” I told Carroll. “At that time, Xavier O’Faolin was a priest working in the Barrio. He was a member of Corpus Christi and a man of deep ambition. Catherine Savage, a young idealistic woman with a vast fortune, joined Corpus Christi under his persuasion and turned most of her money into a trust for the use of Corpus Christi.

“She met and married Thomas Paciorek, a young doctor in the service. She spent four more years in Panama and developed a lasting interest in a seminary where Dominicans could continue the work she and O’Faolin had undertaken among the poor.”

As I got well into my story, I finally started relaxing. My voice came out without a tremor and my breathing returned to normal. I kept a wary eye on Rosa.

“Toward the end of her stint in Panama, a young man came to the Priory of San Tomás who shared her passion and her idealism. Not to spin out the obvious, it was Augustine Pelly. He, too, joined Corpus Christi. He, too, fell under Xavier O’Faolin’s influence. When O’Faolin’s ambition and acuity got him a coveted promotion to Rome, Pelly followed and served as his secretary for several years-not a typical venue for a Dominican friar.