William Kienzle - Masquerade

Marie shuddered. “But what? I feel as if I’m going in two directions at once. I want to leave and I want to stay. I distinctly don’t want to play games with a madman.”

“I have a feeling, Sister,” Winer said, “that Krieg is not the sort of person who accepts no for an answer graciously. We’ve already rejected his proposal to join his publishing empire. Once again, it seems perfectly obvious he has something else in store for us. What’s he really up to?”

“The rabbi has a point, Sister,” Benbow said. “I’d rather face Krieg and get it over with. Besides, whatever he has in mind can’t be that serious. Probably just something in very bad taste.”

“Of course,” Winer said, “all this hypothesis we’ve been bandying about is predicated on the fact that all the games we know about have been played.” He purposefully focused on Janet. “There aren’t any more games or plots-that you know about-are there, Sister? I mean, there weren’t any more ‘conditions’ that Mr. Regan agreed to. . are there?”

Janet shook her head vigorously. “No, no more conditions.”

“By the way, Sister,” Winer said, “just where is the man of the hour, the erstwhile corpse? The Reverend Krieg is not staying with us?”

“Oh, dear,” Janet said, “I forgot. There was one more stipulation. That was that he also have a room available for him off-campus. I remember Jack saying that the Reverend asked specifically about living conditions here. Jack said he tried to be as realistic as possible about the residence rooms. The Reverend asked Jack to book a room for him at the Westin.”

“In the Renaissance Center?” Marie asked.

“That’s right,” Janet said.

Marie pursed her lips. It was a prestigious riverfront hotel in that section of downtown Detroit that still worked.

Benbow whistled softly. “I think he’s trying to tell us something. His own residence. His own liquor supply. His own food.”

“His own food?” Marie said.

“Didn’t you see his henchman get him a dinner different than we had?” Benbow said. “I firmly believe he’s trying to tell us something: that he not only is different from the rest of us, he’s better-and merits better accommodations.”

“As long as we’re dealing with comparisons,” Marie said, “there’s one area where he very definitely surpasses us: money.”

“No argument there, Sister,” Benbow said.

Winer ran a hand through his trim beard. “Are we not forgetting someone?”

The others looked at him inquiringly.

“Father Augustine,” Winer said. “Whatever happened to Father Augustine?”

Janet almost laughed aloud. “I confess I forgot about him. . or, at least stopped worrying about him the moment I heard the poor man snore.”

It was a much needed release of tension; they all roared with laughter.

“Then, Sister,” Winer said, “it is safe to assume that Father Augustine’s plight, whatever it is, was not part of the psychodrama Reverend Krieg and Mr. Regan arranged.”

Janet was wiping her eyes, teared this time by laughing, not crying. “No. . no. I don’t know what was wrong with the poor man. Jet lag, upset stomach, I have no idea. One thing I am quite sure of: He is being well cared for. The students who volunteered to help him are very responsible young people. They said they would call a doctor and I’m sure they have. They would have told us if it were serious. In this case, I’m sure, no news is good news.

“But, so that we’ll all sleep well, I will check into the medical status of Father Augustine. I’ll just slip the information under each of your doors.”

“Speaking of which,” Martha glanced at her watch, “it’s still rather early, but I can’t remember when I’ve been this tired. If there isn’t anything more on the agenda-and for the life of me I can’t think of what could possibly follow what we’ve been through-if we’re done for the evening, I think I’ll just retire.”

Winer looked at Sister Janet. “I take it, Sister, that the visit to our classrooms that you announced after dinner was no more than a ploy to get us away from ‘the scene of the crime,’ and that there is really no need to go there before the sessions tomorrow.”

Janet nodded.

“Then,” Winer said, “I feel you have touched upon a consensus, Mrs. Benbow. It’s off to bed we go.”

“Amen,” Marie said.

Benbow stifled a yawn. “So much for our first exciting night in Dynamic Detroit.”

And so, not one by one, but as a group, they left the dining room and its memories not of food but of surprises.

Meanwhile, between the dining room and the front door of the Madame Cadillac Building, Father Koesler had been talking virtually nonstop, apprising the two officers of all that had happened that evening.

The gathering of the writers; the gradual and mutual realization that each had been solicited by Krieg; the immediate sense of agreement that they would have prostituted their talent had they had the misfortune to sign with Krieg; the dramatic entry of Krieg partway through dinner; the departure of everyone but Krieg from the dining area; the gunshot; finding Krieg “dead”; the false alarm with Augustine; the confrontation between Winer, Benbow, and Marie as to which might have had the opportunity to murder Krieg; and finally, his call to Homicide.

Koesler was anxious that Tully and Mangiapane understand what had prompted him to summon them. He realized he undoubtedly would have saved them the trouble of coming out had he gone through the routine of calling 911. Surely an officer or two from the precinct could have observed the absence of a victim as easily as experts from Homicide.

Koesler felt about as sorry as anyone had ever felt about anything.

Throughout Koesler’s detailed explanation, Tully paid only peripheral attention. He was just drained. It was really the end of his shift. With any luck, in a short while he could check out and go home. He would get a bit to eat, an extravagant hot shower and, again with any luck, a relaxing back rub. And so to sleep.

Not quite as tired, Mangiapane was relishing Koesler’s tale.

After Koesler had expressed his contrition for the umpteenth time, Mangiapane said, “You don’t have to feel so bad, Father.”

“I don’t?”

“This isn’t the first time we got fooled by some kind of scam.”

They had reached the exit. Tully was eager to leave and start the process that would, the sooner the better, free him to go home, get some tender loving care, and sleep-in that order.

Unfortunately, Mangiapane had begun a tale told out of school. Tully knew the story but he decided to endure it once again. He knew Mangiapane was telling the story for Koesler’s benefit. And, well, what the hell, the priest had been through an ordeal himself this evening. Maybe learning that he was not alone in failing for a fictional mystery scam would make Koesler feel better. The priest might get some sleep tonight but it would not be preceded by any tender loving care. Too bad, Tully thought, but that’s the way the collar buttons.

“This is a true story, Father,” Mangiapane continued. “It started when a guy got a piece of mail, no return address, just a plain piece of paper with threatening words all over it-like ‘murder,’ ‘kill,’ ‘an unsolved crime,’ ‘sudden death.’ The words looked like they came from newspapers, magazines, other publications. Just these words cut out.

“The guy couldn’t figure out why he got this threatening letter, but he was plenty scared. And he stayed scared, getting dead-bolt locks on his doors, double-checking the back seat of his car before getting in, parking near street lights at night, the whole thing.

“Then about ten days later, he gets another letter. Just like the first one, this has no return address. Just a plain envelope containing another plain piece of paper with threatening words cut out of various types of publications.