William Kienzle - Masquerade

“In such an eventuality, should it occur, you had to have an alternate plan. One that would do away with the Rabbi while making it appear that you had been the real target and that it was your life that had been-and continued to be-threatened. And for this scenario, you, of course, needed the police. And I got them for you.”

At this point Mangiapane hurried back into the room, whispered animatedly with Tully, then left the room again. Mangiapane was perturbed or excited, Koesler couldn’t tell which. In either case, he wanted to conclude his narrative.

“In any case, when Rabbi Winer was found poisoned from drinking the Frangelico you both favored, the conclusion everyone reached was exactly what you wanted: Someone had attempted to kill you by poisoning your liquor. Whoever that someone was, he or she had to get in line. But, by mistake, Rabbi Winer drank the poison intended for you. That had to be the case since quite a few people had motivation to kill you. And no one wanted to kill the rabbi.

“No one but yourself.

“After dinner, everyone left the dining area. Some of us went to a movie, others took a walk or retired to their rooms. The dining room, once it was cleared, would be empty. You invited Rabbi Winer to join you. You probably intimated you’d work everything out with him.

“Maybe you had several options. But the way it worked out you were left undisturbed. You offered him the Frangelico. He drank it and died almost instantaneously. Then you left. You didn’t even have to worry about fingerprints, since your prints as well as Winer’s were already on the bottle that we all saw both of you use earlier.

“You didn’t even have to worry about being seen coming out of the dining room; had you been, all you would have had to do was pretend that you had just found the rabbi’s body and were going for help. But that wasn’t necessary. Your luck held; nobody saw you. Your luck held. .” he repeated, “. . until now.”

Krieg summoned his last ounce of bravado. “Father Koesler, you don’t have a shred of proof for all the false accusations you’ve made. You’ve created a pleasant story without any foundation whatsoever. And besides the fact that you have no proof, if it is not my life that has been threatened throughout this workshop, then how do you explain the latest attempt to kill me just a little while ago when someone tried to arrange it that I would blow myself to kingdom come? Are you going to suggest that I did that to myself? How could I when I was being guarded, protected by a detail of Detroit police officers all morning?”

A triumphant tone crept into Krieg’s voice as he concluded what had to be his ultimate defense.

“That’s true,” Sergeant Moore attested. “We had some of our people with him all morning. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t have dumped that gasoline in his room.”

Tully spoke. “I may have the explanation. A few minutes ago I was pretty sure where you were going with your explanation, Father. So I tried to anticipate you. Krieg could have carried the whole thing off with the exception of the gasoline attempt on his life. But if he’d done the whole thing-and I have to agree with you, he did do it-and the explosive gas was another attempt to convince us someone out there was still after him, then he had to have help.”

“Guido Taliafero,” Koesler almost whispered. He’d forgotten all about Krieg’s “shadow.”

“Uh-huh,” Tully affirmed. “I sent Mangiapane out to find him and start asking him some hard questions. Mangiapane came back to tell me that Taliafero is one scared hombre. He’s startin’ to sing pretty good. And the subject of his song is you, Krieg.”

“Reverend Krieg. .” Koznicki spoke with the solemnity of an Inquisitor General. “I place you under arrest for the murder of Rabbi Irving Winer. Sergeant Moore will now inform you of your rights.”

The Koznickis’ home had that special lived-in atmosphere that comes from having and raising a family in it over a great number of years. The rooms seemed to echo with childish voices; the floors seemed to creak and groan under pounding young feet. The voices and the feet belonged to the active children who were now grown and gone and raising their own families.

The den belonged to Walt Koznicki. It was a man’s room. It was a police officer’s room. Citations and trophies vied for space with books and with photos of Koznicki as a beat cop, in various stages of advancement, with notables-Detroiters and visiting firemen. The little remaining space held several heavy chairs and a small desk, leaving barely enough room to navigate.

The weather on this, the second Sunday in September, was dreary. Rain beat down in body-seeking torrents, and the added forecast of thunderstorms made staying inside seem even cozier.

Walt and Wanda Koznicki had invited Father Koesler to dinner, which was over now. Wanda would join them in the den as soon as she had put away the leftovers and loaded the dishwasher. Koznicki and Koesler sat quietly, satisfied and comfortable, watching the steady rain beat against the window.

Both were lost in thoughts, which were interrupted when Wanda entered the room carrying a tray.

“Ah,” Koznicki said, “you will join us now?”

“As soon as everything’s done in the kitchen,” Wanda said. “I just brought you some fresh coffee.” She placed a full cup on a small stand next to Koesler’s chair. “You take yours black, don’t you, Father?”

Koesler smiled. “Every single time,” he said.

Wanda glanced at him. It was an odd response. She thought he might elaborate. But since the priest said no more, she put the other cup near her husband and left the room.

Koznicki was smiling broadly. He had caught the allusion of Koesler’s words. “That was the beginning, was it not?”

“I guess it was.” Koesler savored the aroma of Wanda’s coffee. For a woman who liked coffee as much as she, he wondered why she never seemed to want any when he made it. “Krieg was right. I was not at all surprised when he was familiar with a Yiddish word. Myron Cohen could have told that joke; maybe he did. When he got to the punch line, the very context would have defined ‘Gevalt!’ And once you heard it you’d remember it.

“But I did wonder about Krieg’s diet. It wasn’t too surprising when he preferred an omelet to the Stroganoff. It was a little odd, though, that he didn’t eat what was served. Most people do at sit-down dinners. It’s the rare bird who insists on an entirely different main dish. It was just out of the ordinary enough to attract my attention so that I took note of what else he ate at that first dinner we shared.”

“I am surprised,” Koznicki said, “that Sister Janet, or whoever planned the menu, didn’t take into account the Jewish dietary laws-in honor of Rabbi Winer’s presence.”

Koesler smiled. “It’s just as well she didn’t-or I never would’ve latched on to the discrepancy. . there wouldn’t have been anything for me to pick up on.” He shook his head. “That’s the interesting thing about the Gentiles’ perception of Jews. We tend to think of the Jews as abstaining from pork. So we make sure not to insult our Jewish guests by including pork on the menu. We don’t stop to consider the rest of the Old Testament injunction, ‘Thou shalt not boil a kid in its mother’s milk.’

“In any case, I didn’t really pay that much attention to the dinner Monday evening until we were served coffee. Sister Janet took cream. I guess it was subconscious, but I was waiting for Krieg to ask that the cream be passed to him. When he took his coffee black, it dawned on me why I was waiting for him to ask for the cream. It was because he had taken cream the night before.