Bryan Gruley - The Skeleton Box

“Please, please,” Father Timothy said. “Can we all remain calm?”

Joanie sat back in her chair.

The priest said, “It is true that Mr. Breck assisted us with necessary research on litigation in which the archdiocese was involved. But that was some time ago. He is no longer in the employ of our counsel. Which is unfortunate, because Mr. Breck is afflicted with certain, shall we say, paranoid obsessions that we thought we were helping him with. Apparently we were mistaken.”

“Obsessions with his grandfather?” I said. “And the murder of a nun?”

“Excuse me, Father,” Repelmaus said. “Gus, you didn’t hear this from me, but you might want to make a discreet inquiry about Mr. Breck with the state attorney discipline board.”

“Noted,” I said. “Father?”

The priest took up his club again, stood it on its handle. “I knew of Mr. Breck’s grandfather. Joseph was a fine groundskeeper, a hardworking man who also played hard, as it was told to me. A man with good intentions. We know where those lead.”

Repelmaus placed a hand flat on the table. “I’m sorry, Father,” he said, “but we really must go off the record. If you say the wrong thing, Breck could sue for slander and-”

Father Timothy reached down and grasped the shaft of the golf club and raised the blade up and brought it down hard enough on the table that his cup spat up coffee and whiskey. Repelmaus pulled his hand away. Joanie sat back in her chair, wide-eyed. I kept my eyes on Father Timothy. His face had flushed red.

“I am quite capable, Mr. Regis, of determining what I can and cannot say,” he said.

“Of course, Father, it’s just-”

“Pipe down, man.”

“I apologize, Father.”

Father Timothy took the golf club from the table and dropped it on the floor with a thump. “I’m sorry for my lack of restraint,” he said. He slipped a handkerchief from a pocket, wiped it across his mouth, dabbed at the spilled coffee and booze. “Forgive me, Lord.”

He tucked the handkerchief away and turned to me. “You have done your homework, Augustus. But-some unsolicited advice? — you should worry less about Mr. Breck and more about your mother.”

“Meaning what?”

The priest raised his shaggy eyebrows. “She hasn’t told you about the poor Sister?”

“I know about Sister Cordelia, how she disappeared.”

“But your mother, son.”

“She told me she knew her, that she liked her,” I said. “That’s all.”

He leaned forward, scrutinizing my face, searching for a hint of guilt in a tic, an exaggerated blink, an averted gaze. I imagined that I gave him nothing, but inside I felt as I did at the rare interview for which I hadn’t had sufficient time to prepare, a reporter who not only didn’t know the answers, but wasn’t sure which questions to ask.

“That’s all?” he said. “I see. All the better, I suppose.”

“It would be better if you answered our questions,” Joanie said.

He picked up his cup. It wobbled as he brought it to his lips, took a sip, set it back down. “I have answered what I can without violating confidences or the good Lord’s trust in me. I will say, though, that for all of your enterprise, you may have stumbled onto a story that is not fit to print.”

“Why? Because Nilus was a serial womanizer and you wouldn’t want that exposed?”

The priest shook his head. “That’s news that’s almost older than me. I can’t imagine anyone would care, but if it sells some more papers, have at it. The story I was talking about has more to do with you and your family, Augustus. I would assume your mother asked for God’s forgiveness.”

“For what?” I said.

Father Timothy picked up his wedge and stood, leaning on the club like a cane. “I’m afraid we have to wrap this up,” Repelmaus said.

“Allow me to clear up one small item,” the priest said. “Unlike most Irishmen, I am done drinking by eleven.”

“Father,” I said. “What did you say your last name was?”

“Reilly, son. Not like the life of, but Reilly: R-E-I–L-L-Y.”

I wrote it down.

The priest nodded at Joanie, then offered his hand to me. “Thank you for your trouble,” he said. “If you write your story, Augustus, please be kind enough to send us a copy.”

Repelmaus walked Joanie and me to the parking lot.

“Well,” he said, as the pro shop door swung shut behind us. “I thought that went well.”

“For you or for us?” Joanie said.

“For all concerned, I hope,” Repelmaus said. “I thought Father was candid. Maybe even a little too candid. Which reminds me, Gus.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pink While You Were Out slip. “The archdiocese got a message this morning from Luke Whistler of the Free Press. Didn’t want to return it until after we met. You know him?”

I tried not to look surprised. “Yep. He works for me.”

“At?”

“The Pine County Pilot.”

“Ah. Hadn’t heard. I’m usually up to date on reporter comings and goings.”

“He came up north after retiring, though you’d never know by how hard he works.”

“As opposed to when he was at the Freep, ” Joanie said. “Come on, I’ve got to get downtown.”

Joanie and I walked to Soupy’s pickup as Repelmaus’s Caddy pulled onto Six Mile.

“Well,” Joanie said, “at least you got his name spelled, huh?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

“It was like he interviewed you.”

“I learned what I came to learn,” I said.

“Like what?”

“Like, the archdiocese is buying up that land.”

“He never confirmed that.”

“Not so I could write it in the paper, but enough that I believe it. Also, he bullshitted us about Joe Wayland. That’s why I asked about his name.”

“What do you mean?”

“It dawned on me when he was drinking his coffee. His hand was shaking like a leaf, and I thought, man, he’s old. And then I remembered there was a priest quoted in one of the old Pilot stories about the nun and Joe Wayland.”

“That was him?”

“Pretty sure. I’ll show you. In the truck.”

“Hey.” She stopped and faced me. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why didn’t you come up last night?”

“Up?” I started walking toward the truck again. Joanie followed.

“To my bed,” she said. “Am I too young for you?”

“Come on.”

“Or are you intimidated because I work for a bigger paper? Your old paper?”

“No.”

“For the record, I don’t really care.”

“Joanie, I didn’t come-oh, what the fuck?”

The dome light was on in the truck. I ran over. As I got closer I saw that the driver’s side door was ajar, and there was a jagged hole in the window. Someone had punched through the glass and unlocked the door. I pulled the door open, climbed across the front seat, and plowed through the garbage on the floor.

The lockbox was gone.

“Son of a bitch,” I said. “My mother-” I stepped away from the truck and looked around the parking lot, up and down Six Mile. “Fuck.”

“Someone broke in?”

“Yeah, and stole something. Something important. I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have left it.”

“What was it?”

“A box. Something Mom gave me.”

“How would anyone know it was there?”

“Nobody would. Except me. And Soupy.” I looked back toward the clubhouse. “Maybe the good Father had the truck searched while we were in the clubhouse, and he got lucky.”

“Too obvious,” Joanie said. “But why would he care about your mother’s whatever?”

“Your boyfriend didn’t know, did he?”

“I told you I don’t have boyfriends.”