William Kienzle - Marked for Murder - The Father Koesler Mysteries:

“Not all of them are idle, Dick. Some of them—most of them—have been converted into other kinds of service. And God knows that—”

“But they’re not schools. And they’re only partially used. And they’re not schools!” Kramer was growing somewhat incoherent. “Mary Therese, you just don’t know. You’ve never been attached to a parish that doesn’t have a school. You were a teaching nun. So naturally, any parish you were associated with had to have a functioning school—or you wouldn’t have been there. So all you know is the kind of spirit you find in a parish with a school.

“Let me tell you, I was an assistant at St. Norbert’s when they built their school. It was like night and day. Before the school, it just didn’t seem like anything held the place together. But once the school was there, it was as if somebody poured glue. The parish hung together like never before!”

Mary Therese knew the school was going to close. The handwriting was on the wall. Everyone saw it—everyone except Father Kramer. She wanted to soften the blow for him if at all possible.

“As you say, Dick, I was a teaching nun. So I know better than most that we are an endangered species. And it’s not so much that I and many others have opted out of teaching. It’s that so very few young women are entering the convent now. There are almost no teaching nuns coming along. And you know as well as I, Dick, that this country could never have begun or built or sustained our vast parochial school system without the nuns to staff them. If the Church had had to pay a realistic wage to these teachers, there would never have been a parochial school system; the Church could never have afforded it.

“And that’s where we are now. Oh, maybe the barrel isn’t entirely empty . . . but almost. There just aren’t enough teaching sisters to come even close to staffing the schools. Some of the suburban Catholic schools are hanging on because they are just barely managing to pay a competitive wage to lay teachers. But that’s not going to go on forever. Meanwhile, here we are: How can we possibly afford to pay lay teachers? And lay teachers are what we’ve got. There are no nuns.”

“This parish can rise to the challenge.”

“This parish is great, Dick. And its greatness is a direct tribute to you.”

“No . . .”

“It is. But it’s as Mrs. Quinn said: The school is like a bottomless pit. We’re putting almost every penny from every other service we have into the school. And still it isn’t enough.”

“So that’s it! You’re jealous ’cause your programs are not getting everything they were budgeted for.”

“Dick! That’s not worthy of you!”

He reddened. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

“It’s all right. It’s just that if you could put the school behind you, we could do so many other things. This parish is not going to fall apart just because we can’t keep the school open.”

He tapped a cigarette on the desktop, tamping the tobacco tightly together. “But I gave my word. I gave the people my word it would stay open.”

“For God’s sake, Dick, if anybody understands how hard you work for this place, it’s the people. They’ll know you did everything humanly possible to keep it going. The last thing you ought to be concerned with is how the people will react.”

“Maybe. . . . Maybe . . . maybe . . .” Absently, he placed the cigarette between his lips and struck a match.

He resembled a small boy who had just been told there would be no visit from Santa this year. Mary Therese felt an impulse to cradle his head, put her hand on his slumping shoulder, touch him in some way. That she did not was not so much her decision as it was a matter of his character. His entire demeanor seemed to forbid any physical expression of emotion, let alone affection.

There was nothing more for her to do. Silently, she rose and left the room.

He seemed unaware of her departure.

7

Father Koesler pulled into the parking lot of the Burtha M. Fisher Home, better known as the Little Sisters of the Poor, Home for the Aged.

The Little Sisters took excellent care of the elderly and the aging ill. So exceptional was their care, according to the nuns themselves, that there was seldom a vacancy. The residents just lived on and on. The Little Sisters exulted in the fact that while their waiting list was long enough to discourage all but the most determined, there was almost always room for another priest.

Among the four priests presently in residence was Monsignor Lawrence Meehan.

Freshly embarked on his eightieth year, Meehan had been retired, having received “senior priest status,” for the past ten years. Though he was arthritic, stooped and shriveled, still his mind remained mercifully alert and his memory sharp, if selective.

Koesler visited the monsignor at least once a month, more often if the occasion presented itself. Almost thirty years before, Koesler had served as an assistant to Meehan in a suburban parish. The two had hit it off then and continued their congenial relationship over the years.

Occasionally now, Koesler might submit a problem for the monsignor’s consideration and advice. But not often, since Meehan no longer cared to pontificate or even adjudicate. He had pretty well left behind him with the active ministry most of the decision-making that had been his ordinary role for forty-five years as a functioning priest.

Mostly the two just visited and told each other the same stories over and over. Koesler did not mind; they were good tales, tried and true. Meehan didn’t mind; his memory of recent events, such as when and with whom he had lately shared these stories, was fuzzy.

Koesler entered the monsignor’s room and the two greeted each other. Koesler breathed a sigh of relief. He feared the day when the accumulation of years would roll over Meehan and he would not recognize his former assistant.

“So, how’s it going, Monsignor?” Koesler placed his coat and hat on the bed and sat near the elderly priest.

“Oh, pretty good, Bobby, pretty good.” Meehan, seated near the window, listed slightly to the right, the result of his arthritis.

“You’re lookin’ fine.”

“Maybe so . . . but I think I’m in trouble again.”

“Oh?”

“See, there’s this nurse—physical therapist. She takes me through my paces twice a week. Well, yesterday she said, ‘Monsignor, have you been turning your neck to the right and left like I told you to?’”

“And you said . . .”

“‘Only when you walk by, Honey.’”

That was a new story.

“Did you follow that up by asking her for a date?”

Meehan’s eyes twinkled. “What’s a date?”

“If you don’t even remember, I can’t see that the Pope’s going to get sore about this.” Koesler had not intended bringing up the topic weighing on his mind, since he tried to keep heavy matters out of their conversations. However, the segue from what Meehan had recounted was irresistible. “But I may be in trouble.”

“Oh?” There was hesitancy in Meehan’s demeanor; he hoped this would not be a problem in which he was expected to get involved. As always, he would do his best to keep it light.

“I had a rather controversial funeral this morning,” Koesler proceeded.

“Controversial?”

“We buried a prostitute.”

“Somebody had to.”

“She wasn’t even from my parish.” Somehow, as Koesler started to explain, the whole matter began to seem silly.

“Now, why would you do that?”

“Somebody asked me to.”

“Remember that funeral we had back at St. Norbert’s?” Meehan, as he frequently did, sought shelter in history. “That Italian family who owned the bar . . . what was their name? . . . Ventimiglia, wasn’t it?”