“You musn’t say that, Mrs. Hunsinger. I’m sure you did all you could.”
Koesler had no firsthand knowledge that she had done all she could. He simply could not believe that a woman who practically lived in church would not do all she could to make certain her son would grow up well. “Besides,” he said, grasping at straws, “Hank. . er. . Henry was not by any means without some very good qualities. Why, I wouldn’t even have met him if he hadn’t been a member of a Bible discussion group. Anyone who devotes an evening a week to a deeper understanding of the Bible can’t be all bad.”
“Do you think so?” She seemed to be testing the straw he extended, to see if it were strong enough to hold to.
“Yes, of course. And we have no idea what his private prayer life might have been. But, once again, that Bible study very probably had a very positive effect on his prayer life.” It was pure speculation on Koesler’s part, but it was by no means the first time he’d indulged in such conjecture. Mortal life was ended for Hunsinger. If the priest’s faith were valid, Hunsinger had lately appeared before God in judgment and was now living in eternity. It remained for the living to find some means, any means, to console the living.
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Hunsinger mused, “if his father had lived. . you know, he died just a few months after your first Mass. And Henry was so young, so impressionable at the time.”
“Absolutely.” Koesler plucked at the straw Mrs. Hunsinger, grateful to find another excuse for her son’s flagrantly dissolute life, was extending to him. “It’s very difficult for one parent to fulfill a child’s need for both parents. Sometimes, impossible. No matter how hard the single parent tries.
“But in the final analysis, Mrs. Hunsinger, at some point in life a young person grows up. And, short of the most gross mistreatment throughout youth and adolescence, as an adult he must take full responsibility for his actions, for his life. And he also must take full responsibility for the consequences of those actions. At that point it’s needless, pointless, and maybe even self-destructive for parents to continue to absorb the blame for their children’s actions. You do understand that, don’t you, Mrs. Hunsinger?”
She nodded, but she was gazing straight ahead at the open coffin. Koesler could not determine whether she was weighing or discarding his words. At any rate, he was worried about her obviously distressed state and concerned that he apparently had been unable to ease her out of it. He wondered if it were possible that she might harbor thoughts of suicide. With her strong adherence to Catholicism, it was unlikely that she might attempt that; on the other hand, in her depressed state she might not be entirely in her right mind. In which case, no one could foretell what might happen.
“Do you have anyone with you?” Koesler asked after a brief silence.
“Anyone with me?”
“Yes; someone staying with you?”
“Oh, well, of course there’s Mrs. Quinn.”
“Mrs. Quinn?”
“Yes, right here.” Mrs. Hunsinger indicated the elderly woman seated next to her on the side opposite to that where Koesler was seated.
Koesler had been unaware of Mrs. Quinn’s presence. Contributing to this circumstance was Mrs. Quinn’s state. Her head was softly bobbing in the general direction of her bosom. She was in the midst of a small nap.
“Mary Frances! Mary Frances!” Mrs. Hunsinger nudged her gently.
“If the number’s B-8, then I’ve got a bingo,” Mrs. Quinn murmured. Obviously a vestige of her dream.
In spite of himself and in spite of where he was, Koesler could not suppress a smile. Long ago, the traditional four marks of the One True Church had been increased by one, to read: One, Holy, Catholic, Apostolic, and Bingo. Surely, Mrs. Quinn’s faith was strong.
“Mary Frances.” Mrs. Hunsinger was getting her attention. “This is Father Koesler. You remember I told you all about Father Koesler.”
“Oh. . oh, yes. Father Koesler.” Mrs. Quinn extended her hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Quinn.” Koesler took the proffered hand, thinking that it might better be put to use rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“So,” Mrs. Quinn blinked in a conscious effort to fully awaken, “this is Father Koesler. Grace has told me what a fine boy you were, so faithful to your altar appointments. And so reverent.”
These ladies were perhaps twenty or thirty years older than he. And though he was in his mid-fifties, Koesler couldn’t help but feel that he was a boy again, being affirmatively evaluated by the good ladies of the parish. He half expected one of them to affix a gold star to his forehead.
“I am the same, Mrs. Quinn, only now grown a bit older.” He smiled. “The two of you live together, do you?”
“Oh, yes, Father,” Mrs. Quinn responded. “We have for years now. Two old widows taking care of each other as best we can. We seem to match pluses and minuses. Sort of like. . whatchamacallit. . a yin and a yang. But we get along as well as two old ladies can these days. It’s a mercy we found each other.”
“Yes,” Koesler affirmed, “it is a mercy you’re together now. I’m especially pleased that you don’t have to be alone at this time, Mrs. Hunsinger. I’m sure Mrs. Quinn will be a big help to you.”
“Well, I certainly hope to be, Father.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Father Forbes announced, “we’re going to say the rosary now. .”
Whereas there had been only the soft shuffling of feet approaching the bier, now it sounded like a subdued stampede as many tried to reach the exit before being trapped by the prayer.
“If you are seated,” Father Forbes continued, “you may remain seated. If you are standing, considering the crowd here tonight, you probably ought to remain standing.” Catching sight of the many who were making good their escape, he added, “But if you wish to kneel, you may.” He turned toward the coffin and knelt. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. I believe in God, the Father Almighty. .”
Koesler decided to offer this rosary for the deceased, who certainly needed all the spiritual help he could get, as well as for the success of the impending gathering of the God Squad. A meeting that, in all candor, he dreaded.
“I think we ought to observe a moment’s silence in memory of Hank Hunsinger.” Jay Galloway, host for the evening and thus leader of tonight’s discussion, bowed his head.
So did everyone else at the large round dining table, with the exception of Father Koesler. He was not averse to offering another prayer for Hunsinger’s soul, but he considered himself, for this evening, Inspector Koznicki’s eyes and ears. As much as possible he wanted to observe faithfully what would happen here tonight in case what transpired would help the police solve Hunsinger’s murder.
Seated at the table clockwise from himself were Bobby Cobb, Jack Brown, Jay Galloway, Niall Murray, Kit Hoffer, and Dave Whitman. Marj Galloway, having set hot and cold hors d’oeuvres on the table, was seated in the adjoining living room, whence the sound of the television set, volume turned very low, could still be heard.
He and Mrs. Galloway were, thought Koesler, color-coordinated this evening. Each was attired in black and white. The priest, as usual, wore his clericals. Mrs. Galloway wore a simple long-sleeved black dress with frilly white lace at the collar and cuffs. Why, Koesler wondered, was she wearing black? Was it in deference to the deceased Hunsinger? Or for no specific reason? No matter; even the modest dress did not detract from her elegance.
Koesler was haunted by the same feeling he had had on his previous visit to this house. Something was wrong, but he could not identify what. He looked carefully about the dining room. Nothing out of place that he could see. It must have been the other room, the living area. But what?
He would have to remember to look more closely when he was leaving.
He wondered what the others were doing with their moment of silence. Praying? That could be a reasonable assumption with a group assembled for Bible study. On the other hand, it was more than likely that someone in this room-or the next-had killed Hank Hunsinger. What would be going on in that person’s mind during a moment of silence in memory of Hunsinger? A prayer that he or she would not be found out? Scary thought.
Galloway cleared his throat. It might have been the dependable cough of a heavy smoker. In this case it was a signal that the moment of silence had expired.
There was a shifting in chairs and the rustle of Biblical pages being turned.
“Last week,” said Galloway, “we considered the raising of Lazarus from the dead, and we agreed we’d continue on from there this week. So, that’s John, chapter 11, verses 45 to 53. You want to read that, Dave?”
Whitman adjusted his half-lens reading glasses to read the passage:
