every contour of them-”
This time she was successful in slapping away his hands with unexpected force.
“That’s all you’re ever going to have of me: a memory!”
“W-what do you mean?” Not having his way was one of the stresses that always affected his articulation.
“You never listen, do you? Dave said it all tonight when he told you that the thing he regretted most was ever going to work for you.”
“Th-that’s crazy! He’s had a good life. Made a lot of money.”
“And along the way lost much of his self-respect, just like everyone else who gets involved with you. It isn’t so much that everything you touch turns to dross; it’s more that you don’t really like yourself, and you can’t believe that anyone who would work for you-or marry you, for that matter-can be any good. How could they be worthwhile and still agree to work for you, or marry you?”
“Wh-when did you get a psychology degree?” All this talk was dampening his arousal.
“I don’t need a degree. I had to go through the school of hard knocks to learn about you. It dawned on me after the Hunsinger affair. All the way down that trip through hell I could never figure out what I was doing with that maniac. But after we broke up, the whole thing became clear. I guess I needed somebody as rotten as Hunsinger to shake the cobwebs out of my brain.
“It started right after we got married. Before, our sex was great. But you were still trying to win me then. You couldn’t be sure I was ‘worthless enough’ to actually marry you. So you treated me with respect. But once you married me-or, rather, once I married you, that proved to your satisfaction that I was without value; otherwise why else would I consent to be your wife?
“From then on, you treated me like-no, worse than-a prostitute. I was a thing. A thing you could take to bed and use at your whim. Or a pretty thing you could take out on important occasions and show off. But always you used me. Until I began to see myself the way you saw me: worthless. So I became available to almost anyone who wanted to use me in much the same way as you did.
“But Hunsinger brought me to my senses. You, at your worst-and that was something to behold-were never as low as the Hun.
“Now I’ve got a life to put together. And that life definitely does not include you. I know you’re going to find this difficult to understand, but we’re through, finished, over, closed, and shut.
“Now, you may leave. And close the door after you!”
Galloway backed away from her. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“If I change my mind, I hope somebody has me committed.”
Galloway left the house. He wanted her now more than he had in years. He would not realize that his desire was the direct result of her rejecting him. Now that he no longer possessed her, he respected her once more. But, as he had proved time and again, he was a very good salesman who would not take no for an answer. Like everything else in life, this would require some planning.
As soon as Father Koesler returned to St. Anselm’s rectory, he phoned Inspector Koznicki at home.
Koesler recounted the evening’s events as carefully as he could recall them. What had begun as a rather routine Bible discussion-albeit with an electric atmosphere-had quickly deteriorated into a maelstrom of anger, hostility, and recrimination.
As best as Koesler could recall, Dave Whitman had accused Hoffer, Galloway, and Galloway’s wife. Jay Galloway, in turn, had accused Whitman. Jack Brown had accused Bobby Cobb, who had returned the favor.
He was careful to relate the new motives for Whitman supplied by Galloway, and for Cobb as supplied by Brown.
“Very good, Father. . excellent.” Koznicki congratulated the priest on his reportage and added, “Our detectives have been busy today and are formulating some very definite opinions. I shall make sure they learn of your contribution first thing in the morning. We are hopeful of wrapping up this case tomorrow.”
“That soon!”
“It has been two full days since the murder, Father. And, as you well know, the longer a case continues, the less likely we are to reach a solution.”
“You’re right, Inspector, of course. I was speaking as the amateur I am. Just because I haven’t the slightest idea who did it is no reason to assume that the experts are not close to solving the case.”
He could hear Koznicki’s soft chuckle.
“Will you be attending the funeral tomorrow, Inspector?”
“Yes, indeed. It is at-” Koznicki tried to locate the obituary in the afternoon paper.
“At 9:00 a.m.,” Koesler supplied, “at Holy Redeemer.”
“Of course. Will I be seeing you there, Father?”
“Yes. I plan on concelebrating. I got to know Hank fairly well during the discussion meetings. And I must confess I’ve gotten to know him even better during the investigation of his murder.”
“Yes. I think you might say, Father, that he can use all the prayers he can get.”
“I quite agree. Well, I’ll. . see you in church,” Koesler concluded lightly.
Before retiring, the priest poured himself a glass of sherry. He sipped it slowly as he let the events of the past couple of days drift through his mind.
It was fortunate for the wheels of justice, he concluded, that society did not have to wait for him to solve a crime. But he was glad that the police seemed close to a solution. For his part, Koesler was forced to agree with Marj Galloway. There was no smoking gun. . as least none that he could detect. Just lots of opportunities and lots of motives.
The smoking gun everyone seemed to be looking for apparently was the knowledge of Hunsinger’s colorblindness. So far, the only ones who had admitted such knowledge were Niall Murray and Hunsinger’s mother. Neither seemed to have a motive for the crime and both had daylong alibis.
Somebody else had to be holding the smoking gun, but Koesler could think of no way to figure out who.
Well, then, he concluded as he downed the last of the sherry, here’s to the police.
4
Hackett’s funeral home was, especially for this early in the day, unusually packed.
Seated next to each other in front of the wall near the still open casket were Niall Murray and Kit Hoffer. Each wore a black suit, with white shirt and black tie. They were two of the six pallbearers.
They were waiting while Father Peter Forbes completed the wake prayers. When he had finished, the ceremony would move to the church. Murray and Hoffer conversed sporadically in whispers.
“I don’t fancy tryin’ to lug that casket up all them steps of the church,” said Murray.
“Me neither,” Hoffer replied. “That coffin plus the Hun must weigh a ton.”
“You’re a poet as well.”
Both successfully smothered snickers.
“Beats practice,” Murray commented after a period of silence.
“Beats practice?”
“Just sitting here.”
“We’ll pay for it later this morning. You can bet on that altogether.”
“You know, I was kind of surprised the coach let us off to come to the funeral. After all, this is Wednesday. Should be a full day of work. Especially with New York coming up. I mean, like, we are really going to be behind.”
“Put your trust in Coach Bradford, will ya now, man? Even as we speak, he is probably sittin’ in this very funeral parlor plannin’ on how he is goin’ to sweat our asses off this afternoon. Besides, we are here for one reason and one reason alone. It would look very bad indeed in the papers and on TV if we hadn’t shown up for the Hun’s funeral.”
“Like, so much for respect for the dead.”
Once again, they successfully stifled a laugh.
