“What about it?”
“You seem to be looking at Kane and no one else. Isn’t that exactly what you accused Arne Soderberg of doing with Solemn?”
Cork pulled a small notepad from the pocket of his shirt. He put it on the desk where Jo could see. Written on it were four notations: Teachers. Doctor. Family Friends. Priest.
Cork said, “According to the academic record I got at the high school, Charlotte had four male teachers while she attended. She talked about one of them in particular. Her English teacher, Alistair Harding. He taught a poetry class she took fall semester last year. Her only official extracurricular activity was the school literary magazine. Harding was the advisor. He probably had a good window on her psyche. I’ll do some follow-up on him today.
“Her family doctor is Fiona Case. I think we can pretty much eliminate her as a suspect, but I’d still like to interview her.”
“Unless I can bring a successful motion to compel her to talk, you won’t get a thing out of her, Cork. Patient/client privilege. And the courts these days are extremely reluctant to allow medical records to be released or testimony to be given in instances where the victim’s sexual past might be an issue.”
“All right, then. We’ll put Dr. Case on the back burner for now. How about family friends? I’ve been thinking a lot about that one. Glory told me that Fletcher didn’t have friends. He had acquaintances, associates, colleagues, but no friends. And Glory, as nearly as I can tell, had only one close friend and that was Rose. We definitely need to talk to her.”
“I already did. She doesn’t know anything that would be useful. Glory was always very careful not to talk about the family.”
“That probably means there was a lot to hide. What about St. Agnes? Were the Kanes involved in the church community other than to attend mass?”
Jo shook her head. “Not in any significant way.”
“So they barricaded themselves in that big house and kept company mostly with one another.”
Jo looked at the final notation on the notepad. Priest. “You’re not serious about Mal.”
“Mendax, Jo. She was angry with him for some reason.”
“But Solemn believes Charlotte was involved with a married man.”
Cork took his notepad back and stood up to leave. “In the eyes of a lot of his parishioners, he is married. Married to the church.”
It was a busy day at Sam’s Place. At a break in the action, Cork turned to Jenny and asked, “Mr. Harding was your teacher for poetry last fall, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Tell me about him.”
Jenny put a basket of raw, frozen fries into hot oil. “He’s a good teacher.”
“What’s he like?”
She shrugged. “He’s very sensitive, I think.”
“Sensitive how?”
“Intuitive. Kind.”
“Married?”
“Mr. Harding?” She almost laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Dad, he’s gay.”
“What makes you think so?”
She lifted the basket, shook the fries to rearrange them, set the basket back in the oil. “Aside from being not married, he’s very neat, dresses nicely. And-well, it’s just something you get a feeling about.”
“A feeling,” Cork said. “But no solid evidence?”
“I never asked him, if that’s what you mean. Why all these questions?” She looked at him, and understanding came into her blue eyes. “Oh. Charlotte Kane’s married lover.”
It was sometimes difficult in the O’Connor household not to be overheard.
“You can forget about him, Dad.”
“Because you think he’s gay.”
“He goes home to England every year over the holidays. He was in, like, London or someplace when Charlotte was killed.”
A blue minivan pulled into the parking lot, and a half dozen teenagers piled out. Jenny turned toward the serving window. Cork scraped the grill and went back to this thinking.
Priest.
What did he know about Mal Thorne? What did anyone know? That he’d been in charge of a homeless shelter in Chicago and bore the scars of a knife attack by a couple of would-be thieves. Before that, a blank until his boxing days at Notre Dame. And before that, he’d been a kid from a tough section of Detroit. There were several important unknowns, among them the long period between college and Chicago, the reason a priest as capable as Mal ended up in a backwater place like Aurora, and why Charlotte was so angry with him.
When he had a few minutes, Cork went to the back of the Quonset hut and pulled out an old address book. It was a duplicate of the one he kept at home. He looked up a number, dialed long-distance to Chicago.
“You’ve reached Grabowski Confidential Investigations. I’m out of the office at the moment. Leave me your name and number and a brief message and I’ll get back to you, pronto.”
After the tone, Cork said, “Boomer, it’s Cork O’Connor. Been a long time, buddy. I need your help. Give me a call when you can.” Cork left two numbers, Sam’s Place and home.
He’d just hung up and was about to return to the serving area up front when the phone rang. He figured Boomer had been screening his calls.
It was Jo. She’d just received a fax of the phone records for Valhalla. Cork told her he couldn’t get away, but that he’d call Annie and have her pick them up on her way to work.
Things were busy the rest of the day, and it was late by the time Cork finally sat down at the old birch wood table in the back of the Quonset hut and looked over the phone records Annie had brought him. A lot of young people had known about the party. Several calls had been made from pay phones, so no way of telling who was on the line. The only items on the whole list that stood out for Cork were two calls placed from the home of Wilfred Lipinski, mayor of Aurora, one at 9:57 P.M. and another a 10:41 P.M. If Lipinski had teenagers who knew about the party at Valhalla, the calls would not have been odd, but all the Lipinski children were long ago grown and gone, and so Cork wondered. For a minute or two, he considered the possibility that the mayor might have been Charlotte’s mysterious married lover. But the idea of Wilfred Lipinski, who at sixty-two looked about as kissable as a cod, making love to the young woman was too much for Cork to imagine, and he dismissed it.
When he finally locked up and headed home, it was after ten o’clock. The longest day of the year was only a couple of weeks away, and a bit of light still lingered in the sky, a thin blue memory of day spread along the western horizon. A shaving of silver, all there was of a moon, hung above Iron Lake. The night was warm and liquid, and the color of everything melted toward black.
He took a detour and cruised past the sheriff’s office and jail. Across the street, the park where the believers and the curious gathered was almost empty. A few people still kept vigil. Cork recognized the couple who’d come from Warroad on the chance that Solemn’s touch would heal their wheelchair-bound son. Such desperation, Cork thought. Although he couldn’t bring himself to pray for them, he hoped that their own prayers were somehow answered.
Jo was already in bed when he got home, propped against her pillow with her reading glasses on and a stack of manila folders on Cork’s side of the bed. As he walked into the room, she lowered the papers in her hand.
“Late,” she said. “Everything okay?”
“Just going over the phone records.”
He drew the curtains and began to undress. The house was quiet. The air in the room carried the scent of Oil of Olay.
“Find anything?” Jo asked.
“Not what I’d hoped.” Cork hung his pants on a hook in the closet and tossed his shirt and underwear into a wicker hamper. “No calls from Kane’s place that day.”
“Do you still believe Fletcher’s involved?”
