rolled the amber liquid around the base of the glass, occasionally inhaling the sweet-smelling bouquet.
Standing off to one side, Koesler, between occasional sips, checked out what the others were doing. Krieg’s assistant/companion stood nearby. At six-foot-three he and Koesler were of equal height. There the comparison pretty much ended. The associate was built like a brick armory, with no discernible neck, just a granite-like head that melded into massive shoulders.
Extending his hand, the priest introduced himself. “Hi. Father Koesler.”
The associate snorted, looked impassively at the priest, and said, “No. Guido Taliafero.”
Hand still extended, Koesler hesitated. Then he understood. “No,
“Oh.” Guido nodded and took the outstretched hand. Koesler was prepared; he slipped his hand as deeply into Taliafero’s as possible. Koesler knew, from the school of hard handshakes, that the greeting would hurt less if his palm were wrung than if his fingers were squeezed. Still, there was pain, Koesler swallowed it. “Worked for Reverend Krieg long?” he said, finally.
“No.”
“Oh. . uh. . what did you do before you came to work for Reverend Krieg?”
“Played football.”
“That figures. But I don’t place the name. Wait a minute; yes, I do. There was a Taliafero. But wasn’t he a quarterback?”
“Not NFL. Canadian League.”
“Oh. .uh. .well, nice meeting you, Guido.”
“Same here.”
And that was that. Taliafero remained at his post, in an “at ease” stance. Koesler felt awkward trying to continue this monosyllabic conversation; he moved off to a vantage whence he could more easily observe the others. As their drinks were poured, he noted their choices: Janet, Amaretto; Marie, Benedictine; Martha, Galliano; Benbow, E amp; J Brandy; Winer, Frangelico; Augustine, Chartreuse and then Grand Marnier; Krieg, Frangelico.
Neither the drinks nor the momentary lull in hostilities appeared to have healed the situation. Janet and Marie were off by themselves. Benbow, Winer, and Augustine seemed to have found some common ground; at least they were talking among themselves. Augustine gave some indication that he was not feeling all that well. Martha was talking to Krieg. Whatever her husband’s problem with the publisher, Martha did not seem to share it.
Krieg, catching sight of Koesler standing by himself, motioned him over. Koesler joined him and Martha.
“So, Father,” said Krieg, “did you know that Martha here is in real estate? Very successfully, too.”
“No, I had no idea.”
“Not only that,” Krieg continued, “but she’s been thinking of doing some writing. She’s been telling me some of her ideas. Promising. Very promising.”
“Reverend Krieg has been most encouraging,” Martha said. “It certainly motivates a person when a publisher says he’s willing to read your work. I don’t think I would consider taking time from my schedule to write unless I were sure the completed version would be read. But now. .”
“Praise God!” Krieg said.
“You’re thinking of writing for P.G. Press?” Koesler asked Martha.
“At least tentatively,” Martha said.
“Have you ever read any of the books the Reverend’s house publishes?” Koesler asked.
“Not yet. But I surely will. First chance I get.”
Lady, thought Koesler, are you in for a surprise.
At that point, Sister Janet spoke loudly. “If I may have your attention, everyone. .” She got it. “According to our schedule, those of you who will be conducting seminars tomorrow-namely, Fathers Benbow and Augustine, Rabbi Winer and Sister Marie-should go to your conference rooms on the second floor at this time. The locations are in the folders you will find”-she gestured-“on the table near the door. There will be facilitators in the conference rooms to brief you on the students you may expect tomorrow.
“Martha Benbow, Father Koesler, and I are to go to the Denk Chapman room here on the first floor.” She addressed the two named directly. “There are some last-minute details that I could use your help with.
“Reverend Krieg, your conference room is not quite ready. So, if you would, please, remain here in the faculty dining room for a brief while longer. One of our facilitators will come to get you in just a short while.
“Shall we go now?”
Koesler noticed Krieg nodding to Guido Taliafero. The guard acknowledged the signal, then left the dining room, disappearing in the direction of the building’s front door.
Glasses were deposited on table, folders located, and the group began to disperse.
As Koesler left the dining room, he saw Taliafero’s massive form silhouetted against the front door. Beyond that, just outside the entrance, was a white stretch limo, standing in what Koesler knew was a no-parking zone.
Indicating the limousine-in-violation, Koesler asked, “Krieg’s?”
“Yes.” Janet sighed. “I’m afraid so.”
The man has ways of impressing others, thought Koesler, with his celebrity, his wealth, his importance. His clothing-the finest cut; the most expensive material. Guido Taliafero-a lackey, present whenever needed; performs tasks, even leaves, with only the slightest signal to indicate the command. The liquor-the finest labels in more than adequate supply. And now, a stretch limo-two people in a vehicle easily large enough for an entire wedding party. What next, Koesler wondered.
The trio walked along the corridor. As they entered the Denk Chapman room, Martha Benbow spoke. “You know,” she confided, “I thought Reverend Krieg rather charming.”
“But then,” Koesler said, “you really don’t know much about the man, do you?”
“You mean watching his program on TV, or reading any of his publications.” She was a bit defensive. “No, I don’t know all that much about him.”
“Judging from the reaction of the others, to know him is not necessarily to love him.” Koesler wondered how much Martha’s opinion of Krieg was predicated upon his professed interest in publishing her work sight unseen. “But I must admit that I can’t quite fathom the intensity of feeling I sensed in the dining room. Do you have any clue?”
She thought for a moment. “No, I can’t say I have. But I must admit I’m troubled by it. It’s not like David to think or speak that way. I mean, I’ve seen him in ecumenical and like groups. He’s always been the very model of a most understanding Christian gentleman. The type whose bottom line is, ‘Well, I guess we agree to disagree.’” Her brow furrowed further. “But not with Reverend Krieg.
“I must agree with you, Father Koesler. It’s not only David; the others seem to manifest the same inexplicable animosity toward the Reverend Krieg. I simply don’t understand it. And it troubles me.”
A sudden roaring clap resounded.
“Good God!” Martha exclaimed. “What was that?”
“An automobile?” Koesler hoped it was, but knew it wasn’t. “A backfire?”
“A gun!” Sister Janet shuddered. “Gunfire! It’s on this floor! The dining room!”
They turned and raced back toward the dining room.
It was the dining room, no doubt about that; high-pitched screams were emanating from within.
As Janet, Martha, and Koesler entered the room, a hysterical waitress was being calmed by another waitress.
Koesler saw the body immediately. Crumpled on the floor, it looked like a pile of laundry that had been carelessly dropped. That is, if you could believe a laundry bag of expensive pin-striped blue silk.
In seconds the first three were joined by Benbow and Winer and then Marie, who dashed breathlessly into the room. She gasped at the sight of the inert figure. Almost prayerfully, she breathed, “Oh, my God!”
Koesler was first to approach the body. Krieg’s white-on-white shirt was now almost completely red. Koesler could discern what appeared to be a small dark hole on the upper chest. Blood was trickling from Krieg’s mouth and nostrils. The priest stood frozen.
Not so Janet. Quickly she knelt next to Krieg and placed her fingers against his carotid artery. She looked up at the others and said, wonderingly, “He’s dead! My God, he’s dead!”
