prominent, a celebrity. That he had chosen the diaconate for his later years added a healthy measure of cachet to a program that had not been widely used in recent centuries.
He had become a deacon in order to work with people on a spiritual level in a parochial setting. He had neither sought nor wanted to head the entire program. But when Cardinal Boyle asked him to take charge of it, he had accepted the responsibility. He considered his commitment to serve in the archdiocese of Detroit to be open- ended. Whatever the archbishop wanted of him, as long as he felt himself competent, he would do.
Then, tragically, his wife contracted pancreatic cancer. Jeffrey took a leave of absence to care for her around the clock. The leave was not of long duration. The cancer advanced quickly and decisively. In a few months, it was over. He returned to his duties in the archdiocese a changed man.
Before he lost her, he’d never quite gauged how much of his life he had shared with her, how much he had depended on her. The loneliness was more profound because where he’d been whole, now he was half.
But life went on. And one of life’s small pleasures was taking his secretary out for a pleasant dinner. It was a reward he gave himself with some regularity. He had no idea how much Grace Mars looked forward to these evenings. He only knew that she was darkly beautiful, an efficient worker, a reliable confidante, and an agreeable companion.
They made an eye-catching couple. He, well-dressed, well-groomed, with leading-man features and sculpted salt-and-pepper hair. She, with dark hair and dark eyes, deep dimples, even teeth, and tight skin. The fact that they obviously enjoyed each other added to the comfortable image they projected.
They were consulting their menus.
“What do you think, Quent?”
He looked up in mock surprise. “In a place like the Clamdiggers, what else? Clams.”
She laughed softly. She knew he didn’t like clams. He disliked all seafood. He was the proverbial meat-and- potatoes eater.
In honor of her reaction, he chuckled. “Okay, we’ll get serious,” he said. “The New York strip has a nice ring to it. And the lady?”
She glanced once again at the menu. “I think I’ll have the Caesar salad.”
“That’s it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“No wonder you’re fading away to nothing.” The exchange gave him an opportunity to appraise her figure openly. Her modest dress hinted subtly at the delights beneath.
The waitress returned with a martini and a coffee. Yes, they were ready.to order, and they did.
“I must say I’m relieved that they caught that guy,” she said, turning to one of the more popular topics in the metropolitan area. They had just begun discussing the arrest of David Reading as Jeffrey was parking the car.
He smiled. “Did you feel threatened?”
“I think every woman feels she is in some jeopardy when some nut is out there killing females for no reason.”
“Actually, I don’t think the police have determined whether or not the man had a reason … at least as far as I’ve been able to follow the story.”
Grace shook her head. “It happens so often in this city. Guns, guns, guns, and killing. Sometimes it is completely senseless. Sometimes it’s revenge or intimidation or even accident. But when a couple of women are murdered by the same person, I think all women, especially those of us who work in the city, feel … well … vulnerable.”
Jeffrey was thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose that’s so. Well, at any rate, he didn’t murder two women; they got him before he could shoot the second one. Good piece of police work.”
“You didn’t go to the funeral.” It was a statement rather than a question; both she and Jeffrey had arrived at work on time this morning and she knew the funeral had started only an hour later.
“No, I went to the wake last night. Crowded-but good company for Sister Joan.”
The waitress brought Jeffrey’s salad. Grace’s Caesar salad would be served along with Jeffrey’s entree.
“Speaking of the wake and funeral”-Grace seemed appalled-”did you see that memo from Father Bash? I put it on your desk. About how all major stories must be channeled through the information department? Wasn’t that incredible?”
Jeffrey slowly chewed and swallowed some salad, taking his time about responding. “I beg your pardon in advance, Grace, but Clete Bash is an asshole,”
Grace blushed, though she knew he was. “He
“Excuse me, a
“You make it sound as if … as if he wants the spotlight all the time.”
“That’s it exactly, Grace: Bash wants to be
“Quent!”
“Okay, check that: His war record might get him through the door somewhere. But, mind you, he’d be out on his ear in no time once they found out what kind of card player he is.”
The waitress brought their entrees.
“I don’t want to seem presumptuous, Quent,” said Grace, after the waitress left, “but shouldn’t that job have been yours? I mean, with your success in public relations, you seem a natural for the Office of Information.”
“Bash was already in place when I came on the scene.”
“Even so-”
“Our Cardinal Archbishop is not known for firing his employees, or haven’t you noticed? Except for more than adequate cause. And extreme ego needs doesn’t seem to be on his list.”
“Do you think the Cardinal knows?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, for instance,” Grace explained, “I’ll bet the Cardinal didn’t get one of today’s memos from Father Bash.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, you’re right there: Clete knows who’s dealing. Of course, he plays the sycophant to His Eminence. But my impression is that Cardinal Boyle does not get to work early every morning just to set a good example. He knows what’s going on. He knows what sort Bash is. Unfortunately for the rest of us, the Cardinal is able to live with a man like that in his administration.”
“I guess that is unfortunate.”
“The way to survive someone like Bash, Grace, is to have as little to do with him as possible.”
“Even me? After all, I’m only a secretary.”
“Grace, you have my complete and flat-out permission to act as if Father Bash has suffered a sudden and barely-provided-for death.”
They both laughed, and finished their dinner with small talk on more pleasant topics.
Ordinarily, Grace took the bus home from work each evening. Making allowances for the-at best-erratic dependability of Detroit’s public transportation, it was a simple, direct ride from downtown to the far west side of the city.
But on those evenings when she dined with Quentin Jeffrey, he invariably insisted on driving her to her apartment house. Sometimes he would accompany her to her door; other times he would remain in his car but wait until she had entered the building.
Grace tried to read some sort of message into these variables. When he stayed outside the building, did that mean that he was tired of her company? That this would be their final evening together?
When he entered the building, did he want to come into her apartment? He always declined her invitation. Was entering her building a metaphor for entering her body? She had to admit that, remote as it seemed, she enjoyed the fantasy.
Things were far less involved, at least on a conscious level, in Jeffrey’s mind. He was aware of no special reason for either procedure. It was merely that he was invariably concerned for her safety. He would never leave until she was at least within the protective walls of her building. Sometimes, for no perceptible reason, he felt
