Still, there was no indication that Tully had mastered more than he needed to know to further the investigation of this case.
At any rate, Tully clearly did not seem embarrassed, defensive, or even concerned that a couple of otherwise famous faces were foreign to him. “Stapleton: rich?” he asked.
“Comfortable. I talked to a few people who knew him well-therapists, priests, ex-priests. Stapleton does a lot of charity work, mostly at old Trinity parish in Corktown. He’s married, got one daughter who’s going to school at that music academy up north-Interlochen. That must cost a bundle.
“Oh, and one more thing: He belongs to CORPUS.”
“What the hell is that?” Tully was growing irritated at the continuing confusions he found in Catholicism.
“It’s an organization for ex-priests who want to be able to function clerically again. They meet, put out a publication, lobby bishops, even the Pope.”
“Mostly talk?”
“I guess so. But Stapleton’s been very active in the group.”
“So? It seems.harmless enough. If all they want to do is get their preacher’s license back, what’s the problem? I don’t see why he’s on Bash’s shit list.” He seemed puzzled. “He was even mentioned by some of the other department heads.”
Moore didn’t reply immediately. Finally, she said, “Well, I can’t speak for the others ’cause I didn’t interview them-but I’d be willing to bet they agree. My man, Father Bash, doesn’t consider either Carson or Stapleton as physical threats. Of course he undoubtedly didn’t know about Carson’s all-out fight yesterday at the post office. So I think he could be mistaken about Carson.
“Anyway, I think Bash sees Carson and Stapleton as … well … just troublemakers. And if you saw things through … what? — institutional eyes-that’s all they’d be. As you know”-although she didn’t know
“That’s my impression. People like Bash would like to see Carson and Stapleton just go away-or at least shut up. But neither one of them seems to want to do that. So they are seen as people opposed to Church rules and regulations. And from that point of view, they are.
“Of course Bash sees them as personal enemies. But I don’t think it would take anybody long to become a personal enemy of Father Bash.”
They both laughed.
Quickly returning to seriousness, Tully said, “Let’s keep as tight a rein on Carson as possible. I don’t see Stapleton as a violent type. And I wish to God that we could keep that nun in a jar.”
“Sister Joan? You think somebody’s still after her?”
“It would tie things up neatly, wouldn’t it? She’s still the first base that nobody’s touched yet.”
“There’s no way we can keep her under surveillance. She’s determined to continue doing her job. And her job drags her over the Whole metropolitan area.”
“Uh-huh.”
18
“Where’s father Benz?”
Cardinal Mark Boyle finished chewing the morsel of lamb before answering. “There is a gathering of his priest friends at the seminary this evening. I gave him the night off.”
“Good.” Archbishop Lawrence Foley was pleased to be able to spend the evening alone with his friend. Benz, secretary to the Cardinal, was a nice enough young man, but he was from a different era, two or more removed from these two old bishops. Without the young man, who, courtesy demanded, should be included in the conversation, the older men were free to retreat as far as they liked into history. And they would.
Foley lived in a condominium on Detroit’s far east side, He could have lived virtually anywhere he wished, but he wanted to reside in the city, though not in an area inhospitable to strolling the streets, and not in a rectory. He had reached an age where he would deal with people and the clergy in particular only when he wished. Not when they wanted him. Retirement, he thought, should have some privileges.
But this night-for he would stay over till morning-he would spend with his old friend Mark Boyle.
Boyle, at sixty-nine, was slightly more than five years Foley’s junior. They had met some forty years before in Rome when both were students. Both had been ordained-Foley for the diocese of Miami and Boyle for the diocese of Cleveland. As brilliant seminarians, both had been selected by their respective bishops to attend graduate studies in Rome. Foley majored in canon law, Boyle in theology.
Even as young men, they had enough in common to become friends. They were English-speaking United States citizens, at the peak of their youth; roommates, expected to achieve much by their appointment to graduate study-and they were strangers together in a foreign land.
Building on that, they formed an abiding friendship that had grown stronger and deepened over the years. Each was of Irish descent, as were so many American bishops. They both had become auxiliary bishops, Foley in his native Miami, Boyle in his native Cleveland. Foley had risen to the rank of archbishop when he was named ordinary of Cincinnati. Boyle was named archbishop of Pittsburgh, then archbishop of Detroit, then named a Cardinal by Pope Paul VI.
The two vacationed regularly together, usually in Florida, where Foley had so many friends and contacts. They golfed together, neither well, both mostly for exercise. They could spend evenings together chatting knowledgeably about many things or in companionable silence.
The piece de resistance having been finished, Mrs. Provenzano, Boyle’s housekeeper, removed the dishes and served coffee and sherbet.
“Delicious lamb,” Foley said to Mrs. Provenzano, who smiled and, thank God, was still able to blush at a compliment.
“She was a genuine find,” Boyle said after the housekeeper had left them. “She has only two rules by which to live: no beef and no chicken.”
Foley chuckled. “The martyrdom of today’s bishop, stuffed to death with rubbery chicken and leathery beef cooked by the ladies of the Rosary Altar Society on the occasion of parish confirmations.”
Boyle smiled. “Of course they are well-meaning people, but they surely need an injection of imagination. The beef is usually sliced thin enough that one can get by without having to consume very much. But whichever doctor it was who pronounced chicken a healthy food never tried the parochial mass-produced variety.”
Foley began toying with a spoon.
“Still miss cigarettes?” Boyle asked.
Foley studied the Cardinal, “Now what would make you say a thing like that?”
“Something to do with your hands. Toying with a utensil instead of handling a cigarette.”
“Doesn’t happen much anymore. But after a good dinner and with coffee …” Foley shrugged.
“Still?”
“There was a time, Mark, me lad, that I could not envision being on the telephone, getting through the daily mail, a hundred other daily tasks such as getting up in the morning or going to bed at night, without a cigarette. It’s down to this, after a good dinner. That’s not so bad, is it now? Nice bit of deduction though.”
“It just occurred to me. You used to say that you thought much of your reason for smoking was to have something to occupy restless hands.”
“True as far as it goes, but a bit of a simplification. There’s the nicotine, an addictive drug. But speaking of deduction, has anything new come up in the police investigation?”
“Into the death of Larry Hoffer? Not that I’m aware of.”
“What do you think? Isolated instances? Coincidence? Or is there a connection between the murders of that poor woman and Hoffer?”
Boyle finished the sherbet and carefully wiped his lips. “I feel very strongly that they are related. And that’s why I’m concerned about Sister Joan’s welfare. I believe that whoever killed Larry also killed Helen Donovan
