with Lennon, they brushed against each other. Lennon’s body probably was no softer than any other well- proportioned woman’s, but it did indeed seem so. And there was a fragrance that was more than the subtle dab of perfume with which Pat routinely started her day. It was her scent, and it was so distinct he could remember being conscious of it even years back.
Lennon was afraid she might be blushing-something she couldn’t remember having done since high school.
It was all so awkward. Three years ago, they had parted friends. Lennon had been aware that Tully’s companion had recovered her health, and Tully had to have known that Joe Cox had returned repentant and forgiven. Lennon and Tully’s relationship had been a classic friendship where in either would respond to a need of the other. It was just that over these past few years, such a need had not arisen.
Both Lennon and Tully, though neither expressed it, would have enjoyed this fleeting collaboration had it not been for Lacy De Vere’s column item. And though neither expressed it, both felt like telling Lacy De Vere to go to hell.
“Lemmee see now,” Lennon said, “I think I remember Hal’s password.” She tapped the keys and spelled out, HOLY FATHER.
Nothing happened.
She shrugged, tried again, and typed, HOLY SMOKE.
The screen lit up.
“He was a joker,” Tully observed.
“He had a sense of humor,” Lennon amended. “I’ll rummage through here. I’ve done it before when working with Hal, though not often. If you think he had a peculiar sense of humor, wait’ll you try to figure out his unique shorthand. We’re inside his mind now. But I haven’t the slightest idea of what we’re going to find.” She tapped more keys.
“I knew there’d be something under ‘miracles.’ It was one of his favorite slugs. The only other person in the media that I know of who shares Hal’s fascination with offbeat religious phenomena is Nelson Kane over at the
“That’s what this story is. Hal told me about it when it came in over the wire. It involves a teenage girl who is allegedly possessed by the devil … not that original a story. The essence of it wasn’t weird enough all by itself to attract Hal’s interest, except for one detail: The girl allegedly had a habit of levitating. She would drift off her bed and float up to the ceiling. For that reason, the priest appointed to exorcise her had to be very tall-so he could get her down from the ceiling.
“I can almost hear Hal topping Kane’s image-of-Christ-in-the-hot-dog-bun story with the king-size exorcist. He would have had such fun with that one.”
Pat was smiling at the idea of the two old war-horse buddies shamelessly pulling each other’s leg.
Then she brought herself back to the present. “But that’s not what you’re looking for.”
“It tells me something about Salden, so that’s good. But I am looking for something he might have been working on that would cause somebody to want to kill him.”
“Right.” Lennon continued to feel uncomfortable rummaging through Salden’s basket. As if she were invading his privacy. But she was more than eager to help find his killer. She tapped more keys.
“Here’s one,” she said. “Granted I’m not sure I can read all these shorthand notes accurately. But this one looks like some sexism popping up at St. Andrew Episcopal Church in Rochester. As I recall, that church just recently got its first female priest, who also happened to be called to be its rector. That was a lot for some parishioners to swallow. I think this is the one Hal had in mind with this notation.”
“A conflict,” Tully said. “If he was working on this story, he put himself in the middle of some pretty strong feelings … no?”
“Probably.”
“A guess might be-especially since the story was under the … whatchamacallit of ‘sexism’-“
“Slug.”
“Yeah, the slug … of ‘sexism’-that he would have been in a position to defend the woman priest.”
“He would be. Yes. He wouldn’t treat the story with his opinion showing. But he could slant it in his column. That is, if I’m right that this is the story he’s referring to in this note.”
“So those who oppose her becoming rector would be angry to damn mad. They might have no reasonable outlet for their anger at, say, their bishop or priests. So maybe they direct it at a reporter?”
“Could be,” Lennon admitted. “But, see here-at the end of this note-there’s a ‘K’ standing all alone. I don’t know what that means. But it meant something to Hal, or he wouldn’t have added it to the note.”
“Well, we’ll put that on the back burner. Anything else in there?”
Pat began tapping keys as the information in the CRT kept marching across the screen. Nothing appeared to Pat to be of any consequence. Then she stopped typing and seemed to be studying the screen.
“Something?” Tully asked.
“I don’t know. There’s an emphasis line and an exclamation mark here. Very unlike Hal.”
Tully studied the screen, not really knowing what he should be looking for-or at. “Whatta we got?”
“Just some words: ‘shells, just shells! look into … trace down! could be key!’ Then again, off to the side there, another ‘K.’ But I still don’t know what that might mean.”
“Hmmm …” Tully tried to decipher. Something was knocking at the back of his consciousness. “Wait a minute. Didn’t you say Salden used to work on the sports page?”
“Yeah. Along time ago.”
“But it was part and parcel of him, wasn’t it? You said he was completely committed to whatever he was working on … right?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a symbol in baseball for a strikeout: the letter ‘K.’ That’s what this might be? That he struck out on these stories?”
“Could be. That would be just like Hal: mixing metaphors, so to speak. But that leaves us with nothing but the oversize exorcist. And that definitely is not what you were looking for.”
Tully thought for a moment. “Anything else come to mind, Pat?”
Lennon ransacked her mind. “Noooo …” She drew out the “no” to an elongated syllable. “There’s the story about the missing priest. It’s Pringle McPhee’s story at the moment. It would have been Hal’s. But that’s the horse before the cart: Hal was murdered before the priest turned up missing.”
“That’s it?”
Lennon hesitated. “I … uh … might just as well ask you: How did that De Vere column go over with your Alice?”
Tully winced all but imperceptibly. “Not so hot. I’ll know better if ever she starts talkin’ again. And your Joe Cox?”
“He’s out of town.” She did not care to add, “probably permanently.”
“It would be interesting to know how he’d react to it. He’s always been the one with the roving eye. I wonder how he’d feel if the shoe were on the other foot-even if it wasn’t true.”
Tully made to leave, “Seems like you and I got the name without the game.”
“Yeah,” Pat agreed. “It’s a lucky thing you’re the one who packs the gun. I think I’d shoot her.”
For the first time this morning, Tully smiled broadly. It was an engaging smile, “I think you’d have to get in line, Pat. Thanks for your time.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
He left. Lennon, rocking gently in Salden’s chair, watched as he walked away. All his mannerisms reflected his personality. The way he walked, his speech patterns, his bearing, his rare smile, all spoke of a person brimming with self-confidence. It was not the posturing of a braggart. It was the quiet statement of a dependable, mature adult.
Take that, Joe Cox!
Tully turned the corner and was gone. Lennon thought of what he’d said: The name without the game.
Interesting.
