Body Count

that the council’s vote to debar the police from parish property had been imparted.

Throughout this conversation, Mitchell continued mentally to thank God that he had handled this matter by the book. He had conducted everything strictly according to the council’s instructions. Now, if they wanted to get angry at someone, that someone would not be Fred Mitchell. It would be Lieutenant Tully.

And as it turned out, Eric Dunstable was very angry. So angry that he did what he hardly ever did: He canceled all further appointments and commitments for the day. This would place a most serious burden on the staff, including assistants and various vice presidents. Dunstable of course couldn’t have cared less. The phone calls, juggling of appointments and conferences, all were the underlings’ problems. Dunstable’s problem was to straighten out an uppity cop. He told Mitchell he was on his way. Mitchell could almost see the avenging knight galloping up Woodward Avenue on his white charger.

Since the door to Mitchell’s office had been left ajar, the parish secretary could not help but overhear Mitchell’s end of the phone conversation. That was sufficient for her to comprehend what was going on and, more to the point, what was about to happen.

Understandably, she was upset. Having no other shoulder on which to lean, she went to the kitchen and confided in the cook.

The cook reacted with alarm. What to do?

Nothing, the secretary suggested.

It was the cook’s opinion that shortly all hell was going to bust loose. The secretary concurred, but counseled that was precisely why they should do nothing: stay out of the way and hope and pray that Vesuvius would blow in another direction.

But, the cook argued, so omnivorous was the council president’s appetite when aroused, that the two women might be swallowed whole and regurgitated unemployed.

How could that be; they were no more than innocent bystanders, the secretary maintained.

They were also, countered the cook, replaceable-and the only ones in sight who were expendable. Dunstable could not fire, dismiss, or otherwise discipline a Detroit police officer-or either of the two priests. The janitor was off hiding somewhere. That, the cook concluded, “leaves you and me, dearie.”

The secretary finally came around to the cook’s evaluation of this mess. But what to do? What course of action could save them from the wrath of Dunstable?

After several moments of worried wondering, the cook thought she might have a solution. “Remember that nice reporter who was here that day that all the cops were swarming around?”

The secretary reflected. “A … DeVere? Lacy DeVere?”

“No, no, no!” the cook said irritably. “She was definitely not nice. The other one … the one I let in the back door. You remember; you and I talked with her while the cops searched.”

“Oh.” The light of recognition lit in the secretary’s eyes. “Yes. That was … uh … Pringle, Pringle McSomething.”

“Pringle McPhee!” the cook supplied. “Let’s call her and see if she’ll come over. Dunstable won’t dare do anything to us if we’ve got a reporter as a witness.”

“I don’t know about that,” said a worried secretary. “But it’s worth a try.”

“You remember me: I’m the cook at St. Waldo’s. Remember?”

Pringle McPhee motioned Pat Lennon to pick up the extension phone.

“Yes, of course. What’s up?”

“I … we … were wondering if you’d consider coming over here.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“We think Mr. Dunstable might fire us,”

“What?”

“This is the secretary. Remember me?”

“Yes …”

“I’m on the extension phone. See, the parish council passed a resolution that no policemen be admitted to the rectory until Father Keating returns.”

“They actually think-”

“Well, there’s a police officer here now. He and that Father Koesler are rummaging through Father Keating’s rooms in direct violation of the council’s order.”

Silently, for Lennon’s benefit, Pringle formed the words: This is crazy. Aloud she said, “Wait! Who’s there, and what are they doing?”

“Father Koesler and that Lieutenant Tully. It’s the lieutenant that’s got us in all this trouble. I wasn’t supposed to let in any police. So I got Father Mitchell. But then the officer just barged right in anyway-Threatened to bring a whole bunch of policemen if Father Mitchell didn’t let him in.”

“So Father Mitchell let him in?”

“I guess he didn’t have any choice.”

“Well, what’s this about Mr. Dunstable and getting fired?”

“Father Mitchell called Mr. Dunstable. And he’s on his way here right now. He’s president of the parish council. We’re afraid he might fire us. We know that’s not your concern. But we thought you might want to find out what’s going on. You could come in the back door like before.”

Pringle glanced at Pat, who winked and nodded.

“We’ll be right over,” Pringle said.

“We?”

“I’m going to bring another reporter with me.”

“Fine!” said the secretary as she hung up. “The more the merrier.”

“They’re coming?” the cook asked.

“They’re coming,” the secretary affirmed.

“Then we’re as ready as we ever will be.”

“Not quite,” the secretary said. “I’ll just take some refreshments into Father Keating’s office.”

24

On the long, chauffeured drive to St. Waldo’s, Eric Dunstable had time to cool off. He just didn’t use it. Instead, he was more indignant than he’d been when Mitchell informed him that Waldo’s rectory had been invaded.

Father Mitchell, in turn, was taken aback when Dunstable, after storming through the front entrance, proceeded to hold the associate pastor responsible.

Mitchell figured he had played it safe, gone by the book. Sure there was a police officer here in defiance of the parish council’s order. And granted, Mitchell had admitted him. But that had been only to forestall Tully’s threat to summon loads of cops. That latter state would have been much worse than the first. Besides, Tully had said he would return with not only a bunch of cops, but also a warrant. So any way this played out, Tully was going to get into the rectory and look around, parish council or no parish council. So how could Dunstable fault what Mitchell had done?

What Father Mitchell failed to comprehend was that Eric Dunstable did not deal in failure. His only frame of reference was success. In not tolerating checkmate, he had gone through countless employees, associates, friends, and even one wife.

Mitchell was well able to deal with occasional failure, projects that became doomed. He could understand that sometimes, despite one’s best efforts and under circumstances beyond one’s control, things simply didn’t work out. And Tully’s inevitable renewed investigation within St. Waldo’s rectory was a case in point.

So there was a gap. Mitchell couldn’t understand why Dunstable couldn’t understand why blocking Tully had proved impossible. Dunstable couldn’t understand why Mitchell hadn’t carried out the council’s order.