Vengeance Is Mine Page 8

  Michele picked her mother for the first candidate. She imagined sitting down at her mother’s spotless kitchen table for coffee and a heart-to-heart. The moment her mother heard the full particulars, she’d have a nervous breakdown.

  Louise was next in line. She’d tell Michele she was getting too thin. No wonder she was all upset. A person who didn’t eat right couldn’t think right. She’d give Michele a Tupperware bowl full of homemade soup and tell her to follow her own conscience. Of course, Louise would offer to back her up all the way, but she wouldn’t tell her what to do.

  Brian and Judith might help. What would they say if she asked for advice? Brian would launch into an involved lecture about personal integrity versus public morality. He’d point out that there was only one possible conclusion. Judith would totally disagree with whatever Brian recommended. The ensuing argument would result in a standoff, and Michele would be right back where she had started.

  Carol Berg was practical and levelheaded. She’d understand Michele’s dilemma. Carol would tell her to talk to Steve in confidence and trust him to handle it in the best possible way.

  The more Michele thought about it, the better it sounded. She could call Steve right now and tell him she had some information about Dale that she couldn’t discuss over the telephone. Steve could be here in five minutes.

  Michele rinsed out the brandy snifter and refilled it with cognac. Then she picked up the phone and dialed Steve’s number at the station. Carol Berg was a genius, and she didn’t even know it.

  CHAPTER 9

  Margaret Whitworth took a sip of her lukewarm coffee and leaned back against the worn couch cushions in Barney’s office.

  “What a morning! The station’s been swamped with calls since we ran that bulletin about Dale.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” Les Hollenkamp lifted his coffee cup to his lips and set it down again, untouched. Trish had warned him to cut down on his caffeine. “Trish and I had seventeen calls on our answer phone when we got back from church. The people are starting to panic. Why don’t you do an interview, Steve? Sort of calm the people down, like they do in Los Angeles and New York. You know what I mean. Tell them you’re investigating leads, closing in on a suspect, an arrest is imminent, stuff like that?”

  “I’ll be glad to, Les, but it’s still too early to say anything definite. How about tomorrow on News at Noon?”

  “That’s fine with me,” Margaret smiled. “I’ll tell Kevin to run the original release with a voice-over prompting the interview. Meet me at the studio at eight for the taping.”

  Steve nodded. “Here’s the autopsy report. It’s definitely the same murder weapon. Dr. Corliss showed me where it pierced Dale’s forehead in three places, an inch apart. The sharp points tore the skin.”

  Les reached out for the file gingerly. “You watched while Dr. Corliss did the . . . uh . . . examination?”

  Steve nodded. “I’m always in on murder autopsies. I have to take color Polaroids for the file.”

  Les opened the file and glanced down at the pictures. That was a mistake. He felt physically ill as he closed it and passed it to Margaret.

  “Do you think we should try to reach the chief again? Carol’s got a number for Hannah’s cousin in Heidelberg.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Steve.” Margaret gave a short laugh. “I doubt that Barney could handle one murder, much less two. Are you trying to tell us you’re ready to throw in the towel?”

  “No. I just thought that . . . well . . . I’m relatively new on the force, and people might feel more comfortable if Chief Schultz were here. I’d handle the investigation anyway. It’s my job.”

  “I see.” Margaret nodded. “Then you must be looking for a vote of confidence. Well, you won’t get that until you’ve earned it. Do you have any suspects?”

  Steve looked grim. There was no need to discuss what Michele had told him last night. Vera Kline had an airtight alibi.

  “I have a couple of possibilities. The Defenders of Decency lead the list.”

  Les took a big swig of coffee. The hell with watching his caffeine intake. The Defenders of Decency weren’t going to be happy when they heard him promote WinterGame on his interview this afternoon, but there’d be all hell to pay when they found out they were being investigated by the local police.

  “I think you’re on the wrong track, Steve,” Margaret said. “I know every man in that group. They’re certainly capable of murder, but bashing someone over the head is much too tame for the DOD. If they wanted to kill someone, they’d slice off his balls and stuff them in his mouth. Then they’d hang him.”

  “I’d better get back to the house.” Les jumped up and hurried toward the door. “I’m expecting a call. Let me know if there’s any more I can do, Steve.”

  “Good-bye, Les.” Margaret smiled at him sweetly. “Don’t forget to watch your interview this afternoon. And tell Trish I’m expecting her tonight at eight.”

  Margaret sat back, satisfied, as the door closed behind Les. She gave Steve a wicked grin.

  “You do know the DOD backed Les from the start, don’t you?”

  Steve nodded. “I’ve got to investigate them anyway, Mrs. Whitworth.”

  Margaret stared straight into Steve’s blue eyes. He wasn’t the least bit swayed by political pressure.

  “That’s the right attitude.” Margaret got to her feet. “Don’t let any of the old guard talk you out of it. And while you’re at it, don’t forget about me. It’s common knowledge that I couldn’t stomach Ray, and Dale Kline and I had a nasty little run-in last year.”

  “Over the demolition of the Tenth Street Bridge.” Steve flipped through the file. “Three witnesses claimed you threatened to put him out of his misery if he succeeded in tearing down your favorite landmark. You also threatened to run Ray Perini out of town after the roof leaked on Garfield Elementary’s new auditorium.”

  “I see you’ve done your homework.”

  “You were home alone at the time of Ray’s death. No alibi. And last night you left the studio at seven. You stopped to chat with Delbert Olson in front of Metzroth’s and a Waldo’s delivery boy saw you walk through the parking lot and head toward the courthouse at seven-fifteen. If I looked on your key ring, I’d find a key that fits the law library door. It was issued to you in May 1980 to do research for your talk show.”

  “Steven Radke! Are you accusing me of killing Ray and Dale?”

  “Of course not. You had an alibi last night even though you don’t know about it. Jerry Thiesen saw you standing in your living room with your back to the window at eleven last night. You were wearing a pale blue robe. Jerry was walking his Irish setter, and Skippy made a mess on your front sidewalk. He cleaned it up even though he was sure you weren’t watching. He said when it came to the neighborhood dogs, you had eyes in the back of your head. Do I get my vote of confidence now, Mrs. Whitworth?”

  “You’ve earned it.” Margaret clapped her hands together and laughed. “And, Steve? I think it’s time you called me Margaret.”

  “Hurry up, Trish. I’ll be on right after this commercial.”

  “Coming, darling!”

  Trish came into the living room with two fluted glasses of Perrier. Each one had a twist of lime. Les took his and set it down on the table next to his recliner. He hated Perrier. It tasted like champagne with all the good stuff taken out.

  “I think this commercial is totally tasteless, don’t you, dear?” Trish frowned at the screen.

  “Um.” Les settled for a safe, noncommittal comment. Four headless plucked chickens, dressed up in little army outfits, were riding in toy tanks and jeeps. The announcer said something about feeding an army with golden plump chickens. Les thought it was kind of cute.

  The theme music for Margaret’s show came on, and Les turned up the volume. It was crazy, but his palms were sweaty. He’d never gotten used to the way he looked on television. It was like watching a total stranger.

  “Oh, you look marvelous, Les
.” Trish reached out to squeeze his arm as the camera panned over Margaret and Les, sitting in easy chairs. “I told you that shirt would be just right.”

  Les groaned as the camera moved in closer. He really had to lose a little weight. He was getting a double chin, and he was only thirty-eight. And combing his hair to the front didn’t begin to cover his bald spot. He hoped he sounded better than he looked.

  “As you know, the WinterGame fund-raiser starts tomorrow. My guest this afternoon is Mayor Les Hollenkamp. What can you tell us about WinterGame, Mayor Hollenkamp?”

  Les winced as he heard himself speak. Was his voice always that high-pitched? He sounded like a member of GALA, for Christ’s sake.

  “. . . and we are proud to be a modern city even though it was back in 1853 that St. Cloud was built on the beautiful banks of the Mississippi. Now it’s time to take another step into the future, to prove to the rest of the state that St. Cloud is a liberal and progressive community. The Alternate Life-style Center will provide us with new citizens and increased business revenues. I urge all of you to attend the WinterGame festivities in the coming week so that the Alternate Life-style Center can become a reality.”

  “Thank you, Mayor Hollenkamp. WinterGame will open tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock with a snowman contest. All children under the age of twelve are welcome to enter. The bar team hockey play-offs start at seven tomorrow evening at Lake George Park. The first game is the Locker Room Jocks versus the Red Carpet Sweepers.”

  “Oh, that was inspired, Les. Especially the part about being liberal and progressive.”

  “It’s a good thing you sounded out Jane Kedrowski, honey. After we taped that segment, Margaret thanked me for giving WinterGame a boost.”

  Trish sipped delicately at her Perrier. “This is the first time Margaret’s ever invited me to one of her dinner parties. I’m sure it’s because of your interview, darling.”

  “It’s possible.” Les switched off the television. “You don’t have to get ready right now, do you, honey?”

  Trish looked up at him and smiled. It wouldn’t take more than a few minutes, and Les deserved his little reward. He’d done everything just the way she’d told him to.

  “I saved a whole hour, just for the two of us.” Trish reached out with one carefully manicured fingernail and brushed it lightly on the inside of Les’s thigh. “You will be careful of my hair won’t you, dear? I had it done this morning.”

  Bishop Donahue stared down at the board. Just as he had anticipated, Black was playing an excellent game. He might have to sacrifice his White Pawn eventually, but certain sacrifices were necessary to attain a superior position. As he stared down at the antique pieces he thought of the film he had viewed shortly before he had come to Holy Rest, Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal. It was a psychotic outpouring of medieval religious images that was totally unsuitable for his naïve parishioners, but Bishop Donahue had found the concept of a chess game between man and Satan intriguing. Life would be simple if cosmic mysteries could be reduced to the pure abstraction of the chessboard. He had often imagined playing such a game, but he had never, in his wildest dreams, expected to be chosen.

  They all had watched Margaret Whitworth’s interview show this afternoon in the dayroom. Bishop Donahue had barely been able to conceal his fury when the mayor took a strong pro-WinterGame stand. The devil had attacked, advancing Les Hollenkamp, his Black Rook, to the fifth rank of the chessboard. Bishop Donahue was in position to capture the Black Rook easily, but he had to analyze the consequences carefully. There was great danger in underestimating his opponent.

  Sister Cecelia sat beside him, quietly praying. Rosary beads clicked softly between her fingers, and her lips moved in silent supplication. As Bishop Donahue stared at her meekly bowed head, rage consumed him. It was almost an insult to pray for divine guidance. He was a superb chess player!

  Bishop Donahue shuddered as he realized that he was guilty of the sin of pride. He mentally blessed Sister Cecelia for humbling him and turned back to the board with new determination. Good must triumph over evil!

  Several hours later Bishop Donahue looked up from his game. Sister Cecelia had turned on the lamp before she left, and the room was bathed in a soft golden glow. The White King seemed to nod approvingly as Bishop Donahue came to a decision. He would capture the Black Rook tonight. It was a weighty move.

  The sky was dark outside the window, and floodlights illuminated the skating rink on Lake George. It was deserted. Where were the children? They were always out skating on clear winter nights, gliding across the ice in their brightly colored snowsuits.

  Suddenly Bishop Donahue understood. It was the chess game, of course. Parents were afraid to let their children out after dark. He wished there were some way to tell them that only the evil would be punished, but they would understand in time. Then they would thank him for making the world safe for their children.

  Michele knotted a brightly patterned silk scarf at her throat and looked at herself in the mirror. Her tan coatdress was old—she’d worn it at her graduation—but it was back in style. It was the best she could do, and the taxi would be here in five minutes to pick her up.

  She had been lucky to get a cab at all. Michele had called more than two hours ago, and the Yellow Cab dispatcher said they were way behind schedule. No one was out walking tonight. Murders were good for the taxi business.

  Michele’s little white lie had turned on her despite her crossed fingers. Her car had been working perfectly when she’d told Steve it wouldn’t start. Now it was sitting in the lot at the clinic, as dead as a doornail.

  The bed was covered with clothes she had tried on and discarded. Nothing seemed right for an evening at Mrs. Whitworth’s. Michele stuffed everything back into the closet and forced the door closed. She had to iron tomorrow anyway.

  A horn honked outside, and Michele grabbed her coat and gloves. She was ready. She kicked two pairs of shoes under the bed and gave the pillows a quick plump. This was the third day in a row she’d straightened up the apartment for Steve. He had volunteered to pick her up at Mrs. Whitworth’s at ten-thirty, and she hadn’t even had to ask him. Maybe this time they’d get more than five minutes alone before something happened to call him away.

  CHAPTER 10

  Trish Hollenkamp finished the last bite of her dinner roll. It was a real treat to have unsalted butter again. Margaret’s tastes were so Continental. Trish made sure that the monogrammed salad fork was placed in the socially correct position on her empty plate and pretended interest in the conversation around her. The addition of pine nuts to an otherwise traditional green salad was a nice sophisticated touch she’d have to remember.

  “That looks gorgeous, Margaret. What is it?” Louise Gladke slipped on her glasses and peered at the entrée. She had intended to wear her new soft contact lenses tonight, but she couldn’t seem to get used to them.

  “Rack of lamb with raspberry sauce. I spent most of my life avoiding lamb until I realized it was the mint jelly I hated. There’s some in that little silver side dish for anyone who wants it.”

  “I’ll try a little of each.” Louise took a generous spoonful of mint and a small dab of raspberry sauce.

  “Oh, I’ll have just the raspberry, please.” Trish smiled and passed the mint jelly on to Carol Berg. She wasn’t about to take anything that Mrs. Whitworth didn’t like even though she adored the taste of mint.

  Carol took another helping of butter and spread it on her warm French roll. Then she reached for the individual salt shaker that sat next to her plate and sprinkled it liberally on top.

  “This is delicious, Mrs. Whitworth! It’s just like going out to the best restaurant in town.”

  Trish winced. Carol’s comparison was almost an insult. As far as Trish was concerned, there weren’t any gourmet restaurants in St. Cloud. Poor Carol’s tastes were definitely plebeian. She’d arrived with a bottle of homemade rhubarb wine as a hostess gift. At least Michele Layton had brought flowers. T
here was hope for her.

  “Everything’s perfect, Margaret.” Judith Dahlquist took another sip of wine and smiled at her hostess. “Are you sure you’re not planning a new show? Cooking with Maggie?”

  Trish thought she would die of embarrassment. How could Judith be so gauche? Calling Mrs. Whitworth Maggie was almost sacrilegious.

  Judith’s comment didn’t seem to faze Margaret in the slightest. “I’ll do Cooking with Maggie when you do Judy Paints by the Numbers.”

  “That would earn top ratings in St. Cloud.” Judith laughed and helped herself to more spinach soufflé. “Just think of the resources you have right in this room, Margaret. We could each have a series.”

  “Not a bad idea.” Margaret looked thoughtful. “Carol could give a daily list of the accidents on the Ring Road. Louise? How about Disease of the Week? Trish will be the resident expert on local politics. And Michele? Oh, dear. We’ll have to be careful not to offend anyone. How about Successful Catholic Birth Control?”

  Michele spoke without thinking. “That’ll be the shortest series in history. There’s only one approved method. You hold a St. Joseph aspirin tightly between both knees at all times.”

  Trish coughed delicately into her linen napkin. She might have to change her mind about Michele. That comment bordered on being crude.

  Margaret laughed. “That’s wonderful, Michele. I wish I could use that one on the air.”

  Even though Trish joined them in the laughter, she was thoroughly perplexed. Either Margaret was pretending amusement for the sake of her guests or Trish had completely misjudged her all these years.