Koesler thought a few moments before responding. “I see what you’re driving at. She doesn’t talk about it because she knows my opinion-that she has no responsibility, no need to regret anything-and she knows I’m not going to change my mind.”
Koesler reflected again. “So she’s internalized her feelings and they’ve been …”
“Eating at her.”
“You think this caused the cancer?”
Walsh nodded gravely.
“Could that happen?” Koesler asked. “Could an emotional struggle cause something as serious as a terminal illness?”
“I’m convinced of it. In my years I’ve seen more harm done because of stress than almost any other cause.”
Involuntarily Koesler glanced at the empty trouser leg that had once covered a healthy limb. Could stress have-?
Walsh caught the glance and chuckled. “Well, not every illness.”
“Sorry.”
“Forget it.”
“Well, then,” Koesler pursued the line of thought, “do you think if we were able to patch things up …”
“That we’d have our miracle? No; I think the damage has been done. But I also think that reuniting the two sisters would bring a lot of peace to one very troubled soul.”
“Maybe even two troubled souls,” Koesler added. “But it won’t be easy. I’ve talked to Martha several times. Nothing. Oh, not a great feeling of animosity or hatred-just no feeling at all.”
“Ouch, that sounds like a killer. But we can try.” The elderly priest looked off into the distance for a moment. “There’s one more thing I wanted to mention, Father.” Walsh wheeled himself so close that he and Koesler might well have been conspirators. “It’s about that suicide-Frank Morris.”
“Yes?”
“You and I talked about it at the time-and of course I read everything in the papers. I’ve never been able to make much sense of it.”
Silence. Koesler was puzzled. “I don’t understand,” he said finally. “It was a tragedy. A terrible waste. But it seemed an open-and-shut case. Frank took his life using his shotgun. Am I missing something?”
“Maybe it’s all these years I’ve piled up. I hesitate to call it intuition; the ladies have that market cornered. But there’s always been something wrong with that suicide.”
“But the police-”
“I know. I know. It was all very neat. The owner’s gun, the suicide note, the motive.” He shook his head. “How easily the cops bought the apparent reason-that it was because the Morrises were turned down by a Church court. I mean, that wasn’t even close to courts that cops deal with. I was surprised they bought it. And,” he added, “I was surprised that I didn’t.”
Koesler became aware that his mouth was hanging open. He closed it. “You must be the only one remotely involved who doesn’t think Frank’s death was self-inflicted.”
“Not exactly.” Walsh smiled. “If my ‘intuition’ is correct, one other person, in this case, knows it wasn’t suicide.”
“The person who killed him?”
“I wouldn’t put it quite that bluntly. More the one responsible for Frank Morris’s death.”
“But, how …?”
“Among the things I’ve learned about you, Father, in the year and a half that we worked together was that you have a very healthy imagination. Just think about it, is all I ask. See if someday you come to the same conclusion I have. I think I know what happened. But even I can’t prove a thing. Maybe you’ll come up with the second half of the puzzle-the part I haven’t cracked.”
Koesler shrugged. A gesture of uncertainty. “I’ll give it a shot. But I don’t know …” He stood up. “For now, I’ve got to get on my horse. That call …”
Walsh nodded toward the main office. “You know where we keep the phone.”
Koesler made his call, bade farewell to his host-he could not spot Father Henry, for which he was grateful-and let himself out.
He started on the long drive to St. John’s Seminary in Plymouth. On the way, he would give Father Walsh’s puzzle a little open-minded consideration.
He stopped at Topinka’s on West Seven Mile and Telegraph for a quick lunch. As usual, he ordered hamburger, which here masqueraded as ground round. The portions were generous. As usual, that matched his appetite. While he waited for the entree, the waitress brought coffee. She was “fathering” him unmercifully, but fortunately made no effort to tap his professional aid. Sometimes a meal out could become an extended counseling session.
He lit a cigarette and watched as the gray plumes left his nostrils, wafted over the tablecloth, then dissipated to contaminate the rest of the dining area.
How in the world could Frank’s death not be a suicide?
He himself had brought the bad news to Frank and Martha. As bitterly disappointing as the message was, they seemed to accept the verdict without anger or resentment. If anything, Frank had been the more accepting of the two.
Koesler had to admit that in retrospect, it hadn’t seemed that suicide was just around the corner. He had even extended his visit until he was sure the couple was all right.
He crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray. A thin trail of smoke spiraled up as if a genie were going to appear and grant three wishes.
The first wish would not be difficult: Vinnie would get his miracle.
His lunch was served: hamburger just right, crisp french fries, coleslaw, and some carrots. All would be consumed.
As to what had happened after he’d left the Morris house, Koesler would, of course, have to depend on what others had told him.
Apparently, Frank and Martha had talked for some time. Then they’d decided to close up shop. Martha went upstairs after asking Frank to check the furnace and, as she’d put it, inviting him to her bed.
Koesler stopped the replay and reflected on the wife who, after almost three years, invites her loving husband to sleep with her again. He winced. Neither Frank nor Martha had voluntarily chosen a monastic life. Koesler had delivered the demand that they affect a relationship that the Church required. Those few words of Martha’s told that they had kept their part of the bargain.
In time the waitress returned. “Would Father like some dessert, Father?”
“No-just more coffee.”
“Was everything okay?”
“Yup.”
“Well, a gentleman paid for your lunch.”
“Really?” Koesler looked around. “Which gentleman?”
“I don’t know his name. He left the restaurant about fifteen minutes ago.”
Interesting, thought Koesler. I wonder why … I’ll never know.
The waitress brought more coffee.
“Did the gentlemen leave you an adequate tip?”
“Oh yes, Father. It was very generous, Father. Thank you for asking, Father.”
14
Father Koesler put the car in gear and his mind in neutral as he drove out of the restaurant parking lot.
Where was he in this exercise in memory? Oh yes: Martha had just asked Frank to check the furnace before joining her in bed. To consider all this detail, it was necessary to rely on Martha, the only living witness to this event.
Martha had fully intended to stay awake to greet her husband. But with one thing and another, particularly the discouraging news about their petition, she was exhausted. She drifted quickly into a deep sleep.
She was awakened by the window-rattling explosion. She thought it must be the furnace. And she had just sent Frank down to look it over.
She ran down the stairs. That’s when she found Frank on the living room floor with the gun.
Sure sounds like suicide to me, thought Koesler, not for the first time. And then there was that poignant note. That pretty well wrapped it up, he concluded.
What sort of loophole had Father Walsh thought he’d discovered?
Wait a minute. If it’s just a hole one is looking for, how long had Martha been asleep when she was awakened by the gunshot? She never said. She undoubtedly didn’t know; why should she?