And I thou and maybe this is why I started it, the-flirting, know... I thought at least this would be safe.
with a priest would be completely safe.”
She looked up into his face.
Her eyes met his.
"I don't know," she said, "do you think terrible?”
"Yes," he said.
But that didn't mean she'd killed him.
"I'll just get the check," he said.
Abigail Finch was a beautiful blonde woman wearing yellow tights, a black leotard top, and high-heeled black leather pumps that added a good three inches to her already substantial height. When she let Carella into her Calm's Point apartment at seven o'clock that evening, she explained that she'd just come in from exercise class when he called, and hadn't had time to change. Except for your shoes, he thought, but did not say.
Miss. Finch... "Please call me Abby," she said at once... had to have been at least forty (her son was, after all, in his twenties) but she looked no older than thirty-two or -three. Proud of her carefully honed appearance, she walked ahead of him into the living room, offered him a seat, asked if he'd like something to drink, and then turned to face him on the sofa, her knees touching his briefly before she repositioned herself, folding her long legs under her, placing her hands demurely in her lap. There was incense burning somewhere in the room, and Miss. Finch herself Abby was wearing a perfume thick with insinuation. Carella felt as if he'd inadvertently dropped into a whorehouse in Singapore. He decided he'd better get to the point fast and get the hell out of here. That was exactly how threatened he felt.
"It was good of you to see me, Miss. Finch," he said. "I'll try not to...”
“Abby," she said. "Please.”
I'll try not to take up too much of your time,, said. "It's our understanding...”
"Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink?”
Leaning toward him, placing one hand li A toucher, he thought.
"Thank you, no," he said, "I'm still officially duty.”
"Would you mind if I had one?”
"Not at all," he said.
She swiveled off the sofa, moved like a dancer a bar with a dropleaf front, opened it, looked over her shoulder like Betty Grable in the World War II poster, smiled, and said, soft?”
“Nothing, thank you," he said.
She poured something dark into a short dropped several ice cubes into it, and came back the sofa.
"To the good life," she said, and smile mysteriously, as if she'd made a joke he could neve,! hope to understand.
"Miss. Finch," he said, "it's our...”
“Abby," she said, and raised her eyebrows " reprimand.
"Abby, yes," he said. "It's our understanding tha you went to see Father Michael to ask.for his1 assistance in...”
"Yes, in March sometime. Toward the end o March. Because I'd learned that my son was fooling around with witchcraft...”
"Well, not witchcraft, certainly...”
"The same thing, isn't it? Devil worship? Worse, in fact.”
And smiled again, mysteriously.
"And you wanted his help, you wanted him to tall “
to your son... "Well, yes, would you want your son involved in such stuff?. I went to see Father Michael because Bornless was so close to St. Catherine's. And I thought if Andrew got a call from a priest.., he was raised as a Catholic, you know.., it might carry some weight.”
"How'd you find out your son was attending services.., if that's what they're called...”
“Masses," she said. "I guess. I forget who told me.
It was someone I ran into, she said did I know my son was involved in Satanism? A woman who knew both me and Andrew.”
"But why did you care?”
"I'm sorry?”
"You and your son are estranged, why'd you care what he was doing?”
"My son worshipping the Devil?" she said, looking astonished. "How would you like to have that going around town? That your faggot son is also involved in Satanism?”
"You mean.., well, I'm not sure what you mean.
Were you afraid this would reflect upon you in way?”
"Of course it would. God knows I'm not a Catholic anymore, but a person can't just forget upbringing entirely, can she?”
And smiled mysteriously again, as if mocking own words.
"So you went to see Father Michael..." said.
"Yes. That was the church I used to attend. Be: my fall from grace," she said, and lowered her like a nun, and again he had the feeling that she mocking him, but he could not for the life of imagine why.
"I see," he said. "And you told him...”
“I told him my son was worshipping the Three, four blocks from his own church! And I him to get in touch with Andrew...”
"Which he did.”
"Yes.”
"Which made your son very angry.”
"Well, I really don't care how angry it made I just wanted him to stop going to that damn church.”
"And this was toward the end of March? you went to see him.”
"Yes, the first time.”
"Oh? Were there other times?”
"Well, I...”
Her blondeness suddenly registered on him.
That and her blatant sexuality.
"How often did you see him?" he asked.
"Once or twice.”
"Including your initial visit toward the end of March?”
"Yes.”
"Then it was only twice.”
"Well, yes. Well, maybe three times.”
"Which?”
"Three times. I guess.”
"Starting sometime toward the end of March.”
"Yes.”
"When in March?”
"Would you mind telling me...?”
"Do you remember whent”
"Why is this important to you?”
“Because he was killed," Carella said flatly.
Her look, accompanied by an almost indiscernible shrug, said What's that got to do with me?
"When in March?" he asked again.
"It was a Friday," she said. "I don't remember exactly when.”
Carella took out his notebook, and turned to the calendar page at the back of the book. "The last Friday in March was the thirtieth. Was that it?”
"No. Before then.”
"The twenty-third?”
"Possibly.”
"And the next time?”
"In April sometime.”
"Can you remember the date?”
"I'm sorry, no. Look, I know the man was but...”
"Were you with him on Easter Sunday?" asked.
Sometimes, when you zeroed in that way, figured you were already in possession of the You had them. They didn't know how, but knew you already knew, and there was no lying.
"As a matter of fact, I was," she said.
Rashomon never ends.
Carella has already heard five tellings, count" five, of the Easter Sunday Saga, as it is now to the entire literate world, but there is yet version to come and this one will be Abigail Her Story, and she is going to tell it full out, no barred, a premise and a promise that is in her first eight words: "I went there to make love him.”
By that time... This is now the fifteenth day of April, blustery day at that, perfect for making love in cozy stone corners of a rectory... By that time, they've been doing exactly that here and there, on and off, so to speak - for a two weeks, ever since the first of April, when went to see the priest for the second time. As reports it now, it was there in the rectory on April Fool's Day that she was mischi prompted, in the spirit of the occasion, to seduce the good father. Attracted at their first meeting to his Gene Kelly smile and his breezy unpriestlike manner, she had begun wondering what he wore under that silly cassock of his, and she was now determined to find out. She was astonished to learn, however... For whereas she knows she's an enormously desirable woman who takes very good care of herself, after all, not only the exercise classes, but also bicycling in the park, and milk baths for her skin, she's been told by people who should know that she possibly ranks among the city's great beauties, of which there are many, well, she doesn't wish to sound immodest... but she was nonetheless enormously surprised, on that first day of April, by his extreme state of readiness. It was almost as if some designing woman had been preparing him for her working him over, softening the ground, so to speak- because as it turned out, the good father was an absolute pushover, Little Mr. Roundheels himself, head over cassock, a flash of eye, a show of leg, and he was on her in a minute, fumbling for the buttons of her blouse and confessing that once upon a time, before he joined the ministry, he'd done it on a rooftop for the first and last time with a fourteen-year-old girl named Felicia Randall.