Father Dewey visits the Leyk family and Andy's sister gives him Andy's diary.

Chapter 4

Dairy Queen Dalliance

"They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had.
And add some extra, just for you."

–Philip Larkin


Ron and Helen Leyk sat next to each other at their yellow Formica kitchen table, Helen's eyes aglitter with tears. A radio dirged in the background, and coffee was perking–a strong, mocha smell that reminded Dewey of Goldman's Java in Anoka, a hangout for his crowd during high school days.
Helen's dyed blond hair, short and layered like Dorothy Hamell's, seemed much too young for a pudgy-faced woman in her mid fifties. Ron wore an American Legion baseball cap, his face weathered and red, untamed eyebrows framing tiny, vacant eyes. According to Father Czech, Ron worked for the city driving a snowplow during the winter and a street-sweeper the rest of the year. The man hadn't said two words since Dewey got there. Andy's sister Audrey–such a spitting image of her sister Andy, Dewey did a double-take when he first saw her–sat across from her mother and father with her hands folded over a small red booklet.
Sniffling neighbor ladies kept the coffee cups filled and forced sweet rolls on Dewey and the girls from St. Teresa's who took turns consoling the Leyks. One of them, the raven-haired girl, who'd slid down the banister at the school, gave Dewey coy looks under heavy, luxuriant lashes.
"Will we be able to have an open casket at the wake?" Helen said to Dewey. "I'm told you saw the body."
Dewey swallowed, tried to work up enough saliva to make his tongue function. It took him a few seconds to come up with something to say, and when he did it was hardly inspirational. "I don't see why not," he said.
"Was she raped?" Ron said.
"They won't be able to tell until the medical examiner finishes the autopsy."
"How long is that supposed to take?" Ron said. "They've had her since yesterday afternoon."
"Father Fischer isn't the person to ask," Audrey said. "Shall I call Uncle Jim again?"
In conference with the sheriff and an investigator from the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, Jim Miller wouldn't take calls.
Ron's eyes suddenly turned mean. "I think some nigger did this. Some nigger gang from the Twin Cities. I hear they got initiations where they jump innocent white people."
"Don't pay any attention to him, Father," Audrey said. "My father is a bigot."
"Good enough to slave ten hours a day to put food in your mouth," Ron snarled.
"God, I'm glad I'm ought of here."
"Now shush, you two," Helen said. "Audrey, why don't you take Father upstairs and show him the diary?"
Dewey found himself inside the dead girl's bedroom. Posters of Matchbox 20 and Smashing Pumpkins covered the wall to the left. A trophy case occupied the one on the right. Straight ahead, next to the bed, a desk with an i-Mac computer stood just under a window overlooking a leafy backyard. Pictures lined a shelf above the bed: Andy running a race; another of her and her basketball teammates, Andy hugging a trophy in the middle; one of her boyfriend Trace–gansta-style baseball cap reversed, the beginning of a goatee.
"I'll show you her diary in a minute," Audrey said. "I need you to tell me what you really know."
Dewey chewed on his lower lip. "Ah, she was nude. No markings on her body that I could see."
"Did the police find any evidence?"
"A tire track, which may or may not belong to the hunters who found her body."
Like Marcia Clark hovering over Kato Kaelin, the girl moved into Dewey's personal space. "Did they look for her clothes? Seems to me that would be a clue. Did they dig around the rest of the gravel?"
They stood staring out the window at the clothesline below. A single red halter top dangled from the wire.
"Miss Leyk, I'm not a police officer," Dewey said.
"Yes, but surely you have your own theory as to what happened. I wonder if he burned her clothes. Would he burn them near where he left the body?" she said, her breathing quickening.
She'd held up remarkably well, but now tears splashed down onto her sweatshirt, leaving blotches the size of nickels. Dewey wanted to hold her, to pat her on the back, but she seemed more angry than anything, and he feared she'd push him away. Instead he said, "I think he kept them."
"So then you do have a theory?"
"Yes . . . this kind of perpetrator likes to relive the crime. I read that in this book by an FBI profiler, one of my many guilty pleasure, I'm afraid."
"Probably kept them so's he could masturbate all over them
every time he thought of poor Andy." Audrey paced between the desk and the trophy case, smacking her fist into her palm. "You think a stranger did this?"
"Yes, don't you?"
"You haven't seen the diary. My mother damn near had a stroke when she read this." The girl waved the little red book in the air. "Andy had sex with her boyfriend Trace just a few days before her murder."
"I'm afraid I don't see the relevance."
"Here, read this." Audrey opened the diary to a page she'd previously marked:

"Trace has become increasingly jealous since we made love. When I'm with the other guys, some of whom I've known since I was six years old, he flips his fucking lid. If he doesn't knock it off, I'm gonna have to tell him to take a hike, even if I do love him. I've been playing ball with those guys since before I knew Trace. They make me a better player. I don't want a lover like the one my mother picked–a man who can't be bothered to buy her anything for their anniversary."

"Sorry about the language, Father."
"I don't think this necessarily implicates her boyfriend."
"Here, read this part. I cried when I read it."
Dewey perused the new passage:

"I can't see myself in the future. I can't see kids. I have a feeling I'll die young, like in that song, "Live Fast, Die Young, and Leave a Beautiful Memory."

"Heartbreaking."
"My mom doesn't think Trace had anything to do with the murder. But she always liked him. She thinks Roman Platz did this. She says Andy complained about him watching her all the time out there on The Runway. ‘He gives me the creeps' she supposedly said. I went to school with Roman Platz. The teacher could not deal with him. After awhile he just stopped coming. Then there was the time he attacked that little kid."
"Little kid?"
"Yeah, they were in Fletchers, and this little guy, couldn't have been more than three years old, started crying ‘cause his mom wouldn't buy him Cocoa Pops or something. Wouldn't shut up. Just kept at it. And his mother was too stupid to take him out to the car. Roman went after the poor kid, slapped him in the face hard. The manager had to call Uncle Jim."
Dewey had read something similar someplace. Some people were more sensitive to sound than others. Crying would be like fingernails on the blackboard to them.
"Are you going to show the diary to the police?"
"My mom doesn't want to. She thinks it's too personal, what with all those sexual references and everything. Mrs. Weaver, that's the sheriff's wife, is a notorious gossip, and she's his dispatcher."
"You'll try to talk her into it, won't you? Ultimately, if Trace does become a suspect, the police will need to see this."
"You take it, Father."
"Oh, I don't know; I don't want to interfere with the investigation."
"You read it, then you do what you want with it. I'll take the heat from my mother."

#

When Dewey left the Leyk house later that day, the raven-haired girl followed him out the door. She caught up with him when he reached his car door. "I had to talk to you, Father," she said. "My name is Erin Reese. I saw you the other day at the school."
Something about the Erin's voice reminded him of someone. Despite the sultry looks, the voice fit a younger, more-innocent girl. The girl in the confessional? "Yes, I remember," he said. "You slid down the bannister."
Her face wreathed into a smile. "You saw that? Don't tell on me, okay?"
"Do you take me for a narc or something?"
"Not you, Father. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about the Dairy Queen. Me and Andy both worked there."
"Yes?"
"There was this other guy she liked. He was older. Looked like a lawyer. Dressed like one anyway. Suit and tie. A vest."
"What did he look like?"
"I don't know. Only saw him from a distance and he always wore shades. She used to sit in his car and talk to him during her break time."
"What make of car was it, Erin?"
"Some kind of sports car. He seemed to know when Andy got off and everything. I think she was flirting with him to make Trace jealous. She knew eventually one of the other girls would tell him about it. And somebody must've because she had a knock-down drag out with Trace the night before she was kidnapped. He called her a fuckin' prick-teasing bitch, you should excuse me for using those kind of words, which I hope you don't think I usually do."
Dewey leaned against the car. Suddenly his back hurt and he just wanted to jump in the Renault and drive, get out onto Interstate 35, and keep going until he got to Lake Superior, where he would float the clunker into the water. Every day it seemed, some new and startling abomination lowered his opinion of human nature. "I want you to tell the sheriff what you've just told me," he said.
"Wouldn't that get Trace in more trouble?"
"Obviously. But if he's innocent, it'll all come out right in the end."
Erin clutched his arm, the girl's grip that of a construction worker. "But what about Hurricane Carter?" she said. "I saw that movie with that hunk Denzel Washington. He was innocent and he did twenty years in prison."
"Got me there. Be sure to tell the sheriff about this mysterious stranger, too. That's my theory, that an outsider did this."
"Can't you do it for me, Father?"
"No, but I will go with you to see Sheriff Weaver."
"If you say so, Father."

#

Dewey turned right at Bank Square, drove two blocks down and made another right at the turn-of-the-century courthouse, all turrets, gables, and copulas, with a clock tower an hour behind, and a trotting-horse weather vane pointing west atop one of the copulas. He made another right into the parking lot to the rear of the courthouse, where the sheriff's office and jail stood adjacent to the older building. Mulling over what Erin said about the stranger in the sports car, he guided the Renault into a parking slot next to a Highway Patrol cruiser.
A rail-thin woman wearing an old-fashioned butterfly glasses was typing at her computer when he and Erin entered the reception area.
"Hello, Mrs. Weaver," Erin said.
The anorexic woman ignored Erin, regarding Dewey with upraised eyebrows. "May I help you, Father?" she said.
"We'd like to see Jim Miller if we could."
"Out on patrol. I can radio him for you if you wish. I'm Irene Weaver, the dispatcher."
"Father Fischer. I'm the new assistant at St. Boniface."
She proffered her hand, palm down. Cold, bloodless. "Yes, I know. Word gets around in a hurry in St. Gervais."
"How about the sheriff, is he in?"
Mrs. Weaver touched a buzzer on the intercom. "Are you in, Jerry? Father Fischer is here to see you. And one of the girls from St. Teresa's."
Erin studied her shoes.
A baritone voice blared from the box. "Tell them to have a seat. I'm on the phone with the BCA."
Dewey and Erin sat down on a leather couch with a duct-taped rip in one of the cushions. Erin rummaged through her purse, found an emery board and began to give herself a manicure. Dewey opened Andy Leyk's diary and started skimming. No wonder Mrs. Leyk hadn't wanted to let Mrs. Weaver see it. One entry described a conversation between Andy and her sister Audrey. Andy wanted to know how often Audrey and her husband had sex. At first they'd done it two, three times a night, then it evened out to twice a week. Got to put them off, Audrey advised, or they'll get sick of you and find some other chick. Another entry discussed Trace. Did she really love him, or did she want him because all the other girls thought him such a hottie? Finally, she'd examined her relationship with Viktorija. What constitutes friendship? she asked. Loyalty at the expense of self? Andy felt Viktorija Gashi fit that definition, her adopted sister more worthy than all of her friends put together.
"What's that you're reading?" Erin said.
Dewey convulsed, blinked rapidly. "Just something Andrea's sister gave me."
"Looks like a diary."
"It is. I told Audrey I'd give it to the sheriff."
"Anything interesting?"
"Lots, but I'm not about to tell you about it."
She shook her black bangs, like a racehorse shooing flies. "Be that way, then. Never kept one of those myself. My mother's such a snoop. When I leave my room in the morning, I put a little piece of tape over the door and the jam, and it's always broken when I come home at night."
Mrs. Weaver cleared her throat. "You can go in now. He's off the phone."
Dewey held the door as Erin somewhat hesitantly preceded him into the office.
Homely handsome, with black hair so curly he'd need a rake to comb it, Weaver advanced to shake Dewey's hand. 6' 5" or so and gangly, the sheriff had clownish hands and feet and ears that stood out from his head. "Heard about you, Father. How can I help you?"
"Erin here has some information regarding the Leyk murder."
"Take a seat, take a seat. Want some coffee?"
"That would be nice," Dewey said.
"How about you, Erin? Want a Coke?"
"I'll take some coffee. Been drinking it since I was ten."
Weaver didn't seem to know what to say to that. "Sugar? Cream?" The sheriff strode over to a little table where a Bunn machine and the fixings awaited him. "Can't get Mrs. Weaver to make the coffee anymore," he said. "Had to get me one of these fancy automatic babies."
"I'll take mine with a dab or cream," Dewey said.
"Hot and black," Erin said.
The sheriff brought them the two mugs careful not to spill, then sat on the edge of his desk, his pant cuffs riding up on his legs.
"Why don't you go ahead and tell me what you know, Erin," he said, his palms pointing in her direction. The sheriff spoke with his hands, the emphasis always a bit behind the wording, like one of those company chairmen who presented checks after Sunday golf tournaments on TV.
"Just that Trace and Andy had a fight before she was killed."
The sheriff pushed out his lower lip at her. "That so?"
"Andy and me worked together at the Dairy Queen."
"Oh. Mrs. Weaver won't let me eat that stuff. Know what they was fighting over?"
"Apparently it was another man,' Dewey said. "An older fellow."
"Just let the girl tell it," Weaver said.
"Sorry."
"Like I told Father Fischer, they sat together in his car."
"What kind of car was it?"
"I don't know. A fancy sports car."
The sheriff tugged at his earlobe. "Color?"
"I don't know. Silver. Off-white. Light blue maybe."
"Hmmph. Do you know Trace Trutwin, Erin?"
"Sure. All the girls know Trace."
"Maybe you can help me out then. You see, Trace was the first person we suspected when this happened, but he says he was at football practice when Andrea disappeared. Of course, he could have killed her afterwards, since we don't really have a good fix on when she actually died. The coroner can only estimate her death within a certain time period. Interesting, though. Trace says he went to see his counselor after practice about his hockey scholarship. Said he hadn't passed his ACT test yet and was worried."
"I didn't mean to get Trace in trouble," Erin breathed.
The sheriff threw up his hands in exasperation. "This muddies the water, girlie. This phantom in the sports car. You see, we talked to the counselor, and he doesn't remember any meeting with Trace. Especially on Labor Day, when he was trying to spend some quiet time with his family."
Weaver reached back across his desk, found his notebook. "So then I confront the boy with it, and he says he was mistaken, that he was studying to get that ACT grade up where it should be. With one of the girls from St. Teresa's."
"What do you want me to say?"
"Are you trying to put the blame on somebody else besides Trace?"
Erin's face turned red. "Why would I do that?"
"Maybe ‘cause you've got your cap set for Trace."
"If that were true , why would I tell you about the argument they had?"
The sheriff hunched his shoulders, shifted forward on his desk, pointing a cracked fingernail at Erin. "Clever, very clever. Your little story about the man she was sitting in the sports car with. How'm I suppose to believe that when you've got a crush on the boy?"
"It's true . Andrea did have another guy. He was older, really sophisticated. Could've been a lawyer."
"You can go, Erin. Father, I'd like to talk to you."
"Want to wait for me, Erin? I can give you a ride home."
She stood, gave Weaver a withering glare that would shrink the erection on an erotic Hindu statue, whirled, and headed for the door. "Nah, I only live a couple of blocks from here."
When she left, Weaver moved behind his desk and put his size 14's up. "You oughta watch yourself, Father. You don't want to put yourself in an awkward situation."
"What do you mean?"
"Giving that girl a ride unchaperoned. All these harassment cases we got. We have to take them seriously these days."
"Sheriff, I think Erin is telling the truth. Dr. Alexander said Andrea had a broken hip, right?"
"Broken hip. A cerebral hemorrhage killed her."
"Could it be the guy in the sports car was stalking her?"
The sheriff pulled a cheroot from a shirt pocket, struck a kitchen match on the wall behind him, leaving a jagged black stain, lit the stogie, and said, "Doesn't sound like he was doing all that much stalking if you ask me, but we'll check it out. With people like that Donald Blom character running around loose after multiple sex-related incidents we can't afford not to. It's just that we have to carve through a hell of a lot of gristle to get to the tenderloin, if you catch my drift."
Deweys eyes teared up, and he waved the smoke away. "Maybe Andy did give Trace the runaround. I don't doubt that one bit, but what if she told this older fellow she was only trying to make her boyfriend jealous, and the guy didn't take it well?"
"That's a possibility," Weaver said. "It's just that our little Erin hasn't got a whole lot of credibility around here. Only a couple of weeks ago she filed a complaint against her soccer coach, and he's got a wife and three kids." Weaver rubbed his eyes, took a sip of his cold coffee. "Her word against his, and the other girls swear they never saw anything."
"He'd be pretty stupid to touch her in front of them."
"Maybe. You notice anything else out there where they found her body?"
"Grass stains on Andy's heels."
Weaver blew smoke in Dewey's direction. "Maybe I oughta hire you as a deputy. You think she was moved?"
"Twice. From The Runway ditch, to the abandoned farmhouse, to the gravel pit. There should be blood on the car seat or in the trunk. If you can find that sports car."
If Dewey were in charge, he'd subpoena all of the sports car registrations in the county. Couldn't be that many in St. Gervais.
"Anything else?"
Dewey focused on the red second hand on the clock behind Weaver, thought back to the crime scene, to his embarrassing reaction to Andy's naked breasts, still kicking himself for that. But maybe the Lord had been trying to tell him something. "Any chance the killer raped Andy after she was dead?"
The sheriff recoiled as though he'd been swatted with a forearm shiver. "You mean like Ed Gien?"
"Who's Ed Gien?"
"You haven't heard the Ed Gien jokes?"
"I've led a cloistered life."
Weaver doused the cheroot, stood, got himself another cup of coffee, returned to his desk, where he braced himself on the edge. "Old grave robber who used the skin of the corpses to upholster his furniture."
"Now I remember. Hitchcock scripted ‘Psycho' on his life."
"Lots of movies based on that kook. ‘Texas Chain Saw Massacre', ‘Silence of the Lambs'. Loser like that, and he's more famous than the president."
Dewey gave the sheriff a what're-you-gonna-do? grin. "Anyway, the reason I brought up the possible necrophilia is because there was this case at the Newman Center snack bar in St. Cloud, where this guy strangled a waitress, then raped her after she was dead. Said he'd never had sex and wanted to know what it was like. Didn't care for it much as I recall."
The sheriff snorted, his idea of a laugh. "Oh, yeah, that's our boy Charles LaTourelle. The creep was back in the news lately. Killed this Arden Hills woman when he was younger; he was her paperboy. The husband was the principal suspect all those years, and the hairball suddenly gets religion and confesses."
Dewey thought back to what he'd told Erin Reese in the confessional about one sperm doing the job. "What I was thinking was that the killer could have pulled out, ejaculated on her clothes, but you know as well as I do, Sheriff–"
"Nope, if he did, he used a rubber. Forensics always scans the pubic hairs, just in case the boy was careless. Lots of rapists are, you know. Stupid shits use a rubber, then flick some of it off on the public hairs when they're finished. We can match the rapist's blood that way, unless the guy is a non-secretor." The sheriff patted his pocket where he kept the cigars. "I sure hope this one was one of the locals; if this guy is a stranger, we'll never find him."
Weaver hesitated, eyed Dewey as if he were a movie star who'd stopped in to do some research for his next role. He didn't seem to be in any hurry. Dewey wondered if the sheriff was trying to get him to say something incriminating. He'd read about an old murder case involving a priest, had to have been twenty, thirty years ago. The Reker girls–Mary and Susan he thought their names were–left in the morning to do some school shopping. They never returned. Found stabbed to death in a quarry near Wait Park. Nobody'd ever been charged, but the rumor was that a local priest was the focus of the investigation.
Dewey folded his hands in his lap, tried to look angelic. "Any paint flecks on her skin?" he said.
"Not on the body. No paint chips, no glass. He could've wiped her down, I suppose. We've got a top BCA investigator coming in to take another look at what we've got. Trace would sure be doing us a favor if it turns out he did this."
"I hope not, for his parents'sake. Don't know him, though. All girls at St. Teresa's." They stood, shook hands again. "Just thought you ought to know about the possible stalker."
"‘Preciate it. We'll check and see if any of the other girls at the Dairy Queen remember seeing a sports car."
As he turned to leave, Dewey remembered the diary. "Almost forgot, Sheriff. "Audrey Weaver gave me this to give you."
Weaver grasped the little red book between his index finger and thumb, his hands so big the diary looked like a matchbook. "Whyn't anybody tell me about a diary?"
"The mother was worried about some of the entries. They're sexual in nature."
"Oh. Well, this'll certainly be helpful. You read it?"
"Audrey showed me some of the entries. I thought you ought to see it."
Weaver flipped through the diary, read a passage, licked a finger, turned a page. "Wow. See what you mean. Sure does have nice handwriting, though, doesn't she?"

#

Dewey pumped the foot feet on the Renault and turned the ignition key. Surprisingly, the old clunker leaped to life, the idle an arrhythmia of thumps and wheezes. He looked at his watch. Almost time for his appointment with Mrs. Culp, and he couldn't afford to be tardy.
But he sat there in the Renault, worrying his thumbnail like a teething ring. What had he gotten himself into? Sheriff Weaver scared the bejabers out of him, and Erin Reese . . . that girl should be a regular on Melrose Place. Had she really seen a sophisticated man in the sports car? What would Uncle Mike think about Erin? Probably say, "A woman is a foreign land, of which, though there he settle young, a man will ne'er quite understand the customs, politics and tongue." Uncle Mike spouted Coventry Patmore's quote more than he did the Apostles Creed. Maybe he'd call him tonight.
Dewey consulted with Uncle Mike about just about every major decision in his life, the big one being his inability to decide whether to marry Abby or enter the seminary. Mike tried to beg off, saying that it would be presumptuous of him to interfere in the lives of two of his favorite young people. But he did want to know if Dewey had another career in mind. House husband, Dewey said. Get serious, Uncle Mike snapped. Dewey said he hadn't thought about it, maybe social work. Mike suggested he discuss this possibility with Abby. Would a social worker's salary be enough to support a family? Abby's father was an executive with 3M. The family owned a cabin on Leech Lake that made Dewey's house look like a tar paper shack.
Abby pooh-poohed the social work idea, recommended he follow in her father's footsteps at 3M, a proposal that led to the biggest wrangle they'd ever had, but the main reason Dewey decided on the church was because he didn't want to disappoint Mike, who'd been grooming him all of his life to become a priest, and couldn't hide his true feelings, despite his refusal to suggest Dewey choose the seminary. How could he turn on a man with calluses on his knees from praying who spent his vacations volunteering anonymously at a soup kitchen, and contributed most of his $11,000 salary to the support of South American orphans?

#

One of a cluster of massive Victorians next to a small pond fashioned from the Mississippi, the Culp mansion had seen better days. A moldering tennis court and a neglected greenhouse stood next to a grove of linden trees, some of which needed trimming.
After straightening his collar and brushing the lint off of his black botany 500, Dewey rang the doorbell. On a pecuniary mission of paramount importance, he'd yielded to Father Czech's notion of proper decorum. Best to leave the sleuthing to the professionals; something had to be done about that leaky roof!
A dowdy-looking woman answered the door. "Father Fischer to see Mrs. Culp. I have an appointment."
"Certainly. This way, Father." She held out her hand as they walked and Dewey took it. The woman had palms like cookie dough, scaly cookie dough. "I'm Mrs. Culp's chief cook and bottle washer, Glynda. If you're here about money, let me caution you, she's a hard sell."
"I'll try to remember that, Glynda," he said.
Glynda left him in the parlor, a room dominated by a large painting. Toulouse-Lautrec, he thought. A woman sitting spread-eagled on a red couch, wearing black tights. Around her neck she wore a yellow-gold ruffle--her white hair done up in a cone, held together by a ribbon matching the ruffle in color. In the background an almost invisible woman in pink, her only feature a black mask, chatted with a man in a stove-pipe hat. Some kind of masquerade ball? Dewey couldn't tell if the painting was real or a print.
Across from the painting, a polished Steinway shelved a framed photograph. Dewey recognized his boyhood friend, Gordy Culp, immediately. The photo showed Gordy sitting on the hood of a gleaming new roadster. Golden-haired with a wry smile, he could have passed for one of the Vanderbilts.
Nostalgia flooded over Dewey. Altar boys for Uncle Mike as boys, Gordy and he had been as inseparable as Siamese twins. They'd canoed the Boundary Waters; attended Boy Scout Jamboree; played football together–Gordy the starting quarterback, Dewey a third-string receiver, until Dewey'd quit his senior year to try wrestling, something he was a natural at, finishing runner-up at State in the 125-lb. weight class. No friend since had measured up to Gordy.
"Isn't he beautiful?" a voice said over Dewey's shoulder.
He turned to find a silver-haired matron in a blue silk gown that no ordinary woman would wear outside a black-tie fund-raiser. Once Dewey had seen a picture of eighty-year-old Babe Paley, CBS founder William Paley's wife, who'd retained her beauty despite her advanced years. This woman reminded him of Babe.
"Gordy and I grew up together, Mrs. Culp. We were altar boys for my Uncle Mike." He wouldn't tell her how about the time Gordy got paddled for drinking the communion wine, or the time he earned a whipping for making fun of the server responses. "Gordy'd think I was weird if I said he was beautiful."
"Father Fischer? You must be Dewey. Gordon has told me all about you. All good, I assure you." Mrs. Culp stroked the photo as if it were a spoiled tabby. "He sent me this for Christmas last year. That boy and his cars. Would you have a picture taken of you and your car, Father?'
"Not my car, Mrs. Culp. I drive a beat-up, rusted out Renault."
"Call me Emma. We'll get you something better. It's not seemly for our priest to be driving such an embarrassment."
"I'd rather you put your money to better use, Mrs. Culp. May I take a look at your piano?" Father Czech had given Dewey the lowdown on Mrs. Culp. She'd attended Julliard as a young girl, had sponsored Van Cliburn in that Moscow competition that had assured his career.
"Do you play?"
"A little. I prefer the pipe organ. I'm trying to convince Father Czech to let me play during the high mass on Sunday."
Dewey fingered the keys, tapping out the scale. This Steinway was the Secretariat of pianos, the tone surpassing all the others by thirty lengths.
"You have to be better than Mrs. Weidebush. Now, let's get to the point, shall we? You'd like me to contribute to something?"
"Have you been to church lately, Emma?"
"Are you being impudent, Father?"
"Certainly not. I was just wondering if you'd noticed the ceiling."
She moved over to the couch, patted the cushion next to her. "Sit here," she said. When he did, her perfume–a potpourri of decaying fruit–clogged his sinuses. "Let me tell you about the history of St. Boniface's maintenance fund. Father Czech has been to see me innumerable times. His only plan has been for me to absorb the entire cost of the roof, and I keep telling him that if he can't come up with a more efficient fund-raising program, I don't want to hear it. Now I ask you, what happens when the Culp gusher runs dry? You've seen the grounds. The tennis court. The old greenhouse. Besides, I don't trust the man."
Dewey gave her his best wounded puppy-dog expression.
"But . . . since you're a friend of Gordon's, I will start you off with a $5,000 check. You'll have to raise the rest on your own. Now, let's talk about the Leyk killing. I understand you were present at the crime scene."
"Ah, yes, I was, but . . ."
"If you don't spill it, I'm taking back my offer."
"But, Emma, that's blackmail."
"Such is life. Do you think Ted Turner gave UNICEF all that money because he's concerned about poor children?"
"I don't know what else . . ."
"You really are naive, Father Fischer."
"Oh, all right. Andrea was nude and her hair was undone. I'd say–-"
"You'd say the killer kept something to remember her by. Was she strangled?"
"Not that I could tell."
"Hmmm, that's interesting. That boy she was dating, that Trace person. He could have gotten into an argument with her and hit her harder than he wanted to and . . . Hockey, is that the sport he plays? Such a bunch of hooligans. I don't doubt that he could have done it."
"I can't speculate on that, Mrs. . . . I mean, Emma."
"You're no fun at all. What's the use of having a juicy murder happen in our town if we can't speculate. Who do you think did it?"
"Well, it could be someone like that Donald Blom person. Pedophiles really get around, you know. They even have Internet connections."
"Oh, pshaw. Not in this town. Our local gossips don't tolerate strangers. How far do you think he'd get before one of them turned him in for driving with a loud muffler?"
She stood and moved toward the entrance to the parlor, his signal to go. "Gordon will be here for my birthday," she said, stretching out her hand to him. "You should stop by."
"I'll do that," he said, checking his Seiko. He just had time to get a haircut. Not only would he satisfy Father Czech's grooming mandate, but he'd also be able to get the lay of the land. A town's barbershop would be the best place to meet Paul Pry.  


FISHER OF MEN is a work in progress. Comments appreciated. A completed novel by Dave Schwinghammer, SOLDIER'S GAP, is available on Amazon.com.