Greenwich (24 page)

Muffy loved the casual manner in which Castle had slipped her two or three hundred dollars after each tryst in New York or in her house when she was alone in her house, which was often enough. She knew that money was meaningless to Castle and that he could have had any number of younger and more attractive women had he so desired. She had gone through a face-lift, a tummy tuck, and two but-tock tucks; and she had decided that her large, bony frame gave him something that his pretty wife did not provide. He had paid for all of these operations without a quiver or a retort, which made Muffy feel that she was something more in his life than an expensive hooker, even though once he had ejaculated he got out of her house in a quick fifteen minutes. Her husband, Matt, was too absorbed in his own problems to question her story that the surgery was paid for by their medical policy. She kept the records.

But Castle was gone, and Muffy was here, and she was never one to weep over spilled milk. The game had changed, but the substance was still there. Muffy was a good cook. Tonight she prepared her husband's favorite dinner, a delicately roasted standing rib of beef, pink in the center, scalloped potatoes and tiny garden peas, and a bottle of good Merlot. The truth of their relationship was that Matt valued her, and he had neither the will nor the money to start afresh with a new wife; and Muffy was good-looking, if not beautiful. If he suspected her dalliance with Castle, he simply put it out of his mind. She was two inches taller than her husband, and he no longer regarded her as a sexual object.

At dinner that Saturday night, they spoke about the night before, and Matt echoed her surprise at the presence of the two Catholic clerics. “That's crazy,” Matt said. “They're not Catholic. Why the hell would they have a couple of priests?”

“The woman's a nun, Matt,” she gently corrected him.

“Still the same. Do you suppose Sally's going Catholic?”

“That's something I want to discuss with you. Richard was worth well over two hundred million.”

“You're sure?”

“Of course, I'm sure,” Muffy replied, feeling no need to explain why she felt so sure. When it came to their circle of acquaintances, Matt always took her word about wealth and marriage and similar matters.

“And he took home better than two million—that's right, two million—out of his work.”

“Not where he's going,” Matt said, a note of triumph in his voice.

“Yes, he's dead, poor man. I hear the thug who did it shot away most of his head. But right now, Matt, that idiot wife of his stands to inherit almost all of what he had.”

“You're kidding.”

“I don't kid about such things,” Muffy assured him.

“And what about Dickie?”

“The way I heard, Dickie gets a twenty-million-dollar trust fund, which should yield him at least a few hundred thousand in yearly income, which is plenty for that brat. Sally gets the rest. Can you imagine—that stupid, worthless Valley Girl with that kind of money!”

Matt did not ask Muffy how she knew the details of Castle's bequests; he simply accepted it as part of her knowledge of what so many people in the Back Country had and what they spent.

“That's very nice money,” Matt admitted.

“That's all you have to say?”

“What else?” Matt wondered.

“If I put a pot of gold in front of you, would you have enough sense to pick it up?” she demanded, barely able to keep the contempt out of her voice.

“Come on,” Matt said. “I'm tired. Don't go into one of your tirades about my being poor.”

“All right, honey. I know how hard you work. But what does Sally do with that money? She doesn't know a stock from a bond. She can't handle this alone. She has to have a financial advisor, and from what I hear, a good financial advisor can get as much as five percent. Think about that.”

The Merlot was gone, and Muffy went to the bar to open another bottle. When she returned and poured the wine, Matt's face had lit up. “Why not?” he said. “Why not indeed? I've known Richard for a dozen years. He was always very decent to me. Sally always seemed to like us—as much as you could ever tell what that dumb broad was thinking. She once asked me what a trust was. She thought it meant that you trusted someone. Are you sure Richard didn't put most of it in trust for Sally?”

“He always intended to, but he was too busy making it. He once said, Let it grow. But I'm not worried about that. What's our next step? What do we do?”

“Have you spoken to Sally yet?”

“No. I was waiting. I was trying to think of the best approach.”

“There is no best approach, baby. Just call her right now and tell her how our hearts go out to her. Tell her we're her friends, her close friends. Tell her that we're ready to do anything for her. Invite her to dinner. She can't fry an egg and she knows what a good cook you are. Tell her you'll give her free cooking lessons. Tell her—”

“Matt, don't run away with it!” Muffy said sharply. “I know what to say to her.”

“Don't talk about money.”

“Of course not. I'm not stupid.”

They went into the living room, each with a glass of wine to celebrate action. Matt sipped his wine. Muffy dialed Sally's number.

“My dear, my dear, poor, suffering Sally. How my heart goes out to you! Matt came home today, and we were both in tears … Yes, what a loss, what a terrible loss. We want you to come for dinner tomorrow, you mustn't be alone.”

At the Castle home, Sally listened to this. When she made no reply, Muffy went on speaking. Still silence. Then, at last, Sally took a deep breath and said, “Thank you, Muffy. Thank Matt. He has a good heart.” Once again, Sally took a long pause and said, “As for eating in your house, Muffy, I would die of starvation first, and something else, Muffy”—Sally's voice rose to an ear-splitting shout—“Muffy, fuck you!”

Then Sally put down the telephone and whispered, “God forgive me. I promised you, Richard, that I would never use those words again, but I didn't know what else to say.”

Muffy put down the telephone and turned slowly to her husband.

“Did I hear her say fuck you?” he asked. Muffy stared at him without replying.

“Will you goddamn answer me! Did I hear her say fuck you?”

“Yes, Matt, that's what the little bitch said.”

“How long have you been fucking Richard Castle?”

“Just watch your tongue, Matt.”

“How long!”

“Drop dead, Matt.”

“It's over now! It's finally over!” He rose, walked to her, and flung what was left in his wineglass in her face. Then he raised his right hand to strike her. Muffy caught his wrist and snapped, “Don't try that, Matt, or I'll break your goddamn arm. I'm no candidate for a battered wife.” Then she pushed him away. “You dumb bastard, Richard would have left me millions. He was just waiting for you to drink yourself to death.”

Matt staggered a bit, almost fell, and then pulled himself upright. Swaying with forlorn dignity, he walked out of the house and into the cool June night.

Forty-two

S
ister Brody tapped at the door of the monsignor's study. “Come in,” he said. She barely heard his voice, but she was sure he said to come in. His door was never locked.

For Sister Brody, who was of Irish people herself, blue eyes and light hair, the expression “black Irish” had a specific meaning. She had always felt that they were different, of a more ancient earth-rooted race, with their lean faces and dark eyes and black hair. Donovan was black Irish—moody, turned in upon himself, lean to the point of emaciation, yet he ate well and had great energy. Through all that she had witnessed during her years of service, she had maintained a certain gaiety, as if she contained a spirit that could surmount any horror. Donovan was different, and that perhaps was why, working at the same church, they were drawn together. She approached him without the reverence that the other church workers showed him. If she were not a nun, she might have admitted to herself that she was in love with him, but she was a nun and well past forty, and so to some degree she mothered him and he turned to her and sometimes spoke to her of things he left unspoken in confession.

“I drove out to see Sally Castle. I spent an hour with her,” the nun said.

“Yes. How is she taking all this?”

Sister Brody dropped into a chair beside the monsignor's desk.

He sat behind the desk, which was piled with books and papers, leaving room only for a small crucifix.

Sister Brody shook her head. “I don't know. She appeared to be unusually calm. I don't know what was between her and her husband.”

“That's something almost impossible to know about any couple, isn't it?”

“I suppose so,” Sister Brody agreed. “Anyway, she's coming to church tomorrow morning for the eleven o'clock mass to hear you speak.”

“Oh? So that's why you're here.”

“Yes—I suppose.”

“How do you know?” Donovan asked without rancor.

“I saw the bulletin in the office. It says that Father Garibaldi will deliver the homily.”

“Yes, word does get around. Is that so disappointing?”

“It will be to Sally and to the Greenes and the Selligs as well. They will all be here; but Sally, must I greet her with a lie?”

“It's not a lie.”

“It's my lie. I told her you would speak about the three people who died today and last night,” the nun insisted.

“I can't. It's impossible.”

“May I ask why it's impossible?”

No one else at the church would have dared to beard him like that, yet he didn't tell her that it was none of her business or ask her to leave. Sister Brody guessed that he wanted to talk. She waited quietly while the silence thickened and became more difficult.

“Pat,” he finally said, almost pleadingly, “would you mind if I smoked? I know it's a disgusting habit, and I've tried to break myself of it—I know, last night, but that was a Cuban cigar—”

She couldn't help herself. She began to giggle. “Oh, go ahead and smoke.”

Opening a drawer in his desk, he took out a small cigar, a lighter, and an ashtray. He lit the cigar and turned to blow the smoke away from her.

“You don't have to do that. My father smoked cigars. I like the smell.”

“This is a stogie, ten dollars for twenty. You're forbearing. I've had an unusual day—a rather difficult day, and I've spent the last hour sitting here and staring at that man on the cross. At our Lord, trying to understand why he died.”

Sister Brody swallowed the words that came to mind and remained silent.

“I thought you'd pick me up on that,” he said, smiling. “I don't think I've sinned. I'm not confessing.”

“Heaven forbid,” she could not help saying.

“Amen. I'm cursed with curiosity, and this morning, before I heard the news of Richard Castle's murder, I had Joe Hunt come by. You know him, he helped serve last night, he's Abel Hunt's son. He's at Harvard, a very bright boy, and what they call a computer nerd. I asked him, in all confidence, to sit down at our computer and find out what he could about Richard Castle.” Donovan paused and shook the ashes off the cigar.

“What did he find out?” Sister Brody could not help asking.

“Too much. This Internet is a strange and disturbing place. I found out that it happened when Castle was an Assistant Secretary for Latin American Affairs. The nuns and lay workers who were raped and killed, the six Jesuit priests who were murdered in cold blood, Archbishop Romero—all of it carried out by murder squads we trained and armed—Castle was one of the men who planned it and pushed it through.”

Sister Brody said nothing.

“You don't appear surprised.”

“Castle? Yes, that surprises me. I don't think Sally knows anything about that. Castle is dead. Remember, I was there. I saw the bodies. That was many years ago. Is that why you canceled the homily?”

“No, no. I canceled the homily because I can't write one. It goes deeper. Where was I then? Where was the church? Why was this monstrosity buried by the media? Why was the Vatican responding in whispers? Where was the rage?”

“Rage, Father? Is rage a part of our church?”

He dropped the cigar into the ashtray and stared at her.

“Why are Jesuits or nuns or a bishop any different? Over seventy thousand people were murdered in that forsaken little country—and they were all human beings. Isn't that more awful than a handful of priests?”

He spread his arms. “My dear lady, you're right. I am not going to argue with you. You asked me a question, and I am trying to answer it—not for you but for myself. Six million Jews were put to death in the heart of civilized, Catholic Europe. How could that have happened? Why did we let it happen? Don't tell me answers that I already know. It's in the past. There must be forgiveness. But forgiveness is not forgetfulness. The walls of the Vatican, the walls of every church in the world, should have exploded with protest, but where—where was the silence broken?”

“You shouldn't ask me questions like that,” Sister Brody said meekly.

“Then who should I ask?”

“Yourself.”

He leaned back and clasped his hands. “Thank God, Pat, that I have someone like you.”

“Why? To remind you that people are human, weak, often mindless. May I speak freely?”

“Have you ever spoken any other way?” he asked, smiling now.

“Forgive me, Father, you have been too long in Greenwich. Here, things are clean and very nice. Good and evil are cloaked. There are other places all over the earth where good and evil are naked, and evil is very ugly, and death is often beyond any human explanation. I am not berating you. God forbid that I should berate a good man. I have no explanation for what happened in El Salvador or in the Holocaust or in the Catholic Church, for that matter. I have nothing to offer except my faith.”