Authors: William Kienzle
“Oh, you'd be surprised, Robert. You haven't been with them since the shooting. I tell you, something's happened to them. Oh, not all of them ⦠but a significant number.”
“Oh?”
“It's very definitely the impact of what Al did. It was that simple but sublime act of love. For many on the faculty the supremacy of love just cut right through the textbook theology. I think the evenhandedness, the tolerance we were looking for has finally materialized. It's the beginning of a new beginning. It even hit Bill Page, of all people!”
“Page? I wouldn't have counted on that.”
“Nor I. Butâand you wouldn't have guessed this in a million yearsâPage has requested, and been granted, a leave of absence.”
“No!”
“Uh-huh. Al's sacrifice shook Page to his bootstraps. He's not so sure of himself now. I think it's a near miracle. For the longest time, I was afraid we were going to be forced to send a shameless sycophant out into the archdiocese. Now maybe Page will leave religious life alone. Or, just maybe, he'll come back a decent priest.”
“That's almost unbelievable. And while we're talking about the incredible, who's responsible for this coffin? The Cody family is not hurting financially. But that coffin is about the least expensive possible.”
McNiff nodded. “True. But Bill Cody is out of this scene. His wife handled everything. She's holding up like a trooper. Her decision was to keep everything as simple as it could be. She was deeply impressed with her son's greater love. With that in mind, she projected what Al would've chosen in leaving this world. It was the simplicity of that love. It was a return to ashes in a container that didn't flaunt wealth, but reflected love alone.
“That's what she said. I thought it was sort of beautiful. Just what Al had become at the end of his too-brief life.”
Koesler was silent. He had his eulogy. From now until it was time to get ready for the funeral, he would sit there and ponder.
When fate confronted Al Cody with his greatest challenge, he met it with his greatest decision.
Now he could know that he had made the selfless choice.
Now he was at peaceâthe peace that passeth all understanding.
Acknowledgments
Gratitude for technical advice to:
Archdiocese of Detroit:
Sister Bernadelle Grimm, R.S.M., Pastoral Care Department, Mercy Hospital (Retired)
The Reverend Anthony Kosnik, S.T.D., J.C.B., Professor of Ethics, Marygrove College, Detroit
Karen Mehaffey, Theological Library Service, Sacred Heart Major Seminary, Detroit
Irma Macy, Religious Education Coordinator, Prince of Peace Parish, West Bloomfield, Michigan
Paul Connell, Vice President and Co-owner, A.J. Desmond & Sons
Funeral Directors, Vasu Rodgers and Connell Chapel
George Lubienski, Attorney-at-Law
Lou Morand, Catholic Financial Development
Inspector Barbara Weide, Detroit Police Department
Any error is the author's.
In memory of Peter Bellanca and Marge Hershey, both of whom tried to make life less difficult for others and left a legacy of faith and laughter.
No Greater Love
copyright © 1999, 2013 by Gopits, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.
Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC
an Andrews McMeel Universal company,
1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106
This is a work of fiction and, as such, events described herein are creations of the author’s imagination. Any relation to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental and accidental.
ISBN: 9781449423780
Cover design by Kevin Williamson. Photo by IstockPhoto/Hope Milam and StockXchange/Leo Synapse.
William X. Kienzle
died in December 2001. He was a Detroit parish priest for twenty years before leaving the priesthood. He began writing his popular mystery series after serving as an editor and director at the Center for Contemplative Studies at the University of Dallas.
1. The Rosary Murders
2. Death Wears a Red Hat
3. Mind Over Murder
4. Assault with Intent
5. Shadow of Death
6. Kill and Tell
7. Sudden Death
8. Deathbed
9. Deadline for a Critic
10. Marked for Murder
11. Eminence
12. Masquerade
13. Chameleon
14. Body Count
15. Dead Wrong
16. Bishop as Pawn
17. Call No Man Father
18. Requiem for Moses
19. The Man Who Loved God
20. The Greatest Evil
21. No Greater Love
22. Till Death
23. The Sacrifice
24. The Gathering
Never get sick on a Wednesday.
Why not?
Because the doctors and priests will be on the golf course.
Lil smiled at the memory of the old wheeze as she peeled strips of bacon from the package and slid them into the frying pan.
It was very much an “in” joke for Catholics of long standing who could count themselves well within the loop. Once upon a time, when Catholics fell ill a priest might be summoned as routinely as a doctor. While the doctor scribbled a prescription, the priest would confer the appropriate sacrament, and assure the family of his prayers as well as those of the other parishioners.
Nowadays, doctors don’t make house calls, and priests, an ever more endangered species, are buffered from callers by answering services. Nonetheless, Wednesday is still a popular day off for those able to arrange it.
Lil wore only the top half of a man’s pajamas. The man, still snoozing, wore the bottoms.
The sun was creeping into the basement studio apartment. The tiny dwelling comprised a kitchenette wall, one bath, and an all-purpose space that was foyer, living room, dining room, and bedroom.
This Wednesday in June promised to be a pleasant day, the type that invited one to get out and enjoy the weather. Many of those left behind at this suburban apartment complex after the majority went off to work—mostly mothers and young children—would gather poolside.
Not this couple.
Lil and Rick had to be extremely careful.
This caution did not concern Rick nearly as much as it did Lil.
He was by nature carefree, spontaneous, and relatively fearless. She envied him these traits. Still she feared they’d be found out. Her fear was more for him than it was for her. But she too had high stakes in their relationship.
After all, Lillian Niedermier was principal of St. Enda’s elementary school. She wondered how long she would hold that position if it leaked out that she had for the past ten years been half of a significant-other relationship.
The marital status of parochial teachers and principals had been taken for granted in the era when Catholic schools were staffed almost totally by nuns. Religious brothers served a few schools; priests—Jesuits, Basilians and the like—taught at some other schools as well as at seminaries.
That considerable dedication—for that was what it was—solved any number of problems.
There were no unions in Catholic schools. There was nothing to be negotiated. There were no interviews of prospective teachers to sap the pastor’s time. If St. Paraphanucious school was slated to have twenty-four Dominican nuns, there they were: twenty-four dedicated women all in black-and-white habit.
None of the twenty-four had volunteered for a specific parish. The pastor did not select any of the nuns. They were sent.
Like so many other changes in the Catholic Church since 1965, when the Second Vatican Council concluded, things were radically different in today’s parochial schools.
Formerly there was no challenge in finding
the
layperson on the Catholic school faculty. She was the only one wearing ordinary clothing.
Now there was plenty of challenge. The nun—if there was even one on the faculty—probably couldn’t find a religious habit to save her soul—literally.
So, layperson Lillian Niedermier found herself principal of a parochial school in a northwest suburb of Detroit.
She could have made lots more money teaching in the public school system. Her choice to go parochial was partly because her schooling had been Catholic and also because here she could achieve the rank of principal. A position for which she would have had to wait many more years had she been in the public system.
But what would the parishioners of St. Enda’s—let alone Father O’Leary, the pastor—think if they were to discover that she had a live-in boyfriend? Marriage and its rules and regulations had for centuries been, and continued to be, an obsession with the Catholic Church. It would not take a canonical major to conclude that Lillian was “living in sin.” St. Enda’s students were not the only ones likely to earn an
A
.
Lil began cracking eggs into a bowl. She dropped four slices of bread into the toaster. The essentials were ready to go. All that was missing was a hungry man. Her man would have to wake up to feel hunger.
As if on schedule, stirrings and grunts emanated from the bed. “Do those sounds,” Lil called over, “mean that you are about to favor me with your presence?”
There was a pause while he rolled over onto his back and rubbed his eyes. “If you play your cards right … maybe.”
She turned up the heat under the frying pan. After some moments the distinctive aroma of sizzling bacon permeated the room.
“Sweetie,” he said, “you just dealt a royal flush!”
She smiled as she flipped and flopped the strips in the pan. He liked his bacon uniformly well done.
Her back was toward him and she swayed slowly as she busied herself at the stove. He studied her appreciatively.
Her straight dark hair, parted in the middle, fell to the base of her neck. Her shoulders and upper torso were, he thought, incredibly narrow. Yet she was surprisingly strong. On those occasions when a heavy object was too hefty or bulky for him to lift alone, Lil bore the load every bit as equally as he.
His pajama top was many times too large for her slender figure. The garment hung to approximately mid-thigh. It reminded him of a mini skirt. Below her wasplike waist, the pajama top clung to her hips and suggested the rounded firmness beneath.
No doubt about it, she was one beautiful woman. And he was one lucky guy.
Breakfast would be prepared without his participation. Not that he couldn’t prepare food; actually he did that with some regularity. And when he himself was chief cook and bottle-washer, he welcomed the involvement of others.
Not so with Lil. When she was in charge she firmly warned all others to steer clear of “my” kitchen.
He’d learned his lesson. He would not approach the kitchen area until everything was on the table. Meanwhile, he would feast his eyes on her generous beauty. He’d never met a curve in her body that he didn’t treasure.
His thoughts flowing in free association, he contrasted her youth and perfect form with what he brought to this relationship. His gift, he thought, was not all that much.
In his prime—Lil’s age and younger—he had been a trim athlete. If it bounced he’d played it: baseball, football, basketball, hockey, tennis, racquetball. Come to think of it, even if it didn’t bounce, as long as it was a game, he’d played it.
Now his exercise was limited to bowling, golf—when the season and weather allowed—and sporadic visits to a fitness gym.
His upper body testified to his youthful athleticism. A thick neck and strong, sloping shoulder and chest muscles suggested strength and sinewy toughness. But that was the end of that. Over the years, he had developed a paunch that now threatened to sag over his belt.
Well, he said to himself, what could you expect at age sixty? Gravity, as well as other forces such as inertia, tended to remind one of the passage of time. Belying a drooping middle was his rigidly square face displaying the storied map of Ireland, accentuated by brilliant blue eyes and a full head of still-red hair.
All in all not too disgraceful for a man of sixty years.
Sixty years! When he was on the way up at thirty, forty, or fifty—even fifty-nine—sixty had seemed ancient. Well, what was sixty supposed to feel like? It all depended on health. He had known men who were old in their thirties and forties. While others—yes, some even in their sixties—were still young.
However, further complicating things was Lil, twenty-five years his junior.
Sixty years against thirty-five. Some might say it was the embodiment of a May-December relationship, that he was robbing the cradle. From time to time, he himself wondered.
On such occasions, Lil would attempt to kiss away his troubled thoughts. And each time she would succeed. But he proved unable to return the favor.
Lil worried. He was reminded of it more often than not. She worried not about the difference in their ages, not a bit about their love for one another. Lil worried because she was principal of a Catholic school. And because he was a priest.
Father Richard Casserly, Roman Catholic priest of the Archdiocese of Detroit. Pastor of St. William of Thierry parish in the city of Detroit. Vicar of the East Side Vicariate. A substantial representative of the archdiocese.
If Lil had her way, no one on earth would have any idea that Father Casserly and Ms. Niedermier were an item. As it was, and due largely to her precautions, precious few suspected and actually only one other person knew for certain.
The situation demanded constant vigilance. The effort primarily was Lil’s. In her mind, the alternative was disaster. If their secret were to be known by her pastor, or by the archbishop, undoubtedly she would be fired. And Rick? That was pretty much up in the air.
At very least he would suffer some sort of ecclesial punishment. Suspension, perhaps, which would demand that he not exercise any priestly function for some specified period—a month, a year, whatever the archbishop, Cardinal Mark Boyle, imposed.