Vengeance Is Mine (2 page)

“Ray Perini, local St. Cloud builder, was found murdered early this morning in Lake George Park. Stearns County Coroner Dr. Henry Corliss states that death occurred at approximately midnight last night. Acting Police Chief Steven Radke is investigating the crime, but he reports no leads at this time.”

“We'd better post sentries.” Major Pietre's hands trembled as he took his tray. “Those Commies'll sneak up on us and slit our throats in the middle of the night.”

“There's no need for that, Major.” Sister Kate reached over to pat the chaplain's hand. “The war is over. There's no enemy here in St. Cloud.”

Bishop Donahue pressed his lips together. There certainly was an enemy but not the type Major Pietre feared. It took all his restraint to keep from explaining the real danger they were facing.

“Oh, my, a killer on the loose.” Mother Superior swallowed nervously. “And to think it happened right across the street from us. Are we in any danger, Sister Kate?”

“Absolutely not.” Sister Kate smiled at her. “Don't forget that we have security bars on all the windows and a guard at the door. No one can get in here, Mother Superior. We're all safe and sound.”

Father Murphy used the plastic knife to cut his sandwich into ten equal parts. He pushed one to the side and wrapped it carefully in a paper napkin. It represented his tithe for the Lord. No one could entice him to eat that portion. Then he looked up at Mother Superior.

“Ray Perini. That name's familiar. Wasn't he the man who worked for that group of homosexuals?”

“Correct, Father Murphy.” Mother Superior nodded emphatically. “Margaret Whitworth interviewed him on her talk show last Tuesday. It was right after Rocky and Bullwinkle . . . the one where Boris Badenov and Natasha tried to sabotage the ski lift. I just love that show. It teaches real values.”

Sister Kate sighed and shook her head sadly. “Ray Perini was a member of the Knights of Columbus. He donated the money for the new cross on the cathedral. Such a nice man.”

“Well . . . maybe.” Monsignor Wickes looked dubious. “But he also won the contract to build the Alternate Life-style Center. And that's being funded by GALA and the pro-abortionists.”

“GALA. Don't you think that's clever?” Mother Superior couldn't help being didactic after thirty years at Sacred Heart Elementary. “It's an acronym for the Gay and Lesbian Association, just the way NATO means North Atlantic Treaty Organization and MASH stands for Mobile Army Surgical Hospital.”

Monsignor Wickes took a sip of his grape juice and made a face. He had tried his best to talk Sister Kate into serving wine with lunch as an aid to digestion, but she refused to bend the rules. There was no way he could get any alcohol at Holy Rest unless someone forgot to lock up the vanilla again.

“I'll take that if you don't want it, Monsignor.” Sister Augusta reached over to grab his sandwich. “I heard something about the Alternate Life-style Center on the news yesterday. The Defenders of Decency were seeking an injunction to stop the WinterGame fund-raiser. If GALA and Pro Choice don't raise the money, they'll have to drop the project.”

“Gustie”—Sister Kate gave the overweight nun a warning look—“I think you'd better give that sandwich back to the monsignor. Remember your black skirt?”

“I liked it better when I was anorexic.” Sister Augusta sighed and plopped the sandwich back onto Monsignor Wickes's tray. “Then everybody told me to eat. And now that I've finally learned to enjoy food, they want me to starve again. This whole thing is making me schizophrenic!”

Sister Kate nodded sympathetically. It was unsettling when therapy backfired. When Sister Augusta was admitted to Holy Rest, she had weighed only 83 pounds. The doctor had utilized Skinnerian conditioning but it had worked too well with Sister Augusta. Now she weighed more than 170 pounds, and she had developed high blood pressure and type 2 diabetes.

“Oh, look.” Mother Superior pointed at the television screen. “There's that sweet boy from GALA. He must be promoting the WinterGame fund-raiser. I wish we could go.”

“That's out of the question.” Bishop Donahue could remain silent no longer. “The church must stand firm against perversion. We have a sacred duty to denounce the homosexuals and abortionists. Ray Perini's death was divine retribution!”

“I think that's enough discussion for now.” Sister Kate spoke quickly before the bishop could continue. If he started expounding his theories on divine retribution, it might upset the rest of her patients.

“Why don't we all watch a movie?” Sister Kate said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“I just love movies.” Mother Superior's face lit up in a smile. “What's playing, Sister Kate?”

Sister Kate flipped through the stack of
Catholic Digests
on the coffee table. “I'm afraid someone's misplaced the cable guide again. Father Murphy?”

Father Murphy shrugged. “Just because I'm a kleptomaniac doesn't mean I'm responsible for everything that's missing around here.”

“I prayed to St. Anthony when my shoes were lost,” said Mother Superior, trying to be helpful. “And I found them. Right under my bed.”

There was a moment of silence as Sister Kate stared at Father Murphy, her eyebrows raised.

“Oh, don't look at me like that, Sister Kate. I'll go look for it.”

Mother Superior waited until Father Murphy left the room. “I think Father Murphy's being very good lately. My watch hasn't been missing in more than a month.”

“Here it is.” Father Murphy came back, waving the cable guide triumphantly. “It was on the kitchen counter.”

“Oh, dear.” The color rose in Sister Kate's cheeks. “I apologize, Father.”

“That's all right.” Father Murphy handed her the guide. “It was a reasonable assumption.”

Sister Kate paged through the schedule quickly. “Here's one we all can enjoy. They're showing the original
Lassie
on HBO. Didn't you say they trained dogs in the service, Major?”

“Not collies!” Major Pietre laughed. “They lack the killer instinct.”

Bishop Donahue gripped the sides of his chair and fought for control as Sister Kate switched the channel. She was flipping through the channels backwards again even though he'd reminded her only yesterday. All things in nature that rotated clockwise proceeded forward. It was God's design.

“May Bishop Donahue and I be excused?” Sister Cecelia reached over to take the bishop's arm.

“Oh, don't leave.” Mother Superior's voice quavered. “It's so nice when we all watch movies together.”

Sister Cecelia was prepared for the usual objection. Mother Superior always wanted them to stay together in a group, just like the classes she used to teach.

“I thought Bishop Donahue and I would go to the chapel to pray for Mr. Perini's soul.” Sister Cecelia sounded pious. “But we won't go if you object, Mother Superior.”

“Well . . . that's different.” Mother Superior gave a grudging nod. “You may be excused, Cissy. I'll tell you the story later.”

“Don't forget we're all making fudge at three.” Sister Kate waved them toward the door.

“Fudge?” Sister Augusta beamed. “Oh, Sister Kate. Can I—I mean, do you suppose—”

“The doctor authorized one piece, an inch and a half square.”

Sister Cecelia turned at the door. “And don't get any sneaky ideas, Gustie. I'll measure it myself.”

“All right. The movie's starting.” Sister Kate turned up the volume and sighed in relief as Sister Cecelia left with the bishop. He had been highly agitated ever since the arrival of the television. Sister Kate was convinced that watching the news was the worst possible therapy for Bishop Donahue, but she had to follow her orders. Archbishop Ciminski, the liberal head of the St. Cloud archdiocese, thought that Holy Rest residents should take an interest in current events.

Hidden away on a quiet residential street in the center of St. Cloud, Holy Rest was a carefully kept church secret. Only a select few knew what lay inside the decoratively barred windows. Sister Kate hadn't known until six months ago, when Archbishop Ciminski had assigned her to Holy Rest as the new resident nurse.

An institution the size of the Catholic Church needed a quiet asylum for high-ranking dignitaries who could not cope with the pressures of their offices. St. Cloud was an ideal setting for such a place. In a city that was overwhelmingly Catholic, a church-owned retreat was not a curiosity. Holy Rest had been purchased by the church in the thirties. Its quiet yellow-brick exterior gave it the appearance of just another large residential dwelling. Not even the neighbors knew that Holy Rest was a maximum-security mental institution.

Lassie was tugging gently at little Tommy's sleeve, and Sister Kate settled down to watch the movie. She liked her assignment at Holy Rest. The hours were twice as long as her former shift at the St. Cloud Hospital, but there were definite advantages. At Holy Rest there was a sense of refinement. Perhaps Sister Kate's Boston background had colored her outlook, but she found it was a pleasure to associate with intelligent, cultured members of the clergy even though they were technically insane. Frequently she felt more like a colleague than a psychiatric nurse.

At Holy Rest Sister Kate had her own suite of rooms, and after her charges were in bed for the night, she was free to read and study. Tomorrow she had the morning off. Sister Gabriella, the relief nurse, came in two mornings a week. Sister Kate planned to walk downtown if it wasn't too cold, replenish her supply of Q-tips and color-coordinated file cards, and requisition the newest nursing book by Beverly J. Rambo at the library. If she had time, she might even ignore her cholesterol count for the day and treat herself to a warm caramel roll at Dan Marsh's Coffee Shop.

“Look, Sister Kate.” Mother Superior pointed at the screen. “I didn't know that Lassie was really a boy.”

Sister Kate laughed along with her patients. Life at Holy Rest was good. It was the best assignment she'd ever had.

CHAPTER 2

“What a rotten time for Barney Schultz to take a vacation!”

Margaret Whitworth slipped her gloves into her pocket and let Steve Radke take her coat. Her face felt numb from the four-block walk, and she rubbed her hands together to warm them. Then she said hello to Mayor Les Hollenkamp, who was sitting in on the meeting, and turned to Steve. “Are you sure you can't reach him, Steve?”

“I called the Hamburg Hilton, Mrs. Whitworth. That's the number the chief left with us. The desk clerk told me he'd canceled his reservation.”

Steve pulled out the best chair in the office for Margaret and took his place behind the chief's massive oak desk. It had been built in the sixties by the prisoners at the state reformatory, right before the unions had forced them to close down their upholstery and furniture shop.

“Harriet's probably located some of those long-lost relatives of hers.” Mayor Hollenkamp snorted. “She told Trish she's trying to trace her family tree back ten generations.”

“Bursch Travel checked the chief's itinerary for me, but he's not due at the London Hilton until the twenty-first, and that's two weeks away. It looks like we'll have to handle this thing without him.”

“I can't believe Chief Schultz left without making plans to call in on a regular basis!” Margaret's lips tightened in disapproval.

“That's my fault, Mrs. Whitworth.” Steve faced her squarely. “The chief offered to check in, but I told him I didn't think it was necessary. Normally things are quiet in February. There're always a few fender benders and drunk driving violations, but we've never had any real crime this time of year. It's too cold.”

Margaret nodded. She knew Steve was covering for Barney, but his loyalty to his superior was commendable. She'd heard good things about the new assistant chief. It was entirely possible he'd be able to handle this thing a lot better than Barney Schultz.

Steve picked up a file from the desk and opened it. “Dr. Corliss brought over the autopsy report about an hour ago. Some of the details are pretty unpleasant. I wouldn't ask you to sit in on this, Mrs. Whitworth, but I need your help.”

“That's quite all right, Steve.” Margaret Whitworth smiled slightly. It always amused her when people worried about her sensibilities. She had seen it all when she was a newspaperman for the
Chicago Times
. Newspaperwomen, she always insisted, covered society and fashion. Margaret's beat had been the crime desk.

“I'll skip over some of this.” Steve scanned the report. “The time of death was approximately midnight. Ray died of a massive cranial injury, caused by repeated blows to the head. His skull was fractured in five places.”

“Get on with it, Steve.” Margaret tapped her foot impatiently. “We know all that from the press release.”

Steve cleared his throat. “Dr. Corliss says the murder weapon was T-shaped with several small, sharp protrusions. One of the points gouged Ray's eye.”

Les Hollenkamp swallowed hard. “Do you think it was the Mafia? Ray was always bragging about his connections back east.”

“Heavens, no.” Margaret shook her head. “I've covered plenty of mob murders. Those people don't mess around. If they thought Ray was talking out of turn, his tongue would have been missing. It's a very effective warning.”

“I'll be right back.” Les got up and rushed for the door, his hand over his mouth. Margaret coughed to cover her smile. Steve had worried about the wrong person's sensibilities.

“I don't think we can rule out the Mafia, Mrs. Whitworth. It could have been a quick hit and run. I'm checking the backers on Ray's projects now. Some of them may be fronts.”

Margaret thought for a moment. “It's certainly possible. Ray wasn't exactly a pillar of virtue. Did you check the reformatory?”

“It was the first call I made. No escapes.”

Les came back in and sat down. Margaret noticed that the mayor still looked a little green around the gills.

“I think we'd better play this down as much as we can,” the mayor advised. “The community's pretty upset, and we could have a real panic on our hands.”

Steve nodded. “I agree. That's one of the reasons I asked both of you to come in. What do you think, Mrs. Whitworth?”

“I'll cooperate. The less said about Ray's death, the better.”

“Good.” Steve closed the file and pushed back his desk chair. “Of course, I'll continue the investigation, but we'll keep it very quiet for now. How about a cup of coffee? I can buzz for Carol.”

Les glanced at his watch. “Not for me. I have to meet Trish at the Sunwood for lunch.”

“And I'm taping a show this afternoon.” Margaret got to her feet. “I'll be at the station for the rest of the day, Steve. Call me if anything breaks.”

Margaret preceded Les to the door and stopped, her hand on the knob. “By the way, I think you're doing a fine job. It may be just as well that Barney Schultz is out of the country. He's a little too old for this sort of thing.”

Steve managed to hold back his grin until the door closed behind them. Margaret Whitworth was at least ten years older than the chief, and she personally ran the newspaper and the television station. Her praise made Steve even more determined to catch Ray's killer. Chief Schultz was due to retire at the end of the year. With Margaret Whitworth's endorsement Steve knew he'd be a shoo-in for the job.

“You're late.” Trish Hollenkamp sat at the best table in the Granite Room, facing the fountain. Her blond hair was swept up in a French twist, and she wore a new mauve knit that the saleswoman in Better Dresses at Herberger's had assured her was both stylish and slimming.

“Sorry, kitten.” Les slid into the chair opposite his wife and sighed. “I had an emergency meeting.”

“I ordered you a Long Island Iced Tea. It's the rage in the Cities. Try it, Les.”

“Iced tea?”

“Just try it.
Minnesota Monthly
says it's the ‘in' drink.”

Les lifted the glass and took a sip. Then he made a face. “Couldn't I just have a beer?”

“Beer is so tacky.” Trish frowned. “That's not really iced tea, you know. The bartender said it was a mixture of eight different types of liquor.”

“I believe it.” Les snapped his fingers for the waitress, who was hovering close to their table.

“I'll have a Grain Belt. And when you come back, we'll be ready to order.”

“Tell me all about your meeting, darling.” Trish laid her hand over his, and Les noticed that she had just had her nails done. They were a half inch longer than they had been this morning.

“It was a conference at police headquarters with Steve Radke and Margaret Whitworth.” Les lowered his voice. “About Ray Perini's murder.”

“Well, I certainly hope the police department does its job. This sort of thing isn't good for your career. The only time the Minneapolis stations carry news from St. Cloud is when something bad happens.”

“I know.” Les sighed deeply. He thought of what would happen if Ray's murder received statewide publicity. St. Cloud would get the reputation for being a dangerous place to live. Having the state reformatory on the outskirts of the city was bad enough even though it was St. Cloud's main tourist attraction. The granite wall that surrounded the reformatory had been built in the nineteenth century. The prisoners had quarried the rock themselves. It was the second longest continuous granite wall in the world. If you couldn't afford to go to the Great Wall of China, you could always drive to St. Cloud to look at the prison.

“Well?” Trish leaned forward, and the fabric of her dress strained across her breasts. For a moment Les lost complete track of the conversation. Trish had a fine set of knockers. Of course, she was gaining a bit of weight around her hips, but she was still a very attractive woman.

“Oh, yeah. The meeting.” Les searched around for something he could tell Trish. “We were just trying to figure out how to get ahold of Barney Schultz, that's all. Well, I'd better look at the menu. Our waitress should be back any minute.”

Les studied the menu even though he could recite it from memory. He had lunch at the Sunwood at least twice a week. If he thought about Ray Perini much longer, he'd lose his appetite.

“I think I'll have the beef dip platter. With au jus.”

“Les, ‘with au jus' is redundant. I told you that last time.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I get the distinct impression there's something you're not telling me, Les.” Trish gave him a stern look. “Every time I ask about that meeting, you change the subject.”

The waitress rushed up to their table with Les's beer. “I'm really sorry it took so long. Sixty people for the optical workers' convention checked in this morning. It looks like they're all in the bar.”

“No problem”—Les sneaked a quick glance at her name tag—“Barb. You're a student at the college, right?”

“You remember me?” The waitress grinned from ear to ear. “I met you only once, and that was a year ago at the campus rally. I'm a sophomore now. I'll be old enough to vote for you in the next election.”

“Just don't change your mind before October, Barb. I need the college vote, especially from pretty coeds like you.”

The waitress blushed and giggled slightly. “Would you care to order now, Mrs. Hollenkamp?”

“I'll have a small chef salad, no dressing. And black coffee later. Dieting is such a bore.”

“But you don't have to diet, Mrs. Hollenkamp. You look just fabulous.”

“That's very sweet, Barb. You've made my whole day.”

Les grinned. He'd be hard put to decide which woman was more insincere.

“I'll have the beef dip with . . . uh . . . that's all. Just the beef dip. Oh, and when you bring Mrs. Hollenkamp's coffee, bring me a cup too.”

The smile stayed on Trish's face until the waitress left. “Now, Les, what about that meeting?”

Les searched for something to say. He didn't want to admit he'd practically lost his cookies over the autopsy report. Suddenly he had an inspiration. He reached out and took Trish's hand.

“I was saving this for a surprise, kitten, but I just can't keep it from you any longer. Margaret Whitworth asked me to appear on her interview program this Sunday.”

“Oh, that's wonderful!” Trish squeezed his hand. “It's just the sort of exposure you need. Wear your gray pinstripe. I'll pick up a light blue dress shirt at Metzroth's. White's too hot for the camera.”

Trish took a sip of her Perrier and blotted her lips with her napkin. “I'd better talk to Jane Kedrowski—she's the secretary at the station—and find out Mrs. Whitworth's views on the issues. Then you won't be in for any nasty surprises on the show. You don't mind if I run out and call Janie right now, do you, dear? It'll take only a second to set up a lunch with her.”

Les grinned as Trish made her exit, pausing at a couple of tables for a quick smile and hello. Mrs. Whitworth had booked him for a taping more than three days ago, but he had held the news in reserve for exactly this kind of situation. Now Trish would stay off his back, and he might be able to enjoy his lunch.

 

 

The wind was whipping down the mall in gusts, and Margaret turned up the collar of her fur coat as she hurried past the Loose Tie Saloon and rounded the corner. She probably should have taken the Continental, but she hated to drive downtown, especially since the City Council had voted to make the Ring Road around the mall a two-way street again. The looping road, encircling the three central blocks of downtown St. Cloud, had been converted into a one-way street when the mall was built ten years ago. There had been a series of predictable fender benders for the first few years. Now that motorists had finally adjusted to the change, the city fathers had reversed themselves. Margaret couldn't help wondering whether someone had a controlling interest in an auto body shop.

Margaret decided that Harry Truman had been right about at least one thing as she walked quickly down the mall. Brisk exercise cleared the mind and set the blood racing. By the time she got to the studio, she'd be more than ready to throw some difficult questions at Senator Jim Pehler. He had the reputation of being unflappable, but she'd put him through the paces on her talk show this afternoon.

Hanging plants in baskets decorated the plate-glass windows of the Mexican Village restaurant. Margaret glanced in as she passed by. It was certainly crowded for lunch today. Or was it dinner? After more than thirty years in St. Cloud Margaret still wasn't comfortable with the names of meals. Breakfast was breakfast—no trouble about that. But lunch was called dinner. Noon dinner. And dinner was supper. Whenever she entertained, Margaret made a point of inviting her guests for seven o'clock dinner or one o'clock lunch, just to avoid any possible confusion.