Blood Ties (17 page)

“Well,” she said when they were seated. “What's the news?”

“Of Maurice?”

“Maurice, of course.” She laughed at the jingle.

“The operation will take place tomorrow. I fly back in the morning. As soon as I have word, I will let you know.”

“I should have gone back with him.”

“Have you known him a long time?”

“Forever. I met him when I was an undergraduate at Northwestern. On a golf course, of course.” She laughed again. “Everything I say rhymes.”

“Did you know Madeline Lorenzo at Northwestern?”

The question did not visibly surprise her. She narrowed her eyes in thought. “There was a Professor Lorenzo.”

“Madeline married him.”

“How do you happen to know her?”

“She is a client of sorts.”

She took a cigarette from a long packet and was about to light it from the candle on the table. She stopped, remembering California's draconian laws about smoking.

“We were roommates.”

“Roommates.”

She took an imagined carcinogenic drag on her unlit cigarette. “Lately, the past seems to be invading the present. I mentioned to you that Maurice and I had been in Chicago recently. Only a week and a half ago.” She added this in a wondering tone. “A mutual friend of ours had died. A writer, Nathaniel Fleck. I was determined to be at his memorial.” She smiled. “If only to annoy Maurice.”

“Why would he be annoyed?”

She looked at him demurely. “He was jealous.”

“So you and Maurice…”

“Live together.”

Such a matter-of-fact statement would have been unimaginable when Amos was young, or even when he was middle-aged, and Catherine seemed almost surprised at his reaction.

“I've shocked you.”

“A man my age has felt all the shocks that flesh is heir to.”

“Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare. Do people who live together eventually marry?”

“It is my hope.”

“Is that why you wanted to make him jealous?”

“I wonder if it will work.” A terrible thought occurred to her. “Will he be an invalid?”

“There's not much danger of that, I'm told.”

She sighed with relief. “I said that to ward off the possibility.”

Now, in his Fox River office, Amos placed a call to the condominium on the seventh fairway and told Catherine Adams that all was well with Maurice. “I am told that he will be on the golf course again in weeks.”

“I think I should go to him.”

Amos said nothing.

“What do you think?”

“Why don't you wait a day or two? I will keep you informed.”

He went home and showered and got into bed at four in the afternoon, where he lay sleepless, pondering the modern world. He remembered the newspaper account of the memorial for Nathaniel Fleck as well as what Madeline had told him of it. Only when he had decided to talk with Lieutenant Horvath about it was he able to fall asleep.

7

Tuttle parked his car in the driveway and sat looking at the impressive house, the manicured lawn, the molded shrubbery. A picture of affluence. He had been wise to decide to deal directly with Mrs. Dolan. But it was a man who answered the door. His look was not welcoming.

“Mr. Dolan?”

“Dr. Dolan.”

“Of course. My name is Tuttle. Of Tuttle and Tuttle.”

Dolan seemed to recognize his name, but not in a way that was reassuring.

“What do you want?”

“My business is rather confidential.”

A woman appeared beside him. Tuttle swept off his hat, scattering calling cards. He picked them up and then addressed the woman. “Martin Sisk came to me, Mrs. Dolan. He employed me to find a certain woman.”

“Martin Sisk!” Dr. Dolan angrily opened the door. “Come in.”

Inside, Tuttle removed his tweed hat again, carefully. The interior of the house was as impressive as the outside. Tuttle felt he was desecrating the white carpet when he walked on it. The Dolans led him into the living room, where Dolan took up a position before the fireplace.

“What is this about Martin Sisk?”

Tuttle felt it best to address the wife. “He came to me, on your behalf, Mrs. Dolan. Or so he said. I felt it wise to find out if that was indeed so.”

“On my behalf?”

Tuttle shook his head. “Apparently my fears were not unfounded.”

“What did he hire you to do?” Dolan demanded.

“That, of course, is a confidential matter.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Was it about Martha?” Mrs. Dolan asked fearfully.

Dolan turned to his wife. “You had to talk about Martha with Martin Sisk.”

She all but fell into a chair. “I had no idea…”

Dolan turned on Tuttle. “Now that you're here, you had better tell us what you have learned.”

“You are asking me to act for you?”

“I have a lawyer. Amos Cadbury. Perhaps I should send you to him.”

“Have you found Martha's mother?” Mrs. Dolan asked.

“I have.”

Nothing was turning out as Tuttle had hoped. He should have refused to enter this house. The mention of Amos Cadbury had sent a chill through him. Thoughts of his last appearance before the local bar commission assailed him. A stern and forbidding Amos Cadbury had been on the committee that had considered disbarring Tuttle. He had escaped once more with only a severe warning. Another complaint could be his undoing. He sent up a prayer to his departed father.

“What do you intend doing with this information?”

Tuttle stood, assuming what dignity he could in the situation. “Dr. Dolan, I came here because, having been engaged by Martin Sisk to find the woman in question, I began to doubt the wisdom of simply telling him. These are delicate matters. As I told him, I have no wish to be party to anything that might tend to disturb the tranquility of people's lives.” He addressed Mrs. Dolan. “Did you or did you not tell Martin Sisk to engage my services?”

The best defense is a good offense. He had found a way. Division between the Dolans was now his hope.

She tried to explain what had happened. Yes, she had talked with Martin, had confided in him. “But I didn't tell him to do anything! I didn't tell him to hire a lawyer.”

“That puts me in a difficult position,” Tuttle said, feeling the difficulty lift.

If they had been alone, Dolan might have taken his wife to task. The way he said Martin's name did not convey the idea that Martin was an old friend of the family who might have served as their intermediary.

“Tell us what you have found out,” Dolan demanded.

“I will need to get a release from Martin Sisk in order to do that.”

“Damn Martin Sisk!”

“Henry!”

“You should have known better than to confide in that sanctimonious idiot.”

“Henry, we just talked.”

“Talked!”

“Yes, talked. What's wrong with that, for heaven's sake?” She turned to Tuttle. “You have located Martha's mother?”

“Yes.”

“Where is she? Who is she now?”

“As I explained…”

Henry Dolan exploded. “What is it you want, money?”

“I resent that, sir. I am a lawyer. The services of lawyers are engaged by clients. I assume that even doctors charge fees.”

“How much?”

“You wish to become my client?”

“How much!”

“A modest retainer will do.”

Dolan took out his wallet and plucked a fifty-dollar bill from it, and tossed the money onto on the coffee table. Tuttle ignored it.

“Not enough?”

“Please, Doctor, that is unworthy of you.”

Now Dolan slumped into a seat, glaring at Tuttle. His wife sat forward in her chair.

“Tell us where she can be found.”

“Vivian, for God's sake, stop. Amos Cadbury knows who the woman is.”

“Amos!”

“Of course. He has spoken with her. She is considering talking with Sheila.”

“But Sheila will never agree.”

Again the mention of Amos Cadbury chilled Tuttle. Even worse was the claim that the knowledge he had was already at the disposal of the Dolans, however unaware of it Mrs. Dolan had been. It helped that he was already on his feet.

“I think I should go. I came in good faith, but apparently that is not enough.”

He strode across the white carpet toward the front door, trying not to think of the fifty-dollar bill lying on the coffee table.

“Damn it, man. Stop. I will pay you for your troubles.”

Tuttle had reached the front door. He had trouble opening it, but when he did, he turned to Dolan.

“I'll send you a bill.”

Then he was outside and hurrying to his car. When he was in it, he wanted to lock the doors. Good God, what a fiasco. All his research had gone up in smoke. He started the car and backed down the driveway, a defeated man. But when he was in the street and shifting gears, he thought of his other client, Bernard Casey. His gloom lifted. His knowledge could still retain some power with young Casey.

8

On Saturday morning at breakfast, Marie chortled about the squabble between Martin Sisk and Grace Weaver the previous Thursday.

“Was it Thursday?”

“The Joyful Mysteries. That is how I remember.”

“Do you ever say the Luminous Mysteries, Marie?”

“The what?”

“The new mysteries the pope has added to the rosary.”

Marie's mouth became a firm line. Then she spoke deliberately. “The pope is a wonderful man and all that, but adding mysteries to the rosary is nonsense. The mysteries are what they are and always have been. Who needs new ones? It's part of the same nonsense that has almost ruined the Mass, change, change, change, as if people were bored.”

“They're not mandatory.”

Marie made a dismissive sound. As she pushed through into the kitchen, she muttered, “Luminous Mysteries!”

The young couple who had called were due at ten. Before they arrived, Marie, her insurrectionary thoughts forgotten, briefed Father Dowling.

“The Dolans, you've met. They were married here in the church. Before my time, of course. And the Lynches, too. Also before my time.”

“So it isn't a matter of memory.”

“I looked it up.”

So had Father Dowling. He should have known Marie would anticipate him. “You would make a wonderful assistant pastor, Marie.”

“Assistant pastor!”

“Pastor?”

But it was the recurring topic of women priests that vexed Marie, not the idea of taking a subsidiary role. Like many women, she was a harsh judge of her gender, and her reaction to the Luminous Mysteries was as nothing to what she thought of the agitation for women's ordination.

“Thank God the pope has stood firm.”

“Luminously so.”

She glared at him, and the doorbell rang, taking her down the hall to the front door.

Martha Lynch was a beautiful young woman, and Bernard Casey a handsome young man. Marie was beaming when she brought them to the study. Father Dowling rose and greeted them and pointed Martha to a chair.

Bernard remained standing, looking around the room. “I would say it is like a law library, but there the volumes all look alike.”

“I have a degree in canon law. There are some legal volumes there, though not the kind you're familiar with.”

“So you're a canon lawyer.”

“For my sins.”

“Do you know Amos Cadbury?”

“Amos is a dear friend.”

“The only other lawyer I know in Fox River is a man named Tuttle.”

“Tuttle!”

“You know him, too?”

“Only by reputation. It is difficult to think of him and Amos Cadbury as in the same profession.”

Martha said, “We want to be married in St. Hilary's.” She smiled radiantly as she said it. “It's a family tradition.”

“So I understand. The Dolans are your grandparents?”

“They just love coming to the senior center. They have renewed acquaintance with so many old friends.”

“Well, tell me about yourselves.”

Each seemed as interested in what the other had to say as Father Dowling was. Their description of their families and their education gave a reassuring picture.

“How long does marriage preparation take, Father?”

“Well, it is up to the discretion of the pastor. Given your backgrounds, I think a few meetings will do. I would advise you to read the sections on marriage in the
Catechism of the Catholic Church.
I hope you have a copy.”

“I kept mine from college,” Martha said.

“Have you settled on a date for the wedding?”

They exchanged a look. Martha became solemn. “Father, I am only an adopted daughter of the Lynches.”

“Only? That isn't an impediment.”

“But I don't know anything about my real parents.”

Father Dowling remembered his conversation with Henry Dolan in this very room. He had spoken to her father as well. A priest knows so many things from so many different sources, and the connections he makes must usually be confined to the privacy of his own mind. This lovely young woman's determination to find out who her birth mother was had particularly wounded Mrs. Lynch but had brought anguish to the Dolans as well. Father Dowling smiled an enigmatic smile.

“I could say that none of us really does, but that isn't an answer you would accept. Why exactly does being adopted bother you?”

“It doesn't. My parents, the Lynches, have been wonderful to me. It's painful that they think I'am questioning that now. Mainly, I feel I owe it to Bernard.”

“Then there's no problem,” Bernard said.

“Of course you would say that. Father, Bernard's family accepts me because they know the Lynches and the Dolans. But what will they think when they find out I'm not really a Lynch, let alone a Dolan?”

“Have you asked them?”