Lake News (45 page)

But she didn't leave until John did, which was only after the grave diggers had finished filling the grave with dirt. By then the townsfolk had left, and there was no one to express curiosity or disapproval.

That was small solace for Lily. She couldn't help but fear that she and John had opened a whole new can of worms.

John didn't think so. He liked the idea of extending his protection to Lily. If the respect that the townsfolk felt for him spread to her, it would help. The more they warmed, the more welcome she would feel; the more welcome she felt in Lake Henry, the more she might consider staying.

He wasn't thinking of his book. He felt uncomfortable when he did that—felt as though it cheapened what they had shared. His wanting her to stay was totally independent of the book.

But she wouldn't stay unless things were resolved. The scandal had placed her in limbo; she was here, but the trappings of her life—apartment, clothes, piano, car—were in Boston. The paper wasn't printing a retraction,
and after doing all the law allowed, Cassie had to wait for a response. It promised to be a slow, painful process.

John only had to remember Lily as he had seen her that first Saturday morning—all riled up, dressed in her nightgown and shawl, pointing a gun at his heart—to know she had pride. She wouldn't stay in Lake Henry by default, wouldn't stay simply because she had nowhere else to go. She had to actively
want
to stay, and she wouldn't do that if she couldn't make peace with Maida. He wanted to help her do that. But digging into Maida's secrets felt intrusive, with his relationship with Lily so new.

Terry was something else. He was fair game, where Lily was concerned. John liked the idea of helping her prove malice. He could do that without any conflict of interest.

So, after spending Sunday on
Lake News
preliminaries, nourished by food delivered in bulk by Poppy's Hospitality Committee, he hit the office early Monday and picked up where he had left off when Gus took ill. For starters, he contacted a church in the Italian section of Pittsburgh and went through two priests before he found one old enough to have known Terry Sullivan. Indeed, this priest knew the name, but only from the recent scandal. He informed John, in no uncertain terms, that Terry Sullivan had never spent time in
his
parish.

So Terry hadn't been a practicing Catholic in Pittsburgh, not in the neighborhood he'd written about.

Backing up a step, John returned to Meadville, but the church there was a dead end. No one in the rectory remembered the family, and though he might have
worked his way through lay leaders in the parish, he returned to the same assistant principal he had talked with before. Still eager to help, the man put him in touch with a middle-school teacher, who put him in touch with an elementary-school teacher. The two corroborated each other's stories. Both marveled at Terry's success, given the difficulty of his childhood.

“Difficulty?” John asked each.

“He was different from his classmates,” one confided. “Always a little aloof.”

The second went a step further. “I can say this now, because I saw him on a talk show just last weekend and he's grown to be solid and good looking, but he was a puny little boy.”

“Puny?”

“Small. Skinny. Defensive as all get-out. Poor thing, following in the footsteps of a brother like that.”

“Like what?”

“Neil? He was a good-looking child. Sweet, personable,
friendly
. He was a natural leader, even back then. Terry was a better student, but children that age don't care about brains if the rest doesn't work. With Terry, having brains backfired. The kids made fun of him for knowing every answer in class. He didn't have an easy time at home, either. His father was a difficult man.”

The first teacher had mentioned that, too. “When we see children like Terry now, we report them as being victims of abuse. Back then, we looked the other way.”

“What did you see?” John asked.

“Bruises. Terry was beaten. His father had a temper and a belt.”

“Did he hit the brother, too?”

“Lord, no. He didn't dare.”

“Why not?”

“His wife would have left him for
sure
if he'd laid a hand on that boy. She worshiped Neil. She had him earmarked for priesthood right from the start.”

John's pulse skipped. “Did he become one?”

“He certainly did. We were all proud of him for that.”

Was it enough of a connection? Could playing second fiddle to a priestly older brother cause enough hatred for the Church to warrant Terry's malice toward Cardinal Rossetti?

John didn't think so. There had to be a more direct link.

“Couldn't the brother stop the father from beating Terry?”

“No one could stop that man. He was large and strong and angry.”

“What about Terry's mother?”

“Oh, she's dead. Died in a car crash a good ten years ago.”

John knew that, and that Terry's father was gone, too. “But where was she when her husband was swinging his belt?”

“In the way, I gather. She got it first.”

Against his better judgment, John felt compassion. For all the verbal abuse his parents had showered on each other, there had never been physical abuse.

“What was the problem?” he asked. “Did he drink?”

Neither teacher knew for sure, but one gave him the name of the woman who had lived next door to the
Sullivans for all their years in Meadville. She still lived there and had no qualms about speaking her mind. “Did James Sullivan drink? Yes, he drank. He drank because he was insanely jealous. Jean could barely raise her eyes in public without him accusing her of looking at one man or another. He was even jealous of his own
son
. I tell you, James Sullivan was a bad man.”

“Why did she marry him, then?”

“She didn't
know
he was so bad. A woman never does. Men don't show their true colors until the deed is done. Well, he didn't wait long, that one. He turned to her on their wedding night, she told me once. Held up a finger, and told her not to even
think
about the past. She swore she never did, but he didn't believe it.”

“Was there a man in her past?”

“Oh yes. A longtime sweetheart through high school and college. The love of her life, if the look on her face meant anything. Oh, that look came and went, but I saw it.”

“What happened? Why did they break up?”

“I don't know. I asked once, but she seemed sorry she'd said as much as she had.”

“Where did she grow up?”

“I don't know. She never said that. I suppose she was afraid.”

“Because of the other guy?”

“It's a fair guess.”

John's imagination was running wild. He needed more. “Do you know her maiden name?”

“Bocce. Like the game. I remember that from the obituary. I thought at the time it was ironic; here she was
like one of those little balls being knocked around.”

John knew enough about bocce to get the point.
Bocce, like the game. Like the game played in Italian neighborhoods. Italian neighborhoods like the one where Francis Rossetti had lived.

Sitting forward, playing a hunch now, he finished the call and turned to his computer, but he had barely reached the Internet when Richard Jacobi called. He had returned from the weekend to learn that Terry Sullivan was trying to sell a follow-up of the Rossetti-Blake story to
People
magazine. John said he doubted they would buy, since Terry was about to be thoroughly discredited as a journalist. Richard pointed out that that wouldn't necessarily hurt sales of the magazine in question—a valid observation, John had to admit. Richard said he was thinking of advancing the pub date of John's book because there were bound to be other stories, other Terrys, and he wanted theirs to be one of the first to hit big. He suggested that if John put his nose to the grindstone, they could have something on bookshelves by March, and that discrediting Terry in his book would make it all the more timely.

John didn't like the word “grindstone.” He didn't like the sound of March. He did, however, like the idea of discrediting Terry.

Fast, thorough, and exclusive, Richard reminded him. John asked where his contract was. Richard said it was in the works. John reminded him that he'd said the same thing a week before, and asked how Richard expected him to put together a book in less time than it took to put together a contract;
and
maybe the story was worth more if discrediting Terry was part of the deal. Richard
said that they had already agreed on money. John said that nothing was final until the contract was signed. Richard asked if he was getting cold feet. John said absolutely not.

And he wasn't, he told himself as he hung up the phone. He just needed to think. His insides tightened up each time he thought about the book. There had to be a way to reconcile his need to write it and his feelings for Lily. Had to be a way to satisfy them both.

While he thought, he worked. In several clicks he had the name of the high school the Cardinal had attended. In several more clicks, he had a phone number.

He said a bright “Hi” to the woman who answered. “I'm trying to track down an old friend. I think that she went there. Her name is”—he sharpened his enunciation—“Jean Bocce. If my information is correct, she was there with Fran Rossetti.”

The woman chuckled. “What a concidence. We have his yearbook right here.”

“Had a few calls lately?” John teased.

“You could say that. Bocce, you say?”

He spelled it.

“Alexander… Azziza… Buford,” she read. “Sorry. No Bocce.”

“She may have been a year behind. Or in a club with Fran. Music? Debating? French?” John's memory didn't fail. The Cardinal had been in those clubs. “They had to know each other somehow.”

“Perhaps from church?”

“Perhaps.” But John couldn't see asking the priests at Immaculate Conception about a female friend of the Cardinal. “Huh,” he said. “I
thought it was there.”

“You mayyyyyyyy be right.” The woman was suddenly distant, thoughtful. There was the sound of turning pages. Then her voice bumped up. “Ah. Here we are. It was the select chorus. There she is, second row up, third one in from the left. Very pretty. Actually”—she was distant again—“familiar. Hold on.”

John wasn't going anywhere.

Her voice came back with a smile. “Well, well. Here she is again. I may be wrong. There are no names, just a lineup of three couples, but the face, the hair, the smile is exactly the same. It looks like she was Fran Rossetti's senior prom date.”

John could have jumped for joy. But he wasn't risking anything. “Are you sure?”

The woman was mildly defensive. “I know faces. Her name is right there on the chorus picture. I'll send you photocopies of each, if you'd like.”

John gave her his address. “It's not that I don't trust you,” he teased. “Just that, what with all that's gone on, I'd be insulting the Cardinal if I approach him about this and then find it's the wrong woman.”

“I see your point. But here. Let me see if I have any current information on Jean Bocce.”

John could barely restrain himself long enough to carry the charade to its end. On his feet now, he practically danced while he waited, and had to pretend disappointment when the school had no current address. If he was a bit fast thanking the woman and ending the call, he figured it was better than giving a whoop. He did that the second he hung up the phone.

Seconds after that he was surfing the Internet for information on celibacy and priestly vows. It didn't take long to find what he wanted. Then he called Brian Wallace and said, “I just learned something that you ought to know.”

Brian sighed. “Why do I get the feeling I don't want to hear this?”

“Because your instincts are good, but you were taken in, pal. Terry Sullivan had good cause for wanting to smear Rossetti. Did you know he was an abused kid?”

“Ah, Christ. That's old hat, Kip. If you're gonna say he was another altar boy—”

John cut in. “It's better than that. Terry's father beat him, usually at the same time he beat Terry's mother. It turns out the guy was insanely jealous of the
real
love of her life, someone the mother was with for years before she married him. Three guesses who that was.”

There was a long silence.

“There's a picture of them together at Rossetti's senior prom,” John said. “It's in his high school yearbook.”

“That's no proof he was the love of her life.”

“A neighbor who knew her said she was with the same guy through high school and college. The picture would have been taken right in the middle of that time.”

Brian sounded skeptical, even scornful. “You said she was ‘with' him. What does that mean?”

“It means whatever it meant to kids in those days.”

“You think they had
sex?
Forget it, Kip. Rossetti's a
priest.”

“Yeah, that's what I thought at first, but I just did some research. Priests don't have to be virgins. Once they
are ordained, they have to be celibate. There's a difference. Apparently, there are many priests out there who know what it's like to be with a woman, and they make some of the best priests. They understand their parishioners. They're better at marital counseling.”

“You're pushing it, John.”

“Am I? You can't picture Rossetti being a stud? Come on, Brian. The pieces fit. Terry is repeatedly beaten, probably defending his mother, who is beaten because she's in love with Fran Rossetti, who was probably a live
ghost
in that marital bed. So Terry grows up despising Rossetti, writing essays condemning the church in that Italian neighborhood where his mother grew up, which just happens to be the same one where Rossetti grew up. Rossetti is elevated to Cardinal—a move that is anticipated long enough for Terry to stew. He looks for legitimate dirt, finds none, so he produces it himself.”