It was only an informal, casual understanding, nothing signed in blood or a legal contract. But Pat Lennon and Pringle McPhee met in the News cafeteria most mornings before getting down to work. No hard feelings if one, the other, or both didn’t show up.
By pure coincidence both arrived at the food counter simultaneously this morning. They greeted each other as enthusiastically as possible for the early hour. As the two moved down the line, most of the men in the cafeteria watched them, some surreptitiously, others openly. Each of the women was used to drawing male attention. Of the two, Pat was the more experienced in handling such attention.
They seated themselves at their usual table in their usual corner. Like many workers they were creatures of habit.
As usual, Pringle had selected a generous breakfast while Pat had coffee and toast.
“I meant to tell you,” Pringle said, “that really was a great obit you wrote for Hal Salden.”
“Well, thanks.” It was somewhat unusual to receive praise for writing an obituary. But in this case it had been a labor of love; Pat really had respected and liked Salden. She was pleased that Pringle had appreciated her effort.
“I especially liked the way you brought out his professionalism,” Pringle said. “He was a really good reporter. He was always interesting and even fun to read.”
Pat smiled as she spread a thin layer of marmalade on her unbuttered toast. “Yeah. I think religion writers today have a lot to live down. Most of today’s writers are genuine professionals. But a while back … well, there were some pretty weird characters covering religion. Let’s just say a lot of them didn’t do religion any favors. But today’s crop is by and large professional. And Hal was among the best of them. He respected his field, and it showed. He would have been really good at whatever beat. But religion was lucky to get him.”
“I agree. And I think you brought that out in the obit. Are the cops any closer to getting his killer?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re on that story too, aren’t you?” Pringle was eating a bit more rapidly than usual.
“Uh-huh. It’s curious. They haven’t got any suspects yet. But most of all, they haven’t got any motive. From what some of the witnesses say, it seems that the weapon was an automatic of some kind. There were two other people wounded, but Hal took the most rounds by far. It was like the gunman was not all that expert, but for all of that, Hal is dead.”
“But why?” Pringle wondered. “It isn’t all that rare for a reporter to be injured in the line of duty. But usually it’s just an accident-being at the wrong place at the wrong time. So why aim at a reporter? You don’t like the news he’s reporting? That’s literally killing the messenger!”
“Hold on, Pringle. The cops haven’t decided yet that Hal was the intended victim. I think the current theory is that the gunman is a psycho. If that is the case, they don’t know whether the guy was sore because the priest was forced to give up his parish, or mad because the priest got married. Or it was just some kook who saw an angry crowd and it was dark and he decided he could get away with some random shooting. All we know is that he got Hal and we’re the poorer for that.”
“Yeah,” Pringle agreed, “what a waste!”
“While we’re passing out bouquets, that was a nice job you did on that missing priest. You left the Freep in the dust. They just carried the news story yesterday. And you got an insider look. From now on, Pringle, it’s your story.”
Pringle finished the last of her pancakes. Pat speculated that Pringle could eat so much and still stay slender because she ate so rapidly: She neither chewed nor digested her food-it just passed right through her.
Pringle touched the paper napkin to her lips. She had only coffee left. Over that she would dawdle. “I kind of lucked into it-I was lucky to have been late. When I got to the rectory, I could see that Haggerty from the Freep and DeVere from the Reporter were trying every which way to get in. But the cops wouldn’t let them. Either the cops had orders or were cooperating with the priest’s wishes; whatever, they weren’t going to let anybody in.
“I found out the TV and radio people had been there and gone. They just did some standups in front of the church and left.
“I watched Haggerty and DeVere for a while. They were funny, especially Lacy.” She giggled. “I kept thinking of what you said and I could imagine her offering to sleep with every cop on duty there. Anyway, whatever she tried, it didn’t work-and she was furious.
“That was when I decided if the front door was closed to visitors maybe the back door might open. I was lucky again. It turned out the housekeeper was very upset with all that was going on. Haggerty had already tried to get in the back way, but she wouldn’t let him in. Orders. Turned out Lacy didn’t even think to try it.”
“Amazing!” Pat shook her head. “So how’d you get in?”
“I asked for a glass of water. Told her I wasn’t feeling too well. Which was not far from true. On that alone, she let me in. Later, when it came out I was a reporter, it didn’t seem to matter. She wasn’t about to throw me out. We were getting along too well by then. She really wanted to talk-girl talk-but she also gave me some priceless background. Later, the secretary came in. Again some hesitation. But in the end she was pretty cooperative.”
“How’d you get those quotes from the priest?”
“That was where Father Mitchell was showing the police out of the rectory via the back door. When the cop, Lieutenant Tully, spotted me in the kitchen he was pretty upset. Then, after he thought it over, I think he was amused that I got in and Lacy was screaming her lungs out at the front door. He wouldn’t talk to me, but, on the other hand, he didn’t stop the others from talking. Besides, I’d already got the essence of the story from the two women. Mitchell’s comments were sort of the frosting on the cake. So that was pretty much it.”
Pat was smiling, picturing Lacy DeVere stalled on the front porch, too damn blockheaded to use her imagination and try to find some other way of getting in. All of DeVere’s brashness got her diddly squat. Pringle’s journalistic flair got her the story.
“I wonder,” Pat said, “what, if anything, DeVere went with?”
“Well, I’ll be-” Pringle said, “I didn’t even look. I picked up a copy of the Reporter this morning and I didn’t even look to see if she’s in there.” Pringle spread the Reporter on the table and began paging through it. “Here it is.” She smoothed the paper flat and scanned the column. “You know, that’s not a very flattering picture of Lacy.”
“That’s okay,” Pat said. “If people can’t recognize her from her picture, it just saves her from being identified and hit over the head by her many dissatisfied customers.” Pause. “Anything about St. Waldo’s and the missing Father Keating?”
“Here it is.” Pringle read aloud:
“‘Poor St. Waldo of the Wheels remains pastorless as of this writing. What could keep the high-stepping Father Jake Keating away from his benefice where he has the Midas touch? Nothing! shouts his superrich flock. So the powers that be suspect foul play. They’ve got no less than four police departments investigating the disappearance, including Detroit’s Homicide Division. While our Big City vies with D.C. for the title of Murder Capital of the U.S.A., Detroit’s finest are doing double duty in lieu of a moat keeping reporters from doing their job. Hey, fellas, go find the priest … if it’s not too late. Does the presence of Homicide give us any hints? Processional song for Waldo of the Wheels this Sunday: “Sometimes I Feel Like a Shepherdless Sheep.”’
“Wow!” Pringle exclaimed. “That’s tasteless. I mean, that’s really tasteless.”
“Vintage DeVere,” Pat said. “Actually much better than De Vere is capable of The Reporter must’ve hired a damn good copy editor.”
“How about this?” Pringle said, as she continued to read De Vere’s column. “‘Is Detroit’s Mayor Maynard A. Cobb finally going to tie the knot? Inside that armor-plated, bulletproof limo-whose occupants can see you but you can’t see them-there’s been a torrid affair going on. And Hizzoner just fresh from losing a paternity suit! Probably a good move on his part making an honest woman of his paramour, before he becomes the new Father of our Country,’” Pringle chuckled.
“Yes, indeed,” Pat said, “a superior copy editor.” She finished her coffee.
“Uh-oh …” Pringle was distressed. “Oh, Pat …” She turned the paper toward Pat, index finger indicating the pertinent paragraph. It was the item immediately following the one about Mayor Cobb.
“‘And,’” Pat read, “‘speaking of making honest women of paramours with benefit of clergy, is there any truth to the rumors that Detroit Homicide detective Alonzo (Zoo) Tully and the Detroit News’s Pat Lennon are a Thing? If so, it’s going to be news to Tully’s live-in-lover, Alice, not to mention Lennon’s significant other, Joe Cox, now off to the Chicago newspaper wars.’” Pat winced. “Two for the price of one, eh?” She looked up from the paper to meet Pringle’s pained expression.
“Pat …?” Pringle’s inflection made it a question.
Pat smiled. “Don’t let it reach you, Pringle. She was out to get me. Remember the other night at The Fast Lane? When she claimed she had a survey that showed my reportorial skills were slipping? And I told you not to hold your breath till she published that-because there wasn’t any such survey? But one way or another she was trying to get me. I had no doubt about that. Well, here’s her best shot. I just feel sorry for Tully. He doesn’t need that. Neither does Alice.”
“Why Tully?”
“Didn’t you say that when you were in St. Waldo’s rectory, Tully walked past you in the kitchen on his way out?”
Pringle nodded.
“And that DeVere was having kittens out front trying to get into the rectory?”
Again Pringle nodded.
“Well, that’s probably it. Tully was supposed to get her in there and he didn’t. So, two for the price of one. I told you to watch out for her. When she’s got you in her sights, she’ll pull the trigger.”
“But you … and Tully? That’s crazy!”
Pat shook her head. “Yes and no.” She was thoughtful for a moment, remembering. “When you got hit by that car a few years back … well, something almost happened between Tully and me. Tully’s Alice was very, very ill. And Joe was off doing a fluff story on the Mackinac boat race-and he really ticked me off because we had to cancel our vacation for him to take the assignment.” She looked fully at Pringle. “Zoo and I were both vulnerable at the time. Like I said, something almost happened. But it didn’t.”
“Then how … what about this column?”
“There may have been talk at the time. I don’t know for sure, but I wouldn’t bet against it. Anyway, De Vere wasn’t anyplace near this town when all that was happening. She must’ve nosed around, gotten some conjecture. That’s all she ever needs.”
“But the column … it’s a lie and it’s libelous! Won’t you-or Tully-sue her?”
“We probably should. But we won’t. It takes so much time and costs so much financially and in emotional drain, it’s just not worth it. But this is a good example of how creeps like DeVere operate. She deals in half-truths so much she wouldn’t recognize the whole truth if it bit her.
“Take that piece about the missing priest: She has no idea what happened to him or where he is. Detroit Homicide is on the case. The word homicide is enough for her, so-he’s dead. Simple as that. Then she gets in a cheap shot at the wealthy parishioners and is sufficiently sarcastic and just plain nasty to get people sniggering and joining her fun and-most important-quoting her. They’ll probably have a chorus or two of ‘Sometimes I Feel Like a Shepherdless Sheep’” at The Fast Lane.
“And the piece about the mayor? I’ll bet she hasn’t the slightest idea what’s going on in his life. Maybe one night she spotted Cobb and a woman get into his car. And he’s got the blacked-out windows. Take over, imagination!
“And if you happen to become a victim, you’d better grin and bear it. The alternative is madness. But the same thing that happened before could happen again.”
“You mean-?”
“Yeah-she screwed a bunch of people when she was working her way up the Freep ladder on her back-and the same ones thumbed their noses at her as she slid back down and out. It could just happen again.”
“Let us pray,” Pringle intoned.
They both laughed. They needed that.