The Skeleton Box Read online

  “He works for you,” Joanie said.

  “No,” Repelmaus said, a little too quickly.

  “Bullcrap,” she said, pointing the notebook at him. “He digs up dirt on—”

  “Please, please,” Father Timothy said. “Can we all remain calm?”

  Joanie sat back in her chair.

  The priest said, “It is true that Mr. Breck assisted us with necessary research on litigation in which the archdiocese was involved. But that was some time ago. He is no longer in the employ of our counsel. Which is unfortunate, because Mr. Breck is afflicted with certain, shall we say, paranoid obsessions that we thought we were helping him with. Apparently we were mistaken.”

  “Obsessions with his grandfather?” I said. “And the murder of a nun?”

  “Excuse me, Father,” Repelmaus said. “Gus, you didn’t hear this from me, but you might want to make a discreet inquiry about Mr. Breck with the state attorney discipline board.”

  “Noted,” I said. “Father?”

  The priest took up his club again, stood it on its handle. “I knew of Mr. Breck’s grandfather. Joseph was a fine groundskeeper, a hardworking man who also played hard, as it was told to me. A man with good intentions. We know where those lead.”

  Repelmaus placed a hand flat on the table. “I’m sorry, Father,” he said, “but we really must go off the record. If you say the wrong thing, Breck could sue for slander and—”

  Father Timothy reached down and grasped the shaft of the golf club and raised the blade up and brought it down hard enough on the table that his cup spat up coffee and whiskey. Repelmaus pulled his hand away. Joanie sat back in her chair, wide-eyed. I kept my eyes on Father Timothy. His face had flushed red.

  “I am quite capable, Mr. Regis, of determining what I can and cannot say,” he said.

  “Of course, Father, it’s just—”

  “Pipe down, man.”

  “I apologize, Father.”

  Father Timothy took the golf club from the table and dropped it on the floor with a thump. “I’m sorry for my lack of restraint,” he said. He slipped a handkerchief from a pocket, wiped it across his mouth, dabbed at the spilled coffee and booze. “Forgive me, Lord.”

  He tucked the handkerchief away and turned to me. “You have done your homework, Augustus. But—some unsolicited advice?—you should worry less about Mr. Breck and more about your mother.”

  “Meaning what?”

  The priest raised his shaggy eyebrows. “She hasn’t told you about the poor Sister?”

  “I know about Sister Cordelia, how she disappeared.”

  “But your mother, son.”

  “She told me she knew her, that she liked her,” I said. “That’s all.”

  He leaned forward, scrutinizing my face, searching for a hint of guilt in a tic, an exaggerated blink, an averted gaze. I imagined that I gave him nothing, but inside I felt as I did at the rare interview for which I hadn’t had sufficient time to prepare, a reporter who not only didn’t know the answers, but wasn’t sure which questions to ask.

  “That’s all?” he said. “I see. All the better, I suppose.”

  “It would be better if you answered our questions,” Joanie said.

  He picked up his cup. It wobbled as he brought it to his lips, took a sip, set it back down. “I have answered what I can without violating confidences or the good Lord’s trust in me. I will say, though, that for all of your enterprise, you may have stumbled onto a story that is not fit to print.”

  “Why? Because Nilus was a serial womanizer and you wouldn’t want that exposed?”

  The priest shook his head. “That’s news that’s almost older than me. I can’t imagine anyone would care, but if it sells some more papers, have at it. The story I was talking about has more to do with you and your family, Augustus. I would assume your mother asked for God’s forgiveness.”

  “For what?” I said.

  Father Timothy picked up his wedge and stood, leaning on the club like a cane. “I’m afraid we have to wrap this up,” Repelmaus said.

  “Allow me to clear up one small item,” the priest said. “Unlike most Irishmen, I am done drinking by eleven.”

  “Father,” I said. “What did you say your last name was?”

  “Reilly, son. Not like the life of, but Reilly: R-E-I-L-L-Y.”

  I wrote it down.

  The priest nodded at Joanie, then offered his hand to me. “Thank you for your trouble,” he said. “If you write your story, Augustus, please be kind enough to send us a copy.”

  TWENTY

  Repelmaus walked Joanie and me to the parking lot.

  “Well,” he said, as the pro shop door swung shut behind us. “I thought that went well.”

  “For you or for us?” Joanie said.

  “For all concerned, I hope,” Repelmaus said. “I thought Father was candid. Maybe even a little too candid. Which reminds me, Gus.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pink While You Were Out slip. “The archdiocese got a message this morning from Luke Whistler of the Free Press. Didn’t want to return it until after we met. You know him?”

  I tried not to look surprised. “Yep. He works for me.”

  “At?”

  “The Pine County Pilot.”

  “Ah. Hadn’t heard. I’m usually up to date on reporter comings and goings.”

  “He came up north after retiring, though you’d never know by how hard he works.”

  “As opposed to when he was at the Freep,” Joanie said. “Come on, I’ve got to get downtown.”

  Joanie and I walked to Soupy’s pickup as Repelmaus’s Caddy pulled onto Six Mile.

  “Well,” Joanie said, “at least you got his name spelled, huh?”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass.”

  “It was like he interviewed you.”

  “I learned what I came to learn,” I said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like, the archdiocese is buying up that land.”

  “He never confirmed that.”

  “Not so I could write it in the paper, but enough that I believe it. Also, he bullshitted us about Joe Wayland. That’s why I asked about his name.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It dawned on me when he was drinking his coffee. His hand was shaking like a leaf, and I thought, man, he’s old. And then I remembered there was a priest quoted in one of the old Pilot stories about the nun and Joe Wayland.”

  “That was him?”

  “Pretty sure. I’ll show you. In the truck.”

  “Hey.” She stopped and faced me. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why didn’t you come up last night?”

  “Up?” I started walking toward the truck again. Joanie followed.

  “To my bed,” she said. “Am I too young for you?”

  “Come on.”

  “Or are you intimidated because I work for a bigger paper? Your old paper?”

  “No.”

  “For the record, I don’t really care.”

  “Joanie, I didn’t come—oh, what the fuck?”

  The dome light was on in the truck. I ran over. As I got closer I saw that the driver’s side door was ajar, and there was a jagged hole in the window. Someone had punched through the glass and unlocked the door. I pulled the door open, climbed across the front seat, and plowed through the garbage on the floor.

  The lockbox was gone.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said. “My mother—” I stepped away from the truck and looked around the parking lot, up and down Six Mile. “Fuck.”

  “Someone broke in?”

  “Yeah, and stole something. Something important. I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have left it.”

  “What was it?”

  “A box. Something Mom gave me.”

  “How would anyone know it was there?”

  “Nobody would. Except me. And Soupy.” I looked back toward the clubhouse. “Maybe the good Father had the truck searched while we were in the clubhous
e, and he got lucky.”

  “Too obvious,” Joanie said. “But why would he care about your mother’s whatever?”

  “Your boyfriend didn’t know, did he?”

  “I told you I don’t have boyfriends.”

  She blushed as she said it.

  “Shit,” I said. “Frenchy knew we were coming here, didn’t he.”

  “He helped us, Gus. I’m sorry. Besides, I thought, you know, the small world of newspapers, he might know you from your time here.”

  “Oh, he knows me, all right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind. I’m such a jackass.” I pointed at the clubhouse. “You don’t think he’s working for those guys, do you?”

  “He works for a lot of people.”

  “Great.”

  “Should we call the cops?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. I appreciate the help. Talking to the priest actually made things a little clearer. I’ve got to get back and make sure Mom’s OK.”

  “Give her my best.”

  She stepped close and hugged me around the waist. The fragrance of her body wash was gone. She stepped back.

  “I can’t believe you’re playing hockey,” I said.

  She smiled. “Maybe we’ll get out there together sometime.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You know, Gus, you belong here.”

  I slid into the truck. “Sometimes I wish I did.”

  Brittle wind whistled through the hole in my window as I veered from Interstate 96 West onto U.S. 23 North. I didn’t want to stop long enough to patch the hole, so I kept my hat and gloves on and turned the heat up as high as it would go.

  I turned on my phone. A tiny red light was blinking, telling me the power was about to run out. I wondered if the blinking light itself was wasting power. I wanted to call Darlene but felt like I had to call my mother’s attorney first.

  Shipman was just heading into court. He told me he’d seen Mom in the morning and she was fine. The sheriff’s department was keeping her in hot tea and magazines. He had advised her not to talk, and she had obeyed for the most part, except for a brief conversation she’d had in her cell with Darlene.

  High beams flashed in my rearview mirror, somebody wanting to pass. I glanced at the speedometer. I’d been driving in the left lane at sixty miles per hour, about twenty-five too slow for the maniacs escaping Detroit on I-75.

  I eased the truck into the right lane and asked what Mom had said. Mostly small talk, Shipman said, though she let on that she might have said something about, as he put it, “the new guy with Tatch and the other religious folks.” You mean Breck, I said. Correct, he said, adding that he’d heard a rumor that Tatch also might have intimated something to the cops about Breck.

  “Really?” I said. “Like what?”

  Maybe, I thought, Tatch had had enough of his new “friend.”

  “Not sure, but Dingus seemed more jumpy than I’ve—”

  That was the last I heard.

  I looked at my phone. The red light had stopped blinking. A car horn beeped. I looked to my left. The man in the SUV next to me flipped me off before speeding ahead.

  TWENTY-ONE

  A blue Volvo station wagon was parked behind the Pilot when I pulled in. I didn’t recognize it. You didn’t see a lot of Volvos in Starvation Lake, or northern Michigan, for that matter. If you did, you’d be in Harbor Springs or Petoskey or Charlevoix.

  A man was sitting at the desk mounded with old newspapers where the Pilot’s photographer had sat before Media North decided we didn’t need a full-time shooter. He stood and offered his hand, and the first thing I noticed was that he was even shorter than me.

  “Gus Carpenter?” he said. “Bennett Fuqua.”

  I shook his hand, thinking, The Media North bean counter, Fuckwad. Instinctively, I glanced over at the police scanner perched on a shelf behind Whistler’s desk. Whistler had left the damn thing on again. I wondered if Fuqua had noticed.

  “What brings you all the way over here?” I said. “Did the board authorize the mileage?”

  He smiled uneasily. “Ah, ha, well, I was coming over anyway. United Way meeting in town, and I’m on the board. See, I specialize in nonprofits.”

  At first I didn’t get that he meant the Pilot. “Funny,” I said. As nonchalantly as I could, I walked over and turned the scanner off.

  “Don’t you need that?” Fuqua said.

  “The cops’ll call if there’s anything important.”

  Fuqua considered that, then said, “How is your mother?”

  “She’s fine, thank you.”

  “Philo tells me you were quite close to the woman who died. My condolences.”

  “Thanks.” I threw my coat on a stack of press releases atop a rusted Royal typewriter I hadn’t gotten around to throwing away. “Excuse me a second.” I plugged my cell phone into an outlet next to my desk. On my blotter I set a bottle of A&W and a brown bag holding a turkey-and-cheddar I’d picked up at the Twin Lakes Party Store. I sat and dumped the sandwich out, wishing I’d asked for an extra dill pickle.

  Fuqua sat back down. A puddle of snowmelt glistened around his rubber-toed boots. In his creased black corduroy slacks and white turtleneck sweater, he could have posed for an L.L. Bean catalog. “I’m actually hoping to come back for the big game,” he said.

  “You’re a hockey fan?” I said.

  “Newly so.” I was a little surprised at how young he seemed. I had pictured him as a bald man in his sixties with a bullfrog neck. But he couldn’t have been much older than me, if at all. “My daughter started playing, and I got hooked.”

  “That’s how it is.”

  “Growing up in Ohio, we didn’t have much hockey around. But what a fast game. Pretty expensive, too. Of course my daughter had to play the most expensive position.”

  “She’s a goalie?”

  “That’s right. I think I heard that you’re a goalie, too, right? Someone said you played on the last great team around here. That must have been something.”

  I decided I wasn’t going to let this guy soften me up. I’d imagined that Fuckwad was the kind of penny-pinching eyeshade who would piss on his grandmother’s grave for a nickel, and I wasn’t going to change my view because he helped the United Way and liked hockey. “It was something, all right,” I said. “Mind if I eat?”

  Fuqua knitted his fingers together in his corduroy lap. “You know how much we—actually, I—admire you and what you do.”

  “That and ten bucks will get me a fresh package of legal pads.”

  I took a big bite of my sandwich. Not bad. I wished Fuqua would wait outside until I finished. But he went on doing what he’d really come to do.

  “As I think Philo told you, the Media North board of directors met yesterday. They deliberated for quite some time about the futures of a variety of our properties. They had to make some difficult decisions.”

  I went on chewing, looked up at the wall clock. D’Alessio’s dog-and-pony show at Tatch’s camp was supposedly going to start in a little more than an hour. “Hold that thought,” I said.

  “Gus, this is important.”

  I ignored him, took another bite, dialed my desk phone.

  “Yo, Enright’s,” Soupy said. I heard the Guess Who in the background.

  I swung my chair away from Fuqua. “Hey,” I said.

  “You got my truck?” Soupy said.

  “Yeah. I’ll pick you up in twenty.”

  “I’m working, man. Just leave it out front.”

  “Take a lunch.”

  “Trap, I’m up to my ass. Why?”

  “It’s a surprise. Bring some Blue Ribbons.”

  I didn’t want a beer but figured it would hook Soupy.

  “Oh, OK,” he said. “I can’t go long, but a six—that shouldn’t take long, eh? But I’ll have to kick Angie out. She drained half a bottle of Crow when I left her here yesterday.”

&nb
sp; “See you in a bit.”

  I hung up and turned back to Fuqua. “Sorry.”

  He was sitting straighter, his hands now flat on the chair arms. “The board had to make a particularly difficult decision regarding the Pine County Pilot.”

  OK, I thought. Whistler and I would have to wear gloves and hats in the office to stay warm. Copies would now be fifty cents a page, out of our pockets. At least that’s what I hoped. Nothing worse.

  “Let’er rip,” I said.

  Fuqua told me as if he was telling me I had some mayo on my cheek.

  “The last issue of the Pilot will be published this Friday,” he said.

  “Saturday.”

  “No. We’re moving it up a day.”

  “Now? With all the stuff going on around here?”

  “There’s no good time to do this,” Fuqua said.

  An image of Darlene kneeling over her dead mother flashed in my brain. “There are some better than others,” I said. “What about the hockey? What if the Rats win and go to the final? What if they win?”

  When my Rats team had played in the state final against the Pipefitters in 1981, windows on every house and store and office in town were plastered with Rats team photos that had been printed across two full pages in the Pilot. I was front and center, sitting next to Tatch, our billowy leg pads touching. Even after we lost, people kept those pictures up for months until the tape dried out and peeled away. Then they folded them up and put them in the drawer where they’d saved front pages of the Tigers’ 1968 World Series win and the day Kennedy got shot.

  “There was some discussion of publishing into next week,” Fuqua said. “Unfortunately, it’s a business thing. Our printing contract expired at the end of February. They gave us a grace period, which is up Friday. If we go beyond that, we have to renew for six months.”

  “So the hell with Starvation, eh?”

  Fuqua shifted in his chair. “After some discussion,” he said, “the board calculated that the River Rats were unlikely to beat the Pied Pipers anyway.”

  “It’s the Pipefitters. And what the hell do you and the board know about hockey?”

  Fuqua pursed his lips. I swiveled away, afraid I’d say something even worse, and punched a key on my computer. I had an e-mail from Joanie. I called it up: