He couldn’t have been more than five-foot-six or-seven inches tall. At 150 to 170 pounds, he was a bit rotund. Wisps of hair reached across the top of his balding head. Koesler had never met the rabbi and, at best, had only seen photos of Krieg in ads for his TV show. Koesler had never seen the show. In the ads Krieg might have borne some faint resemblance to this man.
But the tipoff was the clothing. It bordered on the nondescript. A blue pinstripe suit, vested, unpressed; a gold watch chain across the round tummy; and scuffed black oxfords. All in all, not the garb of one as reputedly wealthy as Klaus Krieg.
So, Koesler concluded in a tentative way, this man is Rabbi Irving Winer.
Or, not.
In any case, it seemed time to test his skill at amateur detection. He approached the least certain of his guesses. “Rabbi Winer?”
“You must be Father Koesler.” The rabbi took the priest’s outstretched hand.
Success.
Now Koesler moved from one to the other with far greater assurance. “Father Benbow.”
“Father Koesler.”
“Mrs. Benbow.”
“Please, call me Martha.”
“Certainly.
“Father May.”
“Father Augustine, really.”
“Certainly.
“Sister Marie.”
“Father Koesler.”
“And last but not least, our hostess, as it were, Sister Janet.”
“So glad you are here, Father Koesler. I was beginning to worry.”
Sister Marie glanced at her watch. “Jan, for goodness’ sake, it’s only 5:20!”
“You don’t understand, Marie. Father Koesler has a reputation for being early, not to mention on time.”
Koesler smiled as he reddened. “I’m afraid that’s true. Today was the exception that proves the rule.” He wasn’t going to go into his Tigers-induced nap nor even the forgetful Jesuits.
In response to Janet’s invitation, Koesler requested tonic water. It was delivered on the rocks with a thin slice of lemon. He scanned the sideboard containing the liquor bottles. Ordinary selection; none of the various bottles bore an expensive label. In keeping, he thought, with Marygrove: never really wealthy and now leaning toward serving the poor.
Koesler turned back to the assembled group. Everyone seemed ill at ease. Strangers to one another, none appeared confident enough to get the verbal ball rolling. Well, at least everyone had a drink. But. . “Uh, isn’t someone missing?” Koesler gave voice to the obvious, something at which he excelled.
“The Reverend Krieg,” Sister Janet said. “He’ll be here shortly, I’m sure.”
The mention of Krieg seemed to unplug the floodgates. “With any luck,” Benbow remarked, “his plane went down.”
“David!” Martha Benbow exclaimed. “What a dreadful thing to say! That’s not very Christian.”
“Nonetheless-” Benbow began.
“Nonetheless,” Augustine interrupted, “I’d have to agree, with one proviso. I’m sure none of us would want it to cost the lives of innocent people, but I certainly would not mourn the demise of that man.”
“Of course, no innocent lives. .” Benbow corrected himself.
“Life is precious,” Winer stated. “That is why we salute ‘L’chayim.’ But I will join you two gentlemen: If there is one person on this earth today who would do the world a favor by leaving, it is Klaus Krieg.”
“My God! I can’t believe it!” Sister Marie exclaimed. “Is it possible we’ve all had the same experience with that man?”
“Why, Sister,” Martha said, “you mean you feel the same as the men?”
“It comes in the form of a confession, I’m afraid-but, yes, I do. Even though each of us writes murder mysteries, I have no doubt we all have a special reverence for life. So it comes as a shock to face up to the truth. And the truth, it seems evident, is that we all have been touched by Klaus Krieg and we all have concluded that the world would be better off without him. And I cannot think of another single human being I feel that way about.”
Though Sister Janet appeared troubled by this outpouring, she said nothing.
It was Koesler who spoke. “This is impressive. I’m on the outside looking in. I’m no writer. I have no idea what you’ve gone through with this man. I’ve never even seen his TV program, and I’ve just read one book his company published.”
“Which one?” Benbow asked.
Koesler was at a loss. “For the life of me, I can’t recall the title. It had something to do with priests.” He glanced at Benbow and was reminded that there was more than one variety of priest at this conference. “Roman Catholic priests,” he added.
“Celibates!” Winer exclaimed. “That would mean they were all in bed with uncounted numbers of women.”
“How did you. .?”
“No, I haven’t read the book,” Winer quickly declared. “The literary-if one can use that term in connection with Krieg’s efforts-the literary device is unvarying. The parish priest-the celibate-is in his rectory all day. Meanwhile, all those housewives are in their homes all day. Everyone is bored, so. . If it had been about a rabbi, he likely would be charging usurious interest, indulging in ‘creative’ bookkeeping, and carrying on with the wife of the president of the synagogue-just for spite.” Winer shook his head.
There was a pause, as if no one had anything to add.
Father Augustine cleared his throat hesitantly. “Did any of you. .”
Koesler noted a slight slur in his speech.
Augustine began again. “Have any of you been contacted by P.G. Press to write for them?”
Now the floodgates were opened wide. In reinforcing testimony, each of the writers told of Krieg’s invitation, the persistent pursuit-unrelenting assault, really-that Krieg’s organization had engaged in. There was no particular order in their narratives. Details spilled out as one’s experiences reminded another of a similar ordeal. Each had been romanced with extravagant promises.
Fortunately, in each instance, the writer had bothered to check into P.G.’s publication history. The sleaze factor was so obvious it was unmistakable. In keeping with Father Augustine’s information from his friend in the ad agency, each writer had received the good advice from one or another source to have nothing to do with P.G. Press.
And yet, even with the effusiveness of their testimony, Koesler got a nebulous impression that something was being held back.
It was as if these writers were eager to share their individual dealings with Krieg, that they experienced some relief, some catharsis in getting off their chest what had been a miserable episode in each of their lives. Yet each seemed to stop short of complete revelation.
Koesler could not in any way testify to this impression he harbored. He could not substantiate it.
His ponderings were interrupted by Sister Janet’s announcement that dinner was ready and all should take their places at the table. The announcement was almost a command-less an invitation to dine than a direction to cease this trend in the conversation.
Koesler found Sister’s attitude understandable. After all, even though she hadn’t planned or instigated this event-that had been the brain child of her predecessor-she was the hostess for this workshop. If all did not go smoothly, the buck would stop at her desk. And things were not unruffled when four members of the “faculty” wished the fifth speaker dead.
But, willy-nilly, dinner was going to be served. So the writers who had been so animated in describing their battles with Krieg now filed passively to the table. Koesler noticed that Augustine and Benbow freshened their drinks before being seated.
Sister Janet led a traditional before-meal blessing.
There was no particular seating arrangement; each took a place at random. The Benbows sat together. Sister Janet took a place next to Martha Benbow; Sister Marie sat next to Janet. This left the four men together. No boy-girl-boy-girl at this table. There was, of course, one unoccupied seat.
“We’re not going to wait?” Martha Benbow asked.