Deadline for a Critic fk-9

  Deadline for a Critic

  ( Father Koesler - 9 )

  William X. Kienzle

  At a word from critic Ridley Groendal, plays closed overnight. Concert halls went silent. Books gathered dust on bookstore shelves. Thus, many sought revenge. But four were close enough to exact it. The playwright. The violinist. The author. The actress. All with a dark, longtime link to the victim. And to Father Koesler, who'd known Groendal since their school days. Who pulled the curtain down on Ridley? All Father Koesler has to go on are four incriminating letters -- and one burning question.

  For Javan

  Part One

  Preparation of the Body

  1

  There is something special about an execution.

  Ordinarily, the condemned is suffering from no fatal disease. No mortal wound has been inflicted. At least not yet. All the vital forces of the body tell it to go on living. It is not time to slow down. It is not time to die.

  But some outside force, some external element—authority—decrees that it is, indeed, time to die. And so, by fiat, it is.

  That is what is so special about an execution, whether it be legal by way of capital punishment or illegal as in an act of murder. A life is taken before its apparent due course has been completed. One faces eternity prematurely. The ultimate trauma, as it were.

  Often, some sort of quasi ceremony is observed. Sometimes the condemned is permitted to pray, to put his or her soul in order. Sometimes the morbid curiosity of the executioner must be satisfied: How will the condemned face death? Sometimes invitations are issued and a procession to the death chamber is formed.

  Traditionally, the condemned is given the choice of a final meal. Such was the case with Ridley C. Groendal. Except that he was not aware that this was to be his last supper.

  “Ramon,” Groendal said, tucking the napkin over his tummy, “what would you suggest?”

  “Monsieur would enjoy the pâté tonight, I am sure.” The waiter exuded a poise that went with his job. After all, the London Chop House was the consensus prestige scene of Detroit restaurants. And its prices reflected that eminence.

  Groendal nodded. “Yes, yes, yes. And I think some of your beluga caviar.”

  “No . . .” Groendal’s dinner partner murmured to no one in particular.

  “. . . and perhaps some Brie,” Groendal continued.

  “Incredible,” Peter Harison murmured again.

  “Excellent,” Ramon said. “And you, Monsieur Harison?”

  “Nothing. If anything, I’ll help Mr. Groendal with his hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Of course.” Ramon’s right eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly. “And something from the bar?”

  “A double martini, up—chill the gin—with a twist,” Groendal said.

  “Ah, the usual. Very good. And Monsieur Harison?”

  “Nothing.”

  Ramon left them.

  “Would you mind telling me whatinhell you’re trying to do?” Harison’s fury was intensified by frustration.

  “Not at all, m’dear. Just having a decent meal.”

  “Decent meal! With all that fat and salt and cholesterol? You can’t have forgotten you’ve got a heart condition!”

  “That’s not the only condition I’ve got.”

  “That can’t be helped.”

  Ramon brought the drink and hors d’oeuvres.

  Groendal took a long sip of the martini. He wanted the drink to provide a mellow glow before its power was diminished by food. “That’s precisely the point, dear Peter: It can’t be helped. So—eat, drink and be merry. For tomorrow . . .”

  “That’s precisely the point.” Harison spread some Brie on a portion of matzo. “We want as many tomorrows as we can possibly have. But we’re not going to have many if you let your diet go to hell like this.”

  “Patience, Peter. After all, tonight is a special night.”

  Ramon returned. “Would the gentlemen care to order? I know you have a performance to attend.”

  “Thoughtful, Ramon,” Groendal acknowledged. “Care to join me in the Caesar salad?” he asked Harison.

  His companion simply shook his head.

  “Very well,” Groendal continued, “I’ll have the Mediterranean salad. And . . . how’s the Yorkshire pudding?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Of course. Then the pudding with the prime rib, and cottage fries.”

  “And for dessert?”

  “The coconut cream pie?”

  “Excellent as always.”

  “Perfect.”

  “And Monsieur Harison?”

  “Dover sole and baked potato.” His voice was barely audible.

  “I beg pardon?”

  “The sole and a baked potato.”

  “No salad or dessert for Monsieur?”

  “That will be all, thanks.”

  Ramon left.

  “Suicide!” said Harison.

  “Hmmmm?”

  “You know you’re going to make yourself ill, Rid. But worse than that, you’re flirting with another coronary. And you know the doctor said you can’t take another one.”

  “Life is a mystery, Peter. Death is a mystery. We never know what we will die from or when. We live each day to the fullest, no?” As he spoke, Groendal continued to heap portions of matzo alternately with pâté, cheese, and caviar.

  “That’s not you, Rid. You were never that way before. This fatalism has taken over your personality. It’s not healthy.”

  “Life is not healthy . . . at least mine isn’t.”

  Ramon brought the entrees, and Groendal’s salad as well. It was his custom to take salad and entree in the same course.

  Before tasting either beef or potatoes, Groendal sprinkled salt generously on both. Harison winced and shook his head.

  After servicing several other tables, Ramon returned to his station, from which vantage he could oversee the progress of his diners. He was joined by Vera, a waitress garbed, as was he, in black tie.

  “Slow night,” Vera commented.

  “Should pick up. It’s early,” said Ramon.

  She nodded toward Groendal and Harison. “I see you’ve got the bastard.”

  Ramon shrugged. “Rub kitty wrong, kitty scratches. Rub kitty right, kitty purrs. He’s not so bad.”

  “He’s not so bad as long as he’s eating exactly what he wants. And from what I can see, he’s eating exactly what he wants. You should have seen him a couple of weeks ago when he was observing some kind of diet. I thought he was going to have me served with an apple in my mouth.”

  Ramon suppressed a smile. “Have no fear: Harison keeps him on the straight and narrow.”

  “Hmmph.” She pondered for a moment. “When was the last time anyone saw Groendal without Harison?”

  Ramon winked. “Don’t be so coy. There are no closets anymore.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t care who’s screwing whom in this town. It’s just that there’s something to be said for discretion. As far as Groendal and Harison are concerned, flaunting their relationship doesn’t exactly show tact.”

  “Don’t be so hard on them, Vera. As a matter of fact, it must be doing them some good: Look at all the weight Monsieur Groendal has lost in just the past few months . . . one of the fringe benefits of a mariage d’amour. One tends to try to improve one’s appearance for one’s beloved, n’est-ce pas?”

  “There’s another name for it.”

  Ramon waited.

  “AIDS.”

  “Oh, come now, Vera. That’s not nice.”

  “Not nice, but probably true. Don’t tell me those surgical gloves you’ve been wearing are so transparent nobody’s noticed them.”

  “No notice
is taken when one is discreet.”

  “So why do you wear them?”

  “One cannot be too careful.”

  “Well, if he does croak I can think of a lot of local artists who will not be at all sorry.”

  Ramon smirked. “That’s not at all like you, Vera.” He noted that Groendal and Harison had finished. As he hastened to bring dessert and coffee while the table was being cleared, he pulled taut his thin rubber gloves.

  Ramon’s habit of wearing gloves while serving at table had originated with the relatively recent proliferation of AIDS. He washed his hands so often that his skin was rough and raw, a condition which fostered the introduction of infection. Yet it was impossible to avoid handling used dinner utensils bearing diners’ saliva. And saliva, reportedly, might be one of the vehicles for the transmission of AIDS. One could not be too careful.

  He had articulated that thought to Vera in seeming jest. But he was concerned. Especially when serving someone such as Ridley C. Groendal. Ramon would never forget the specter of Rock Hudson, a sometime visitor to the Chop House, in the later stages of what seemed then a newly discovered disease, Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. That substantial, rugged, handsome man reduced to a skeletal shadow of himself. One look at the ravaged Hudson had convinced Ramon he must take every precaution against AIDS. This was not something amenable to the so-called miracle drugs. This was a fatal illness that weakened and ravaged the body unmercifully.

  So, while he wore the surgical gloves as a matter of routine, it was specifically from one such as Groendal that Ramon felt he needed protection. None of the diners ever had complained about the gloves, or even seemed to notice them. Whether or not any of the diners had actually contracted this dread disease, all understood the nature of the illness and the need for self-protection for one in Ramon’s position.

  “You’re not going to do that too!” Harison said as Groendal lit a cigar.

  Groendal tilted his head back and blew a series of smoke rings. “Peter, either I am having an unaccustomed problem making myself clear or you simply refuse to believe me. The fact is, in what time I have left I intend to enjoy myself to the fullest . . . that can’t be so difficult to understand.”

  “But Rid, enjoying yourself to the fullest is shortening the time you have left.” His voice held a hint of desperation.

  Groendal swirled the cognac in his snifter and appeared to study its amber smoothness. “We must not forget, Peter, that God—or somebody—has decided to drop the final curtain on my life somewhat prematurely. So I am going for quality rather than quantity. Peter, the last thing in this world I want is to go out as a cripple. We’ve talked about this. Why is it so difficult for you to accept? After all, it’s my life, not yours.”

  Harison had no response.

  “Peter, let me live my life my way. And let me end my life my way.”

  Harison winced inwardly, but tried not to show how deeply his friend’s words had distressed him.

  Groendal finished the pie, the cigar, coffee, and cognac almost simultaneously. He signed the bill with a flourish, including a generous tip.

  A valet brought the car. Harison, as was his role, climbed into the driver’s seat. They traveled up Woodward Avenue in silence. Harison was conscious of Groendal’s labored breathing. Several times, Harison stole a glance at his companion. Groendal’s complexion was sallow and his face seemed somewhat stretched. It was not actually elongated; the illusion was caused by his dramatic weight loss and the resulting sunken cheeks and recent lines in his face. Groendal should not be working tonight, Harison knew. He should be home resting. But then, neither should he have ingested the dinner he’d just eaten.

  It came down to the fact that nobody told Ridley C. Groendal what to do. Not even the management at the New York Herald, from which publication Groendal had recently retired, had dictated to him. Certainly no one at the Suburban Reporter to whom Groendal contributed his regular column and periodic reviews, dared challenge an arts critic with his credentials. For Groendal, this was much more than a second career (which, financially, he did not need); it was more an outlet for criticism that he had to vent.

  The expression of this criticism—which many claimed was harsh, persistently negative, self-serving, even cruel, vindictive, and unjust—earned Groendal many enemies. In his former vantage at the Herald, these enemies had been a cosmopolitan, international group of artists.

  Since his retirement—a bit early and, as it turned out, forced—most of his more famous victims had been able to forget if not forgive him. It vexed Groendal that he was no longer in the power chair of the Herald. He tried to compensate by blasting away at hapless local talent as well as the headliners who passed through town.

  It was early enough so that Harison was able to find a parking space on Woodward, across from Orchestra Hall, site of tonight’s concert.

  Groendal strode through the lobby as if he owned the Hall. Harison, following closely in his wake, presented the tickets—two on the aisle—as had been the case these many years they had been attending first-nights.

  The two men immediately became the center of attention of the few patrons who had arrived early.

  Harison, of moderate height and build, was distinguishable by a nearly completely bald pate from which erupted two significant side tufts of hair, making him most resemble Clarabelle the Clown, of “Howdy-Doody” fame.

  Groendal, still impressive and distinguished, despite his ominous weight loss that gave him a haggard appearance, was tall, with a heavy head of salt-and-pepper hair. A dark blue suit fit him rather well since it had been recently purchased. He slipped off his black overcoat and draped it over one arm as he advanced to his down-front seat.

  Groendal was easily and readily recognized because, unlike most other critics, his self-promotion machine was always well-oiled. His flamboyance in word and deed, along with his photo, was (at his insistence) well-publicized.

  As the two men settled in, Groendal began studying his program. “Look at this, will you?” He did not bother lowering his voice.

  Harison paged through his program. He glanced at the offerings, but said nothing, waiting for Groendal’s inevitable comment.

  “Octets by Schubert and Mendelssohn and a quintet by Beethoven,” Groendal noted quite loudly. “Can you imagine that? Schubert, Mendelssohn, and Beethoven! Romantics! Romantics! Romantics! It just goes to prove the point I’ve been making over and over: David Palmer has not yet entered the twentieth century!”

  The thought crossed Harison’s mind that it was possible that the Schubert, Mendelssohn, and Beethoven would be well performed. But he did not bother saying so. He knew that his friend had selected his target for the evening and was already composing his review.

  However, Harison knew he was expected to play a docile devil’s advocate. Over the years, the role he played opposite Groendal had become so defined as to be routine.

  “Now, Rid, you know how difficult it is to get audiences to accept some of the modern composers. Maybe Palmer doesn’t think Detroit is ready for Schönberg and Ives. After all, he’s got to try to fill this place.”

  “Nonsense! The way to do it is to tuck them in. All right, have your Mendelssohn and Beethoven, or your Schubert and Mendelssohn, but drop Bartók in there. The reason the expressionists, the atonals, the minimalists, haven’t caught on is that cowards like Palmer shy away from them. Detroit will never grow up until people like Palmer are driven out of positions of leadership!”

  That was enough. Harison had played his part in this oft-repeated scenario. He knew he was right. This was the first century in which, with rare exception, the composers of that century were not performed. In Mozart’s day, they played Mozart. In Beethoven’s era, they played Beethoven. And of course the masters were still extremely popular. But avant-garde composers of varying degrees of daring-such as Schönberg, Cage, Bartók, and Ives—seemed to appeal mainly to other modern composers. It was as if today’s composers of serious music were writing for e
ach other. Certainly not for the general public, which largely shunned them.

  So it was a form of artistic suicide to schedule the moderns, particularly in a program of already limited appeal such as tonight’s chamber concert.

  No doubt about it: David Palmer, leader of the Midwest Chamber Players, was in for it. Harison knew Palmer would be blasted for, among more basic reasons, daring to offer three Romantic composers on the same program with nary a bow to the twentieth century.

  But it didn’t really matter what the provocation might have been. Maestro Palmer would have gotten a nasty notice in any case. That was Ridley C. Groendal. To know him was not necessarily to love him. That was an accomplishment of Peter Harison—and few others.

  “Uh-oh . . . take a look out there!” Cellist Roberta Schwartz beckoned David Palmer to the peephole.

  “Who is it?” Palmer asked. “Oh, never mind; I can tell from your tone: It’s the gargoyle, isn’t it?”

  “And early, too.”

  “Naturally. He wouldn’t want anyone to miss the fact that he’s arrived. Groendal—either early or a late grand entrance—you can depend on it . . . the News or Free Press here yet?”

  Roberta moved her head from side to side to scan the panorama of the hall. “No, not yet. But why should they be: They’re normal.”

  She moved away from the peephole so Palmer could use it.

  “Uh-huh.” Palmer squinted through the small opening. “There he is, the old fart, already making notes in his program. I mean, how can you review a concert before the damn thing begins?”

  “I wonder how we did.”

  Despite his foreboding, Palmer smiled. “Not well. On that you can depend. I wonder what we did wrong this time?”

  “This is only a guess—God knows Groendal could write anything as long as it’s so filled with jargon that no one can comprehend it—but if he’s writing before we begin, I’ll bet he doesn’t like the program.”

  “That sounds a little too logical for Groendal.”

  “Just for safety’s sake, you wanna tuck in a little Stravinsky?”