Irish Crystal by Greeley Andrew M

Author:Greeley, Andrew M. [Greeley, Andrew M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Romance
ISBN: 9781429918060
Amazon: 1429918063
Goodreads: 8697219
Publisher: Forge Books
Published: 2006-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

“I asked my spiritual director, Father Charles, how I should deal with this conversation,” Annette Curran said primly. “He told me that I might be present but I should not participate unless he were here. Trevor thought that it would be inappropriate. So I will say nothing.”

So two days later as the full moon rose over the Lake I was at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Trevor Curran in suburban Winnetka. A large but not pretentious Georgian home on a street with similar homes and large frontyards and backyards and careful landscaping, this home cried out that those who lived there were affluent but not quite rich. Though I knew that they had four children, there were no signs of the presence of kids, none of the mess of abandoned toys that kids usually leave when they’re called for supper.

Inside, the house was equally faultless. Trevor, a man in his middle thirties, wore a dark blue suit coat and tie and horn-rimmed spectacles that, combined with his high forehead, suggested a scholarly and conservative lawyer, cautious in all his dealings. Annette, in a modest beige dress, brown hair, and a rigid face, suggested a novice nun temporarily wearing lay garb. My data said that he was thirty-four, but he looked several years older. She was thirty, and despite her four children, looked much younger.

“Father Charles is from Faith, Hope?” I asked.

Reputedly the richest parish in the Archdiocese, SS Faith, Hope, and Charity (named after three virgin martyrs not three virtues) was often called “Faith, Hope, and Cadillac.” My observation as I picked my way carefully through its elegant streets was that “Lexus” might be a better name even if it were not alliterative with “Charity.”

“Father Charles is my spiritual director,” she said in the tone of one who thought having a spiritual director was a high honor.

“My wife,” Trevor said in a deep, somewhat weary bass voice, “is a member of Opus Dei. Our school-age children attend their school. I have not joined yet, though I am sympathetic to their beliefs.”

Creeps, I thought.

“That picture is your great-grandfather,” I asked, nodding towards a painting on the wall.

“Yes indeed, not the founder of the firm. Alas we have no paintings of him, but Black Bart, as he is often called, is the man who in effect reconstructed the firm … Looks a little like Mephisto, does he not?”

“I’m not the one who said it.”

He chuckled, a gentle, wise old man laugh.

“He flourished in the Roaring Twenties, a different era. He brought many important clients to the firm, and, to be honest, a considerable amount of money. My grandfather, Long Tom Curran, and my father saw that the times were changing and we have achieved some respectability, though even my grandfather, now retired and living in Ocean Reef, had a bit of the ‘boyo’ in him. A charming man, nonetheless, very charming.”,

“A terrible sinner,” Annette said through tight lips.

“Perhaps, dear, perhaps. But the Bataan Death March did strange things to him … However, that is neither here nor there, is it Mr.

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