REVEREND RANDOLLPH AND THE AVENGING ANGEL E-Book

Charles M. Smith

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The biggest society wedding of the year is scheduled for Chicago’s prestigious Church of the Good Shepherd. The famous bride is movie star Lisa Julian; the groom, a prominent physician. The minister is none other than the Reverend ‘Con’ Randollph, former Rams’ quarterback, esteemed Episcopal priest—and amateur detective.

The lavish marriage ceremony will be the Reverend’s first formal wedding. But the groom isn’t the first lover in the beautiful Lisa’s colorful life. A whole list of jilted suitors have said yes to the glided wedding invitation’s RSVP... and now someone intends to make sure that ‘Till Death do us part’ comes just after the last whispered ‘I do’...

»Reverend Randollph capers are fast-paced and fun.«

~Chicago Sun-Times

Reverend Randollph And The Avenging Angel by Charles M. Smith (* 1919; † 1986) was first published in 1980; Apex is publishing a new edition of this classic of crime literature in its ENGLISH CRIME NOVELS series.

Leseprobe

CHARLES M. SMITH

REVEREND RANDOLLPH

AND THE

AVENGING ANGEL

A Novel

Apex-Verlag

Content

The Book 

REVEREND RANDOLLPH AND THE AVENGING ANGEL 

Chapter One  

Chapter Two 

Chapter Three 

Chapter Four 

Chapter Five 

Chapter Six 

Chapter Seven 

Chapter Eight 

Chapter Nine 

Chapter Ten 

Chapter Eleven 

Chapter Twelve 

Chapter Thirteen 

Chapter Fourteen 

Chapter Fifteen 

Chapter Sixteen 

Chapter Seventeen 

Chapter Eighteen 

Chapter Nineteen 

Chapter Twenty 

The Book

 

The biggest society wedding of the year is scheduled for Chicago’s prestigious Church of the Good Shepherd. The famous bride is movie star Lisa Julian; the groom, a prominent physician. The minister is none other than the Reverend ‘Con’ Randollph, former Rams’ quarterback, esteemed Episcopal priest—and amateur detective.

The lavish marriage ceremony will be the Reverend’s first formal wedding. But the groom isn’t the first lover in the beautiful Lisa’s colorful life. A whole list of jilted suitors have said yes to the glided wedding invitation’s RSVP... and now someone intends to make sure that ‘Till Death do us part’ comes just after the last whispered ‘I do’...

»Reverend Randollph capers are fast-paced and fun.«

~Chicago Sun-Times

Reverend Randollph And The Avenging Angel by Charles M. Smith (* 1919; † 1986) was first published in 1980; Apex is publishing a new edition of this classic of crime literature in its ENGLISH CRIME NOVELS series.

   REVEREND RANDOLLPH AND THE AVENGING ANGEL

This is for Harriet, Belinda, Julia, Gina, Mary, Tami, and Veronica, who have brought so much happiness into our lives.

  Chapter One 

Murder, the prospective killer reflected, was a tricky business. Especially when you had a tight timetable. Fortunately, a wedding reception, this wedding reception anyway, would degenerate into a drunken bash. Nobody would notice much of anything. It was the hotel staff you had to fool, and you had to avoid, as far as possible, that little mistake at the wrong moment which could betray you. The prospective killer was philosophical about it. The decision was made, the plan carefully laid out. Every foreseeable contingency anticipated. You had to take your chances on the unforeseeable.

The killer thought: I could decide not to do it. I do not need to spend the rest of my life carrying the quilt for this crime I will soon commit. But a hatred as inexplicable as the dark side of the soul replied: You do have to do it. To recoil from this brutal act, to retreat now from your bloody plan, would mean that your life would never again be worth the living. You have to kill.

  Chapter Two

C. P. Randollph listened with growing exasperation to the man sitting next to him prattle about the Bible. His resolution not to get into an altercation over the nature of Holy Writ was visibly weakening when Samantha Stack interrupted the monologue. 

»We’ll take a moment for a message of interest,« she said into the camera, leaving the source of Randollph’s irritation gulping back a chunk of pious rhetoric. »We’ll be right back.« She smiled sweetly at the frustrated speaker as if to say, You get another crack at it, buster. 

The monitor ran a tape touting the profits and joys accruing to those who joined the United States Army. Sam Stack leaned toward Randollph and said, »I’ve got a friend who’s coming in to see you about getting married. She’s a member of your church, sort of.« 

»We have any number of members who are members, sort of,« Randollph said. 

»I’ll bet you do.« Sam surveyed her guests to see if they were ready to hare after more theological irrelevancies as soon as the cameras picked them up again. Satisfied, she turned again to Randollph. »But Lisa hasn’t lived in Chicago for ages, though her family’s still here.« 

»Lisa who?« Randollph asked. The army band banged out a noble climax to some martial air. 

»Tell you later,« Sam whispered. »We’re back,« she said to the camera. »Now, Pastor Wakefield, you were saying before we cut away...« 

Pastor Wakefield needed to diet, Randollph noticed. The sisters of his off-brand congregation must stuff him with potatoes and gravy several times a week. He had two chins, going on three.

»I was saying that you either believe the Bible’s God’s inerrant word, the whole Bible, every bit of it«—he slapped his palm on a black Fabrikoid-covered book on his knee—»or you don’t believe any of it. Who needs a holey Bible? That’s spelled h-o-l-e-y.« He leaned back and shot the cameras a triumphant look. Pastor Wakefield, clearly, had been on television talk shows before. 

Randollph, reminding himself that Christian charity is to be extended even to fools and ignoramuses, pitched in.

»I would point out to the pastor that he has stated a faith position which it is anyone’s privilege to embrace. It is not his privilege, however, to make it the test of my faith. That is sanctified ignorance masquerading as authority...« 

»Now, just a minute,« Pastor Wakefield sputtered. 

»And I further remind the pastor that the Bible is not a book, but a collection of books,« Randollph went on, ignoring the pastor’s frantic attempt to regain control of the conversation, »and that it includes many different types of literature—history, short stories, love poetry, letters, murder, sex, incest, almost anything you can think of. In fact, if you translated some of the steamier Old Testament stories into the vernacular of our day, they’d be classified as pornography. The pastor surely does not expect me to believe in a psalm the same way I believe in a gospel.« 

The rabbi, who looked like a banker, smiled and nodded in agreement. The priest was grave and thoughtful, reflecting the composure of an institution which knew that these theological dust-ups are transitory but the church is eternal.

»Now that’s a...« Pastor Wakefield wound up to bum another high hard one across the doctrinal plate, but Sam Stack called time. She turned toward one of the cameras and said, »We’ve been discussing the topic Does the Bible Have Relevance for Life Today? with Rabbi Harvey Korfman, Father James Denton, the Reverend Mr. Jack Wakefield, and the Reverend Dr. C. P. Randollph. Thank you, reverend gentlemen.« Then, to the future audience which would be blessed and enlightened when the program was shown, »And be with us next week when we present another interesting and timely discussion with leaders of our community.« The panel of reverend gentlemen shook hands and departed to serve whatever god commanded their various allegiances. Randollph remained because he wanted to hear the rest of Sam Stack’s story about the wedding he presumably was to conduct. 

»Somebody has to do these dumb public-service programs.« Sam sounded like an archbishop caught carrying out the garbage. »We take turns, and I got stuck with this bummer—which explains why, reverend doctor, you get a little free TV exposure. Because we’ve been keeping company—how’s that for a nice old-fashioned way of saying it?—I rope you in for any kind of show that needs a theologian. Is that nepotism? Every preacher in Chicago pesters us to get on the tube, you know. Whatever happened to Christian humility like they taught me in Presbyterian Sunday school?« 

»I’m humbly grateful for your invitation to be on this program,« Randollph said, »though I doubt it will convert many heathens to godly ways. What about this wedding?« 

Sam gathered up her script. »I’ll tell you about it on the way.« 

»On the way where?« 

»Didn’t I tell you? I’ve made an appointment for you with an employment agency?« 

Randollph was startled. »No, you didn’t tell me.« 

»Must have slipped my mind.« 

Samantha looked smug, Randollph thought.

»But whatever for?« he asked her. »I’m already employed.« 

»I know that, silly. This is to find someone to cook for you and look after you in that... that...« 

»Try sumptuous,« Randollph said. 

»Thanks, that sumptuous penthouse your filthy-rich church calls a parsonage.« 

»You sound like a socialist, Samantha.« 

»No, just envious. I’m going with you to the agency. You wouldn’t know how to pick a domestic if your life depended on it.« 

»But I only need someone to fix my breakfast, and maybe 

dinner two or three times a week,« Randollph protested. »Surely a grown man can...« 

»Don’t argue,« Sam said, taking his arm. »Let’s go.« 

The weary-looking man behind the desk sized up his visitors in little more than a glance. He wasn’t much interested in them, but years at the job had taught him that if he could get a quick psychological reading on new clients, it was easier to manipulate them. His professional eye rapidly gathered the information he needed. Man, fortyish (hints of gray in the dark hair); successful (self-assured, and fit-looking, suggesting membership in an expensive athletic club); not a banker or a lawyer (dressed with a little too much flair and color, hair a mite too long). Probably in advertising. Made a lot of money. Lived in Winnetka or Lake Forest in a house with three mortgages. Two children in private schools. Up to his belly button in debt. Maybe five years away from his first heart attack.

The wife, now. Probably a second or even a third wife (a real dish, flaming red hair, great legs, six or seven years younger than the guy). Nagging the poor sap to hire a live-in maid. Live-in maids were status symbols. She looked vaguely familiar.

»I’ll bet you’re here to find a maid.« The weary-looking man remembered to arrange his face in professional friendliness. 

»No, I wish to employ a cook,« Randollph said. 

The man struggled to retain his smile. »I got plenty of maids, I can give you a chauffeur in any size or color, but cooks, they’re hard to come by.« He gave the impression that the shortage of cooks was the result of a conspiracy against him. »But I got a few.« He pulled a file card from a tray on his desk and picked up a ball-point pen. »Your name?« 

»C. P. Randollph. Randollph is spelled with two L’s.« 

»Oh?« the man said, writing it down. »Don’t see it spelled that way often.« 

»That is why I added an Randollph said. 

He’s got to be in advertising, the man told himself. They’re all a little strange. »Your occupation?« 

»Clergyman.« 

The man brought his head up with a jerk and stared at Randollph.

»You’re kidding me!« 

»He’s a minister, I’ll guarantee it.« Sam flashed a sympathetic smile at the man. The man shook his head as if it were a personal affront when people didn’t fit his stereotypes. »You don’t look like any preacher’s wife I ever saw,« he said. 

»Oh, we’re not married.« 

The man was completely bewildered.

Sam laughed. »You think we’re living in sin. It might be fun, but the dear dignified Christians at the Church of the Good Shepherd wouldn’t stand for their pastor installing a mistress in the parsonage.« 

»Ah, about the cook...« Randollph asked. 

The weary-looking man gave up. He was out of his depth and knew it. He reached into his drawer and brought out a small packet of cards.

»This is what I got in cooks,« he said. Then, gearing up to make the sale, he pulled a card from the pack. »Now, here’s one you might like. Know her personally. Good plain cook. Sixty, and very religious lady. 

»Sounds fine to me,« Sam said. 

»Excessive piety at breakfast is bad for the digestion,« Randollph said. 

»Here’s a younger lady. Thirty-eight. Recently divorced. Misses cooking for a man, she says. Very nice-looking girl.« 

»She won’t do.« Sam spoke with conviction. 

»Why not?« Randollph asked. »She wants to cook for a man. She sounds like she has possibilities.« 

»That’s why she won’t do, dear doctor,« Sam said, smiling sweetly. »Don’t you have any men cooks?« 

St. Paul, Randollph reminded himself, suffered shipwreck, persecution, prison, and, probably, innumerable bad meals for the faith. Yet here he was, successor to apostles, saints and martyrs, trying to hire a cook to fix his breakfast.

»There’s Clarence Higbee,« the man said. »He’s kind of strange. Britisher. Been a butler, ship’s cook, hotel chef. I bet I’ve found him a dozen jobs. He quits when his employer doesn’t measure up to his standards.« 

Randollph was dubious about a domestic to whose exacting canon he would have to conform. But Sam brightened immediately.

»He sounds ideal,« she said. 

Randollph abandoned protest. »Will you arrange for me to meet with Mr. Higbee?« 

»Right away, Reverend Randollph,« the man assured him. »Anytime you...« 

Randollph interrupted him. »Among my idiosyncrasies is a profound distaste for being addressed as reverend.« 

The man was surprised. »I call my pastor reverend. everybody does, and he likes it.« He reflected for a moment, then tacked on an explanatory footnote. »I’m a Baptist.« 

»That’s nothing to be ashamed of,« Randollph said. »But since reverend is an adjective, not a title, I prefer to dispense with it.« 

»Yeah,« the man said. 

»You’ll send Mr. Higbee around to see me, then?« Randollph asked as he and Sam rose to go. 

»I’ll do that, Reverend Randollph,« the man said. »Count on it.« 

Back on Michigan Avenue, the city was dressing itself for spring. Girls in bright cotton blouses clustered below the fierce stone lions in front of the art institute. An occasional convertible with top down punctuated the traffic like a period between overlong sentences. Two portly pigeons planed down on a pedestrian island and went to work on a squashed banana.

»About that wedding,« Randollph said. 

»She’s a sorority sister. Just about my best friend in college. I’m the maid of honor, or is it matron of honor for a divorced lady like me?« 

»I’ll look it up. Small private wedding?« 

»No, the works. She wants it in a church, heaven knows why, she probably hasn’t been inside a church for years.« 

»You know,« Randollph said thoughtfully, »I’ve never conducted a big formal wedding. The penalty or blessing, I don’t know which, of never having been a pastor until this temporary job. My only experience with weddings is the few I’ve done for my students in the seminary chapel.« 

»Time you learned. This one will get you a lot of publicity. The bride’s a pretty well-known movie and television actress. Lisa Julian.« 

»Ah,« Randollph said. 

»Now, what does that mean?« 

Sam looked at him suspiciously, but decided to let it pass. »I’m very fond of her. She’s a swinger, not that it’s against her, but she’s—let’s see how I can phrase this so as not to offend the clergy—she’s freer with her favors than I’d want to be, and that’s an understatement. If she wears white for the wedding, it will be a misrepresentation of the facts.« 

The film of Randollph’s memory was unreeling some scenes from his past he was grateful that Samantha couldn’t see.

»I, ah, have met Miss Julian,« he confessed. 

Sam stopped abruptly, forcing a man hurrying along behind her to shift directions quickly, muttering, »Dumb broad.« 

»You what?« 

Randollph managed to look grave. »It was years ago. In my former profession I had frequent opportunities to associate with ladies in the films.« 

»I’ll just bet you did!« Sam said. »I don’t want to hear about it. How close was your so-called association with Lisa?« 

»I thought you didn’t want to hear about it.« 

»I don’t. But tell me.« 

»Our acquaintance was quite casual.« Randollph was grateful that the Almighty is always ready to forgive our sins, including lying a little for a good purpose. 

»Hah!« Sam said. »With Lisa that could mean a dozen trips to the hay.« 

Randollph decided it was time to guide the conversation into other channels.

»Tell me about some of the swinging times you had in college, and after,« he said. 

Sam stopped abruptly again. »You’re just trying to change the subject. But, my dear Reverend Doctor Cesare Paul Randollph, even though I know you are a pastor qualified to hear guilt-ridden ladies confess their indiscretions, if you think I’m going to tell you about my past, lurid or not, think again, pal!« 

»Just thought I’d ask, Samantha.« Randollph smiled genially at her. »Just thought I’d ask. Come on, I’ll buy lunch.« 

The Kon Tiki Room of the Chicago Sheraton advertised all sorts of exotic rum concoctions reportedly originating in remote Pacific islands. Samantha Stack said, »I’ll have Wild Turkey on the rocks, please.« Randollph specified a martini with Bombay. 

Sam pushed an ice cube around her glass with a swizzle stick. »The Julians all belong to Good Shepherd, or so Lisa said in her letter, but never attend. Oh, maybe on Easter. Lisa said she was glad the family church at least had a handsome nave that lent itself to a fancy wedding.« 

»Good of her to speak well of the architecture,« Randollph said. 

»Don’t be cynical, C.P. Anyway, in case you’re interested, it’s a family of doctors, except for Lisa, of course. And she’s marrying time.« 

»The Julian Clinic,« Randollph said. »I seem to recall that the bishop goes there when he has a pain in the episcopal belly.« 

»Could be. It caters to the society trade. Lisa’s twin brother is a doctor in the clinic. So is her half-brother, who is a couple of years younger. Tell me more about your so-called association with Lisa.« 

»Ah, here’s the food,« Randollph exclaimed heartily. He quickly popped a hot shrimp into his mouth to preclude further conversation. Sam gave him a disgusted look and dug into baby spare ribs. 

»Tell me more about the Julian family.« 

Sam wiped her fingers on a napkin, leaving a red-orange smear of barbecue sauce. »Ask Lisa.« 

»I’ll do that when she comes round to book the wedding. With that barbecue sauce on your upper lip, you look like a cannibal who has just disposed of a portion of succulent missionary. It’s quite becoming.« 

  Chapter Three

The Church of the Good Shepherd is old, as Chicago institutions go. Though New England would look on it as a recent addition to the sacred scene, it predated the founding of the city by a number of years, beginning in a log hut as a mission to the Indians, who, according to all well-informed Christians of the time, would be benefited beyond measure by accepting baptism and selling their land cheap to the Christians. As the city grew, the leaders of the church perceived that the real mission to which God was calling them was not the Indians but the hog butchers and freight handlers (executive level), who were the nearest thing the raw young community had to a burgher class. Thus, when enough generations had passed to make possible a distinction between new Chicago money and old Chicago money, the Church of the Good Shepherd was graced with old-money families, not to mention healthy endowments. This gave it high status, supposedly in the eyes of God, and certainly in the social structure of the city.

But in this transitory world, all things change. Good Shepherd’s faithful no longer debarked from chauffeured Packards and Pierce Arrows to hear the word of the Lord in their gloomy old brick Romanesque building, which looked something like a penitentiary. The trustees, wanting only to make an extra buck for Jehovah, tore down the old church and replaced it with a hotel and office building. A church, complete with commodious nave, offices, classrooms, and a gymnasium occupied the first three floors. On top, like one of God’s afterthoughts, was an enormous pseudo-Gothic tower, into which—as it otherwise would have been wasted space—the trustees had crammed a large and spectacular penthouse as the residence for the pastor. In between the church and the penthouse were thirty-some stories of gratifyingly productive offices, hotel rooms, bars, and banquet halls. 

The old moneyed families didn’t come to church much anymore, because they all now lived in North Shore suburbs many miles from the Loop. But they kept their memberships with Good Shepherd. The people who now made up the Sunday congregation were tourists and businessmen (and their wives, if they had seen fit to bring them along) attending the hundreds of conventions which meet annually in Chicago and who nested in the dozens of hotels within walking distance of the church.

Pastors of Good Shepherd had lengthy incumbencies. There were many reasons why they stayed on, among them the extravagant salary (for a clergyman); the sumptuous penthouse parsonage (free to the pastor, and legally exempt from his taxable income); the constantly changing congregation (which made it possible for the pastor to use jokes and sermons over and over like a professional after-dinner speaker); and the large income from the church’s endowments and rentals, freeing the pastor from that most onerous of clerical tasks, beating the drums for money. 

When the Reverend Dr. Arthur Hartshome, Good Shepherd’s senior pastor for more than a quarter century, reached the mandatory retirement age and reluctantly moved out of the penthouse, the number of pastors who felt called to serve God in Good Shepherd’s pulpit was large enough to be, if not an army of the Lord, at least a respectable brigade. Competition for the job got so nasty that the bishop decided to cool it by naming an interim pastor who had no ambitions for permanent status.

Randollph was discovering facts about the pastoral office that, unless you have been one, you don’t ever know. One fact was that the head minister of a large, long-established congregation does not spend his days being a cure of souls. Not many of them, anyway. Mostly, he is an administrator. He sees people. He meets with committees. He calms the squabbles that develop within the organization. He makes decisions that have little to do with preaching the word and duly administering the sacraments. He supplies a shot of unction on public occasions with an invocation or a benediction. He is a front man for God and the congregation.

He had learned another fact. An old, established congregation is likely to have an old, established church secretary who, though a menial by job description, gathers power through long tenure and firmly fixed connections with the powerful members of the congregation. Miss Adelaide Windfall had grown heavy with authority, partly through lengthy service, and partly because the Reverend Dr. Arthur Hartshome had spent most of his time between Sundays addressing Rotary clubs in the wilds of Ohio and Michigan, leaving a power vacuum which Miss Windfall, by inclination as well as necessity, filled. Miss Windfall pretty much ran the ranch.

Randollph was glumly staring at a blank sheet of paper when the office intercom buzzed. Miss Windfall, who was very strict about disrupting routine, would not have broken into his study time without a compelling reason. But it came as a relief. Though Trinity Sunday was weeks away, he was trying to get a head start on a sermon explaining the triune God to a modem congregation which vaguely believed in a deity combining the qualities of Uncle Sam, Santa Claus, and a hanging judge. So far, he hadn’t even got off the mark.

»Yes, Miss Windfall?« 

»Miss Lisa Julian is here to see you,« Miss Windfall informed him. Miss Windfall would have forced the mayor to make an appointment and sent minor ecclesiastics packing, Randollph knew. But the Julians were socially established members of Good Shepherd, a legitimate royalty privileged to push pastors around if they chose. Miss Windfall was ordering Randollph to see the lady. 

»I’ll come out to greet her,« he said. 

Lisa Julian was as stunning as he had remembered. She was tall, a good five-nine; her crimson pantsuit contrasted agreeably with her long dark hair. She wasn’t wearing much makeup that Randollph could see, although she had probably done something subtle to soften a face a trifle long and a nose too prominent for real beauty.

»Miss Julian, this is Dr. Randollph.« A mere pastor was presented to a Julian by Miss Windfall’s lights, not the other way around. 

»I’m pleased...« Lisa Julian said; then her eyes widened. »My God, it’s Con Randollph!« She threw herself onto him. »I can’t believe it! It is you, isn’t it? Your nose isn’t crooked anymore, but it is you, isn’t it?« She was kissing him between babblings, and Randollph noted with satisfaction that Evelyn, the receptionist, was taking it all in with amazement. Miss Windfall, mouth open, looked stupefied. Jarred the old girl out of her pretentious superiority, he thought. Give her insight into a new dimension of her boss’s character. 

Lisa Julian finally disengaged herself from Randollph. »Whatever are you doing pretending to be a preacher?« she asked. 

»I’m not pretending.« 

She followed him into his study, shaking her head.

Randollph, uncomfortable talking to people across the barrier of the broad mahogany desk that Dr. Hartshome had deemed appropriate for a pastor of his eminence, had installed a conversation center around a coffee table. Seating Lisa in the most comfortable chair, he took a place at the end of the scruffy brown leather sofa.

»I can’t get over it,« she said. »You a preacher! And my pastor, insofar as I can lay claim to one.« 

Randollph shifted uncomfortably in his seat. »I’m not actually a preacher by trade,« he said. 

»Then what are you doing here?« 

»Oh, I’m ordained. But my real profession is teaching. Church history. In a seminary in California. I’m just confusing you, aren’t I? It’s so good to see you again, Lisa.« 

»It’s good to see you, too, love, although I should be very angry with you yet. But I repeat, what are you doing here?« 

»It’s just temporary, Lisa. The bishop, who was one of my teachers at the seminary, persuaded me to take a sabbatical and spend it as interim pastor while the church looks for a permanent pastor.« 

»Ah, so. And you’ll officiate—that’s the right word, isn’t it?—at my wedding. The man I wanted to marry will marry me to a man that...« She let her voice trail off. Randollph fidgeted in the silence. Lisa giggled. »Don’t worry, Con dear, I’m over you. Years ago. Maybe it was just the glamour of going around with Con Randollph, the great Rams quarterback, that melted my heart. My God! From pro football to the pulpit! From the Rams to religion! Did you have your nose straightened?« 

»A little cosmetic surgery.« 

Lisa cocked her head. »I think I liked it better the way it was. You’ve lost that lovely brutal look.« She straightened up. »But I didn’t come to talk over the past. I’m going to live in Chicago now, or most of the time.« 

»You’re giving up your career?« 

»Not really. I’ll do a picture every year or so. It doesn’t take long to fly to California. But I am going to settle down, be a married woman. Maybe I’ll come to church. Sometime I want to hear about how you got hooked on religion. Are you very pious?« 

»Not at all.« 

»Don’t you have to be if you are a preacher?« 

»Not if you are only an interim pastor. It helps, I suppose, if you are making a career of it. Tell me about the man you are marrying.« 

She settled back in her chair. »Carl Brandt. Dr. Brandt. He’s with my father and brothers in the clinic. You know about the clinic?« 

»A bit. You’re finally in love?« 

»I’ve been in love a hundred times. Maybe more. I’m tired of love. No. There aren’t any rockets going off. The earth isn’t moving. He’s a good man. Decent. Kind. A little stodgy. Very conscientious about his work—he’s a surgeon, like my twin brother, Kermit. He’s very much like Kermit. No imagination, but dependable. Maybe I’m marrying him because he’s like Kermit. Dad was always so busy he didn’t pay much attention to me. Kermit was like... well, a father, though he wasn’t my father.« 

»Surrogate,« Randollph said. 

»Yes, that’s the word. He was fiercely protective. Maybe I’m just looking for someone to protect me.« 

Randollph made noncommittal sounds.

»Oh, you think that isn’t enough for a marriage?« Lisa was defensive. »Well, let me tell you, Con Randollph, doctor of divinity though you may be...« 

»Doctor of philosophy,« Randollph corrected her. 

»Whatever. I’ve had all the bright and shining glamour boys I need.« 

She sighed and calmed down. »What am I yelling at you for? It’s just that... oh, well, I suppose you could call it a spiritual change. I haven’t gotten religion or anything like that. 

I’m tired of my life as it is. I want some stability. I want roots. I even want children. Is that so strange?« 

»No, not at all,« Randollph told her. »Those are very normal feelings. And, I would imagine—though contrary to the romantic mythology purveyed by Hollywood—not a bad basis for a sound marriage. Not bad at all.« 

Lisa brightened. »Thanks, Con, for understanding. Hardly anybody does. Oh, Daddy’s happy I’m settling down. And my brother Kermit feels the same way. They’ve never quite approved of me. But my younger brother—my half-brother, actually—thinks I’m crazy. All my friends think so, too. They say I’ll be bored with Carl and with being a housewife. But I’m ready for it. I just can’t convince them of that.« 

»You don’t have to convince them. Only yourself.« 

»I know,« she said, sounding almost positive. »Well. Let’s talk about the wedding.« 

Randollph soon realized he was in over his head. He knew enough to arrange for Lisa to meet with Tony Agostino, Good Shepherd’s choirmaster-organist, and that a rehearsal would be necessary. But as to the logistics of a formal wedding he was benignly ignorant. He supposed that the bishop could chock him full of instructions on how to perform this routine pastoral function before rehearsal day.

»I am acquainted with your matron of honor,« he said, watching Lisa crossing off items on what appeared to be an endless list. 

She looked up quickly. »You are? How does a dignified pastor get acquainted with Chicago’s most popular television personality? She a member of your church?« 

»No. I was a guest on her show shortly after I came here.« 

»Does she know anything about us?« 

»She is aware that we were friends some years ago.« 

»Did you tell her how good friends?« 

Randollph squirmed around on the sofa. »I believe she is under the impression that our relationship was quite casual.« 

»So you lied to her, eh, Con?« Lisa laughed. »You must like the girl. Well, old casual friend, I won’t tell if you won’t.« 

Randollph was ashamed of himself for feeling relieved.

Lisa stood up to go. »I’m over you, Con, thank God. It took a long time. Longer than for anyone else I ever thought I was in love with. But we’ll be seeing a lot of each other for a while, and there’s no reason we can’t be good friends. There’s only one thing bothering me.« 

»Oh? What is that?« 

»When I come down that aisle and see you waiting in your clerical getup, I might be remembering things a bride shouldn’t be thinking about.« She planted a kiss on his forehead and left. 

  Chapter Four

When Randollph got back to his office after lunch, Miss Windfall said, »The bishop is waiting to see you. And,« she added, »there is a backlog of correspondence to be taken care of.« Miss Windfall recognized the importance of bishops, but did not think they should be allowed to interfere with the efficient production of paperwork. 

Randollph found the bishop sitting in one of the scruffy brown leather chairs reading a paperback book.

»Sorry to keep you waiting, Freddie,« Randollph said. 

The bishop dog-eared a page and closed the book. »I wasn’t in any hurry for you to get here, C.P. Not that I didn’t want to see you, but actually I’m hiding out.« 

»From whom?« The bishop looked more than ever like a plump cherub, Randollph thought. 

»From one of my brother bishops. I happen to know he’s in town, and I suspect he’s going to call on me and persuade me to find a parish for one of his problem pastors. In addition to that, he’s a fool and a bore. So I pretended it was my episcopal duty to call on you and see how you’re getting on with Good Shepherd. Convenient to have an office in your building. My real purpose was to sit here and read this trashy cowboy novel.« 

»Though your motives are perhaps ignoble, Freddie, you’re welcome. And I am always in need of professional advice, it seems.« Randollph pulled up a chair and sat down. »I’ve just booked a formal church wedding, and I haven’t the foggiest notion of how to run one.«