by Regina Doman
She caught him in the hallway right after that class with some of his buddies. “I need to talk to you,” she informed him.
He looked at her, a grin playing around the corners of his mouth. “Yeah? You want to say you’re sorry about what happened on prom night?” he asked. His friends exchanged looks of muffled laughter.
Her face was flushed, but anger drove her on. All right, if she couldn’t get him in private, she would bawl him out in public. “Is it true that you asked me out just to see if you could score with me?” The ugly words fell from her lips distastefully.
Rob was taken aback for a minute. He stared at her, and at last came up with a denial. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Because if that’s true, you’ve got a lot to learn about girls. And people. And if you can’t learn that, you’re going to have an awfully miserable life.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Rob was saying, trying to smile, but still looking uncomfortable.
“I hope so.” Rose looked him up and down and shook her head. “I thought you were made of better stuff, Rob. I’d like to think you’re a man, Rob, not some little boy under the impression that people are just toys for him to play with. Let me know if you ever grow up.”
Rob’s face went red, and Rose saw that she had cut into his pride. Seeing she had made her point, she turned on her heel and began to walk away. She heard a snort and one of the guys said, chuckling, “She’s the one who doesn’t want to grow up.”
There was no way that she could let that go. She turned slowly, smiled in her most winning way, and went on, “Oh, by the way. That kind of love is sacred—something for real men who have the guts to make a lifelong commitment, not for short-sighted idiots like you guys.” Eyes like flint, she looked each of them in the face. None of them could meet her gaze. “I pity you. I really do.”
Slowly she turned away, and walked down the hall, head high, the blood still going dizzily through her brain. Yeah, she was scared. She didn’t know what type of mess they’d make of her reputation now. But she didn’t care. Man, I live for moments like these, she thought, pushing down the smile that kept creeping onto her face.
After school, Blanche approached Sister Geraldine as the old nun hobbled down the hallway, briefcase in one hand and cane in the other.
“Sister, I was wondering if—if I could talk to you for a minute,” Blanche ventured.
“Certainly, Miss Brier. What can I do for you?” The frail old nun flashed her sharp blue eyes at her pupil.
“I wanted to ask you—about that poem that you gave me. The one by A. Denniston. Was that Arthur Denniston?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it was,” Sister Geraldine said, surprised. “I haven’t heard his name for a long time. How do you know about him?”
“He’s a friend of ours, actually—my sister and me,” Blanche said.
The nun paused and leaned against the wall to steady herself. “My goodness. If you please, could we go into a classroom and sit down? My knees aren’t so good these days.”
“So you know Arthur Denniston,” Sister Geraldine repeated to herself in amazement after seating herself in a student desk. “Well, well. How is he?”
“I hope he’s well. I actually haven’t seen him for a few days. But we saw him quite a bit this past winter. He never told us very much about himself, and I was wondering perhaps, if you knew him well—”
“I must say I thought I knew him well, at one time,” the nun admitted, her wrinkled face suddenly creased with sadness. “He was quite attached to a very good friend of mine, the late Father Michael Raymond.”
“The one the school chapel’s dedicated to,” Blanche said softly.
“Yes, that would be him. A prince of a man. A kingly man. You don’t often meet ones like him.” Sister Geraldine looked older than ever. “He was chaplain for this school and pastor of the church next door, St. Lawrence. A remarkable person, he could talk anyone into doing anything. Could make friends with anyone. As you can imagine, those are wonderful talents in a pastor and administrator. He had his enemies—he was bull-headed, and, some would say, a stick-in-the-mud.” She chuckled. “But more than anything, he was a good priest. Quite cultured, too. A wonderful influence on the young people.”
“And he was friends with Be—with Arthur?”
“More than that, my dear. Arthur and his brother Ben were two of his converts—people he’d brought into the Church. He had met their mother in the hospital when she was dying of cancer, and she converted to Catholicism due to his influence. He was the one who convinced her to take her sons out of the preparatory school they had been going to—the family was wealthy, you see—and send them to St. Catherine’s.” She seemed to grow melancholic. “I often wonder if that was a wise decision Father Raymond made. We are a Catholic school, but not all of our students act like it.”
“Didn’t they like it here?” Blanche ventured.
“Oh, well enough. I’m afraid they didn’t quite blend in, with their cultured background and learning. I remember Benedict—Arthur’s younger brother—wrote an article criticizing the sports program as detracting from the school’s academics. As you can imagine, that made him very unpopular.” She gave Blanche a wry smile. “Ben was the smarter one—mind like a steel trap—but Arthur was more talented. He wrote poetry, short stories—quite a musician, too, although he never did anything with it at school. They were Father Raymond’s altar boys, too. Every morning before school, they’d serve Mass over at St. Lawrence and then come over here to school. I believe they never missed a day—well, until Father died.”
“He was killed, wasn’t he?” Blanche asked quietly.
“Yes,” Sister Geraldine blinked. “It was a terrible tragedy. After he died, everything seemed to fall apart. He was the power behind the religion program here, behind the parish—so many things depended on him. Oh, nobody lives forever, but his going so soon—cut our legs out from under us.”
“How did Arthur take it?”
“As could be expected. He and Ben were devastated. Father was—like a father to them, I venture to say—he meant far more to them than their real father did, especially after their mother died. As I recall, their father wasn’t too happy that they wanted to go to St. Catherine’s in the first place. I believe they had a falling out after she died. It was quite a broken relationship. So, in a way, Father Raymond was all they had in the world, and when he went—” Sister shook her head. “I never thought I’d see it happen to boys like them. But I’m told that losing a loved one can affect a young person deeply, and cause him to act in unforeseen ways. That’s the only way I can explain what happened.”
“But—how did Father Raymond die?” Blanche asked.
“There was a robbery at the church. Apparently, Father heard the noise from the basement—he was working late at the church—and went upstairs to frighten them away, it would seem. He was a big man, and nothing scared him. The thief—or thieves—shot him.” She blinked again. “I’m told he was actually strangled, too.”
“How horrible,” Blanche murmured.
“I believe—and I’m sure this is the popular opinion—that drugs were involved. There had been a problem with them at this school for a long time. Only someone strung out on drugs could be that cruel. Those types do anything for quick cash. They cleaned out all the golden vessels from the sacristy closet.”
She paused and coughed. “You see, Father Raymond had an unofficial ministry rescuing unused church vessels—chalices, monstrances, and so on. After the Second Vatican Council, many churches were getting rid of their ‘extras.’ The laity used to donate items like that to the Church all the time, so many of them ended up gathering dust somewhere, or being sold, or, Father told me, even thrown out. He used to go around and buy them from antique shops and other places where they turned up. Once, he told me, he rescued a chalice from a bar, where the owner had it among his collection of beer mugs!” She shook her head wryly at Blanche. “So Father had quit
e a storehouse of old church vessels. Most people thought he was crazy. After all, most of them weren’t worth very much. But Father believed ‘holy things for the holy,’ and he kept them safe and in good condition. He wasn’t a reactionary or anything of that sort. He simply believed in showing reverence for all things connected with the Holy Mass. It was such a shame, everything that happened.”
“What happened to Arthur and Ben after Father died?”
“I didn’t see very much of them. They lost interest in their classes, they stopped serving Mass—well, then again, there was a good deal of difficulty finding a replacement priest, so perhaps that wasn’t their fault. Then, the next thing I knew, the police held a raid on the school, and both of them were arrested for drug possession!” A look of pain shot over her face at the remembrance. “It just seemed so unlike them. But they did have the kind of money that could buy the enormous amount of cocaine they found on them. I suppose they could have been guilty. I myself just don’t know what to think.”
Blanche was silent for a minute, watching the elderly nun. Sister Geraldine sat, appearing to stare very hard at something a few inches from her face that she could not comprehend. At last, she roused herself.
“I’m sorry. You said you know Arthur Denniston? How is he? I haven’t seen him at all these past few years—not since he was released from juvenile prison.”
“Well, Sister, I—” Blanche hesitated. But who could she tell about Bear, if not Sister Geraldine? She decided to relate the entire story. Beginning with his helping their mother with the groceries that far off night in January, she told her every detail she could remember about his relationship with their family. Sister Geraldine listened, entirely absorbed. She asked no questions, and barely moved during the entire narrative. Her face had a look of intense thought.
“What a very odd thing,” she said after Blanche had finished with Bear’s good-bye to her in the taxi. “It seems bizarre. He’s changed—but yet, he hasn’t changed.”
“What puzzles me especially is why he would be trying to sell church vessels at an antique fair,” Blanche said at last. “Especially if Father Raymond felt so strongly about keeping them for the Church—” She was fighting off the lurid thought that had occurred to her: that Bear was somehow connected with the church robbery and murder.
“Yes, I admit that’s the one thing that bothers me the most.” Sister rubbed a veined hand across her temples. “Why would he be looking to sell a chalice?” She repeated the question to herself, then paused. All the color drained from her face. “Oh, my sweet Lord,” she said softly.
“What?” asked Blanche, frightened by her expression.
The nun drew a deep breath. “I see what he’s trying to do. He’s looking for Father Raymond’s murderer.”
Chapter 15
HOLY CANDLESTICKS, SISTER!” Rose exclaimed after Blanche told her the substance of the conversation with Sister Geraldine.
“And I suppose now he’s hiding, because the murderer—whoever he is—knows Bear is on the trail. That must have been Ben he was talking to that night in the penthouse, about the break-in at the Fosters’ house.” Blanche stopped at a crosswalk and waited for the light to change.
“Yes—that reminds me. The Fosters. I really think we need to find out who they are, and where they are.” Rose paced up and down.
“Sister Geraldine didn’t know the name. But she suggested we check in the old school yearbooks in the library. Perhaps we can find out more about the Denniston boys, too,” Blanche said.
“That’s tomorrow’s assignment,” Rose said with a grin. “Before school. I can’t miss out on this part.”
The next day was bright and balmy. They arrived at school an hour early and went straight to the school library on the top floor. No one was there except the elderly sister in black veil and white habit, who served as librarian. She and Sister Geraldine were the only nuns at the school who still wore their traditional garb.
“Sister Geraldine said you girls would want to look through some old yearbooks,” the nun said fondly.
Obviously, she liked students who were interested in the past. She escorted them through the stately rows of encyclopedias and reference books to a shelf of faded yearbooks, a motley collection by comparison. “Let me know if I can assist you any further,” the old nun said, nodding her head and walking away as silently as a mouse.
Rose lost no time. She counted down the years and selected five volumes from the appropriate classes. “Bear was here about four years ago, so we should be able to find something in these ones. Here, you take half and I’ll take half. Check for anything that says ‘Denniston’ or ‘Foster’.”
They sat down at a table in the corner and began turning the glossy black-and-white pages. Naturally Rose, the quicker one, was the first to find something. She set aside one book and picked up another. “This would have been Bear’s sophomore year, if my calculations are correct,” she said, turning to the freshmen section. “Ha!”
She had her finger on a picture in the freshman section. Its subject was a young baby-faced boy with cropped hair, freckles, glasses, and a sour expression. The caption said “Benedict Denniston.”
“That’s Bear’s brother,” Blanche said. “Boy, he looks like he has a chip on his shoulder.”
Rose stared at the photo and frowned, turning the book from side to side. “He looks familiar,” she said.
“He looks like a thinner version of Bear,” Blanche pointed out.
“Yes, that’s definitely true. Except for the freckles. And the lighter hair.”
“We should look in back issues of the school paper for that letter he wrote about the sports program. I bet it was a kicker,” Blanche said.
“Bear should be in the sophomore section,” Rose said.
But no, he was in the “juniors” section, looking a bit bewildered, as though he really didn’t belong there. He had thick, black hair and his big shoulders almost filled the picture.
“He could have been on the football team, but he preferred to write poetry,” Rose murmured. “I knew I liked him. I like him even more, seeing what he used to look like.”
There weren’t any other pictures of them in that volume. And strangely, there were no pictures of them whatsoever in the volume for the year after.
“They must have gotten arrested before the pictures were taken,” Blanche said at last.
Rose shivered. “Poor guys. There’s no mention of them at all.”
Blanche took the volume from Rose. “Let me check the candid shots.”
At last she thought she found one more picture of Bear. It was in Sister Geraldine’s class, appropriately enough. She was teaching, a typical intense expression on her face, while a burly student in the front desk looked at her. He sat up straight, but his face was turned from the camera, so that all that could be seen was his mop of hair. She showed it to Rose, who was busy scanning the other volumes.
“It’s amazing how corny the hairstyles from a few years ago look, isn’t it?” Rose remarked.
The only other thing Blanche could find that might be pertinent to the case was a picture of a student assembly, where a policeman was giving a presentation on the dangers of drug use. “I bet this was because of the drug raid,” she said to her sister.
“Shh!” said Rose, holding up a hand.
“What is it?” Blanche asked, exasperated. Her sister was rapidly flipping pages in Bear’s junior yearbook.
“Hold on … Yes!” Rose turned to her sister and gave a thumbs up sign.
“What is it, Sherlock?”
Beaming in triumph, Rose held up the yearbook and pointed to the picture of a smiling black boy in the senior section. The caption said, “Steven Foster.”
“I noticed that the seniors have all their addresses listed at the back,” Rose said with exaggerated nonchalance.
The afternoon had turned hot and sticky, so Rose and Blanche changed out of their school uniforms into shorts and T-shirts before they went on thei
r mission. Rose figured that the less official they looked, the better. On their way up to the Fosters’ neighborhood, they rehearsed their questions. Blanche was unsure of how soon they should mention Bear’s name. “Leave it to me,” Rose urged her. “I’ll just ask whatever comes into my head.”
“That’s precisely what worries me,” Blanche complained in an undertone.
They found the street easily, but the house number was harder to pin down. The neighborhood was not exactly in the best condition, and some of the houses had no numbers. Many of the residents of the neighborhood were sitting on their doorsteps, chatting. A group of children screeched at each other, playing with water guns. At last, the girls located a house that seemed like the Fosters’ place. An ancient air conditioner roared in the window next to the door. Rose had to knock twice. The door was cracked open, and a suspicious brown face looked out at them.
“Yeah?” a woman’s voice asked.
Rose put on her most innocent expression. “Is Steven home?”
“And what if I said he don’t live here?” the woman asked.
“We go to St. Catherine’s high school, and we know he graduated from there a few years ago. We just wanted to ask him some alumni questions …” Rose tried to sound plausible without sounding suspicious, or lying.
“Who is it, Mom?” a male voice asked.
“Some girls asking for you,” the woman said.
Rose saw another set of eyes look out, and then the door opened and a tall black youth in a t-shirt, holding a basketball, leaned out the door.
“What’s this about alumni?” He scratched his close-shaven head.
“We just wanted to ask you a few questions,” Rose said, nervously.
“You’re from the yearbook staff or something?” the youth said.
“Uh—” Rose floundered. “Sort of—”
“C’mon in if you want. It’s roasting out here.” The youth that they assumed was Steven opened the door for them and they walked inside.
