SISTER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 4)

by Lawrence de Maria

  SISTER

  A Novel By

  Lawrence De Maria

  Sister, a novel by Lawrence De Maria

  Copyright © Lawrence De Maria 2013

  (Revised 2016)

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this

  book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information, email ljdemaria@aol.com.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by St. Austin’s Press

  (305-409-0900)

  Special thanks to Nancy Kreisler, Maryellen Alvarez and Deborah Thompson.

  Dedicated to Patti, without whose love, support and faith this book

  – and others –

  would not have been possible,

  and to my sons,

  Lawrence and Christopher.

  Good men, both.

  SISTER

  CHAPTER 1 - PROM CHECK

  Sister Veronica leaned forward and smiled into Carole MacQuaid’s nervous, pretty face.

  “Really, Carole? Your Mom said this dress was appropriate?”

  “I swear, Sister. She said it was just like the one she wore to her own prom.”

  The principal of Ave Maria Academy for Girls in Worcester, Massachusetts, held her tongue. But what she wanted to say was that if Mrs. MacQuaid had worn a similar dress to her prom it was probably the night she conceived Carole. Instead, she said, “OK. Let’s give her a call.”

  The girl sighed heavily, defeat on her face.

  “Well, maybe not just like the dress she wore. But it is the same color.”

  The dress was purple. Bad taste apparently ran in the MacQuaid family.

  “I don’t think your mom’s boobs were falling out.”

  The girl looked down at her chest.

  “I don’t think they are so bad, Sister.”

  “They aren’t bad, Carole. You have a wonderful figure. But there is a difference between cleavage and the Grand Canyon.” Sister Veronica was quite sure some of the boys in town had seen the girl’s breasts in all their naked glory, but that was no reason she should look trashy on prom night, purple dress notwithstanding. “You are a lovely girl. Let the boys concentrate on your face for a change.”

  All the seniors had to pass inspection. One by one the girls came by the principal’s office, changing in the bathroom, to preview their prom dresses. Sister Veronica was halfway through the senior class. The prom was two weeks away but she wanted to give the kids enough time to make the necessary adjustments. In Carole MacQuaid’s case, she thought, steel cables might be in order.

  The dresses did not have to be suits of armor. But they couldn’t be strapless, and the straps had to be at least one and a half inches wide. Sister Veronica had nothing against her girls showing a little feminine pulchritude. It was not unheard of for her to tell a girl she might want to be a little more daring. Cleavage depended on each girl’s attributes. Small-breasted girls were given slightly more leeway in that department. High heels were permitted. Telling a teen-age girl she couldn’t show off her legs would be cruel. But not too high. The girls would probably be scandalized if they found out their principal knew that ultra-high heels were called “fuck me” shoes. I didn’t always wear these skirts, jackets and high-collared blouses that make me look like, well, Angela Lansbury in Murder, She Wrote. These kids should have seen me in a bathing suit. And they’d be really shocked to know I wasn’t a virgin, although it’s been many years since I’ve been with a man. None since long before I took my vows. But I remember how it was. The intensity. The need. A blurry image of a handsome young man swam into her consciousness. I wonder how he is?

  “Earth to Sister,” Carole said.

  “What’s that?”

  The principal realized that her mind had wandered.

  “You were staring off into space,” the girl said. “I thought you were spazzing out.”

  “Sorry. I was thinking of something. Not that you girls aren’t capable of giving me a stroke. Now, are you going to the prom with that boy from Holy Cross?”

  “Tom? Yes, Sister.” The girl looked at her principal for a sign of disapproval. “He’s only a freshman.”

  “Nice-looking boy, and polite as I recall. Freshman, huh. Way to go, girl.”

  They both laughed. Who am I to cast stones, Sister Veronica mused. Mine was a college sophomore. A Holy Cross boy, too, although neither of us lived anywhere near here back then. Funny I wound up here.

  Carole MacQuaid left, disappointed about the dress, but not angry. None of the 133 girls in the school could ever be angry at Sister Veronica. She ran a tight ship, but she was eminently fair, doling out help and praise just as often as discipline. Every week she made it a point to call the parents of at least five students, always finding something positive to say about their children. She only had two decades on her seniors but they, and other students, came to her for everything. Boy troubles, drunken fathers, academic problems. Ave Maria graduated all its students and every single girl went on to a four-year college, including some Ivies. A couple went to military academies. She cherished a wonderful letter from one of her girls, who credited the discipline and guidance she received at Ave Maria for her success in surviving her first year at West Point.

  Sister Veronica was only one of three nuns still at the school. They lived on a stipend, with their salaries going back to their religious order with the understanding that it would be used to bolster the pay of lay teachers, and the occasional scholarship for a needy girl. Ave Maria didn’t graduate ingrates. The kids, and their parents, knew how lucky they all were.

  The Ave Maria principal was still a very attractive woman, kept trim by 80-hour work weeks and jogging, augmented by long walks in the woods and hills surrounding the school’s 10-acre campus. She also used the treadmill in the small gym in the main school building, which was, in fact, the former mansion of a local Irish bootlegger, who stored Canadian liquor in the basement and a series of Asian mistresses upstairs.

  It had been four years since leaving her teaching job in the Boston Diocese to become the youngest principal in the 89-year history of Ave Maria, 40 miles west of the big city. The glass ceiling for women in the Catholic Church was still bullet-proof thick, but her intelligence and drive were common knowledge and the Mother Superior of her religious order — the Sisters of St. Jerome — had little trouble convincing the bishop that her talents were better used elsewhere. It didn’t hurt that the poor man was overwhelmed by a sex-abuse scandal that threatened to bankrupt his diocese, and moving another salary, however minor, out of town didn’t hurt.

  Sister Veronica immediately revamped the rather stodgy curriculum of Ave Maria to better reflect the changing ethnic makeup of the student body. What had once been a predominantly white school, heavily populated with Swedes, Italians, Irish, Poles and French Canadians, now had a sizable minority of Vietnamese, Ghanaian, Liberian and Congolese girls. In an effort to make those kids feel more welcome, and to show the entire student body the reach of the Catholic faith, she recruited Rev. Rudolphe Jolly from nearby St. Basil’s to be the school chaplain. Father Jolly, a boisterous and expansive man who lived up to his name and was beloved by everyone, came from Togo, one of the wave of African priests who were filling out the Church’s depleted parish ranks in the United States. Fluent in French, he was an immediate hit with the girls whose families hailed from Quebec and soon had half the other kids learning the language.

&nb
sp; The move toward greater diversity initially met some resistance from a few parents and local townspeople. But the opposition quickly evaporated after Sister Veronica asked the head of the local Mafia and a high-ranking State Police officer, both of whom had daughters who loved Ave Maria, to make a few calls.

  The peripatetic educator also instituted an early placement program with nearby institutions of higher learning. So innovative was her thinking that other school districts in New England began to emulate her initiatives. And as a fundraiser who, in the pithy words of the head of the local Chamber of Commerce “could charm the warts off a hog,” she had created an endowment that allowed Ave Maria to keep its annual tuition below $7,000. A rabid Boston Red Sox fan, she even managed to get the team to sponsor a four-year scholarship and provide two season tickets. She auctioned off most of the games, raising even more money, although she did keep a couple of days for herself and her staff when the Yankees played at Fenway. Her stewardship was credited with saving Ave Maria from the fate of other private Catholic academies, such as Assumption Preparatory School, which was rebuilt after the deadly 1953 tornado that killed 94 people only to succumb permanently to budget woes many years later.

  Ave Maria’s finances were still in precarious shape, she knew. But she was hopeful that might soon change, if the lawyer she recently spoke with was right. The Lord certainly worked in mysterious ways. Often, a bit too slowly, for her taste. There were bills to be paid.

  Sister Veronica looked at her watch. Carole MacQuaid was the last girl to stop by with a dress. The building was quiet, other than the normal creaks and groans common to ancient plumbing pipes and heating ducts. It was Friday, and the rest of the lay staff had hurried away for their weekend. The only other two nuns who taught at Ave Maria left to visit relatives in Boston. It was still light outside under a cloudy sky, and a bit chillier than normal for late spring.

  The principal was tired. If I don’t do something to get my blood moving, she thought, I’ll fall asleep during N.C.I.S. It was her favorite show. She particularly liked Abby Sciuto, the quirky forensic scientist, a devout Roman Catholic who in her spare time went bowling with nuns. Abby, a free-spirited Goth with a heart of gold, was one of the reasons Sister Veronica looked the other way when one of her students got a tattoo, as long as it was small, not obscene and not visible in street clothes. As for Tony DiNozzo, the irrepressible N.C.I.S. bad boy, he reminded her of her first real boyfriend. Her first and only lover. I hope he didn’t hate me for what I did. Leaving him without a word.

  She shook off the maudlin memories. She knew what she needed. She went up to her small apartment on the top floor of the old mansion, the one where the long-dead bootlegger probably kept his mistress in splendor, and changed into a sweat suit. Ten minutes later, she was jogging along a path adjacent to the Blackstone River near Quinsigamond Village. It had started to drizzle and she was glad her sweat suit was waterproofed and she was wearing her Red Sox cap. Because she maintained a good pace, she wasn’t cold. But she knew she would be when she stopped running. She decided to stop at the McDonalds in Quinsigamond on the way home for a large hot coffee. And, what the heck, since she was there, she might as well get a Big Mac, with fries. What better meal to watch N.C.I.S. She knew Tony would approve.

  Almost an hour later, the Ave Maria principal was back where she had started her run, a small grass parking area down a short gravel cutoff that jutted off the highway. She felt good, and rationalized that she’d burned off enough calories to justify her planned fast-food splurge. Maybe she’d even get the little apple pies Mickey D’s sold, two for a dollar. She pulled off her ski cap and shook her head. Rivulets of rain water mixed with perspiration ran down her brow and cheeks. Strands of her hair were plastered to her face. I must be a sight, she thought.

  There had been several cars parked in the lot when she arrived. She had passed — and been passed — by other joggers, many of whom she knew. She’d even run almost a mile alongside the slow-poke Rabbi Markowitz from Union Hill’s B'nai Avraham synagogue before apologizing and leaving him in the dust, or rather, mud. But it was dark now. As far as she could tell, she was the only one still running in the rain, which was now heavy.

  The lot was almost deserted. There was only one car near her 2005 Hyundai Santa Fe. Some of the girls had teased her about her choice of vehicle. S.U.V.’s and nuns didn’t seem to go together. But it sure came in handy to haul equipment and kids to soccer practice and other sporting events. She again glanced at her watch. A half hour to N.C.I.S. She would be cutting it close, but at least the food would be hot when she turned on the TV.

  Sister Veronica reached the Santa Fe and glanced at the car next to hers. The windows were fogged up and she couldn’t tell if anyone was in it. It crossed her mind that the spot would make a great lovers lane once the joggers and walkers left. She smiled. I suppose it qualifies as a form of exercise. She shrugged. Well, I still have my Tony DiNozzo.

  As she opened the door to her S.U.V., she could see and hear cars and trucks on the main road. Then the other car’s door opened.

  “Hello, Sister.”

  It was a man’s voice, vaguely familiar. And the way he pronounced “Sister” was strangely discordant. She turned as the man approached. He was dressed all in black and had something in his hand that glinted as a beam of light from a truck on the main road shimmered through the trees and swept over them. It also briefly illuminated his face and, with a start, she understood why the voice had seemed familiar..

  “You!”

  The man smiled, and punched her in the chest. And held his fist against her left breast. There was a sharp pain, but only for a second. It was replaced by a strange hollow feeling.

  Sister Veronica tried to say something, but couldn’t. She looked down as he withdrew the ice pick. She looked at his face again, which began blurring and shifting, so that his smile became lopsided, like that of the Joker in that Batman movie. Heath Ledger. The man also seemed to be getting taller, until she realized she was just sagging down toward the ground, the strength leaving her legs quickly.

  All these years, she thought.

  Sister Veronica wasn’t afraid. Even though she knew she was dying.

  And why.

  CHAPTER 2– BASS AND DREAMS

  Nothing clears the mind after a tawdry marital stakeout than matching wits with some bass and pickerel. I decided to head upstate to Greenwood Lake outside Poughkeepsie to do some therapeutic fishing. I would eat my breakfasts at a local diner where the waitresses called everyone honey and the eggs were runny, just like they should be. For dinner I would hit Maloy’s Tavern, a local watering hole in nearby Ellenwood known for good steaks, where I would drink bourbon and swap lies with other fishermen.

  Not that I had many lies to tell. I mean, fishing shouldn’t be a fair contest. A well-educated human, armed with the latest spinning tackle and shiny lures against creatures with brains the size of a pistachio should prevail. I consider myself a good fisherman. I did a lot of fishing as a youngster and had good memories of trips with friends. That’s probably why I still like to occasionally wet a line, even alone. It brings back those memories. As we get older, making new ones gets harder.

  But during my last two trips to Greenwood Lake, I had managed to land exactly one bluegill that must have been trying to mate with the Rapala lure that snagged him. The sunfish was almost as big as the lure. It’s not that there aren’t plenty of fish in the lake. During my previous trips I could see large swirls in the weeds and lily pads where the pickerel were ambushing shiners, and frequent explosions as bass smashed into insects and frogs on the surface. I probably could have done very well using live bait. But I consider myself a purist. I like to cast artificials. I have lures that mimic shiners, frogs, worms, crayfish, beetles and some things that look like they exploded out of someone’s chest in Aliens. A couple of them are large enough to have conning towers and attract depth charges from a passing destroyer. They wobble, wiggle and weave. They bubble, dart a
nd dive. They chug and pop along the surface like miniature motorboats. Most have multiple sets of treble hooks, with points sharp enough to split an atom. All are terrific for catching tree branches. Not to mention the occasional horny panfish. But the largemouth bass and pickerel in the well-fished lake have seen them all. Peanut brains notwithstanding, they are more wary.

  I’d been coming to Greenwood Lake since I was a teen-ager, when it seemed I always caught fish. For the past several years I’ve rented the same two-room, spider-rich cabin in the most secluded part of the lake. There is nothing like rowing across a mist-covered lake in the early morning when there is still a chill in the air and there is the prospect of catching a lunker bass. The row back, sans fish, is not as much fun.

  The rental agent said she would leave the key under the mat. It was late on a Friday and I headed to Maloy’s. The kitchen closes at 10 P.M. and I made it just in time to order a burger. I washed it down with three bourbon Old-Fashioneds. I think I’m the only person to order Old-Fashioneds in Maloy’s. I’ve been working off the same bottle of bitters for a couple of years.

  I spent Saturday and early Sunday beating the water into a froth with every lure in my arsenal. Even the bluegills ignored me. Perhaps it wasn’t mating season. At night in Maloy’s, I seemed to be the only one without a fish story, true or not. You can’t lie about fish if you didn’t catch one. I couldn’t even brag about the one that got away when it was an old shoe that fell off my hook before I got it into the boat. I was beginning to wonder if a well-placed hand grenade could be considered an artificial lure.

  Then, late Sunday morning, I was working some structure near a large fallen tree. The tree and some of its submerged branches had already gobbled up two of my more expensive lures and I had decided to try a weed-less contraption that looked like a can opener. There weren’t any weeds, but I was hopeful that the wire guard around the single hook would prevent a snag on anything. Still, the casting was tricky. There was a small gap between the tree and the shore where the water was darker than elsewhere. I suspected there was a deep cleft or pool. My first four casts either hit the shore or the tree trunk, short of where I wanted to be. I created a lot of ripples, so I sat back and waited 15 minutes until the water calmed. If there was a fish in that pool, I didn’t want to spook it. If there wasn’t, I was going to feel pretty stupid. But feeling stupid went with the territory. After all, I was hoping for a fish that wanted to eat a can opener.