“I didn’t have an orgasm. I don’t think he noticed. I think he was nervous, too.”
Ronnie was right about that. I had never been with a woman that I was in love with. I remembered that our nervousness had resolved itself the next time we were together. Her diary entry for that night ended with one word:
“Bingo!”
I laughed.
“What’s so funny?
It was Huntley, back from the john.
“Nothing. Inside Catholic joke.”
The candid sexual descriptions ended after a while, not because we stopped having sex, but because it was clear from her writing that our relationship deepened. It was also obvious that she had fallen for me. She wrote that she hoped we had a future together. That had never come up in our conversations, but even as callow a youth as I was, I knew that she might be the one. But the distance from “might” to “is” can be measured in light years when you are in college, so I don’t think either of us felt ready to pull any sort of commitment trigger.
Ronnie had met my parents, who were charmed, and I was anxious to meet hers. But she kept putting me off. Remembering what Arman Rahm had said about her father, I wondered about her home life. Finally, I pressed the issue, telling her I was tired of always picking her up outside her home, or at the corner of her block. The next time we had a date, she told me to ring the doorbell.
***
The Frosts lived in a two-story Colonial on Coverly, in a small Emerson Hill development adjacent to Basket Willow Swamp. The lawn wasn’t unkempt, but it wasn’t as manicured as those of the grander homes that flanked it. The house itself needed a paint job. However Harry Frost made his money, he didn’t seem to be spending it on the old homestead.
Mrs. Frost answered the door. She was a good-looking woman. I knew, from Ronnie, that her mother had just turned 50. But she looked older than that, and I could see a line of gray roots in the part down the middle of her brown hair. She greeted me warmly, if a bit nervously, saying that Ronnie would be right down. I had on pressed khaki pants, a white button-down shirt and my Brooks Brothers blazer. I wanted to make a good impression on her folks. I was taking Ronnie to dinner at the Colts Neck Inn down the Jersey shore. We never made it.
Mrs. Frost led me into the living room, where Harry Frost was watching TV, drink in hand. He gave me a perfunctory handshake without getting out of his lounger. I could smell the booze on his breath. Mrs. Frost invited me to sit on a couch. I did. She engaged me in small talk, occasionally trying to bring Harry into the conversation. That ended when he told us both to shut the fuck up. She admonished him gently, with a nervous laugh. He promptly went berserk, screaming at her. Ronnie rushed into the room, grabbed my arm and pulled me out the door. I could hear her father yelling even after I got into my car. Ronnie started crying.
“Take me to the lake,” she said.
Silver Lake was a huge reservoir that at one time supplied much of Staten Island with its water. Now there were two huge tanks under the reservoir constantly refilled from the Croton Watershed upstate. The lake was now mainly for show. Swimming was banned after a couple of kids drowned in its deep, murky waters. But I knew where there were holes in the fence hidden by brush and trees, so that never stopped me. I’d taken Ronnie there a few times, to a secluded spot. We often skinny dipped and then made love on a blanket. Usually, hormones interceded and we reversed the order. This night there was no swimming at all. I had no sooner put down a blanket when she took off her clothes. It was barely dusk, but I had chosen that spot wisely. Ronnie lay down and reached out her arms to me. Her face and breasts were flushed with desire. Even secluded as we were, she made love with a frenzied abandon that forced me to cover her mouth every time she came. Finally, we lay exhausted. More tears ran down her face. She apologized about her father. Lamely, I told her it was OK. She never spoke about her family or asked me into her house again.
The summer wound down. I had to go back to school for my junior year and Ronnie was starting freshman year at Rosemont. We both realized that we were heading into unchartered waters in our relationship. I knew the dangers. She was beautiful and more worldly. She had become more sexually proficient and experimental. How cool would I appear to her when she was surrounded by all the rich swains from Penn and Villanova on Philadelphia’s Main Line. She promised to remain faithful, but the thought drove me crazy.
But she liked to write and her letters were terrific. Her correspondence was full of fun, and to even my unpracticed eyes, contained sections that only lovers sent. Our phone calls were also intense. My doubts slowly evaporated.
Then the letters and calls stopped, one week before the Christmas holiday break. I couldn’t reach her at school. I didn’t know any of her new friends there, and the school administration, citing privacy rules, was not forthcoming. I called her parents’ house. The line was disconnected. I spent a couple of miserable days at school and finally made it back to Staten Island, only to find out that her whole family had moved away. I tried to find out where they went, but no one knew. I ran into Arman Rahm at a basketball game. He said the family’s disappearance was news to him, and I believed him. Arman has always been a lot of things, including a killer, but his word is good. I did what every red-blooded American boy does in the circumstances. I got drunk, and stayed drunk. I face-planted on neighbors’ lawns. I got into bar fights. But family and friends watched out for me and I eventually straightened out. Next thing I knew I was back at school. It was a busy time for me. College activities. Other girls. Future planning. Eventually, I gave up actively trying to find out what happened. Occasionally, I’d get a bee in my bonnet and tell myself I was going to track her down. Heroically rescue her from some horrible situation. I’d smite a bad guy and she would throw herself in my arms. And invariably something would happen to distract me. I went on the cops. My folks died within a year of each other. The Twin Towers came down. Yeah, I guess you’d say 9/11 was a distraction, as were a couple of subsequent tours overseas when my reserve unit was called up.
I never heard from Ronnie Frost again. But I never forgot her. God, I loved that girl.
***
I ripped the page from the pad on which I’d listed the names in Ronnie’s diary that I’d remembered. I went out to the outer office and made a copy, which I gave to Broderson.
“I checked off the ones I think still live on Staten Island, or at least have family here,” I said. “I occasionally run into one or two of them. If I remembered the married names of the girls, I put them in parentheses. Don’t know their addresses, but they shouldn’t be too hard to track down. As far as I know, they are all respectable citizens with families. I can’t vouch for the ones who moved away.”
“What are you going to do with the list?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t want you interfering in my investigation.”
“You’re on my turf, now, Broderson.”
He looked at me.
“What about ‘Matt’? He’s not on your list. What was he to her?”
Sharp cop.
“Got me. I didn’t know him, which is why he’s not on that list.”
“She was apparently glad he left.”
Very sharp cop.
“What about that Aunt Betsy she mentioned? Didn’t you meet her?”
“No. Have you spoken to her?”
“I did,” Huntley said. “Nice old lady.” He looked at me and smiled. “She remembers Matt. Her nephew.” He paused. “The nun’s brother.”
They saw my reaction.
“You didn’t know she had a brother,” Broderson said.
“Ronnie never mentioned a brother. I met her parents once. I thought she was an only child. I never saw any sign of another kid. Where is he? Does he know she’s dead?”
“Nobody knows where he is, or if he’s even alive. Once he left, that was it. The aunt has never heard from him. Hell, we were only able to find her because she was listed as the next of kin in the records of the S
isters of St. Jerome. She said her sister died years ago and she doesn’t know what happened to her brother-in-law. The church notified Aunt Betsy about her niece’s death, of course, but she was too frail to make the trip for the funeral.”
“She sent a nice wreath and offered to pay for the service,” Huntley interjected. “Like I said, she is a nice lady. But the Church took care of everything. Sister Veronica was well-liked. Funeral was mobbed.”
“But no family,” I said.
“No family.”
I was trying to get my head around the fact that a woman, a girl, really, that I had once loved was murdered, had a brother she never mentioned to me even in our most intimate moments and was buried without any family present.
“Son of a bitch.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Give me Aunt Betsy’s address.”
“Why would we do that,” Huntley said.
“For one thing, you’re drinking my bourbon. For another, you know I’ll find it out eventually, so you will save me some time. That will make it easier to do the legwork that you both hope I will do, and share whatever info I get with you. We’ll probably go over a lot of the same ground, but I have local knowledge that could come in handy. You said you’ve hit a brick wall so far, so what’s the downside?”
“Some of the cops we spoke to around here do seem to think you know your stuff,” Broderson said.
“Aw, shucks. They’ve been bragging about me again.”
After the two cops left, I Googled the murder. As I expected, the killing of a school principal, a nun, was a huge story in Worcester, as it would have been anywhere. It had made the media elsewhere, including New York. I had nailed the horny dentist and my client’s wife at the motel on a Friday, the second day of my stakeout. After emailing the photos to my client’s lawyer, I went fishing upstate. I had not read a paper or checked the Internet, so I missed any mention of Ronnie’s murder.
But I had that dream.
CHAPTER 7 - AUNT BETSY
Aunt Betsy’s full name was Elizabeth Spigarelli. She lived in a small Victorian on Elwood Place, a quiet, tree-lined street not far from Silver Lake Golf Course. She met me at the door holding a cane. I followed her into a small sun parlor where we sat ourselves in front of a small coffee table on which was arrayed an antique silver tea service and a plate of sugar cookies. Off in a corner was another small table with a white lace cloth that draped to the floor. On it was a stained-glass lamp and a silver-framed photo of a man in an Army uniform.
“I don’t get many visitors,” she said, pouring me a cup. “This is a treat.”
I couldn’t remember when I ever had tea at 9 A.M. in the morning. I desperately wanted a cup of coffee, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask a woman using a cane to make me one. I girded myself for a long visit. And before I could even pose a question, she stood up and hobbled off. I should have asked for the coffee.
“I forgot the cucumber sandwiches,” she said when she came back, precariously balancing a small tray in her non-cane hand.
Cucumber sandwiches? A very long visit.
The crusts on the sandwiches were carefully cut off, and they were rolled, held together by little toothpicks with tint paper ribbons. Those ribbons somehow always wind up in my teeth. I hadn’t had a cucumber sandwich since Alice and I attended a wedding reception at a mansion in Newport and I made the mistake of skipping lunch in anticipation of a hearty meal. Alice, who knew the bride, had warned me to go easy on the champagne because I shouldn’t expect “a Caligula-like New York wedding” from the old-line Protestant family hosting the reception. As usual, I should have listened to her. The opulence of the surroundings had misled me. The bride’s father had obviously not become opulent by spending his money freely. The cucumber sandwiches turned out to be about the only food served. I must have demolished two trays on my own, caught in a desperate finger sandwich/champagne loop that left me with a splitting headache. Only the fact that I found a decent steakhouse in town saved the day.
“I hope you like these,” Aunt Betsy said. “And I made the cookies myself.”
Despite the memories, the sandwiches weren’t half bad. And I’ve never met a sugar cookie I didn’t like, so I was prepared to make her happy.
“You said on the phone you wanted to talk about Ronnie?”
“Yes, ma’am. I knew your niece many years ago and just found out about her murder. I would like to find out who did it.”
“You are not a policeman.”
“A private investigator. But even if I wasn’t, I’d want to find out. I have the skill set, and I intend on using it.”
She’d never asked my for identification. Maybe she didn’t care. People her age often don’t.
“I spoke to the police, you know. They came all the way from Massachusetts.”
“Yes. That’s how I found you. I also spoke to Detectives Broderson and Huntley. I didn’t know Ronnie had any relatives on Staten Island.”
“She was a nun, you know.”
I didn’t say anything.
“The church took care of everything. I offered to pay for the funeral. Even bring her back to Staten Island. There is a family plot out in Resurrection Cemetery. You know where that is?”
“On the South Shore. Pleasant Plains.”
“That’s right. It’s a Roman Catholic Cemetery. Dorothy Day is buried there. The social worker. I think they may make her a saint, even though she was a libertine when she was young. But she apparently turned out all right. My niece was just as much of a saint, I think, although I don’t imagine she’ll get the credit due her. You need a couple of miracles to be considered for sainthood.”
I sipped my tea, took a sugar cookie and smiled encouragingly. I popped the cookie in my mouth. Within a second, I realized that I had met a sugar cookie I didn’t like. My smile became less encouraging. In fact, I barely suppressed a grimace. Swallowing was no picnic, either. I took a desperate swig of tea. The old lady didn’t seem to notice.
“Anyway,” she continued, “the church up where she worked in Massachusetts took care of everything. I wanted to go to the service, but I was still recovering from breaking my hip. Slipped on the ice. A lot of my friends are moving to Florida. The only ice they have down there is in cocktails. I’m doing better now, except for the arthritis and some other little things I can’t pronounce. But thank the Lord my Medicare covers them. You caught me on a good day.”
“I’m sure you did what you could. The offer to pay for the funeral was very generous.”
“Well, Ronnie was my sister’s only daughter. My sister was Catherine Mercer, by the way. That is our family name. I thought about taking it back after my second husband died, but I was worried that might confuse the pension people. I get two checks, you know.”
Two dead husbands? I had visions of Arsenic and Old Lace. Was I destined to be buried in the basement, poisoned by an old biddie’s cookies?
Aunt Betsy reached down and took a cookie, her first. She took a delicate nibble. I was relieved.
“Cathy was seven years younger than me. Ronnie looked just like her. They were both so pretty. I just doted on my niece. She was a pip when she was young, full of life. I saw a lot of her when she was young, when things weren’t going so well in her house. This was kind of a safe haven for her. That’s her picture over there, by the way.”
I hadn’t spotted the photo, which was inside an ancient glass-doored secretary. Aunt Betsy started to rise.
“I’ll get it, ma’am,” I said.
“You just stay right where you are, young man. I’m not dead yet. My orthopedist, Dr. Bhupathi, says I have to keep moving to keep the joints loose. I’m just getting use to this cane after the walker.” I’d spotted the walker in a corner. “And please call me Betsy.”
She went to the secretary and brought the photo back.
“She was only 14 or 15, I think,” she said, handing me the frame. “Isn’t she pretty?”
It was a jolt seeing Ronnie’s photo. It was
a younger, but just as stunning, version of the girl I’d once loved.
“I didn’t get to see much of her in recent years,” Aunt Betsy said. “Once or twice a year, she’d come down to visit.”
It was almost as jolting to realize that Ronnie had visited Staten Island regularly and I didn’t know about it. I wondered if she had considered looking me up. What would she have said? How have you been? What’s new? I”m sorry I pulled an Amelia Earhart and left you in the lurch? Even without the mystery, I doubted that many nuns looked up their old boyfriends.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Oh, one of the holidays. Last Christmas. Or maybe it was Easter. But we spoke on the phone several times a year, and she was always sending me nice cards and small presents, which was thoughtful. I don’t imagine she had much money.” She picked up the tray. “Please, have another cookie.”
“Thank you, but I’m watching my weight. The cucumber sandwiches were very filling.”
“I know what you mean. So many things have too much sugar and butter in them. It’s not good for you. Dr. Arocho is very strict with me. He’s my internist. I seem to have a lot of doctors. You collect them as you get older, I guess. Anyway, I make these cookies without sugar or butter. I use Splenda and olive oil instead.”
Mystery solved.
“Did Ronnie ever tell you that she was worried, or frightened about something, or someone?’
“No. No. Our conversations were always very pleasant. I’m religious, you know. Go to mass just about every day again now that I can get around more. Mrs. McVey picks me up, and then we go to the Kings Arms for breakfast. I usually have just coffee and toast, otherwise it would be too expensive. Colleen, that’s Mrs. McVey, often insists on paying. She knows I’m on a limited income. I always tell her that we can just come back here and have sugar cookies, but she says she prefers to eat out.”
Mrs. McVey was apparently a survivor.
“Anyway, Ronnie and I talked religion mostly. She was very well educated, you know.”
“Did you know why her family moved from Staten Island?”
SISTER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 4) Page 4
