SISTER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 4)

by Lawrence de Maria

  After the murder, several joggers had come forward to say that they had seen Ronnie running alongside a portly man. That man turned out to be a local rabbi, Gil Markowitz, who said he left the Blackstone River before the killing, an alibi confirmed by the owner of a Chinese takeout where Markowitz stopped on his way home to pick up some egg foo young. I made a mental note to ask Cormac, fond of both Chinese food and puns, if a rabbi’s alibi could be called a “ralibi.”

  The more I read, the more I became convinced that Ronnie’s murder was not a random act of violence limited to the Worcester area, but was tied to the cases Cormac had discovered.

  It was getting late and I decided to visit the crime scene before it got dark. I knew it was a waste of time. But I wanted to see where Ronnie had died. I know some detectives, good, tough, pragmatic detectives, who insist they get some sort of karmic boost from walking the ground where a person was murdered. I don’t know about that. All I do know was that it couldn’t hurt. I also know that a fair amount of crimes are solved by detectives doing things that couldn’t hurt.

  I had a reservation at a Hilton Garden Inn that turned out to be only five minutes from the site. Huntley gave me directions from the hotel to the site.

  “Can’t miss it,” he said.

  I checked into my room and headed to the site. Naturally, I missed the cutoff to the jogging trail. Twice. When I finally got there, the sky had turned threatening. I noticed several cars parked in the spot where Ronnie’s body was found, presumably belonging to the joggers I could see working their way along the path adjacent to the river. She had been spotted by two teen-agers who had pulled into the small lot for some back-seat jogging. Considering their raging hormones, it was to their credit that they got out of their car to check out someone who appeared slumped over by an open car door. By the time the police arrived, the rain had washed away any clues, including footprints and car tracks. Since it was a gathering place for both cars and runners, even on a good day the mixture of tracks would probably have been forensically worthless.

  I got out of my car and walked down to the jogging path. As runners finished up, they had to pass me. I stopped all the men and asked a few questions, mostly to study their faces and reactions. None of them looked like Hannibal Lecter. I knew that didn’t mean anything. Ted Bundy was a prolific serial killer and he looked like a boy in a Norman Rockwell painting. In a non-profiling spirit, I also stopped a couple of women, hoping that they may have noticed something, or someone, that made them wary. Women, perhaps feeling more vulnerable, tend to notice things like that. But no one had.

  There was a rumble of thunder and the sky began to darken. The first large drops of the approaching storm began to splatter the dirt and leaves. More joggers came up from the river, sensibly trying to beat the storm. It was useless to try to stop them for a chat. Most were sprinting to their vehicles. Soon, no more showed up. I was getting soaked, so I got in my car and turned on the wipers.

  The police had concluded that Ronnie had opened the door to her car, turned around and was stabbed. Ambient body temperature indicated she died approximately two hours before the lovebirds showed up. It would have been dark or near dark. If her assailant had come by car, which was likely, she might have assumed he was also a jogger. She might have even been comforted, thinking she wasn’t alone in the woods.

  However it happened, Ronnie didn’t fight back. There were no defensive wounds on her hands, or skin under her fingernails. Whoever killed her probably took her by surprise. Either that, or she knew her killer. Of course, one assumption did not preclude the other.

  An SUV pulled into the lot next to mine and a man in a jogging rain suit got out. Undoubtedly, a real health nut. Wasn’t going to let a little rain stop him. He had taken only a couple of steps toward the path when a bolt of lightning hit a tree nearby, followed almost immediately by an appalling crash of thunder. My car actually shook. The jogger might have been a health nut, but he apparently wasn’t crazy. He stopped dead in his tracks and jumped back in his SUV and drove away. It was a smart move. The thunderstorm lasted a half hour and the rain came down in sheets. Finally it slowed to just a steady downpour. There was still some lightning and thunder, but now it was in the distance.

  Mine was the only car left in the lot. It was quite dark and I reflected that the situation probably wasn’t much different than the night Ronnie was killed. I sat in my car looking out through my rain-smeared windshield, imagining myself as a killer waiting for her to emerge from the river path. Open the door. A quick but savage upward thrust. Get back in the car and drive off. It wouldn’t have taken any more time than it took the lightning bolt to scare the jogger back to his car.

  It would have been so easy.

  After all, if I was right, the killer had plenty of practice by then.

  ***

  Joggers often vary the time of day when they run. So, early the next morning I went back to the jogging trail by the river. I was dressed for the occasion, since I was almost as interested in perspiration as inspiration. I needed a workout.

  It’s hard to chat up joggers while they’re chugging along, but I did fall in step with a few of them and squeezed in some breathless questions. I also corralled one or two joggers as they took a break, usually leaning against a tree. I knew I was spinning my wheels. I really didn’t think my killer was a local jogger, and if he was, the odds were against me “running” into him during the times I was at the river. But at least I got my five miles in.

  When I walked back to my car, there was a Worcester police cruiser next to it. Two uniformed cops got out and approached me. One of them had sergeant stripes on his arm. Big smiles, hands resting easily on their holsters.

  “How are you doing?” the sergeant said.

  “Just dandy. What can I do for you fellows?”

  “You can start by telling us why you are back here this morning annoying joggers. And why you want to know so much about the nun’s murder.”

  I should have figured that with the recent killing my activities the night before might have made some people nervous. Someone had called the cops and they came back to check things out. I was suddenly very conscious of the small .25 Beretta pistol in my sweat-jacket pocket. I carry it when running, in case I’m attacked by an angry squirrel.

  “My name is Rhode. I’m a private detective looking into the murder. I’m carrying a piece and my I.D..”

  Their guns came out.

  “Turn around and put your hands on the roof of your car,” the sergeant said. Then he came up and patted me down. “Easy does it, pal.”

  The other cop moved to the side so his partner wouldn’t be in the line of fire. My gun and I.D. were removed and the sergeant stepped back. A couple of joggers came up from the trail and gave us a wide berth.

  “Call Broderson or Huntley in Homicide,” I said. “They’re in this.”

  “Keep an eye on him, Tommy,” the sergeant said.

  He got in his squad car and picked up his phone.

  After everything was straightened out, the sergeant handed me back my gun and I.D.

  “Let me ask you something, bud,” he said. “Do you really think this is a productive use of your time?”

  “Well, I found out not to mess with Worcester’s finest.”

  “Have a nice day.”

  I went back to the Hilton, showered and hit the breakfast buffet. Then I called the main Boston phone number for the Sisters of St. Jerome, the order to which Ronnie had belonged. I wanted to learn as much as I could about her recent life. I found out that Sister Veronica had for a time worked in the school that also housed what remained of the shrinking order. I made an appointment to see the Mother Superior, Sister Barbara, at 4 P.M. This made two cases in a row for me hunting a possible serial killer with religious motives. In fact, the last one ended with my name almost being added to a killer’s list. Maybe I was being punished for liking The DaVinci Code and Angels and Demons.

  I spent the next several hours at the main
branch of the Worcester library, reading every newspaper article I could find on Sister Veronica and Ave Maria. I had to get a temporary library card, good for two weeks, to use the system’s computer room, where I went on line to check for additional coverage. There was, of course, a rash of stories about the murder and subsequent investigation. None of them mentioned the possibility of a serial killer, but I knew that would soon change. There were several recent photos of Ronnie, at various local functions and, of course, school activities. I may have been seeing her through rose-colored glasses, but she still looked lovely to me, despite her conservative dress and hair style. Old memories stirred and I quickly pushed them back into the vault. I was now looking at a woman and a nun, after all.

  I grabbed a burger at a Shake Shack and then went to my hotel and checked out.

  CHAPTER 13 - MOTHER SUPERIOR

  The Sisters of St. Jerome headquarters, if you could call it that, was located in a triple-decker house on Stellman Road, in the Forest Hills section of Roslindale, six miles southwest of downtown Boston. From Worcester it took me about an hour, mostly on I-90, the Mass Pike. There was a sign on the well-manicured front lawn that identified it as Casserleigh House. When I pulled up, a small group of kids, of every skin shade, speaking Spanish, were just heading up the stairs. I followed them in. They all peeled off noisily to a classroom, where I could see a woman cleaning a blackboard. She turned and said something to the kids, who immediately quieted. I was reminded of my own no-nonsense Catholic school upbringing. Not a bad thing, I now realized.

  There was a sign pointing toward an administrative office, where a very pretty young woman wearing an expensive-looking blue and yellow jogging outfit was working on a computer. She looked up and gave me a dazzling smile. I tried to out-dazzle her while I told her who I was there to see. She picked up a phone, punched a number and said, “There is a Mr. Rhode here for you, Sister Barbara. He says he has an appointment” She listened for a moment, then hung up and looked at me. “She’ll be right over. Please have a seat.”

  “Excuse me, but I have to ask. Are you a nun?”

  I suppose I should have said ‘sister,’ but it would have sounded weird.

  She laughed. It was a nice, throaty, laugh.

  “I’m a volunteer here at Casserleigh. Two days a week. I’m a junior at Wellesley.”

  “I believe Wellesley is known as one of the Seven Sisters. Maybe you qualify after all. I saw some kids go into a classroom. I know I’m a little rusty on modern Catholicism, but since when did the Church start Sunday School? Isn’t that taking ecumenism a bit far?””

  “You are rusty, Mr. Rhode. The Catholic Church has long offered Sunday School classes, although not as widely as Protestant sects. But strictly speaking, what you saw is not Sunday School. We offer English-language classes after mass. Most of the children only hear their native language at home. Mrs. Herrera has the Hispanic kids. I get the French-speakers next week.”

  “I’m relieved. You don’t look much like a Sunday School teacher, either.”

  She looked me up and down.

  “Does your line of bull work on women everywhere, or just inside a convent?”

  She was still smiling when she said it.

  “Isn’t this where you point out that I’m old enough to be your father?’

  She leaned forward and put her elbows on the desk. As a trained detective, I noticed that she did not appear to be wearing a bra.

  “I might have, but you don’t look anything like my father. Are you coming on to me?”

  A Wellesley girl, she could handle just about anything. Or anyone. I had to laugh.

  “Maybe. But I’m not serious. I’m kind of spoken for. I just want to be able to say I did it in a convent. I may never be in one again.”

  “I never met a private eye before. Spoken for, or otherwise. I’m crushed.”

  “No, you’re not. But since you aren’t a nun, I can say you are one gorgeous young woman without worrying about being struck by lightning.”

  “Thank you. Ah, here she is.”

  I turned to see a tall, white-haired woman in her 70’s who looked like a Mother Superior from central casting. She gave me an appraising glance. I suspected she had heard some of our conversation.

  “I’m Sister Barbara,” she said, putting out her hand. “Nice to meet you Mr. Rhode. I see that Ann has you well in hand.”

  “You can’t imagine.”

  “Oh, yes I can. Why don’t we go into my office?”

  As I turned to follow her, Ann whispered, “Busted, again.”

  I followed the Mother Superior through a door to a small inner office and she waved me to a seat. She was wearing a long gray skirt and white blouse with sleeves and a gray cardigan. Sensible, sturdy black shoes.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Rhode?’

  “As I mentioned on the phone, I’m looking into the murder of Sister Veronica in Worcester. I understand she once worked here.”

  “You also mentioned that you were a private detective. Do you have some sort of identification?”

  I took out my license and passed it over to her.

  “New York,” she said, passing my I.D. back.

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you working for her aunt?”

  “No. I’m doing this on my own.”

  “Why?”

  “I knew her when she was Veronica Frost. I want to find out who killed her.”

  “Why not leave it to the police?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  She smiled.

  “You were involved romantically?”

  Sister Barbara didn’t get to be a Mother Superior by being slow on the uptake.

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “About a year.”

  “When was this?”

  “When I was in college.”

  “Sister Veronica went to Rosemont, near Philadelphia.”

  “Yes, I know. She was in high school when we met.” That got me a Mother Superior look. “We dated her senior year at Notre Dame Academy on Staten Island.”

  She smiled again.

  “Don’t look so defensive, Mr. Rhode. I’m not going to smack your hand with a ruler. High school seniors can be quite attractive. We knew that Sister Veronica had a life before finding her vocation. If anything, I believe it made her a better person and a better Sister of St. Jerome.”

  “I think she was a pretty good person to start out with,” I said. “But it did surprise me to find out she took vows. I know she went to church and all, but she didn’t wear her Catholicism on her sleeve. I thought vocations came earlier in someone’s life.”

  “God’s call can come at any time, Mr. Rhode. I was in my early 40’s.”

  “I was just wondering if anything happened after I knew her that set her on the path to a religious order. It may have some bearing on her murder.”

  Mother Superior ignored me.

  “You said you were involved for only a year. What happened?”

  “I went back to school. We corresponded. Then she and her family moved suddenly and I never saw or heard from her again.”

  “Did you try to find her?”

  “Yes. But they left no trail. And then, well ….”

  “Life.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now, after all these years, you feel compelled to learn what happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  The “why” again. I was beginning to wonder who the detective was.

  “I said it was complicated. I’m not sure myself. I think we both thought we had a future together.”

  “You were in love with her.”

  “Yes.”

  “And she with you?”

  “She said so, to me, and in her diary.”

  “Diary?”

  I told her about Ronnie’s journal.

  “Postulants are supposed to get rid of such things. Oh, never mind. We all break some rules. So, the polic
e tracked you down through her journal. Sounds like they know what they are doing.”

  “They had a special interest. I went to Holy Cross.”

  “In Worcester.”

  I nodded. She looked wary.

  “And you are not still a suspect?”

  “I had an alibi. The cops never thought I was a serious suspect anyway. They were hoping I’d know something. Holy Cross is no more than a coincidence. But I believe in serendipity. It’s almost as if Ronnie is drawing me back, as if she wants me to solve her murder. Does that sound silly to you?”

  “No. Now I have a rather delicate question for you. You were wondering whether something happened to her after she left Staten Island. After she left you. Something that may have driven her to a religious life.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that she was driven.”

  “I understand. But is it possible that you were the reason she changed her life?”

  I had to admit that the thought had crossed my mind. I knew I wasn’t the reason her entire family left Staten Island. But, as Detective Huntley intimated, was it possible our affair had somehow soured Ronnie on human love? Our sex lives had been fulfilling. That much she even put in her diary. And we had fun out of bed. We talked about everything, except her family. We made plans. I believed her when she said she was faithful to me at college. But could I have missed something?

  “No,” I finally said. “It wasn’t me. We were happy. If something happened, it came later. As you pointed out, perhaps it was just a calling.”

  Sister Barbara looked thoughtful.

  “I believe you,” she said. “There is another possibility. Which also may be difficult for you to accept. It is not unusual for a woman who is conflicted about a vocation, and who has never known love with a man, to, how do I put this delicately? Well, for a man they would say he was sowing his wild oats. Trying out the merchandise, so to speak. Don’t look so startled, Mr. Rhode. Surely you realize that not every nun comes to us as a virgin. I myself was married before my husband passed away.”