by Kylie Logan
Nick groaned. “You mean the walls in the chapel—”
“Yeah, the whispering walls. The girls…” There was no reason Nick would know the details, so Jazz explained. “They got in plenty of trouble for Titus. Seems to me this would be the perfect revenge. They whispered to her while she was praying and made her believe she was being talked to by angels.”
“And that night you found her crying—”
“I heard the girls run out of the chapel. Maybe Bernadette did, too. Maybe that’s when she finally figured out there was a very real human explanation for what she thought were angel voices.” She glanced at the prayer cards. “Bernadette didn’t just want to believe that the angels were talking to her; she did believe it. Then maybe she caught a glimpse of the girls. Or maybe one of them gave away the hoax by laughing or something. That’s when Bernadette realized what was really going on. She found out she’d been tricked and it broke her heart. It destroyed her faith. How sad.”
“What are you going to do about it?” Nick wanted to know.
“I’ll have to tell Eileen.” The prospect made Jazz feel awful. “I’ll leave it up to her and the board. Maybe if the girls confess to what they did…”
“They won’t get expelled?”
Jazz put her face in her hands. “I thought the Titus hoax was cruel. This was even worse.”
“You’ll deal with it.” Nick put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “For now…”
He stood and peered into the box. “There’s a ton of other stuff in here,” he said. “It’s going to take us days to go through it.” He pushed that box to the side and retrieved the box from the long-closed department store. “This one’s smaller. How much junk could be in here?”
He was right. There wasn’t any junk in that box. Just a white blanket, carefully folded and tucked between pieces of tissue.
Knitted or crocheted?
Jazz never could tell the difference. “Pretty,” she said.
“And we can at least eliminate this box as telling us anything.” Nick popped the lid back on the box. “One more?” he wondered, but he didn’t wait for Jazz’s response. He grabbed the last of the archive boxes.
“Looks like stuff from a desk,” he said, and taking out the contents, he piled it on the table. “A calendar. That might be helpful except it’s from a few years before Bernadette was killed. Pens. A tape dispenser. A stapler. And…” He was nearly through the contents of the box, and his hands stilled over his work.
“That thing with Maddie…” He looked at Jazz at the same time he scooped some papers from the box. “Bernadette said there was nothing to it, right?”
“You mean the Parkers thinking Bernadette was stalking Maddie? No proof. Not a shred.”
“Then what about these?”
What he’d found were photos, probably taken by a phone, definitely printed at home on eight-by-ten pieces of computer paper.
Maddie buying popcorn at the movies.
Maddie in the park on her bike.
Maddie at the mall, walking beside her friend Della.
Jazz’s blood went cold. Her stomach bunched. She’d been about to pop down another grape, and she knew it would never get past the lump that suddenly blocked her throat. She tossed the grape back in the bowl. “The Parkers were right. Bernadette was stalking Maddie.”
“It sure looks that way.”
Jazz’s insides twitched. “What does it mean, Nick?”
“I’ll have to show these to Lindsey. It could have something to do with motive.”
“You mean Maddie’s parents found out and…?”
“Or Maddie didn’t like what was going on.”
“No.” Jazz refused to sit there and listen to that kind of nonsense. She refused to even consider that Maddie—sweet, sincere Maddie—could have possibly had anything to do with the skeleton on the fourth floor. “You can’t possibly think—”
“I don’t know what to think. And neither do you. I only know these pictures might be important.”
“But Maddie said she didn’t have a problem with Bernadette.”
“Maybe Maddie didn’t know she was being followed.”
Jazz wrapped herself in a hug. “That makes it creepier than ever.”
“Here’s more creepy.”
Carefully, he drew one last thing out of the box. It was a wreath of what had once been white and red roses. Now the flowers were brittle, brown. The tiny pieces of baby’s breath that were tucked between the roses crumbled when Nick lifted the halo out of the box and they sprinkled the table like snowflakes.
“Maybe not so creepy.” If only Jazz felt as assured as she tried to sound. She looked at the dead flowers, thought of the dead woman. “Flowers don’t mean anything. Maybe Bernadette was a bridesmaid or something.”
When Nick set the halo of flowers on the table, Jazz touched a finger to the nearest rose. A petal dropped off. The petals beneath it were crusted with gray mold.
Nick pulled one last thing from the box, an envelope. He opened it and unfolded the letter inside. He read it over quickly and whistled low under his breath. “You were right. Bridesmaid or something. Listen to this.”
The letter was short and to the point.
“‘Every soul has its mission and there are as many different missions of redemption as there are souls on this earth. It is with the deepest sadness and regret that we inform you that after a great deal of discussion and even more prayer, we have decided that your mission is not in alignment with ours. As of this day…’”
Nick checked the heading on the letter. “It’s dated about sixteen years ago.”
“From who? To who?” Jazz wanted to know.
He held up a hand to tell her to be patient. “‘As of this day, you are released from all obligations, responsibilities, and association with the Little Sisters of Good Counsel. From this day forward, you will no longer be Sister Mary Philomena but will be known once again as Bernadette Quinn.’”
CHAPTER 16
The Little Sisters of Good Counsel was a teaching order of nuns whose mother house was located near Niagara Falls, Canada. It was a three-and-a-half-hour drive, but after she and Nick found the letter from the convent Jazz gave in to the exhaustion that overwhelmed her once the adrenaline drained. She was able to get a couple hours of sleep before an officer from the local precinct called to say he was on his way to take her statement about what had happened the night before, and ready to go by the time the officer left.
She was just going into the kitchen when she banged into Nick just coming out of it.
“What are you still doing here?”
He put a hand to her forehead, though how that was supposed to help she wasn’t sure. “Maybe you have a concussion. You don’t remember I slept on your couch last night?”
“Of course I remember.” Since Wally’s leash wasn’t on the hook where she always kept it, she knew Nick had already walked him and he’d fed the dog, too, by the looks of the smears of yogurt in his bowl, so she poured herself a cup of coffee and took a long drink. There was nothing like waking up to really good coffee. Nothing like waking up to a man who was considerate enough to walk the dog, feed the dog, and get a pot brewing while she was still in the shower.
Jazz twitched the thought away. “It’s a Saturday in June,” she said. “It’s noon and…” She didn’t need to confirm it, but she peered out of the window anyway and tried to sort the facts in her head. One of the things Nick loved most was coaching kids baseball and he did a good job of it. Every Saturday, come rain or shine, as long as his work allowed it. He was dedicated, devoted. There were times back in the day when she clearly remembered telling him he was obsessed. It wasn’t like she could blame him. She was convinced he was making up for all the attention he’d never gotten when he was a kid. Jazz got it. She really did. She knew it was why he never made an exception. He’d never let the kids down. “The sun is shining. Shouldn’t you be at the baseball field?”
“Just got off the phone with
Patrick.” He was Nick’s assistant coach, a young guy who taught phys ed in the Cleveland public school system. “He’s taking over for me today.”
“You’re missing baseball?” It was Jazz’s turn to put a hand to his forehead. “Because…?”
“Because I’m going to Canada with you, of course. I’ll drive. My car is more comfortable than yours.” It was as easy as that. At least to Nick.
To Jazz it was the equivalent of a hug, or a declaration of undying love, and for a moment all she could do was drink in the wonder of it all and the way warmth tangled around her heart.
Nick went right on. “We’ll have to stop by my house and pick up my passport.” At that moment, the toaster popped, and he took two pieces of toasts out of it, slathered them with butter and apricot jam, and gave them to her, then gave the dog a look. “What about Short Stuff? He’ll be okay here until we get back tonight?”
Jazz had just taken a bite of toast and she washed it down with a sip of coffee. “I called Greg Johnson as soon as I got up. He’s going to take Wally to his house for the day.”
“So we’re set.” Nick rubbed his hands together. “If traffic’s not too bad, we might even have time to stop and look at the falls.”
* * *
They didn’t, but then, it took longer than they anticipated to find the convent. It was outside the city of Niagara Falls in an area lush with vineyards and wineries that on an afternoon so beautiful were packed with tourists. Traffic was snarled and they made wrong turns once, twice, three times before they finally found what they were looking for.
The Sisters of Good Counsel were headquartered in a massive building that looked like it came right out of a fairy tale. Or a medieval history book.
Stone turrets. Steeples. Stained glass. The windows along the front of the convent were arched, the gardens between the parking lot and the front door were filled with statues of angels and saints, and the deep, bonging sound of a low-pitched wind chime, like a cathedral bell, carried on the breeze. The wide front steps they climbed were bordered by rhododendrons, their purple flowers just popping.
Inside the front door in an entryway with a polished stone floor, a fresh-faced young woman in a gray skirt and trim white blouse welcomed them, and when they told her they wanted to talk to Sister Mary Henry, who according to the convent’s website was the Mother Superior of the order, she escorted them down the hallway and deposited them in an office that reminded Jazz of her own office back at St. Catherine’s with its high ceilings, its glass-fronted bookshelves. There was a portrait of a veiled woman above the fireplace to Jazz’s left, and a statue of the Virgin Mary on her right. The walls, paneled with dark wood, were filled with photographs.
“Nick, look. All the nuns in these pictures, they’re wearing flowered crowns. Like the one we found in Bernadette’s things. Look at what’s printed on this one. It says this is the day the nuns took their final vows.” Jazz didn’t need to point it out. Nick had picked right up on the flowers, and while Jazz was still thinking about what it meant and what it could tell them, he was already going from one photo to another, reading the dates on the brass plaques on each oak frame and the names of the nuns printed below where each sister stood.
“She was how old?” Nick wanted to know.
“Bernadette?” Jazz really didn’t need to ask. “I’d say thirty-five or so at the time of her death.”
“So we don’t have to bother with these.” Nick ignored the pictures that were obviously old. Sepia-toned prints, black-and-white group shots. The older the photos were, the more young women they featured. The more modern photos …
Jazz went to stand at Nick’s side and look at the picture he was examining.
“This one’s dated 1979. Dozens of girls back then…” She looked over her shoulder toward the older pictures. “And after that…”
“Not an easy life, I don’t imagine.” Scanning the dates, Nick skipped past an entire wall filled with pictures. “I’m thinking we at least need this century. Bernadette wouldn’t have been here any earlier.”
They found the newest pictures—and the smallest groups of new nuns—and discovered what they were looking for.
A line of seven newly minted nuns in their gray habits and wearing crowns of red and white roses.
“Sister Mary Philomena.” Jazz poked a finger against Bernadette’s nose. “There she is right in the center. She looks so happy.” She stepped back to take in the whole picture. Like all the nuns in it—the tall, skinny girl, Sister Mary Margaret, to Bernadette’s left and the short, round African-American girl, Sister Mary Veronica, on her right—Bernadette’s shoulders were back, her head was high, her smile was a mile wide.
Jazz felt a pang of sadness. “It was all she ever wanted. That’s what Eileen and I always said about Bernadette. All she ever wanted was to be a nun. We thought we were only kidding. We didn’t know how spot-on we were. But why—”
Her question had to wait. The door opened and a woman with a round face and busy hands strode into the room and introduced herself as Sister Henry. Like all those nuns in all those pictures, she wore a long gray habit, but unlike the nuns in the early pictures, her head wasn’t completely swaddled in a wimple and a veil. She wore a simple white veil bobby-pinned toward the back of her head and her hair, a glorious silver, peeked from beneath it. Her skin was pale and smooth, but there were wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Maybe because she smiled so much. Maybe because she always had her eyes closed when her lips were busy with prayer.
Sister Henry directed them to the guest chairs in front of her desk and sat down, her hands clutched together on the desktop.
“What can I help you with?” the nun wanted to know.
This was Nick’s bailiwick. Questions. Answers. Cooperative informers. Uncooperative witnesses. But he looked Jazz’s way and let her take the lead.
She explained that she had worked with Bernadette Quinn, the woman who was once Sister Mary Philomena.
“Oh.” Sister Henry’s expression gave nothing away, but her hands fluttered over the blotter on her desk. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a very long time.”
“According to the picture over there…”—Nick looked that way—“she took her vows here seventeen years ago.”
“Seventeen? Is it?” Sister Henry’s smile came and went like the wrens that fluttered around the feeder outside her window. “The years blend together so easily. Yes, as you saw from the picture, Sister Philomena did take her vows here. But if you’ve come to see her, I’m sorry to tell you, she’s no longer with us. She hasn’t been for a good many years.”
Jazz had wondered how she would break the news, but really, there was no other way than to get it over quickly. “Bernadette is dead.”
Sister Henry bowed her head and made the sign of the cross on her chest, taking the moment to collect herself. When she was done, she looked from Nick to Jazz. “I’m sorry to hear it, but I don’t understand how we can help.”
“She was murdered.” They were everyday words to Nick. Part of his job. Still, he gave them their due, and gave Sister Henry a moment to suck in a breath, stifle a sob.
“I’m so very sorry to hear that.” Her voice was low, pensive. Her bottom lip trembled. “What happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Jazz told her. “She was teaching at St. Catherine’s school in Cleveland at the time of her death. But none of us knew…” Thinking about it now, it seemed incomprehensible. “When she filled out her employment application, when she sent in her résumé, when she went through a series of interviews, Bernadette never mentioned that she’d been a nun.”
“I imagine that’s because she didn’t stay with us,” Sister Henry said. “But what a blessing it is to hear she had the opportunity to teach. It’s what she always wanted, and she’d already begun taking college courses when she was here. She was meant to be a teacher.”
“And she was a good one,” Jazz told her. She ignored the memory of the torn holy cards
, of the picture of the angel mangled in an angry fist. “She was dedicated and devoted to her beliefs. That’s why we’re wondering why you told her to leave.”
Sister Henry sat quietly for a moment, her hands flat and suddenly still against the desktop. “It was a very long time ago,” she finally said. “Let me…” She got up and crossed the room to a row of file cabinets, opened a drawer, looked through it. She shut the drawer and turned around.
“Those records must have gone to our IT facility. There’s no reason we would keep them, not when they’re so old.”
“But you were here then, right?” Jazz knew she was. According to the website she’d consulted before they left Cleveland, Sister Henry had been involved in the administration of the convent for nearly thirty years. “You must remember. A promising teacher. Very devoted. Very religious. She didn’t just up and decide to quit. The letter you sent her—”
The color drained from Sister Henry’s cheeks. “She showed you the letter?”
“‘Your mission is not in alignment with ours.’ That’s what you told her. You signed the letter, Sister.”
“I really can’t help you.” Sister Henry hurried back to her desk, but she didn’t sit down, a clear signal that she expected Jazz and Nick to stand, too, to leave. “I wish I could. I have a feeling you’re looking for something that might connect Sister Philomena’s experiences here to the awful thing that happened to her, but obviously if there was anything like that, I’d remember it. And I don’t. I can only tell you she wasn’t suited to this life. We had no choice but to ask her to leave.”
