The Secrets of Bones

by Kylie Logan

  “It wasn’t because of angels, was it?” Jazz wanted to know, wondering if somewhere along the line, sometime before she’d been fooled by three mush-headed teenagers, Bernadette had been lured by the promise of angel voices. But even before Sister Henry answered, she knew what the nun would say. Her expression was blank, confused. If Bernadette had told her she talked to angels, if the convent had cut her loose because they didn’t want to be associated with a woman who was delusional, Sister Henry would have at least flinched. It wasn’t the kind of thing anyone—especially a nun—could pretend had never happened.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sister Henry assured Jazz. “We have angel statues here, of course. Angel meditations. We pray for the guidance of our guardian angels. But Sister Philomena…” She gave her shoulders a shake. “She was no more or no less devoted to angels than any of our other sisters. Not that I remember.”

  Sister Henry moved toward the door and Jazz knew she wouldn’t have another chance.

  “It’s unusual, though, isn’t it?” she wanted to know. “Once a nun takes her final vows—”

  “We’re not the Mafia, dear.” Sister Henry’s smile was as wide and as innocent as all those smiles on all those nuns in all those pictures. “If things aren’t working out, we’re not going to make you stay. Or put cement shoes on you.”

  “So you don’t remember much about why Bernadette was asked to leave, but you do remember things weren’t working out?” Nick asked.

  At his question, Sister Henry turned a laser look on Nick. And a blind eye to the question. “While you’re here, I’d suggest you stop into the chapel. It’s quite lovely. It’s on the Canadian Register of Historic Places, you know. I can send someone with you if you’d like a tour.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Jazz told her. “We’ve got a long drive back home. Thank you, Sister.”

  “Thank you for letting us know what happened.” She strode to the door and opened it so they could leave. “You can be sure we’ll pray for Ms. Quinn’s soul.”

  “Well…” Outside in the hallway, with Sister Henry’s door closed behind them, Jazz turned to Nick. “That was odd, don’t you think?”

  “People are odd when they don’t want to talk.”

  “What is it you suppose she doesn’t want to talk about?”

  His shrug wasn’t encouraging. “Maybe Bernadette was a drinker. Maybe she beat little children. Maybe she stole relics from the chapel and sold them on the black market.”

  “Maybe,” Jazz had to admit. “But if that was the case—”

  “If that was the case”—Nick wound his arm through hers and they headed for the door—“Sister Henry is going to keep her mouth shut because she doesn’t want to admit the convent knew what Bernadette was up to.”

  “Which means what we pretty much found out was nothing.” Outside, Jazz drew in a breath of late-spring air, hoping it would make her feel better. It didn’t. Neither did the birdsong that filled the air or the scent of the roses in glorious bloom nearby. She was faced with the prospect of three-plus hours in the car, with ribs and a back that still ached and knees that stung like the devil. That, and the sad reality that they’d come a long way and were no further along in figuring out what happened to Bernadette now than they were when they left home.

  Nick tried his best to cheer her up. “You want to stop at a winery on the way home?”

  “You want to drink and drive?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Of course not. But we could buy a bottle and sit out on your front porch with it tonight. What do you say?”

  “You’re not working?”

  “Not until Monday.”

  “And you don’t have other plans?”

  “Are you dog training tomorrow?”

  It was a fair question and a few weeks ago—heck, a day ago—she might have had to think about her answer.

  She wrinkled her nose. “My knees hurt too much to go to training.”

  “I’m thinking that means a bottle of wine tonight and a couple sandwiches from La Bodega sounds like a plan?”

  It wouldn’t help with the investigation, but it was the best idea Jazz had heard in a long time and she grabbed Nick’s hand. At the bottom of the wide stone steps, a movement over on their left caught her eye and she turned that way.

  “Chapel,” Nick said, looking where she was looking, at the stone building with its steep roof and the single nun who was heading toward its door. “I hear it’s historic.”

  “Not at all what I’m thinking,” she told him, and she took off in that direction.

  She got there just as the chapel door closed and pushed it open so she could hurry inside where a nun—a short, squat African-American woman—was just getting ready to genuflect toward the altar. Jazz waited until the nun had paid her respects and stood.

  “You’re Sister Veronica.”

  The nun stuck out a hand to shake Jazz’s. “I am. But I don’t think we’ve met. How do you—”

  “We’ve just been looking at the photos in Sister Henry’s office,” Jazz explained. “There aren’t many other African-American nuns in them. You took your vows at the same time Sister Philomena did.”

  Sister Veronica laughed. “That was a very long time ago. We were kids.”

  “And now?” Nick asked her.

  She patted her tummy, round beneath her gray habit. “A few more years, a few more pounds. I’m not the sacristan, but I can show you around the chapel if you like. We have some lovely late-Victorian stained-glass windows, a few relics that are interesting.”

  “Actually”—Jazz thanked her for the offer with a smile—“we came to find out why Sister Philomena left the convent.”

  “Oh.” Sister Veronica tucked her hands into the sleeves of her habit. “I remember the day it happened. Sister Philomena … well, we were told not to call her that once she left so I’ll just call her Bernadette. Bernadette and I, we were good buddies. We loved watching Cary Grant movies and sipping hot chocolate together in the evenings!” Her smile faded. “I missed her for a very long time. I guess I still do. I hope she’s teaching. My goodness, that’s all that girl ever wanted to do. Bernadette was still learning the ropes, but we could all tell that someday, she’d have a sort of magic around her when she stood at the front of a classroom. These days…” Sister Veronica sighed, and the cross she wore around her neck rose and fell along with her chest. “Every time I walk into a classroom, I think of Bernadette. That’s a good legacy, don’t you think?”

  With a cough, Jazz cleared the sudden lump in her throat. Still, it wasn’t easy to find her voice, or the words, and Nick must have known it.

  “We’re sorry to tell you,” he said, “that Bernadette Quinn is dead.”

  Sister Veronica’s eyes welled and she sniffled. “Poor dear.” She shook her head. “Poor, dear Bernadette. I’ll never—” Her voice broke, and from somewhere deep in the folds of her habit she pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her cheeks. “I’ll never be able to watch another Cary Grant movie without crying.”

  They gave her a minute to compose herself, but delivering the news about Bernadette wasn’t the reason for their visit and Jazz knew they couldn’t leave Sister Veronica alone with her grief, not until they’d done what they’d come to do.

  “Do you know why she left here?” Jazz asked the nun.

  Sister Veronica bowed her head. “It wasn’t her choice.”

  “We saw the letter,” Nick told her. “Sister Henry says she doesn’t remember the details. You were friends. Maybe you—”

  Sister Veronica shook her head. “It was a hard time. I remember how she cried and cried, even before Sister Henry and the others delivered the news that she could no longer stay. It broke her heart.”

  “What did she do?” Jazz wanted to know.

  “Do?” With a shake of her shoulders, Sister Veronica pulled herself away from her memories. “She didn’t do anything. Not that I know of. I always just assumed…” Her mouth twisted. “
I wonder why Sister Henry didn’t mention it. Before Bernadette left here, she was not well. She wasn’t eating. She wasn’t sleeping. She had always been so enthusiastic about wanting to teach, about life. And yet in those weeks, she was a different person. Quiet. Withdrawn. I tried to talk to her. Of course I did. She told me she was fine. Then she was told to leave and after that … well, Bernadette never spoke another word. Not to me. Not to anyone here. I tried to contact her once she was gone, but I never heard back. I’m sorry I can’t help you more than that. I always assumed she left because she was just too ill to stay on. I hope…” A bittersweet smile lit Sister Veronica’s face. “I pray she had some years of happiness.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Was Bernadette happy?

  The thought haunted Jazz even while she and Nick shared that bottle of wine. Even when he asked if he could stop by the next day, just to check on her.

  She thought about it while they went out for coffee on Sunday afternoon, while she took her days off—Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—and worked with Wally on long stays and handled the admin work that went along with keeping things in the search and rescue and cadaver dog group running smoothly.

  She was still thinking about it Thursday morning when she arrived at St. Catherine’s to do the million last-minute things to prepare for the first session of summer school.

  It was early, and the school was dark, empty. Jazz’s sneakers slapped against the floor, the sound echoing back from the high ceilings.

  She hit the security code on the pad outside her office door and got herself settled.

  If only it was so easy to quiet the questions that whirled through her brain.

  What had happened that day on the fourth floor?

  And why?

  Who could have hated Bernadette enough to take her life?

  Or wasn’t it hate at all?

  Eileen was due to come in at ten, and while she still had time and plenty of quiet to let her mind work over the problem Jazz made herself a pot of coffee and watched, lost in thought, as it brewed. She poured a cup and stopped cold. It wasn’t her imagination. She’d heard the soft sounds of footsteps behind her.

  She wasn’t alone.

  The memory of what had happened on Friday night washed over her like an icy wave. She held on tight to the coffee cup, all set to hurl its contents at the person behind her. Muscles tensed, she drew in a breath, turned.

  And let out a squeal. “Why didn’t you say something when you walked in?”

  Sarah laughed and sidestepped Jazz to get a cup of coffee. “I did say something. I said I was here to get the art studio ready for the first group of girls next week. You were so out of it, you didn’t hear me.”

  “Sorry.” Jazz went over to her desk, but she didn’t sit down. She was too tense. Too dissatisfied with spending her days thinking and worrying and wondering—and getting nowhere fast.

  She took a drink of coffee. “Thinking,” she told Sarah.

  “About your weekend?”

  It wasn’t the question; it was the sly smile that lit Sarah’s expression, the sudden color in her cheeks that perfectly matched her pink skirt and top.

  Jazz cocked her head. “What do you know about my weekend?”

  “I know a certain cop stopped by to see you.”

  Jazz grumbled, “Nick talked to my brothers.”

  “Hal specifically. And Hal talked to Matt of course.” Way too proud of herself for having the inside scoop, Sarah sashayed to the nearest chair and sat down. “Matt called me from the station to tell me the news.”

  “There is no news,” Jazz told her, but even before she said it, she knew Sarah would never be satisfied. Not with an explanation that flimsy. “I got jumped on Friday.” To prove it, she pointed to the bandages on her knees and elbows.

  Sarah’s mouth dropped open and she sat up. “Why didn’t you call—”

  “I knew you were out with Matt. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Honey, life-and-death things are not a bother.” Sarah got up, the better to take a close look at the scrape on Jazz’s forehead, the tiny cut on her throat. She narrowed her eyes. “I hope Nick took the son of a bitch down.”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “How much did he get?”

  “I wasn’t robbed.”

  “Then why—”

  “Why do you think?”

  Sarah dropped back into her chair. “Someone wants you to stop asking questions.”

  “And that only makes me want to ask more questions.”

  “Are you getting any answers?” Sarah wanted to know.

  Jazz had called Eileen on Monday and told her what she and Nick had found out about Bernadette over the weekend, so she didn’t feel guilty sharing the news with Sarah, and when she was done telling the story of the Little Sisters of Good Counsel, of the convent, and the fact that Bernadette had been unceremoniously kicked to the proverbial curb, Sarah nodded.

  “It explains a lot about her,” she said.

  “But it doesn’t tell us anything about how she died.” All weekend, Jazz had been thinking about what she’d do at school that morning when she thought she’d have a few hours to herself. She still had the time, and she wasn’t going to let the fact that Sarah was there stop her.

  She went into Eileen’s office and came out carrying the ring of little-used keys. She jangled them at Sarah.

  “You coming?”

  Sarah gulped. “To the fourth floor? I always thought it was creepy to have a part of the school that’s all locked up and never used. Now that I know there was a dead person up there…” She bounded out of her chair. “You bet I’m coming. I wouldn’t miss this for the world!”

  At the locked door that led to the fourth-floor staircase, Jazz stopped and counted off the keys.

  “Number six.” As if would prove something, she showed the key to Sarah. “Eileen always keeps the keys in the same order and number six is the key to this door. It’s back where it belongs now, but on Assembly Day when we came up here to get the room ready for the dog demonstration, the key was out of place.”

  Sarah wrinkled her nose. “Eileen used it and put it back in the wrong place?”

  They both knew Eileen didn’t make those kinds of mistakes.

  It seemed like a no-brainer to Jazz. “Or someone else used it and put it back in the wrong place.”

  “Like the killer.” Sarah made a face. “Or maybe Bernadette. Maybe she took someone up to the fourth floor. Or invited that person to meet her there. Maybe she didn’t realize how carefully Eileen kept the keys on the ring, how she kept them in a certain order.”

  “Except if it was Bernadette…” Jazz stuck the key in the lock and turned it. “How did the key get back on Eileen’s key ring?” She swung open the door. “Ready?”

  Sarah’s gaze darted up the steps. “I’m not so sure. What do you think you’re going to find up there?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” Jazz swung out an arm, inviting Sarah to go first, and once she did Jazz stepped into the small landing at the bottom of the stairs and closed the door behind them.

  “You’re not…” She was already on the stairs, and Sarah’s face was a pale oval in the half darkness. “Are you locking us in up here?”

  Jazz had been examining the door and yes, that’s exactly what she was planning on doing. “Just trying to figure it out,” she said. “If you were meeting someone up here … or you were coming up here with the intention of killing someone, how would you know you wouldn’t be interrupted? But see.” She turned on the flashlight app on her phone, the better to show Sarah what she saw. “You don’t need a key to lock the door from this side. There’s this turn thingie.” Jazz turned it and the old lock clunked into place. “You could be up here, locked in. And no one would know it.”

  “That’s not very comforting,” Sarah grumbled, and when Jazz gave her a poke she scurried up the steps.

  Up in the dormitory, Jazz looked around. Except for the scuff marks f
rom the shoes of so many police officers, so many technicians picking and poking at Bernadette’s bones, nothing had changed from the day Jazz brought the dogs to the attic.

  “Bernadette’s cousin told me that when he delivered a pizza that last day before Christmas break, there was a woman in Bernadette’s classroom with her,” she told Sarah. “You think the woman could have come up here with her?”

  “And killed her?” It was warm outside, hot and stuffy in the attic, but still, Sarah chafed her hands over her arms. “Another teacher?”

  “I wish I knew.” Jazz walked the perimeter of the attic, checking out the room from every angle, looking at the stairs, the windows. “According to Nick…” She ignored the look Sarah slanted her at the mention of his name. “Bernadette was strangled. So I’m thinking the killer came at her…” She rushed up behind Sarah and wrapped her fingers around Sarah’s neck, and after an initial second of surprise Sarah played along. “There probably would have been a struggle. This is probably just about right where Bernadette fell.”

  “Well, I’m not getting down on the floor.” Sarah wiggled out of Jazz’s grasp. “I just took this skirt out of the wash.”

  “You don’t have to lay on the floor.” Jazz stepped back and looked at where they were in relation to the door of the utility area where the bones were found. “It’s not far, but there’s a reason it’s called deadweight. Bodies are heavy. My guess is especially if the killer was a woman, she wouldn’t have been strong enough to carry Bernadette. She would have had to drag the body over to the utility room.”

  “And she would have had to know the door was there, right?”

  Jazz knew what Sarah was getting at. “You mean, she would have had to know that little room was a convenient place to stash the body? You’re right, but you know what, that brings up something even more interesting.”

  The door was tucked into the space where the sloped ceiling and wall met, and Jazz hurried over to it and opened the door. Unlike the last time she’d fought with the door, it swung open easily. Like last time, it was dark inside the tiny room. “The killer would have had to be prepared,” Jazz said. “Nothing’s stored up here.” Just to be sure, she looked all around the attic. “That plastic the killer used to wrap the body must have been brought up here ahead of time. It was all planned. Down to the last details. The killer knew what was going to happen before he … or she … came up here with Bernadette.”