by Jane Haddam
To get rid of it,” Bennis said from her place at the wall. “That’s where the poison was. Presumably.”
“Well, that’s simply not possible,” Reverend Mother General said. “The poison couldn’t have been in the chicken liver pâté, because if it had been Mother Mary Bellarmine would have been poisoned first.”
“Ah,” Gregor said, straightening up a little.
“She wasn’t poisoned first,” Bennis said, “unless she was and it’s taking the Devil’s own time to take effect I saw her going out to the garden just before I came over here.”
“No,” Gregor said.
“No what?” Bennis asked him.
“No, it isn’t taking a long time to take effect. Not if it’s what I think it is. I have to go out to the garden.”
“If you want Mother Mary Bellarmine, I can call her in here,” Reverend Mother General said. “It’s going to take you an age to find her out in that crowd of Sisters.”
I’m not going to find Mother Mary Bellarmine,” Gregor said. Then he turned to Bennis. “You stay here and guard just the way I told you. We don’t want something else to go missing.”
Bennis made a face at him, but Gregor ignored it. In a way, she had a right. He really didn’t need her to guard the table anymore. Reverend Mother General could have guarded it herself, or—if she had something else to do, which she probably did—she could have detailed one of the Sisters from Japan or the Philippines to do it. There had to be hundreds of nuns in this crowd who didn’t know either Mother Mary Bellarmine or Sister Joan Esther. Gregor simply wanted to make sure Bennis was out of his hair until he was ready to deal with her, which wouldn’t be for a while yet. There was a lot he needed to find out
He went through the doors at the back into the garden, pausing for a moment on the threshold to get his bearings. The crowd before him was thick and uneasy, but not heavily distressed. From what he could hear of the conversations going on around him, most of the Sisters still thought they had been presented with a case of unfortunate, untimely, but perfectly natural death. Gregor hoped they’d go on thinking that way. It would make them a lot more tractable in the short run, and in the long run it didn’t matter what they’d thought when. He peered through the clots and collections of chattering nuns in habit, to the statue of the Virgin in her rock garden grotto, festooned in blue ribbons. There was another statue of the Virgin, this time as Madonna with Child, at the back near the rear gate. That was festooned in blue ribbons, too. The nun standing just in front of him had one of those blue plastic pins on which seemed to be spelling out the tried-and-true sentiment: ON MOTHER’S DAY REMEMBER THE MOTHER OF GOD. It only seemed to be, to Gregor, because it was in German. Gregor gave the probably German Sister a small smile and pushed past her, into the center of the garden.
Actually, to call this enclosed space a garden was misleading. It was at least an acre worth of land, extending back far beyond the point where thick hedges marked the end of the rear yard of St. Cecelia’s Hall. Aside from the two statues of the Virgin in their miniature hand-made grottoes, there were three small gazebos and a half a dozen extra-long picnic tables with benches to match. The picnic tables were occupied, mostly by Sisters drinking coffee or picking at plates of food. Only the older nuns were eating well. Maybe they were more comfortable with the idea of dying because they were closer to it than the younger Sisters were. Maybe they’d just seen more of it.
Gregor drew close to the nearest gazebo and saw that it was occupied by a flurry of young nuns helping a middle-aged one with large trays of Chicken Cordon Bleu. This must be the French food Sister Mary Stephen and Sister Francesca had been talking about inside. Gregor moved along to the next gazebo, which turned out to be Spanish, and then to the third and last, so far across the lawn to the back he could see past the rear gate to the field beyond. The field was full of nuns, too. Fortunately, this gazebo was the one he had been hoping to find. He recognized Mother Andrew Loretta right away. She must have come out to give the news to her nuns. Her nuns were scurrying around a sushi bar, smiling graciously at the few people who spoke to them and tending to the food in their care as if it were alive.
Gregor went up to the side of the gazebo and leaned in. “Mother Andrew Loretta?” he asked. “Could I talk to you for a moment?”
Mother Andrew Loretta had been speaking to one of her novices in Japanese. Mother Andrew Loretta was Japanese, although with a name like that Gregor found it hard to remember unless he was looking straight at her. She said one last thing to the young Sisters and then stood up, walking over to where he stood as if she were gliding.
“Mr. Demarkian,” she said. “Have you come for food? With the tragedy people aren’t eating much.”
“Has the word got around already?”
“Oh yes.” Mother Andrew Loretta nodded. “It got around in ten seconds flat, if you ask me. Of course, nobody knows what to make of it. Neither do I. Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat?”
“Positive.” Actually, Gregor was starving. It just didn’t seem right to be chowing down at the start of a murder investigation. In fact, it was what his nieces would call “gross.” “Actually, I came over here because I thought I’d heard something—but I must have been wrong.”
“Heard what?” Mother Andrew Loretta said.
“Heard that somebody sent you a lot of fugu and a fugu chef all the way from Tokyo,” Gregor said.
Mother Andrew Loretta went white. “Do you think that’s what it was? Fugu poisoning? But it couldn’t have been, could it? Where would Joan Esther have gotten the fugu?”
“I don’t know where,” Gregor said, although he thought he did, “but it doesn’t matter if there isn’t any to be had. The symptoms of her death were consistent with fugu poisoning. Didn’t you notice?”
“I’ve never seen anyone die of fugu poisoning.” Mother Andrew Loretta shook her head. “But you’re wrong about there being none of it around, Mr. Demarkian. We have boxes of it down in the freezer. And we have that fugu chef you heard about. He’s supposed to be here right this minute.”
“Why isn’t he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have any idea where he might have gone to?”
“Not a one.” Mother Andrew Loretta took a deep breath. “It’s all very complicated, you see, Mr. Demarkian. Japan is not like the West.”
“I’ve noticed,” Gregor said.
Mother Andrew Loretta ignored him. “Japanese men—Japanese men who have been reared in Japan—don’t take orders from women. And I mean they simply don’t take them. In this country, my position is enough to guarantee my authority. In Japan it would not be. So, as far as I can figure out, Mr. Yakimoto had something of a temper tantrum this afternoon—”
“About what?”
“I’m not sure,” Mother Andrew Loretta said desperately. “I wasn’t there. He spoke to Sister Agnes Bernadette and caused some kind of terrible problem in the kitchen. Really, Agnes Bernadette was not clear and I didn’t have a lot of time and Agnes Bernadette being the way she is…” Mother Andrew Loretta hesitated. “You know, it might have been about the fugu. It was about someone tampering with something. I did understand that much. At the time I simply assumed… well, fugu chefs are so temperamental. It’s part of their… well, part of their job, in a way, I suppose. And there was this temper tantrum and Mr. Yakimoto took an ice hatchet or something to one of Agnes Bernadette’s statues and then he just disappeared, and he’s been gone ever since. I suppose because he’s been sulking.”
“That was this morning,” Gregor repeated.
“More or less,” Mother Andrew Loretta said. “I was at the nine thirty Mass, so I didn’t get back until late, you see. And then I had so much to do… but it could have been the fugu. It could have been. Maybe someone opened one of the boxes and Mr. Yakimoto is upset.”
“Maybe,” Gregor said.
“But if Sister Joan Esther died from fugu poisoning, it would have to have been deliberate,” M
other Andrew Loretta said. “Unless… oh, dear. You don’t think Agnes Bernadette could have used it for something, do you? I mean, that she might not have understood what the problems with it were and she’d run out of fish and then she used some—”
“Were the problems explained to her?” Gregor asked.
“I don’t know,” Mother Andrew Loretta said.
“Would she be likely to want fugu to put in chicken liver pâté?”
Mother Andrew Loretta blinked. “Chicken liver pate… that sounds terrible. Oh, I remember. That was what was in the ice sculptures. I had some. It wasn’t so bad. But there couldn’t have been fugu in the chicken liver pâté, Mr. Demarkian, because here I am. Still alive.”
“There couldn’t have been fugu in the general recipe of anything else,” Gregor said, “because here is everybody, still alive.”
“Except Joan Esther,” Mother Andrew Loretta said.
“Who didn’t have access to anything somebody else hadn’t eaten,” Gregor pointed out.
“Oh yes she did.” Mother Andrew Loretta shook her head. “She had access to that chicken liver pâté—if you bring it down to the chicken liver pâté that was in the ice sculpture on Mary Bellarmine’s table. Mary Bellarmine didn’t eat any. I was standing right next to her at the very next table and I could see that her cracker was empty. Mary Bellarmine being Mary Bellarmine, I’m surprised she didn’t announce to the room how much she hated… oh, dear.”
“Did Mother Mary Bellarmine hate chicken liver pâté?”
“I don’t know,” Mother Andrew Loretta said. “I was being uncharitable and I was speculating and I was… oh, dear. You can’t really think that, Mr. Demarkian. Not about any nun. Not even about Mother Mary Bellarmine.”
What Gregor was thinking about Mother Mary Bellarmine at the moment was that she was much too smart a woman to pull the sort of obvious stunt this seemed to be. Of course, he’d only met her for a moment. He could be very wrong. He had been very wrong at times in his life. Still, at the moment, he didn’t like the way this was setting up.
Neither did Mother Andrew Loretta. To say she was distressed was to euphonize. She looked sick.
“Mr. Demarkian,” she protested one more time, “I know how, to someone in your profession, this must look—”
At just that moment there was the sound of squealing breaks in the distance and the intermittent whoop that told Gregor some cop somewhere was operating his siren by hand.
“Excuse me,” Gregor said. “I think the cavalry has arrived. I’d like to talk to you later, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course I wouldn’t mind,” Mother Andrew Loretta said. “I’d be happy to talk to you any time. But you must understand—”
Gregor never heard what it was he had to understand. He was already halfway across the back garden to the doors of the reception room.
3
HE REACHED THE DOORS from the reception room to the foyer just as a wedge of plainclothesmen came through the front door. He stopped and let them come to him, giving himself a chance to look them over. He was fairly sure he’d never met any of them before, in spite of the fact that he knew a good portion of the police personnel on the Main Line. The leader of this group was reasonably young—maybe in his early thirties—and very aggressive. He had an ethnically Italian face that reminded Gregor unpleasantly of Mario Cuomo. He seemed to be looking for trouble. Once he spotted Gregor, he seemed to have found it.
Gregor stood his ground. The young man came across the foyer and into the reception room, walked around Gregor the way a child might walk around a maypole, stopped so close that his nose and Gregor’s were very nearly touching and said: “Oh, my God. If it isn’t the Armenian-American Hercule Poirot.”
Chapter 2
1
THERE WAS AN EMACIATED figure of Christ on a crucifix on the wall of the foyer closest to the right-hand outside door, and Gregor Demarkian stood looking at it for a long time after he’d been called “the Armenian-American Hercule Poirot.” “The Armenian-American Hercule Poirot” was the name the Philadelphia Inquirer had given him in the middle of their somewhat overenthusiastic coverage of his first extracurricular case, and it was the name that had been picked up gleefully by everybody from People magazine to Oprah. By now, Australian aborigines and Trobriand islanders knew enough to call him that. Gregor had given up showing that he minded. It was useless to show that he minded. The description was now as closely connected to him as his hair. What he had every intention of showing that he minded was the tone in that young man’s voice, and the quick dismissal that made it clear that the young man regarded Gregor Demarkian as nothing better than an amateur. Gregor Demarkian had never been an amateur. As for the young man, anybody who looked that much like Mario Cuomo ought to be careful about the kind of fun he made of other people.
At the moment, the young man was not making fun of anybody. He was just standing five feet in front of Gregor’s face, looking past Gregor’s shoulder into the reception room. Gregor would have thought he was eager to get on with it, except that he looked so smug.
This was not going to be easy. Back in the Bureau, when Gregor had a title and a recognized line of authority, he had been able to command respect without ever raising his voice. Since then, he’d been able to command it without the title or the line of authority, just because he was that kind of man. “Believe you have the right,” one of his instructors at Quantico had said, “and everybody else will believe it, too.” That worked 99 percent of the time. Gregor didn’t think it was going to work here.
Still, he had to try. Reverend Mother General was expecting him to. He looked away from the crucifix and held out his hand. The young man was really very, very young. Gregor thought he had to be a good two to five years younger than most men would be when they made detective on a major suburban force.
“My name is Gregor Demarkian,” Gregor said, with his hand still out. “What’s yours?”
“I am Lieutenant Jack Androcetti.” The young man ignored Gregor’s hand. “I’m in charge here.”
“So I gathered.”
“You are not in charge here.”
“I never said I was.”
“You are not necessary to this investigation.”
Gregor cocked his head. “Not even as a material witness? I did catch the body as it fell.”
“Fell?”
“Sister Joan Esther. She was standing up and then she fell over. I caught her.”
“I think we ought to discuss this,” Reverend Mother General said.
She had been in the reception room when the police arrived, still hovering around the table where Sister Joan Esther had died. Now she came out under the arm Gregor was using to steady himself against the reception room door and glared nunnily at Jack Androcetti. “Mr. Demarkian is a friend of this Order,” she said severely. “Mr. Demarkian acts for us in many capacities. Mr. Demarkian is certainly authorized to act for us in dealing with you.”
Jack Androcetti was not impressed. “Is Mr. Demarkian a lawyer?” he asked.
“No,” Gregor said.
“Then Mr. Demarkian has no standing here,” Jack Androcetti said, smirking. “This is a murder investigation. We will therefore—”
“How can you possibly know it’s a murder investigation?” Sister Scholastica demanded.
Where she had come from, Gregor didn’t know. People seemed to be crowding in from everywhere, even from the front walk, behind the police. With the exception of Bennis—whose frenzied smoking and frantic whispering Gregor could hear coming from behind him into his left ear—and Norman Kevic, the crowd was entirely composed of nuns. Scholastica stepped forward from the sea of habits and drew herself up to her full height, looking all the more Valkyrie-like because strands of bright red hair were escaping from her veil. Even Jack Androcetti started to look a little impressed.
“How can you possibly know it’s a murder investigation?” Scholastica repeated. “We don’t know it’s a murder investigation. W
e just know that Sister Joan Esther died.”
“Fine,” Jack Androcetti said. “But you called us. This Sister Esther must have died in somewhat unusual circumstances.”
“Sister Joan Esther,” Reverend Mother General said.
“She could have died from anything,” a little nun piped up. “I saw it happen. One minute she was fine and the next minute she was falling over. It could have been a heart attack.”
“It couldn’t have been a heart attack,” Gregor said, “because she was turning blue.”
“People turn blue from heart attacks,” another Sister said. “I’ve seen them. I’m a nurse.”
“They don’t turn that kind of blue,” Gregor said gently.
“I think somebody ought to call the Archbishop,” Sister Mary Alice declared. “Maybe if we get someone from the Chancery down here the police will start to make sense.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Mary Alice,” another nun said. “Get your consciousness raised. We don’t need a priest to take care of us. We can take care of ourselves.”
It was beginning to get to him. Gregor could see it. The big liquid eyes were glazing over. The hangdog face was freezing into rigidity. The hands were opening and closing, opening and closing, like Captain Queeg’s in The Caine Mutiny. Lieutenant Jack Androcetti was coming very close to losing it.
“Just a minute,” he said finally, when the babble had risen high enough so that he could no longer be accused of interrupting anyone in particular. “In the first place, we’re going to secure the scene. That’s what we do when we get to a scene. We’re going to secure it Where is the scene?”
