by Susan Hunter
My triumph in the mean girls skirmish didn’t count for much though, because Sherry was dead-on about my career. A problem ignored is a problem solved, is engraved on the Nash family crest, but this one stubbornly refused to go away. Over a year ago I’d had a blowup with my editor. My threat to quit was unexpectedly accepted, and suddenly I had no job.
I searched for months, but with papers folding and cutting back and an extremely negative reference from my last employer, I had no luck. My patchwork of freelance and stringer work wasn’t enough to pay the rent, and I was up against the wall when Max Schreiber, the man who got me started in journalism, called. I suspect my mother put him on to me, but he never said. He just asked if I was available to do him a favor and fill in for his senior reporter while she was out on maternity leave. So, there I was, back in Himmel at the job I’d left for bigger and better things 10 years earlier.
I didn’t plan to stay, but I was pinning my hopes on a long shot. During my long exile from regular employment, I’d outlined a nonfiction crime story about a murder I’d covered several years earlier. I’d finally found an agent willing to take me on when Max called. So far, he hadn’t had any luck placing my book, but hope springs eternal. Especially when it’s all you have to hold on to.
All I ever really wanted to do from the time I was 13 was to be a reporter on a big daily newspaper. I made it, too, until my temper finally got me into real trouble. If I couldn’t find a way to write about something more than county fair board meetings and school talent shows, I—well—I didn’t know what I was going to do.
“Chica! Hellooo, are you in there? Why isn’t your phone on? Did you lose it again? Is your battery dead?” A graceful hand waving in front of me broke my reverie. I looked up into the face of the Himmel Times junior staff writer, Miguel Santos. Six feet tall, shiny black hair, dark brown eyes, long thick eyelashes, a wide full mouth and skin the color of a chai latte. Miguel is also witty and charming and almost ten years younger than me. And gay. There is that, too.
“Sorry. I forgot to charge it last night and—”
“Yes, yes, I know your sad story. You need to go retro and get a beeper for back up,” he said, pulling out a chair and neatly folding his lean body into it. He was wearing a bright yellow cotton sweater under a brown leather jacket and looked like my favorite candy—chocolate with a lemon cream center. I must be getting hungry.
“Coop called right after you left. They released the identification of the nun and confirmation of death. I just had time to squeeze it in your story before Max said we had to go to press.”
“Nothing else? Like how she got in the river?”
He shook his head. “The autopsy is tomorrow. Coop said no official word yet. Good thing you were on the scene, or we wouldn’t have anything. Oh, and the pictures—muy bien, chica. Almost as good as mine,” he said, and winked. That’s how good looking he is—he can carry off a wink.
Sherry returned with my Jameson and burger.
“A Kir Peche for me, mi bonita,” Miguel said.
She rolled her eyes. McClain’s is a dark paneled lair of scarred wooden tables, duct-taped vinyl booths, and the after smell of a million cigarettes. It runs more to Leinenkugel and JD than to Miguel’s exotic cocktail orders, which are a source of wonder and amusement to the staff.
“You know this is just a working class bar. If you want fancy drinks, they have them over at the Holiday Inn.”
“Ah, but they don’t have you, my Sherry,” he said, taking her hand in both of his and flashing a smile with his perfect teeth. She pulled away, laughing, and went to confound the bartender with Miguel’s cocktail order. He turned back to me.
“Chica, when you gonna let me take you to see my Tía Lydia at her salon? Those lips, those eyes, that hair!” He reached over and tugged off my ball cap, causing my reddish brown hair, badly in need of a trim, to fall in a shaggy curtain round my face and shoulders.
“A little liner, some mascara. What Aunt Lydia could do. It’s a shame. No, it’s a crime. I know you got it goin’ on, but not everybody has my eye. No wonder you’re sleeping alone.”
“Shut up,” I said, laughing and yanking my cap out of his hand. I grabbed a handful of hair and shoved it back under my Badgers hat. “And who says I’m sleeping alone?”
“Your mamá.”
That was probably true.
“My mother talks too much.”
“She cares about you, chica, that’s all. You have the beautiful hazel eyes, the million dollar smile. But you don’t do anything with them. You got no game, Leah.”
“OK, OK. Enough.” He was hitting a little too close to the bone to be comfortable.
“So, where were you all day today? I’m not sure I believe that ‘my car was in the shop’ story. Very convenient when the wind chill was about 90 below out on the river today. And Max was missing in action too. He—”
“Bad mouthing the boss again, kid?” A chair scraped noisily across the floor and groaned as the owner, editor, and publisher of the Himmel Times dropped heavily onto it. Max flagged Sherry down and ordered his favorite, a Manhattan made with cherry juice, before I answered.
“I was just saying it seemed more like the Nash News today than the Himmel Times. Miguel took up residence at Parkhurst’s garage most of the afternoon, and I had to cover the Milk Producers Association meeting for you this noon. That was a lot of fun, I can tell you. Hey, what happened to your pants? And your shoes?” I asked, noticing the streaks of mud on his khakis, the dried dirt on his loafers. “You look like you’ve been playing in mud puddles.”
“Yeah?” He pushed his glasses up on his forehead, then rubbed his temples for a minute. Max has an unruly mop of grayish brown hair and brown eyes that droop at the corners. He looks a little like a weary Basset Hound wearing a short-sleeved white dress shirt and an ugly paisley tie. But when he smiles, he has a certain charm. Though he hadn’t been very charming of late. The last week or so he groused at everything.
“I never even made it to the office this morning. Got a flat on the way in, and then I fell on my can in the mud trying to get the lug nuts off. Finally got the spare on, went back home to change, and the basement was flooded. Ellie was at some committee meeting, so I was on the phone trying to get a plumber for an hour. I hadda wait around for him to show, and wait while he routed out the line. What a mess.
“It was past two by the time I got out of there. I almost missed my interview with the president at the technical college, and I forgot to change my clothes. Don’t give me any more grief. I had enough today.” As he waved his arm for emphasis, I caught a gust of a powerful but pleasant, almost grassy scent.
“Well, at least you smell outdoor fresh. I like your cologne.”
“From Alex,” he said momentarily distracted. “He made it himself from some recipe he found online. Gave it to me and Ellie for our anniversary. Said it’s “gender neutral.” What kind of 10-year-old says things like that?” He shook his head, but the pride in his voice was unmistakable. “I know you can smell it a mile away, but I’m glad today, because whatever I fell in changing my tire, the smell was like—”
“OK, OK. You win. You had a worse day than everyone.”
“Except for that dead nun in the river,” Sherry injected as she set the drinks down, then moved on to the next table.
That shut us up for a minute. Max took a gulp of his Manhattan, Miguel sipped his cocktail, and I took another bite of my burger. Then I said, “You know, something odd happened with Sister Mattea.”
“What do you mean odd?”
“She left me a message, but I didn’t get it ’til after she died. Thanks to ditzy Courtnee.” I told them the story and added, “I’m pretty sure she wanted to tell me something about Lacey. Maybe she found something of Lacey’s, or maybe there was something new about how she died.”
“You already know how she died, Leah. What could Sister Mattea have to add five years later?”
“I don’t know, and now I can’t ask
her. But, come on, she left me a book and inside the book was a photocopy of the front page of the Times. The lead story, the only story that has any connection to both me and Sister Mattea, is a report on Lacey’s autopsy. The one where Timmins says her death was accidental.”
“You don’t think it was, chica?” Miguel asked, intrigued.
“Well, I have to ask.”
“No, Leah. You don’t. How’s Carol gonna feel if you go digging all that up again?”
“Mom will be fine. She’ll want to know if there’s anything new.”
“There isn’t anything new. You may not like it, but you know it.”
“Max, Courtnee said you talked to Sister Mattea on Tuesday. Did she say anything, give any hint at all why she wanted to see me?”
“Just small talk. How busy we were, what a nice day it was, were we gonna cover the fundraiser for DeMoss. That’s all.” He paused a minute and tried to reason with me again. “That was a rough time for you and Carol those last years with Lacey. She was a mixed-up kid. She made a lotta bad choices, and she paid the price. You all did. But you can’t go back. Let it go.”
“Sister Mattea had a message for me. I just need to find out what it was.” I could feel my chin setting and hear my voice getting louder.
“Leah’s right, Max, what does it hurt to ask?” Miguel said.
Max ignored him.
“How? How you gonna find out, Leah? What are you gonna find out the police didn’t already? Where you gonna even start?”
“I’ll start at the nuns’ place. That’s where Lacey was when she died. What are you so crabby about? I’m not asking you to do anything. I just thought I might get a little support from my friends.”
“Christ almighty, what makes you so stubborn? If I don’t support you, I don’t know who does. What are you trying to prove, Leah, and to who? It’s not your fault that Lacey’s dead. Let it go.”
I slumped back in my chair, stung. Miguel looked nervously back and forth between us.
“So, I was telling Leah—the pictures on the river today, fantástico. One of them, there’s a break in the clouds. A little light comes through—everything glows: the water, the river, the tree, the yellow slickers on the police. Like a Thomas Kinkade picture. Only beautiful.”
“Hey, I like Thomas Kinkade.” Sherry arrived at that moment. “I think his pictures are beautiful.”
Miguel gave her a pitying look and shrugged his shoulders.
“My mother gave me one of his paintings for my birthday. He’s very famous. They’re collector’s items.” She gave a little flounce and walked away without checking on refills.
I finished off my Jameson, put some money on the table for drinks and dinner. “I gotta go. G’night.”
Max nodded but didn’t say anything. He was pissed. That’s OK. So was I.
“Hey, chica. Great pictures. See you tomorrow.”
“Leah? Is that you?” a sleepy voice called from the far end of the house as the latch on the front door clicked. I had closed it as carefully as I could, but my mother can hear a snowflake fall at 50 yards.
“Yes, Mom,” I said, watching her walk down the hallway toward me, tying the belt on her blue chenille robe. Her black hair is shot through with silver, and she wears it short and spiky. Her eyes, slightly out-of-focus without her contacts, are the same midnight blue color as Lacey’s. In fact, in that light she looked so like my sister that I started talking to rush past the sudden lurch in the pit of my stomach.
“Sorry. I tried not to wake you. Max and Miguel and I had a few at McClain’s.”
“Don’t call me to bust you out of a drunk driving charge.”
“Mom, a couple of drinks after work, that’s all. Plus, I ate dinner too. I’m good. Besides,” I said to divert attention, “we had a pretty big, pretty sad story today.”
“You mean the nun who was found dead this afternoon in the river?”
Why did we even bother to publish a paper?
“Who told you? Never mind. Doesn’t matter. Yeah. It’s Sister Mattea Riordan.” I hesitated, thinking about Max’s warning, but plunged ahead. “A weird thing. She left a note for me at the paper a couple of days ago. But I didn’t get it until today.”
“Was she a friend? What was the note?”
“I’ve run into her a few times since I’ve been back, but no. We weren’t really friends, more like friendly. But she went out of her way to see me, and her note asked me to call. Said she had something she wanted to talk to me about in person. And that’s not all.” I explained about finding the old Times story on Lacey in the book Sister Mattea left, and waited for my mother to tell me to leave it alone.
She had padded into the kitchen and was turning the burner on under the tea kettle, setting out cups and reaching for chamomile tea. Then she stopped, took the Jameson out of the cupboard and poured me some over ice. Then one for herself. We both pulled up stools and sat down at the bar separating the kitchen from the living room. Finally, she said, “What are you going to do?”
“Max thinks I should let it go. He thought you’d be upset if I started asking questions.”
She waved off Max’s concern with a lift of her hand. “Of course it upsets me, but that doesn’t mean we should just ignore it. It sounds like Sister Mattea wanted to tell you something about Lacey. Why else would she give you the clip and ask to talk to you in person?”
My mother is awesome. “Exactly. I was thinking about starting with the Catherines. Do you think Sister Julianna is still in charge at DeMoss?”
“I know she is. The bishop said Mass at St. Stephen’s last Sunday and she was there. We took up a special collection for DeMoss. Leah, what do you think it is? Maybe Lacey told her something, gave her a message for us?” She shook her head. “No, that can’t be it, Sister Mattea would have told us right away. Maybe she found something of Lacey’s and wanted to give it back, or—”
“That’s just it. It could be anything. Or nothing. Maybe she just wanted to say that Lacey didn’t really hate me after all.”
“Leah! Don’t say that. Your sister didn’t hate you.”
“Really? She gave a pretty good imitation of it.”
We were both quiet for a minute, each following our own train of thought.
“You know it wasn’t your fault. None of it. I was the adult in charge. I was her mother and a piss poor one as it turned out.”
“I’m gonna have to cut you off. Quit crying in your whiskey. And quit fishing for compliments. You were a great mom. You still are.” I couldn’t imagine trying to raise a smart-aleck, stubborn kid like me, or the pain of watching Lacey turn from sweet kid into monster child, but my mom just kept on doing what she did—loving us and believing in us and always, always being there for us.
“All right, Leah. All right. I’m going to bed.” She drank the last of her Jameson. “You should think about it too.”
“I will.” It’s not true that you can’t go home again. You can as long as you’re willing to regress from 32 to 13.
But I didn’t go to bed. I took my drink and moved to the rocking chair in the living room. I found what Miguel calls my “sad bastard” playlist, because it’s composed mostly of singer-songwriters in a melancholy mood. I turned the volume down low.
I went over to the mantel and took down a framed photo of me and Lacey going down a giant waterslide in the Wisconsin Dells when she was about seven. Her face was a mix of terror and delight. I closed my eyes, and I could feel her sturdy little body leaning back against me as we barreled down the slide laughing and shouting.
I carried the picture over to the corner chair with me and held it in my lap, slowly rocking, listening to Big Star and Bon Iver and Lucinda Williams until I finally fell asleep.
Four
“So, she just fell into the river? That’s the conclusion of Himmel PD’s crack investigative team?”
“You’re in a pleasant mood,” Coop said. We were sitting in his office at the Himmel Police Department on the Saturday after
Sister Mattea died.
“Sorry. I haven’t been sleeping very well. So, what’s the story?”
“She drowned, according to the autopsy. There was water in her lungs. Body had bruises and contusions—she must have bounced off the rocks and bushes sticking out of the bluff, and then hit the water. Even if she was a strong swimmer, her habit would have pulled her down and the current is powerful right now.”
“But how did she even wind up in the river in the first place?”
“Sister Julianna said Sister Mattea always took an early morning walk on the trail that runs along the river from the edge of their grounds toward the county park. Every day, same time, no matter what the weather she never missed. A couple of people saw her set out from the convent that morning, same as always.
“We checked the trail after the body was recovered. It was a mess. Any tracks that might have been there were washed away. That whole area should’ve been cordoned off all week. The ground is unstable.”
“So, what do you think happened?”
“I think she stopped at the Point, went to the edge to take a look at the river rushing by there. She watched for a minute, then turned, pushed off, and a chunk of ground broke loose under her foot. She tried to catch her balance, got hold of a branch. It bent, held for a minute, but then she went over the edge. She kicked out with her feet, tried to get a toehold, but the limb broke. There were gouges in the dirt just below the overhang.”
An image flashed into my mind of Sister Mattea, panicked, clutching onto a flimsy limb, feet flailing as she tried to get a foothold. Then the sharp crack of the branch and the tumble down the steep side. I shuddered and pushed it away.
“How long was she in the water?”
“She left for her walk around 6:45, probably got to the Point by 7 at the latest. Given the current and the way the river flows, that fits with her getting down by the dam in six hours or so.”
I needed caffeine. The bookshelf behind me held a selection of mugs and the coffee-maker. As I poured a cup and dug around for a spoon to stir in some sugar, I glanced at the titles on the shelf above. Lots of cop manuals and procedurals, a thick notebook marked City Ordinances and assorted books on managing and supervision. Slightly unexpected, but not out of character, were a couple of mysteries by James Lee Burke. What threw me off was a small paperback called Buddha’s Little Instruction Book and a hardback copy of The Collected Poems of Robert Frost. I caught Coop’s eye, then gestured toward the books.
