by Kylie Logan
“Where’s Sister Sheila?” someone asked.
“Well, we can’t say grace and get started until she shows up.” Clearly disappointed, Sister Margaret plumped back in her chair and just for good measure, rang the bell again.
As one, we listened for the sound of Sister Sheila’s footsteps on the stairs.
And heard nothing.
“Sister Mary Jean . . .” Sister Liliosa looked her way. “Why don’t you run up to Sister Sheila’s room and check on her. It’s been a long day, she probably fell asleep.”
Only she hadn’t. Sister Mary Jean came back to report there was no sign of the missing nun in her room.
“I’ll check the rest of the upstairs.” Luella started out and no one stopped her.
“And I’ll look in the kitchen and such,” Chandra said.
“Is there a basement?” None of us were sure, but Kate headed off to find out.
“I’ll check outside,” I told the nuns. “Maybe you should start eating. So the food doesn’t get cold.”
“That’s why God invented microwaves,” Sister Liliosa told me, getting out of her chair. “I’ll take the front yard.”
“We’ll go around the side.” Sisters Francelle and Paul started off together, and the other nuns scattered, too.
I followed a group of them as far as the back patio, and when they headed into the rose garden, I started down the stone steps that led to a small strip of sand bordered by huge boulders that poked out into the water, creating a natural pier. By now, the light was fading fast, and I squinted into the gloom, watching the white puff of surf as it hit the beach, listening for any sounds above the pulse of the water that would tell me Sister Sheila was around.
Nothing.
I finished walking the beach and clambered up onto the boulders. From this height, I could see farther, but to my left was the beach I’d already explored and to my right, nothing but a border of scraggly trees that bent back toward the land, as if they’d spent years trying with little success to keep out of the way of the wind that flowed over the lake from Canada.
I hopped a crevice where water lapped the stone and stepped farther onto the rocky outcrop. Here, there was water on either side of me, the waves gray now that the last of the sun skimmed the horizon to the west.
Gray.
I guess that’s why I almost didn’t see Sister Sheila.
Her gray habit blended with the waves where she bobbed, arms out to her sides and facedown, in the water.
It was a drowning.
And this wasn’t even The Mill on the Floss.
4
“You found her, huh?”
Hank Florentine’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. Which wasn’t a bad thing, really, since what I’d been thinking about was the way Sister Sheila’s face looked when the police arrived, fished her out of the water, and brought her lifeless body to shore.
Pale. Like a fish.
Ashen. Like her gray habit.
Dead.
Her eyes staring, her mouth open in a little o of amazement, as if she knew her life was slipping away and she couldn’t believe it was actually happening.
I shivered, and it wasn’t until I did that I realized that sometime while I was lost in my bleak thoughts and replaying the moment of finding Sister Sheila over and over in my head, someone had draped a blanket around my shoulders. I had no doubt it was the paramedics, who even as I watched zipped Sister Sheila into a body bag and loaded it onto a gurney.
“Found her? Yeah.” I glanced to my left and up. Hank was taller than me by far, a broad man with a square jaw, a bullet-shaped head, and a buzz haircut. He was also the chief of police and in the year I’d lived on the island, our paths had crossed on a number of investigations. Though he’d never come right out and say it because he was as hard-nosed and steely as any cop I’d ever met, I liked to think that in that time, he’d come to value my opinions and my judgment and to trust my instincts when it came to murder.
Which—I reminded myself in no uncertain terms—this was not.
I watched the paramedics wheel Sister Sheila away. “She missed dinner.”
“She’s going to be missing a lot of dinners.” Hank barked out a noise that was half laugh, half grunt of disgust. “Sorry,” he said. “Police humor.” He, too, had his gaze on the paramedics as they accordianed the legs of the gurney down so they could carry the stretcher with Sister Sheila’s body strapped to it up the stone steps. “Never had a nun die here on the island,” he mumbled.
“The others are sure to be upset.” I glanced up the steps but from where we were, it was impossible to see more than the lake in front of us—the water as dark as a blackboard now that the sun was down—the strip of beach where we stood, and the rocky bluff at our backs. I couldn’t tell if any of the nuns waited on the patio. “They just got here today.”
“For a retreat.”
I nodded, then realized that in the gathering gloom, it was just as impossible for Hank to see me as it was for me to see to the end of the rocky pier where I’d stood when I caught sight of Sister Sheila’s body bobbing in the water. “For a retreat without a facilitator,” I added.
“So ten nuns show up here, they’re left high and dry by some big-shot speaker who’s supposed to keep them busy for a week, and one of them ends up dead?”
“That’s pretty much it.” I glanced again toward the rocky outcropping and remembered how I’d had to step carefully when I walked to the end of it. “She must have been walking on the rocks and slipped.”
“Must have.”
“And if she hit her head—”
“We can’t know that. Not until they do an autopsy over at the coroner’s office on the mainland. That won’t happen until tomorrow earliest. If there’s blunt force trauma—”
“That would mean she hit her head.”
“Or someone hit it for her.”
I can’t say I was surprised by Hank’s comment. After all, cops are cops, and if there was one thing I’d learned over the years, it was that cops always think the worst of people, at least when it comes to motives and such. Of course the first place Hank’s mind went was to murder. That’s what he was trained to do.
Still, the very idea of someone murdering a nun was so foreign, so wrong, that I protested instantly, “Why would someone—”
“Come on, Bea. You know better than that. People have their reasons for killing. And victims, sometimes they have reasons for getting killed.”
“But certainly not a nun!”
Hank turned toward the stairs but he didn’t start up. “Nuns are people, too,” he reminded me. “What did you know about her?”
I shrugged and while I was at it, I tugged that blanket tighter around myself. The sun had slipped below the horizon and it was cold there on the beach. “I know her name was Sister Sheila Buckwald and she was from the convent of the Sisters of the Holy Spirit in Chicago. She was a musician. At least that’s what one of the other nuns told me. I met her when I brought a carload of nuns over here this morning and we talked for maybe a minute or two. That’s it. She was a stranger to me. Most of these nuns, they are even strangers to each other.”
“A house full of strangers, huh?” There was no way he could see the house from where we stood, but Hank looked that way.
“Well, except for Sister Helene and Sister Sheila,” I said, remembering the earlier conversation I’d had with Sister Helene. When Hank shot me a look, I explained, “They apparently knew each other somewhere along the line. It doesn’t mean a thing.”
“It might.”
“They’re nuns.”
“And more likely to confide in a woman than they would be in me.”
I knew what he was asking and I’d like to say I had to think about it, the way any rational person would. But I also knew that I felt responsible. Oh, not for Sister Sheila�
��s death. There was nothing I could have done about that. But for the comfort and care of the nuns. After all, I’d told Elias Weatherly I would assist in any way I could.
Helping Hank figure out what happened to Sister Sheila, that was the least I could do.
“I’ll talk to them,” I promised him. “I’ll ask some questions.”
“And you know I’ll do the same thing, but my questions will be official and yours—”
“I know the routine,” I assured him. “Chat them up. Get them talking. If they all knew each other, it would be different. But ten strangers—”
“Ten people who say they’re strangers.”
“Ten nuns who say they’re strangers,” I reminded him and really, I couldn’t help but shake my head in wonder. “Do you trust anyone?” I asked Hank.
He didn’t even have to think about it. “Nope.”
“This time, you’re going to find out you’re wrong.” I was sure of it.
“And you’re going to help me. You’re going to talk to them all.”
I nodded and Hank nodded back. It was as much of an agreement as we needed, and as much of an acknowledgment as I’d get from him that I’d helped him unravel a couple mysteries before.
We were at the bottom of the steps now, and I looked up the bluff to where the paramedics were setting the gurney on the patio. “They’re going to be awfully upset,” I said, but when we got back to the house, I realized I should have known better. We were dealing with powerhouses—determined, intelligent women fueled by their commitment and their faith. By the time Hank and I walked in, the Sisters were assembled in the living room, and they were doing more comforting—of Luella and Kate and Chandra and the cops who waited there with them—than they were looking for consolation.
Sister Francelle and Sister Paul had made coffee and were passing steaming mugs of it around the room. Sister Liliosa had somehow gotten ahold of a bottle of sherry (I wondered if she traveled with it) and she found liquor glasses and filled them, then insisted each of us take one. Sister Margaret’s lips moved silently while her fingers worked over the rosary beads in her hand. The rest of the nuns—except for Sister Gabriel, who was sitting in the corner weeping quietly—had taken those little meatloaves and carved them up for cold sandwiches, and when she took one over to him, I heard Sister Grace tell one of the young cops that he really had to eat, that his job was important and that he couldn’t afford to let his energy flag.
“I know this isn’t a good time.” Hank stepped to the center of the room and I couldn’t help but think that no matter how many times he’d given this speech or one similar to it, he’d never been surrounded by nuns when he did. He looked around a little uncertainly, his gaze staying just a little longer on Sisters Helene, Francelle, Paul, and Grace, as if he was trying to tally their street clothes with the fact that they were nuns. “I need to ask you all a few questions.”
“Of course.” Sister Liliosa took a sip of sherry. “We said a prayer as soon as we heard what happened. Now we can all settle down . . .” She glanced around the room. “Of course we’ll help in any way we can.”
“Good.” Hank rubbed his hands together, and the Sisters took their seats. “So which of you saw Sister Sheila last?”
“I switched rooms with her,” Sister Catherine said. “But that was much earlier today. Right after we got here.”
“And it was weird, wasn’t it?” I hadn’t been asked to contribute my two cents, but by the way Hank stepped back when I stepped forward, I realized I had his permission, and his respect. I didn’t want to jeopardize either, so I treaded carefully.
“When we arrived,” I told Hank and Chandra and Luella and Kate and any of the Sisters who might not have been paying attention to the incident, “Sister Sheila went up to her room and she seemed quite upset.”
“That’s right,” Sister Mary Jean said. “You all remember . . .” She looked around the room. “Most of us were down here and we heard her from upstairs.”
“What did she say?” Hank asked.
“Something like ‘Help!’ or something like that,” Sister Paul said.
“It was ‘No,’” I said because I remembered it clearly. “She was upstairs in the hallway,” I explained to Hank, “but the acoustics are really amazing in here, what with all the wood. What Sister Sheila said was, ‘No. Oh, no!’”
“And what was she talking about?” Hank waited for more.
I guess it wasn’t the answer he’d hoped for because when I shrugged, he let loose a little sigh of frustration.
“I went upstairs and found her standing outside her room,” I said. “The door was open, her suitcase was on the floor next to her. I looked into her room and Sister Catherine and Sister Helene . . .” I glanced their way. “They came upstairs, too. I didn’t see anything wrong with the room. Sister Catherine, you’ve been in there all day. Is there a problem with the room?”
“It’s perfect. Better than perfect.” A smile lit the nun’s broad face. “It’s as clean as a whistle and I’ve got a comfy bed and a waterfront view.”
“Sister Sheila couldn’t have known about the comfy bed, or even the cleanliness of the room,” I mumbled, more to myself than to the group. “She hadn’t even walked into the room yet. She opened the door and dropped her suitcase and stopped dead.” (Yeah, bad choice of words, but no one seemed to hold it against me.)
“What did she see?” Hank asked.
“Just that gorgeous view,” I told him. “The entire far wall of the room is windows.”
“Sister Sheila didn’t like the water.” The comment came from Sister Catherine and, interested, we all turned her way to hear more just in time to see her take a sip of sherry and set down her glass. “I didn’t know her,” she said, by way of explanation. “I never met her until we were all in New York. But on the ferry ride over this morning . . .” Sister Catherine gathered her thoughts, running her fingers over the folds of her short gray habit. “Not two minutes into the ferry ride, I saw Sister Sheila standing at the railing of the ferry. She was as pale as a ghost . . . sorry . . .” She cringed. “She was ashen, and she was shaking like a leaf.”
“Cold,” Sister Margaret said. “It was cold on that boat.”
Sister Catherine shook her head. “It was chilly, yes. But this was so much more than that. Sister Sheila wasn’t cold, she was terrified.”
“Of the water?”
When I spoke, Sister Catherine turned to me. “I think so. I went to the little coffee bar on the ferry and got her a cup of tea and I did my best to get her talking. You know, to take her mind off the boat ride. Even so, when we docked, I thought she’d fall to her knees and kiss the ground. She was that relieved to be back on dry land.”
Sister Liliosa finished her tiny bit of sherry and cradled her glass in her short, thick fingers. “So when she saw that her room looked out over the water . . .”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I thought when I realized she wouldn’t walk into the room,” Sister Catherine said. “It seems a little . . . well, a little over-the-top. I mean, to be afraid of the water even when you’re on land. But I think we’ve all met people with phobias and we all understand that no matter how hard they try, they can’t control them. Irrational fear.”
“That’s exactly what I saw in Sister Sheila’s eyes this morning,” I said. “And when you said you’d switch rooms and she knew she could look out her window at the Water’s Edge property all week instead of at the lake, she was thrilled.”
“So the woman was afraid of the water.” Hank made a note of this in a little pad he pulled from his pocket. “Does anyone else know anything about her?”
Automatically, I glanced Sister Helene’s way. “You and Sister Sheila are both musicians. You said you knew her.”
“Just in passing,” Sister Helene said.
“But you wrote that wonderful song together!” Sister Paul sho
t up in her chair. “‘Living Bread.’ That was you and Sister Sheila, wasn’t it?”
When she spoke, Sister Helene’s shoulders were stiff. “I wrote the music. Sister Sheila wrote the lyrics.”
“It’s a nice song,” Sister Margaret said.
“It’s not like we were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the piano,” Sister Helene told us. “The whole thing was done via email.”
I took Sister Helene at her word. After all, she was a nun. But that didn’t mean I’d forgotten her comment earlier in the day when Sister Sheila wouldn’t walk into her lakefront room.
More of the same.
Sister Helene said Sister Sheila’s behavior was more of the same.
To me, that meant she knew more about Sister Sheila than she was willing to admit.
“We did all have lunch together.” Sister Francelle spoke up. She was a tall, slim woman and in her jeans and a baggy white sweater, she looked more like a college student than the CEO of a successful religious gift company. “Sister Sheila joined us in the dining room. And the salads were delicious, by the way, Bea. We appreciate you making them for us.”
A few of the other nuns nodded.
“Did Sister Sheila say anything at lunch?” I asked them. “Anything about taking a walk on the beach this evening?”
Sister Liliosa got up so she could set her glass on the table near the fireplace and when she was done, she clutched her hands at her waist under the white wool panel at the front of her habit. “Before lunch we broke into groups and planned the week’s activities. After lunch, we decided that we could all use a little quiet time and that we’d start into our actual retreat tomorrow. Some of the Sisters decided to explore the property.”
“There’s a greenhouse!” Sister Margaret’s smile was angelic. “Imagine having the luxury of a greenhouse!”
“A few of us went down to the beach then,” Sister Paul told us. “We asked Sheila to join us, but she said she was going to her room to read. I don’t know about the rest of you . . .” She shrugged. “That’s the last time I saw her.”
