by Kylie Logan
“Me, too.” The comment was echoed around the room.
“So that’s it?” He obviously knew he’d gotten all he was going to get because Hank tucked that little notebook of his back in his pocket. “Anybody have contact information?”
I wasn’t surprised when Sister Liliosa spoke up. “I have a list upstairs,” she said and started that way. “All our emails, all our cell numbers. There’s a list of emergency contacts, too.”
She was back in a few minutes to give the list to Hank, but she didn’t sit down. “We said a prayer earlier,” Sister Liliosa said, “but if we’re done here, I think we all need a quiet time of reflection. You’ll excuse us?” she asked Hank.
He nodded. “Of course. If any of you think of anything else—”
“We’ll certainly call,” Sister Liliosa assured him.
“And if you find anything—”
“We won’t touch a thing,” Sister Paul told him. “We all watch CSI. We know the rules.”
After Hank and the two young cops left, Luella, Kate, Chandra, and I went into the kitchen to clean up.
“Terrible.” Luella shook her head while she collected containers and rinsed them at the sink.
“Awful.” Heaven forbid Kate would let anyone know she could actually be a softie. When she loaded tote bags, she turned away from us to wipe a tear from her cheek.
“Horrible.” When it came to emotions, Chandra wasn’t nearly as tightly wound. A big, fat tear slipped down her cheek and she sniffled. “Imagine, dying so far from home, surrounded by strangers. What a terrible thing to happen. And what a terrible accident.”
Sister Sheila’s death was all those things—terrible, awful, horrible. And what an excuse I had for delaying my talk with Levi that evening!
The thought struck out of the blue, and shame on me for letting it get the better of me and transforming my expression. When I realized I was smiling, I looked around and saw my friends staring at me, their jaws slack.
“What?” I asked. Classic defensive comeback, I know. “What’s wrong?”
“You thought of something,” Kate said. “Something to do with Sister Sheila?”
“You know something,” Luella suggested. “Something about the way she died?”
“Or you’re thinking about someone.” Chandra dangled the words like a fish on a hook that she’d never use now that she was the secretary of the local People Against Fishing Lake Erie chapter.
I didn’t rise to the bait.
“It’s nothing,” I assured them all. “I was just thinking—”
“About last night.”
Chandra’s words floated in the air and for sure, she expected me to snatch them up and provide some kind of explanation that would satisfy the curiosity clearly etched on Kate and Luella’s face.
I didn’t give any of them the satisfaction.
Instead, I ducked into the living room long enough to let the nuns know that I would be back first thing the next morning with breakfast.
“And is there any way . . .” I don’t think Sister Liliosa had a shy bone in her body, but she pulled a face when she asked for the favor. “Church. We need some way for all of us to get to Mother of Sorrows for ten-thirty Mass tomorrow. Mr. Weatherly said he’d take care of it and now—”
“No problem,” I assured the nuns and really, it wasn’t. I could have breakfast out for my guests at nine and still have plenty of time to get over here and collect the Sisters for church. “I’ll pick you up at ten. That will give us plenty of time.”
“Time?” Sister Margaret hadn’t moved from the chair where she’d been sitting when Hank interviewed the nuns. She turned a confused look on me. “Is it dinnertime already?”
With a little wave of one hand, Sister Liliosa told me not to worry about it.
“Thank you,” she said to me before she turned to the other nuns and said, “Now let’s gather together and pray for the repose of the soul of Sister Sheila Buckwald. Sister Gabriel, you are our liturgist. I’m sure you can suggest appropriate prayers.”
From her place in the corner near the fireplace, Sister Gabriel looked up when she heard her name. Her eyes were swollen. Her nose was red. Tears streaked her face.
And when I backed out of the living room and gathered up a couple of the bags of containers and such that Kate and Luella and Chandra hadn’t been able to handle and joined them outside at my car, a little voice inside me said that it was touching to see so much empathy in such a young woman.
That is, right before another little voice told me it was also odd that a woman like Sister Gabriel—who, except for having dinner with her in New York, had never met Sister Sheila—would be so upset by her death.
It was the same voice that stopped me in my tracks and made me turn around and take another look at the hulking mansion, the voice that said it was plenty weird for a woman who was afraid of the water to take a stroll down a rocky pier into the lake.
5
The next morning, Tyler Stevens was in my dining room before I had a chance to put breakfast on the table.
“Coffee?” I asked even though I’d just walked out of the kitchen and I knew it was still brewing. “You’re a tad early and everything isn’t ready, I’m afraid.”
“Coffee? No. No time.” Tyler checked the heavy gold watch he wore on his right wrist. He had a camera in one hand and another on a strap looped around his neck and for the first time, I noticed that his suitcase was out in the hallway at the bottom of the steps.
“You’re leaving?” I can be excused for being surprised. For one thing, Tyler had reserved his suite for the entire week, and for another, in the year that I’d owned and operated Bea & Bees, I’d never had any complaints. Not about the house, not about the food, not about the value guests received for their money. My rates weren’t cheap, but then, I wasn’t looking to pack the house with college kids on party weekends.
I swallowed down the tight ball of panic in my throat. “Is something wrong? With your room? With the house? Because—”
“Oh, no! No, no.” Tyler’s face flushed as red as his hair. “The house is great. It’s terrific and the coffee . . .” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It smells heavenly. I just . . .” He checked his watch again and scurried out to the hallway and, curious, I scrambled behind him.
“The ferry leaves in twenty minutes and I know I’ve got plenty of time because there can’t be much traffic at this time on a Sunday morning, but still, I don’t want to be late.”
“But Mr. Stevens!” He already had his hand on the doorknob and he looked at me over his shoulder and cringed.
“Forgot. Sorry. I forgot.” He dug in his pocket, came out holding a wad of cash and pressed it all in my hand. “This will cover last night and the other nights I had reserved. I’m so sorry to be leaving you high and dry like this, but I’ve got to get going.”
He opened the door and stepped outside. It was a chilly morning and yesterday’s sunshine was lost behind a heavy haze that turned the sky ghostly white. Considering what had happened at Water’s Edge the night before, the weather seemed appropriate, the clouds a funereal pall. I shook off the thought and followed Tyler down the stairs and over to where he’d left his rental car in the driveway.
“You could at least tell me what’s going on,” I said while he loaded his suitcase in the trunk. “If there’s a problem—”
“Problem? Oh.” The high color drained from his cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been in something of a state ever since I got the call a little while ago. The house . . .” He looked over my shoulder at my hulking turquoise Victorian with its purple and cream-colored gingerbread trim and the fabulous brickwork chimney that hugged the outside of the house all the way from the first floor to the rooftop.
“The house is great,” Tyler slipped into his car and set both cameras on the passenger seat beside him. “T
he island is wonderful. I was downtown for dinner last night and it’s charming and everyone was so nice and so friendly. But I got a call from my friend Tim this morning, you see, and he tells me there have been warblers sighted. Warblers in Sandusky. I didn’t see a one here yesterday and I can’t take the chance of missing them completely.” He started up the car and slowly backed down the driveway.
“Will you be back?” I called to him.
Tyler put on the brakes long enough to open the window. “That all depends on the warblers, of course.”
“Of course,” I found myself saying as I watched him pull away.
“Morning!” My second surprise of the day came when Joe Roscoe sauntered up the same street Tyler drove away on. He waved and called out again, “Breakfast ready yet?”
“Just about,” I assured him and waited until he joined me on the slate sidewalk that bisected the lawn and led up to the front steps. “You’re up and about early.”
“I love it.” He grinned and hoisted that big cardboard tube of his to secure it under one arm. “Maps,” he said when I glanced at the tube. “I’ll show you later. I’ve been able to plot out a couple of the early family homesteads. I was just checking things out and thinking about my ancestors and how they were probably up with the sun every morning. They fished, you know.”
“A lot of people around here do.”
“Noble profession.” Joe stopped to stow the tube with his maps in it in the backseat of his car. “My guess is it’s also the reason they ended up leaving the island and relocating to Michigan. Ended up working in the car factories there. Every last great-grandfather and great-uncle and great-aunt. Hard to make a living fishing and there’s nothing like a regular paycheck. I guess my ancestors liked life to be predictable and dependable.”
“Don’t we all!” When a gust of wind buffeted us, I chafed my hands over the sleeves of the green sweater I wore with black pants. “So you’re finding the information you need?” I asked Joe Roscoe.
“Like I said, I’ve checked what I know against modern maps and checked those against the old ones.” He glanced toward the car and that cardboard tube. “Things are starting to come together. I spent some time at the cemetery yesterday. It really . . .” We climbed the steps and he stopped at the top and turned to look out over the water. It was an eerie shade of gray that morning, and I’d lived on the island long enough to know that the whitecaps that knocked one into the other and slapped the shoreline meant that bad weather was on its way.
“It’s one thing to poke around online and in dusty archives and find your ancestors’ birth certificates and marriage licenses and such. But standing at their graves . . .” His voice clogged at the last word. “It’s really something,” he whispered. “It really makes me feel humble.”
“Humbled and chilly.” I hadn’t grabbed a jacket when I scrambled outside after Tyler Stevens, and the cold seeped through my sweater. I shivered. “I’ve got coffee ready.” At least I hoped it was by now. “And there are muffins and fruit and I’ve got just enough time to whip up some scrambled eggs.”
“Sounds perfect.” Roscoe held the door and I stepped inside ahead of him just as the four librarians scrambled down the steps.
“Good morning!” they called out.
“Coffee smells fabulous,” Bette said.
“And after sitting up all night yakking, we need all we can get,” another of the librarians commented.
“Any mysteries on the island since we’ve been asleep?” Angela asked.
I bit my tongue. It was not fair to start anyone’s morning with talk of dead nuns and drownings. Besides, Joe and the librarians, they’d hear the story soon enough. All it would take was a visit downtown. I knew the South Bass grapevine was already busy and the news was all over the island by now. In fact, I’d already had a voicemail from Levi before I got back from Water’s Edge the night before. He’d heard the news and knew I was busy. He understood why I hadn’t stopped at the bar and said we’d talk another time.
Oh yeah, that gave me something to look forward to.
I sloughed the thought aside and instead of telling my guests about Sister Sheila and destroying their good moods, I invited them all to sit down at the dining room table, served the muffins and fruit Meg had come in the evening before to prepare, and scrambled a couple dozen eggs. Once I’d served those, I told them I had to get moving. I had nuns to collect and get to church and since my SUV wouldn’t hold them all, Kate had offered to help.
By the time the two of us, the two vehicles, and the nine nuns arrived at Mother of Sorrows church, a sharp wind had kicked up, and it whistled through the bare tree branches. Sister Catherine and Sister Margaret needed to hang on to their half-veils when they scurried inside the stone church, and even Sister Liliosa’s formidable habit was no match for the wind. Just before she walked through the double doors under the stone arch, the wind lifted her skirts and I caught a glimpse of sturdy ankles, sensible black shoes, and what looked to be handmade and very cute knitted socks in shades of black, gray, and white.
Waiting in the car for an hour made no sense, especially with the weather being what it was. Neither did going home only to have to turn around and come back to pick up the nuns. Kate and I held back until all the nuns were inside, then slipped into the church behind them and found seats at the end of the row of the pew where Sisters Francelle, Paul, Margaret, and Gabriel sat. The other nuns sat in the pew directly in front of ours.
Thanks to the weather, there was little traffic on the island and it had taken us no time at all to arrive at the church. It was still early and obviously, the parish priest knew the nuns were coming. He welcomed them and he and Sister Liliosa put their heads together. I had no doubt he’d heard about Sister Sheila’s death, just as I had no doubt Sister Liliosa and her companions would be sure to do something at the service in honor of Sister Sheila’s memory.
As churches go, Mother of Sorrows is small and intimate, a lovely little oasis of quiet and beauty on an island that can—at least at the height of tourist season—be all about the food and the drinks and the music and the nightlife. According to Luella, who was a member of the church, the building had been constructed in 1928, and I breathed in the stillness of the years and the lingering scent of incense and burned candles and took a look at the windows, like transparent mosaics, on either side of the church. After the events of the night before, this bit of calm and quiet was exactly what I needed and I counted my breaths, listened to my heartbeat, and closed my eyes.
“Sister Gabriel.”
Sister Liliosa’s voice was hushed, but still, my eyes flew open just in time to see her turn to look at the young nun seated at the end of the pew. “Father would like your input. About today’s liturgy.”
Sister Gabriel didn’t budge. In fact, she didn’t even look at Sister Liliosa.
“Sister Gabriel?” The older nun tried again. This time, she crooked her finger and the rest of us seated in the row leaned forward to see what Sister Gabriel was up to.
What she was up to was crying. Beneath her black wool habit, her chest heaved, and by the way the light shone on her face, I could tell it was stained with tears.
Sister Liliosa’s expression morphed from understanding to stern. “The liturgy, Sister Gabriel? Father thought it would be best if we chose today’s prayers and readings and we’re depending on you to make suggestions.”
“I . . . I . . .” Sister Gabriel’s voice broke. “I’m not sure I can.”
“It would give you comfort,” Sister Paul suggested in hushed tones.
“And it would help us out,” Sister Francelle reminded her. “If we’re each supposed to contribute to the success of the retreat—”
Sister Gabriel pushed forward on the slick wooden pew, and I thought she was going to stand up and get a move on. At the last second, she froze and slid back. She buried her face in her hands. “I can’t.
”
“Poor thing.” Next to me, Sister Francelle shook her head. “She’s so very upset about what happened to Sister Sheila. Went right to her room after you left last night and I heard her in there sobbing. But then, she’s young and she hasn’t yet accepted that everything that happens, it’s all part of God’s plan. She will. Someday, she’ll understand. Until then . . .” Sister Francelle got to her feet. “I can help with the readings,” she offered.
“And Sister Helene is the perfect person to choose the music.” Though her voice was light, I couldn’t help but notice that when Sister Liliosa turned away from Sister Gabriel, a muscle jumped at the base of her jaw.
A couple of the other Sisters got up, too, and went to the front of the church where a gorgeous fresco that featured a cobalt blue background and a glorious angel crowned the altar.
They got to work choosing prayers and songs and readings and slowly, the church filled with worshippers. It felt wrong to turn around and ogle the crowd, but I listened to the sounds of their footsteps, sharp against the church floor, and the whispers that turned into a buzz when parishioners realized the nuns were in attendance.
“Everybody okay?” Luella took a seat in the pew directly behind me and Kate, leaned forward, and gave me a poke. “Everything under control?”
“I’m not sure.” I glanced down the row of nuns, each of them praying quietly, and toward Sister Gabriel. “Awfully upset,” I mouthed.
“Young.”
It seemed to be everyone’s excuse for Sister Gabriel’s reaction to the death of Sister Sheila and for all I knew, they were right.
That didn’t keep me from thinking it was also a little over-the-top.
Especially for a nun.
* * *
By the time I went back to Water’s Edge to deliver lunch (Meg’s excellent chicken salad, egg salad for those who might be vegetarians, loaves of fresh bread, fruit, and an assortment of Meg’s home-baked cookies), the stiff breeze had turned into a howling wind that battered the SUV. The lake was whipped into a fury of whitecaps and waves, and I found myself thinking that Tyler Stevens was a lucky man; no doubt that first ferry of the morning would be the only ferry off the island that day. I wondered if warblers went out in bad weather and wished him happy bird hunting on the mainland.
