by Kylie Logan
I arrived at the retreat center and got everything inside, slamming the door on the wicked wind just as Sister Gabriel came out of the living room. She had her phone in one hand and an eye on the window.
“They’re not saying it’s going to last, are they?” It wasn’t until she closed in on the window and peered outside that I realized she was talking about the storm. “I mean, it’s going to clear up anytime now, right?”
I had checked the weather app on my phone before I left the house and I could see that Sister Gabriel was looking at the same one. She knew what I knew. “Not supposed to get better until later in the week,” I told her.
“But it’s got to.” Sister Gabriel stopped just short of stomping one foot against the floor. Her mouth twisted. Though it was hard to tell, what with the wimple that covered her forehead and ears and the heavy veil that topped it all off, she looked to be a pretty woman. She had clear blue eyes and skin that was bright and rosy. There was a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks, like specks of cinnamon sugar. “If the weather stays like this . . .” Grumbling, she turned from the window and crossed her arms over her black habit. “If it doesn’t get better, the boats won’t run, right? I mean, like the ferry. What happens then? How do you people here on the island get your mail? And your food? And, you know, packages and such?”
“It’s never been so bad that we’ve been without for more than a week or so,” I assured her. “Even in winter, our mail is flown in along with supplies from the mainland.”
“But what about deliveries? If something’s supposed to be delivered the next day and—”
“Expecting something?”
She lifted her chin. “I didn’t have room in my suitcase so I sent some books from home. I’d hoped they would get here in time for me to have them for the retreat.”
It was my turn to look out the window. “I’m no meteorologist, but I’ve seen weather like this on the island before. It will be at least a couple days until the ferry can run again and bring over the delivery trucks.”
“A couple days.” When Sister Gabriel mumbled, she sounded more like a petulant teenager than a nun. She turned and stomped away. “I can’t wait a couple days.”
I almost offered the use of my library back at the B and B. It was extensive, after all, but then again, it didn’t include any religious or inspirational books and I had no doubt that’s what Sister Gabriel was looking for. Instead of worrying about it, I went into the kitchen to get the food unpacked and then delivered to the dining room. I was nearly done arranging apples and grapes on a big serving plate with a brightly painted chicken on it when my phone rang.
“Bea.”
So much for polite chitchat. But then, I didn’t expect much else from Hank.
“News from the mainland,” he said.
My hands stilled above the little bunches of grapes I’d set along the perimeter of the serving dish. “From the sound of your voice, I’d say it’s not good news.”
“She was hit on the head, all right.” Hank didn’t need to say which she he was talking about. Instantly, an image of Sister Sheila popped into my head. “The coroner says the injury was perimortem.”
I gulped down the sour taste in my mouth. “You mean—”
“Hit from behind and dumped into the lake. There was water in her lungs. She went into the lake alive.”
I hadn’t realized my knees gave out until I plunked into a nearby chair. “Murder.”
“Looks that way.”
“But who would murder a nun?”
“That’s our job to find out.”
Somehow, I knew Hank wasn’t talking about himself and his department. Our job. He wanted my help.
“I’m at the retreat center now,” I told him, automatically lowering my voice, though in a house the size of Water’s Edge, I knew I didn’t need to. The place was massive, and the only other person I’d seen since I arrived was Sister Gabriel.
“Good. See what you can find out, but don’t tell them what we know. Not yet. Maybe our murderer will get a little too comfortable and careless and let some information slip.”
I glanced toward the kitchen door and the dining room beyond. “You can’t think that any of the other nuns—”
“I don’t know what to think. And neither do you,” Hank snapped. I didn’t take it personally. Like I said, Hank was Hank. “Not yet. Not until we do a little digging.”
I knew he was right, but really, I couldn’t keep my gaze off the door or get rid of the picture inside my head—nine nuns seated at the table, waiting for lunch.
“But they’re nuns,” I whined.
He puffed out a breath. “I know they’re nuns. What difference does it make? I’m not saying one of them actually killed Sheila Buckwald. I’m saying that they were all on the premises and somebody might have seen something. Or heard something. Somebody might not even realize that they know something important. We need to talk to them and since you’re right there . . .”
“Sure. Of course.” I ended the call and tucked my phone back in my pocket. “Of course I’ll talk to them.”
It’s not like I was reluctant to get to the bottom of what had turned into a mystery with a nasty twist. I’d interviewed suspects before. Plenty of them. Still, there was something about trying to elicit information from unsuspecting nuns that felt a little unscrupulous. The thought pounding through my head, I served lunch and I was all set to duck back into the kitchen to get my story straight and my questions sorted out when the nuns insisted I join them at the lunch table.
I took an empty seat at the far end of the table with my back to the windows and it wasn’t until I sat down that I realized it was where Sister Sheila would have been seated.
“It’s all right.” Sister Grace was to my left, and she patted my hand. But then, she worked with death row inmates. I had to think she was more comfortable with the Grim Reaper than the rest of us.
“So . . .” Sister Liliosa took a heaping helping of chicken salad and passed the platter on to the nun next to her. “Any word from the police?”
“They wouldn’t call me if there was an update.” Since that made perfect sense, no one disputed it. “I wouldn’t be surprised, though, if Hank didn’t stop in again. He’s pretty thorough.”
“Needs to be in his job.” Sister Liliosa grabbed two pieces of whole wheat bread.
“Such a terrible accident.” Sister Grace said what everyone but me—and maybe the murderer—was thinking.
“So important to remember what we have and to be thankful for it every day,” Sister Paul added.
And so it went. After a few minutes, the conversation drifted away from Sister Sheila and to the retreat and what the nuns had planned for themselves for the week. Not that Sister Sheila was forgotten. Her name was mentioned when the nuns bowed their heads and said grace before they ate, and when one of the Sisters suggested that some time be set aside each day to reflect on Sister Sheila’s life and her contributions to her convent and her community, the suggestion was met with overwhelming enthusiasm.
For my part, I was reflecting on something else, that hint of discord I caught between Sisters Sheila and Helene.
I waited until lunch was done and Sister Catherine was helping me clear away the dishes before I dared to broach the subject.
“I suppose Sister Sheila’s family has been notified,” I said, trying my darnedest to ease into the subject.
Sister Catherine nodded. “A mother and father somewhere outside of Chicago.” She had a pile of plates in her arms and she closed her eyes and lowered her head. “How terrible for them to get news like that. Sister Sheila’s life held so much promise.”
“You mean because of her music.” Oh yes, I could sound plenty innocent when I wanted to and realizing it, another stab of guilt prodded my conscience. “That song someone mentioned, the one she and Sister Helene wrote
together . . .”
“‘Living Bread.’” Sister Catherine nodded. “It really is beautiful.”
“But I get the feeling . . .” I wasn’t sure how long I could pull off the wide-eyed-innocent routine so I laughed, as if I couldn’t help myself or contain my curiosity and I was actually embarrassed because of it. “Every time someone mentions Sister Sheila or the song, Sister Helene practically bristles.”
Sister Catherine added a few more plates to the stack in her arms.
“Could it be there was bad blood between them?” I ventured. “Since I’ve heard that none of you know each other well, whatever they felt for each other, it must have been because of the song. It was their only connection.”
Sister Catherine looked over her shoulder toward the open dining room door and the empty hallway beyond. As lunch was being cleaned up, the Sisters decided they would take an hour to rest, then meet in the living room to hear Sister Margaret talk about her urban gardening program. Right now, all was quiet at Water’s Edge.
“There’s talk,” Sister Catherine said and flushed a deep pink. “More like gossip and I shouldn’t even mention it but now that Sister Sheila’s dead . . . well, maybe it’s not important at all now, or maybe it’s more important than ever. You see, there was some sort of copyright dispute. Over ‘Living Bread.’ I hear Sister Sheila was adamant about her convent earning all the copyright money because she wrote the lyrics to the song. And Sister Helene, she wrote the music and of course, she wanted her share of the profits for her convent. At least that’s what I’ve heard and I was thinking now that Sister Sheila’s dead, I wonder if all the money will automatically go to Sister Helene. And really, I shouldn’t have even mentioned it. It was small-minded of me to bring it up.”
“Not at all,” I assured her. “You never know what might turn out to be important.”
“You mean, in a murder investigation.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to lie and tell her I didn’t know what she was talking about, but really, I thought more of Sister Catherine than that.
I looked away. “Like I said, you never know.”
We finished cleaning up and washed the dishes in silence, and I told the nuns I’d be back later with dinner. They protested—of course they protested—saying that the weather was too bad and they could make do with what was left over from lunch, but I lied and told them that Luella, Chandra, and Kate were already over at my place getting pot roasts ready. It wasn’t like I was looking forward to venturing back out in the nasty weather that evening, but now that I knew what was going on between Sister Sheila and Sister Helene, I had plenty more questions to ask.
A copyright dispute.
Nuns or no nuns, it sounded like motive to me.
6
“So of course, Hank wants us to check things out.”
I’d just finished filling in Luella, Kate, and Chandra with the facts. Murder. Sister Sheila had been murdered. While I packed containers of pot roast and roasted vegetables in tote bags, I gave them a few minutes to process the information, knowing that, like me when I’d heard the news, it would take them a while to try to make sense of it.
“Who would murder a nun?” Luella asked exactly what I’d asked Hank when he told me about the coroner’s report.
“And why?” Kate wondered.
“I doubt Hank wants our help.” Chandra’s scowl didn’t jibe with her sunny yellow top embroidered with twinkling sequins. “Your help, Bea. He wants your help. And I’m surprised a man that pigheaded and stubborn would even ask for that.”
Have I mentioned that Hank and Chandra were once married?
In fact, Hank was Chandra’s ex number two (there had been another after that), and though I knew for a fact that the two of them got together now and again in a very friendly way, anytime they were outside the bedroom, the old antagonism reared its ugly head.
I reminded myself of this, just like I reminded myself that for reasons none of us had yet to figure out, Chandra seemed to be trying her hardest to get a rise out of all of us. I wasn’t willing to give her the satisfaction, so I kept my voice light and level.
“Of course he wants all of us to help.” I finished packing dinner and went over to the countertop where Luella had left two of the amazing pies—cherry and apple—that Meg had baked for us that afternoon. “He knows we wouldn’t have gotten to the bottom of the couple mysteries we’ve helped him solve if every one of us didn’t contribute.”
Kate’s eyes shone with excitement. “So what do you want us to do?”
“For one thing, don’t tell the nuns it was a murder.” I made sure I kept my eyes on Chandra when I said this. Of all of us, she was the one who was most likely to get caught up in the excitement of the investigation and forget that for now, Hank had asked us to keep the secret. “Other than that, I guess what we need to do is talk to the Sisters. I thought if we got to Water’s Edge a little early this evening . . .” I checked the clock on the kitchen wall. “If we leave now, their afternoon retreat session should be over. They were planning on a little quiet time between that and dinner.”
“A little quiet time we can fill.” Luella rubbed her hands together. “At least we know none of them will be out walking the beach.”
As if we needed the reminder, rain pelted the windows and as one, we all glanced that way.
“Nasty.” Kate shivered.
“At least it’s not cold.” I am not usually a Pollyanna, but facts were facts. Just a year earlier, we’d all been trapped on the island—with a killer—by a freak spring snowstorm. “And actually, the weather might work in our favor. If the nuns are stuck inside—”
“They’ll be looking for something to do,” Kate commented.
“And they’ll be a captive audience.” Luella slipped on her slicker and grabbed for the tote bags.
“I’ll take Sister Helene,” I told them, poking my arms into the sleeves of my raincoat. I flipped up the hood. “If no one has any objections. Since Sister Catherine confided in me about her dispute with Sister Sheila, it will be easier for me to keep the facts straight.”
They all nodded in agreement.
“I’m thinking I can start up a conversation easy enough,” Chandra announced. Her version of rain gear was yellow rubber boots—she poked her feet into them—along with a purple trench coat and matching umbrella. “I’ll start with that Sister Margaret, the one who knows so much about gardens. I can get her advice as long as I’m at it. I was thinking of expanding my herb garden. You know, all around the pool.”
Did I grit my teeth the moment that last word was out of Chandra’s mouth?
I must have, because Kate shot me a look.
I bit back the comment I was all set to make about herbs and chlorinated water and how I had a feeling it was a bad mix. “From what I saw of your plan,” I said instead, “the pool is going to be so close to my driveway, I doubt if there’s room on that side for herbs.”
“There’s a little room.” Chandra had obviously thought this through. “As long as your guests are careful where they walk.”
Careful. When they didn’t know where my property line ended and Chandra’s began.
And they were carrying suitcases.
And anxious to get checked into their rooms.
This time it took my biting the inside of my mouth to keep me from snapping out a comment.
“I’m sure Sister Margaret can help you,” I said and I don’t think I was imagining it; Chandra really did look disappointed that I hadn’t been sucked into the fight she was trying to pick.
When Chandra went to the door ahead of us, I exchanged quizzical looks with Luella and Kate.
Luella shrugged.
Kate made a face and put on her Burberry coat.
We all headed outside and met our four librarians just as they were hurrying into Marianne Littlejohn’s car out in my driveway.<
br />
“Heading to dinner!” Marianne called out from the driver’s seat over the sound of the roaring wind. “You want to join us?”
“Water’s Edge.” As if it was the only explanation I needed, I lifted the tote bags I was carrying.
“We’re going to talk books!” Angela was just about to get into the backseat and she grinned. “You ladies would love it.”
“I have no doubt.” I also had no doubt I was going to be soaked through to my bones, so I waved a quick goodbye and raced to the SUV where the other Ladies of the League were already inside.
At the other end of our journey, we pretty much repeated the process: gather the bags, race to the door. Inside, we dripped on the slate floor of the entryway for a minute before anyone even knew we’d arrived.
“You’re early.” As luck would have it, it was Sister Helene who came down the stairs. She had a coffee mug in one hand and when she went into the kitchen, I gave my friends a wink to tell them to have at the other nuns and fell into step beside her. While Sister Helene made coffee, I unpacked dinner.
I’m not much for small talk, so I couldn’t help but cringe when I said, “I hope the weather hasn’t ruined your Sunday.”
“Not at all.” Sister Helene added cream and sugar to her mug. “There’s nothing like staying inside in front of a roaring fire on a day like this. And the storm . . .” She twitched her shoulders. “Well, it seems in keeping with the mood, doesn’t it? We’re trying to stay positive and to keep busy, but no matter what else we’re talking about, it seems Sister Sheila’s name always comes up.”
“It’s only natural. We all need to process our grief.”
“That sounds like something one of us should say to you!” Sister Helene filled her mug with coffee and took a small sip. “It’s easy to talk about things like faith and trust in the Lord. But when it comes right down to it and someone you know has had her life cut terribly short, well, it’s a little harder to walk the walk than it is to talk the talk.”
