And Then There Were Nuns

by Kylie Logan

  It was a remarkable thing to admit, and I told Sister Helene I admired her for her honesty.

  She waved away the compliment. “If we can’t be honest, then there’s no use saying anything at all, is there?”

  Exactly what I’d been thinking.

  “Speaking of which . . .” I’d just put the pies out on the island in the center of the kitchen and I nudged them so they were perfectly in place. “I noticed that you and Sister Sheila didn’t get along.”

  Sister Helene was wearing jeans and a navy hoodie with a kangaroo pouch at the front, and she set down her mug and tucked her hands in the pocket. “I told you, I hardly knew her.”

  “But you wrote a song together.”

  “I told you about that, too. We worked via email.”

  “What you didn’t mention is that there’s been some dispute over the distribution of the royalties.”

  I wouldn’t have blamed her if she told me to get lost. It is, after all, exactly what I would have done if someone was so bold as to suggest what I was clearly suggesting.

  Maybe nuns are made of better stuff than the rest of us; Sister Helene leaned back against the counter and met my steady gaze with one of her own.

  “You don’t think Sheila’s death was an accident,” she said.

  “Like I said this afternoon, no one knows yet. And even if the police did—”

  “We’re nuns, but that doesn’t mean we’re naive. Or stupid.” Sister Helene never looked away. “Whatever the police claim, you don’t think Sister Sheila’s death was an accident. You think she was murdered. And you think I had something to do with it.”

  “Did you?”

  Her smile was tight. “Sheila Buckwald’s songs are all about the glory of God and praising the Lord. Her life was anything but. Oh, don’t think I’m just spreading lies and rumors,” Sister Helene added. “The truth is the truth and like I said, there’s no use talking at all if we’re not going to be honest with each other. The truth is, there’s a great deal of money at stake. Not that either of us would have seen it personally. My share of the royalties was earmarked for my convent, just as Sister Sheila’s was for hers. While we’re all loyal to our orders and the Sisters we live with, it’s hard to imagine any of us would kill just to bring a few more dollars into the convent till.”

  “Sometimes motive goes deeper than that. For some people, money isn’t nearly as important as status. Or recognition.”

  “You think I wasn’t recognized for my contribution to ‘Living Bread’?”

  “I know you were. All the other nuns here know you wrote the music. That tells me it wasn’t any big secret.”

  “It doesn’t tell you—” I guess Sister Helene heard exactly what I heard, the way her voice sizzled with anger. She bit back the words and took a minute to compose herself. “Unlike Sister Sheila, I saw that the dispute between us was unhealthy and un-Christian. I saw that it was doing nothing but bringing grief to each of our convents. I didn’t come to Ohio empty-handed. I brought along a contract relinquishing all my claims to the royalties from ‘Living Bread.’”

  Sister Helene went on even faster than I opened my mouth to ask what she was talking about.

  “It’s not worth it,” she said. “It’s not worth the strife or the aggravation or what it was doing to my blood pressure. I brought all the legal paperwork with me and Sister Sheila signed it soon after we arrived. I assigned all my rights from ‘Living Bread’ to her. So you see . . .” Sister Helene snatched up her coffee cup. “It makes for a really good story. Lies and jealousy and bitter artistic rivals. But it’s a nonstarter. I didn’t kill Sheila. Not for the money and not for any other reason.”

  And with that, she marched out of the kitchen.

  “Well, she looked like a thundercloud.” Kate poked her head into the room a moment after Sister Helene left it. “You made her mad.”

  “I made her think I was an idiot who didn’t have all my facts straight,” I grumbled. “Did you find out anything?”

  She shook her head and reached for the stack of dinner plates I took down from the cupboard. “They’re from all different parts of the country, from all different convents. None of them knew each other well.”

  “Except for Sheila and Helene.” Thinking this over, I tapped the toe of my sneaker against the ceramic tile floor. It didn’t take me long to come up with a plan. “Everyone in the dining room?”

  Kate nodded. “Except for Sister Margaret and Chandra. There was some talk of thyme and parsley.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What do you suppose she’s up to?”

  Kate knew I wasn’t talking about Sister Margaret. “She’s clearly lost her mind. Did you see the size of that lamppost she wants to put outside her house? When the light’s on, it will blind me. And destroy the atmosphere of the neighborhood. You think Chandra would know that.”

  “She’s got to know it, just like she’s got to know that a pool on my property line . . .” Just thinking about it made me feel as if my head would pop off. “I can’t imagine what’s going through her brain.”

  “Nothing right now but talk of herbs and more herbs.” Luella joined us in the kitchen and picked up on our conversation. Her mouth twisted. “At least we know she won’t be adding fish fertilizer to her garden!”

  “She’s acting crazy.” Kate checked to make sure the door was closed before she made the pronouncement. “She’s always been nuts, but now she’s even more nuts.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense.” I shook my head, then brushed my dark, curly hair out of my eyes. “And I suppose right now, it doesn’t matter. We have a more serious problem on our hands.”

  Kate and Luella knew I was right, and I filled them in with what I had in mind. As soon as we were sure all the nuns were in the dining room, they’d serve dinner and I’d scoot upstairs and look through the Sisters’ rooms. All my friends had to do was keep the nuns talking to cover up any sounds I might make. And to make sure they all stayed at the table.

  When Chandra finally joined us—excitedly chatting about fennel and marjoram and something called licorice flag that Sister Margaret told her would be ideal for wet soil—and they ferried pot roast and veggies into the dining room, I stayed behind and counted to ten, realizing as I did that I did not have the steely constitution of a burglar. Especially when it comes to burgling nuns.

  I counted to ten again just to try to calm my suddenly racing heart, then because I knew I was wasting time, I held in a tight breath, ducked into the hallway, and hurried up the stairs.

  The steps creaked. Of course they creaked. The house was old. The stairway was made of wood. At the first noise, I cringed, then froze, but when the buzz of conversation I could hear from the dining room never lagged, I kept right on going.

  At the top of the stairs, I stopped long enough to get my bearings.

  I knew which room was Sister Catherine’s because it was the one I’d looked into the day before when Sister Sheila refused to walk into it. And I knew which room belonged to Sister Sheila—I glanced across the hallway—because it was the one Sister Catherine walked out of when they decided to switch.

  Though I knew the police had already been through it, I also knew I had to satisfy my curiosity. Before I worried about Sister Helene’s room, I’d check out Sister Sheila’s.

  I flicked on the light and glanced around. Like the room she’d refused to enter, this room was spacious and inviting. There were bookcases against the right wall and windows opposite the door that looked out over the circular driveway at the front of the house. To my left was a bed and a desk and beyond that, a door that led to the bathroom.

  Sister Sheila’s suitcase was still on the bed, still packed as it must have been the afternoon when she decided to take a walk on the beach before she got settled. I ignored the stab of poignancy and closed in on the suitcase so I could shuffle through the contents.
<
br />   Another veil.

  Underwear.

  Nightgown.

  Toiletries.

  There was certainly nothing remarkable to be found in Sister Sheila’s few possessions, and I turned away from the suitcase so I could concentrate on the desk. There, right on top of it, was the contract Sister Helene had told me about.

  I’ve had some experience with contracts and to me, this one looked pretty standard. Just like Sister Helene had said, in it she surrendered her rights to “Living Bread” and to all royalties resulting from the sale and use of the song.

  I paged through the rest of the contract and saw nothing unusual.

  Well, except for the one clause near the very end.

  I read over it twice just to be sure that it said what I thought it said, and I thought about how right Sister Helene had been when she told me that just because she was a nun didn’t mean she was dumb or naive.

  What she was, apparently, was a little forgetful.

  Or a really skilled liar.

  Because though Sister Helene had been right about the contract and walking away from her royalties, what she’d failed to mention was this one niggling little clause.

  See, the contract stated that there was one way for Sister Helene to resume receiving the royalties, and to get all the previously earned royalties assigned to her, too.

  That was on Sister Sheila’s death.

  7

  “So there’s a dead nun, huh?” Joe Roscoe asked the question around the bite of cranberry pancake he’d just put in his mouth. “Everybody’s talking about it,” he said by way of responding to my surprised look. He washed down the mouthful of breakfast with a slug of coffee. “At least they were when I went downtown for dinner last night. Not surprising on an island like this. It’s got to be real news.”

  “It is news, and it’s very sad.” I’d just carried a Georgian porcelain tureen heaped with fresh strawberries and kiwis into the dining room and I set it down on the table. It was just a bit after nine and the librarians weren’t down yet so at least right now, the spread was all for Joe. Then again, I’d found four empty wine bottles in the kitchen trash when I got up that morning along with a pizza box, a used-up carton of Ben & Jerry’s Hazed & Confused, and a couple dozen wrappers from those little Dove dark chocolates.

  Something told me the librarians might be moving a little slow that Monday morning.

  “So what’s the story?” Joe sopped up the syrup on his plate with his last bit of pancake, then stabbed another flapjack from the serving platter and slathered it with butter. “Folks down at the restaurant where I ate said you were sure to know all the details. They told me you’re a detective.”

  “I’m a B-and-B owner,” I pointed out, then felt I needed to explain. “There were a couple little mysteries on the island last year,” I said, purposely avoiding the word murder because I didn’t want to freak out a guest or give the island a bad name. “I helped out a little. That’s all. That doesn’t make me a detective.”

  “That’s not what I heard about you.” Joe poked his fork in my direction. “I hear you’re as sharp as a tack and pretty good about getting to the bottom of things.”

  “Just like you.” How’s that for a slick way to change the subject? I made sure I smiled when I sat down, poured myself a cup of coffee, and said, “Genealogists are detectives, too, aren’t they? You’re always searching for clues that will lead you somewhere and when you solve one mystery, you move on to the next one.”

  Thinking about it, he pressed his lips together. “You’re right.”

  “That’s all I’ve been able to do. Just think about things and offer some suggestions to the authorities. It was nothing. Besides . . .” I remembered what Hank had said about not revealing the whole truth about how Sister Sheila had died to the nuns and figured the same advice applied to laity. “Nobody said Sister Sheila’s death was any kind of mystery. She fell into the water and drowned. It was an unfortunate accident.”

  “I’ll say.” Joe reached for the fruit and heaped strawberries and kiwi on his plate. “And this Sister Sheila . . . Everybody’s talking about her, but nobody’s got much when it comes to details. Was she a young woman?”

  I thought about the last time I’d seen Sister Sheila—the last time I’d seen her alive. “Forties, I’d say, though I’m not very good when it comes to guessing people’s ages and the whole habit and veil make it even harder than it would be if she were wearing street clothes.”

  “Short? Tall? Skinny? Plump?” Joe obviously liked to get his facts straight. Not surprising for a man whose passion was delving into family history. “What kind of woman was she?”

  “I only met her once,” I told him. “She was a little taller than me, a little rounder. She seemed . . .” I couldn’t say terrified, not without having to explain. “She seemed nice. And like all the nuns, I’m sure she was looking forward to a week at Water’s Edge. Then just like that, her retreat—and her life—was cut short. It makes you appreciate how fragile life can be.”

  “Amen.” Joe raised his coffee cup in my direction. “So those other nuns, they’re staying on at the retreat?”

  “No reason they shouldn’t,” I said, and wondered if they would once they learned the truth about the circumstances of Sister Sheila’s death. “I think they find a great deal of comfort in each other’s company.”

  Nodding, Joe took another bite of cranberry pancake. “That retreat place, some old geezer at the bar was telling me about it. He said it used to be the home of some big shot.”

  “So I hear. He was dead by the time I moved to the island, and the house was empty until it was turned into the retreat center.”

  “Interesting old house?”

  It was a natural question from a genealogist. “Big, rambling. Looks like something straight out of a gothic novel. But the inside has been updated and it’s warm and inviting.”

  “Big enough that each of those nuns has her own room? There are what, like ten of them? That’s what the folks at the restaurant said, anyway.”

  “There were ten of them,” I reminded him. “And yes, each of them does have a private room with a private bath. Which tells you something about the size of the house. It’s quite an impressive place.”

  “And it has views of the lake. That’s what the geezer said. He said that when that rich recluse or whatever he was lived there, no one was allowed near the place, but that sometimes, they’d take their boats out and take a gander at the house from the water. It’s near the nature preserve, right?”

  “No, no.” I stirred my coffee and took a sip. The coffee I brewed for my guests was a tad less strong than the pot I kept in the kitchen for myself, but still, it was tasty and the hot coffee felt good going down on a morning that was just as rainy, raw, and windy as the previous day had been. “Water’s Edge is on the other side of the island,” I told Joe. “North of the ferry dock and the old lighthouse.”

  “Any idea when it was built?”

  “Not a clue,” I admitted. “But I bet the folks at the Historical Society could tell you. Maybe the house was here when your ancestors lived on the island.”

  “I’d like to find out. And I’d love to get a look at the house if you don’t think anyone would mind. Maybe my great-grandfather helped build the place. He was a carpenter.”

  I set my cup on its saucer. “I thought your ancestors fished.”

  For a second, Joe was confused, but the truth dawned on him and he chuckled. “Well, they all fished. Just like I told you the other day. But during winter, they had to have some trade to get them by. Great-grandpa Roscoe was a carpenter and I hear he did fine work. If there was a mansion being built, I’d like to think he had a part in it. Wouldn’t that be something, standing in a room he helped build or looking at a wall he paneled.”

  I had no doubt he was right, but there wasn’t a chance to talk a
bout it. Four sleepy-eyed and a little worse for wear librarians stumbled into the room.

  “Good morning,” Angela said, and winced at the sound of her own voice. “Is there coffee?”

  “Lots of coffee.” Carole was already filling four cups.

  Bette took a sip of hers. “I think we’re going to need more,” she told me.

  I wasn’t about to argue. When I headed into the kitchen to brew another pot, I took my own cup with me and refilled it with the special extra-kick variety I liked so much. I’d just sat down on one of the high stools near the breakfast counter when the phone rang.

  “Got some stuff you should probably know about.”

  “Good morning, Hank.”

  “What? Ah, yeah, good morning. Got some stuff you should probably know about.”

  I thought about what Joe had said, about the gossip around town that had me pegged as a detective. There was no use adding fuel to the fire by letting my guests see the chief of police making a house call. “Give me a few minutes to finish up breakfast and clean up and I’ll come over to the station.”

  “No hurry,” Hank told me. “Dead is dead. Nothing we do is going to bring that poor woman back.”

  * * *

  Pancakes are pretty hard to transport, but I knew better than to arrive at the police station in the basement of the town hall building empty-handed. In spite of everything Chandra said about him (and oh, the things she said about him!), Hank was a valuable asset and an important ally. I brought him a container filled with fresh strawberries and kiwis and as long as I was at it, I grabbed one of the extra cinnamon raisin muffins Meg had made—and delivered for me—for the nuns’ breakfast that morning.

  He dug right in.

  “Been making the usual inquiries,” Hank told me, muffin in one hand and a spoon loaded with strawberries in the other. “Thought you said these Sisters, they didn’t know each other.”