And Then There Were Nuns

by Kylie Logan

  “Only what you have in mind isn’t going to beautify the neighborhood.” Kate’s voice was as tight as the fists she pressed to her side. “It’s going to make the neighborhood look hideous.”

  Chandra tossed her head and her veil twitched. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Maybe you just need to see the pictures again. Then you’ll remember how lovely it’s all going to be.” She stopped and thinking about it, she wrinkled her nose. “The drawings are in my purse. I left my purse back at Levi’s. But I’ll show you tomorrow. I’ll show you how gorgeous that lamppost is going to look. Then you’ll change your mind.”

  “Not a snowball’s chance in hell,” Kate grumbled.

  Chandra wagged a finger at her. “Is that any way for a nun to talk?”

  Luella sucked in a breath.

  Kate shot toward Chandra.

  I jumped out of my chair just a second before Kate could wrap her fingers around Chandra’s neck.

  “This is not good,” I told them, but I swear, at that point, no one was listening anyway.

  Kate tossed her hands in the air. “I’m not going to stand here and listen to this nonsense,” she said. “And you, Chandra . . .” She drew in a breath that was just as shaky as the finger she pointed at Chandra. “You’re going to hear from my attorney in the morning.”

  The self-satisfied smile Chandra responded with did nothing to calm Kate.

  “Really?” Chandra was more used to flowing clothes and long skirts than I would ever be. When she rose from her chair, she almost made it look easy. “Bring it on, Kate. Because you know as well as I do what your attorney is going to tell you. My property, my business.”

  “Your property, our business. The whole neighborhood’s business. Isn’t that right, Bea?” Kate looked to me for support.

  “It’s not going to help to fight about it,” I reminded them both.

  But it was too late for that.

  Kate is shorter than Chandra, and when she got up in her face, I was reminded of a small gray mouse trying to intimidate a large black bear. (Only don’t tell Chandra that in her habit, I thought she looked like a large black bear.)

  Kate wagged a finger under Chandra’s nose. “You’re not going to do this,” she hissed. “You’ve spent years trying to mess with the neighborhood. You and your stinky full-moon bonfires. You and all those creepy people who come to your house so you can scam money out of them with all that loony tarot stuff. I’ve put up with a lot from you over the years, Chandra. But I’m not going to put up with some gigantic, ugly lamppost that’s going to be so bright I won’t be able to get a wink of sleep. And I’m not going to keep quiet about it, that’s for sure. I’m going to the newspaper. I’m going to the village council. We’re going to court. And you’d better be prepared for the fight of your life!”

  Kate turned on her heels and headed for the door. “I’m going up to bed,” she called.

  “Don’t forget to lock your door,” I reminded her.

  Done with pushing Kate to the edge, Chandra apparently decided it was time to see how far she could get with Luella. And me.

  I knew Chandra pretty well. At least I always thought I did. The Chandra I knew back when I moved to the island wouldn’t care a fig what Kate or I or even Luella thought of her. But the Chandra who’d been our friend for the last year, I thought she’d be more worried that she’d upset the applecart of our friendship.

  Which, I suppose, is why I bristled when I saw her smile.

  “I’m assuming you two ladies will be doing the same thing,” Chandra said. “Taking me to court? You’ll try to stop the swimming pool, won’t you, Bea? But I’m telling you, it’s not going to happen. My property, my pool. They’re going to survey tomorrow and then they can start digging, and there’s nothing you can do about it. And Luella . . .” For a second when Chandra turned to her, I swear her eyes got dewy and her smug smile sagged. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, because the next second, she threw her shoulders back, grinning again.

  “I think it’s only fair to let you know, Luella, that there’s going to be a rally at the marina tomorrow morning, then more rallies all summer long. The local chapter of People Against Fishing Lake Erie is all set to go. We even made signs. Swim Free and Never Get Caught! You’re the one who came up with the slogan, Luella, and PAFLE is forever grateful.” She wrinkled her nose and looked down at her habit. “Speaking of getting caught, you think we’ll nab our killer before then, Bea? Because I’ve got to be down at the marina at nine and I sure can’t go dressed like this.”

  Under normal circumstances, I would have reassured Chandra. Of course we’d wrap up our case by then! Of course she wouldn’t have to continue in her undercover nun capacity after tonight! Of course she was free to be herself so she could lead the hordes of PAFLE in their campaign!

  But these weren’t normal circumstances. Not when Luella’s jaw was clenched tight and her breaths were coming hard and fast.

  Chandra either didn’t notice or didn’t care. She breezed right on. “I’ll be right up at the front of the crowd tomorrow. My sign is neon orange. I’m hoping it will look good for the TV cameras. I did tell you we called all the local stations on the mainland, didn’t I? We’ve got to raise awareness. We’ve got to get our voices heard. People Against Fishing Lake Erie is going to do whatever it takes to—”

  “Not listening!” Luella pressed her hands over her ears and hurried out of the room. “You’ve lost your mind, Chandra, and I’m not listening to any of this.”

  She managed the steps faster than any woman her age should have been able to and within a minute, I heard the thump when she slammed her bedroom door shut.

  “So . . .” Chandra threw me a look. “What about you?”

  “What about me?” I wasn’t sure I looked sisterly when I stepped back and folded my arms over my chest, raised my head, and stuck out my chin. At that point, I didn’t much care. “You want to pick a fight with me, too?”

  “I don’t want to pick a fight with anyone. I’m just looking out for myself. And hey, when my friends aren’t there, you can always come over and use the pool!”

  I guess she thought this was a good thing, because Chandra was smiling when she, too, went upstairs to bed.

  “Use the pool!” I grumbled the statement along with some choice words more appropriate to a misplaced New Yorker than to a nun and wondered what on earth had caused Chandra to lose her mind—and her common sense. Now that she knew who I really was, I would think she would have realized that I could and would fight this crazy project of hers from now until forever. I could afford it. I could afford to tie her up in court forever.

  Another thought hit, and my shoulders slumped.

  As soon as I found a new attorney.

  Between thinking about Jason (and thus, thinking about Levi) and thinking about how my plan to flush out the person who’d been after Sister Gabriel was obviously a bust (and thus thinking about Levi, since thinking about the nuns made me think about how they were over at his place), I’d pretty much had it. I turned out the lights and left the living room, going over the apology in my head, the one I’d make to Hank in the morning for tying up so many hours of so many cops’ time with the crazy plan that obviously didn’t work.

  I knew there was a cop staying up on the third floor and of course, that made me feel safe, but on my way upstairs, I checked the front door anyway.

  Locked and secure.

  I’d already turned to head upstairs when I remembered those wet footprints I’d found inside the kitchen door that night that seemed a lifetime ago.

  That door, too, would be locked. I was sure of it, but I went into the kitchen anyway.

  And stopped dead in my tracks.

  Which, come to think of it, was a really poor choice of words. A single light had been left on over the sink, but the rest of the room was lost in shadows. I saw the hulking
shape of a man in the darkest corner of the room.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” I didn’t need to try to sound indignant. There was something about wearing a habit like those of the confident, committed ladies over at Levi’s that gave me courage. “You need to leave. Right now.”

  The shadow separated itself just a bit from the inky blackness around it, but I refused to step back when the man stepped forward. “Where’s Ginger?” he growled.

  “Ginger.” It took no effort at all to pretend I was confused. “Who’s Ginger?”

  His chuckle was anything but pleasant. “Sister Gabriel. That’s what she’s calling herself. Where is the little bitch?”

  This was exactly what I’d planned when I came up with the plan to flush out the person menacing the nuns, wasn’t it?

  So why had my feet turned to blocks of ice and my tongue to sand?

  I scrambled to remember every shred of the plan that had seemed so easy and so brilliant such a short time before and counted on the fact that if I couldn’t see the man completely, then he couldn’t see me well, either. Beneath the white wool panel that topped my habit, my fingers flew over the keyboard of my phone, speed-dialing first the cop upstairs (who didn’t pick up), then Hank (who did). I didn’t disconnect the call.

  “I need an answer, Sister, and I need it fast.” The shadows quivered when the man took another step in my direction. “She’s got something that belongs to my associates and I need it. Now.”

  It took a moment for my brain to catch up. “The package of books! Sister Gabriel, she said—”

  “Where is it?” The man lurched forward and when he did, he stepped into the circle of light thrown by the lamp above the sink. That’s when I noticed two things about him:

  He had a gun pointed at me.

  And he was—

  “Joe Roscoe!” I was so surprised, I closed my hand over the crucifix I wore around my neck, as if that would keep the world from tipping on its axis.

  He peered through the darkness at me and grumbled a curse. “What the hell are you—”

  I tried for a smile. I did not even try to explain the habit. “Just visiting.”

  With the gun, he motioned me closer. “Well, that’s too bad for you now that you’ve recognized me.”

  My body stayed put. My brain, on the other hand, whirled out of control. “That explains it,” I blurted out. “The beigeness! You wanted to blend in with the scenery. You wanted to be so bland and boring that no one paid any attention to you. You . . .” I hoped he didn’t hear the panic in my voice when I gulped. “You’re a professional. That explains how you got in here, too.”

  “You mean how I got past all those cops outside?” Joe chuckled. It was not the warm and friendly sound I’d expect from a genealogist. He twitched the gun toward me again. “I’m a pissed professional. Get moving. Let’s get outside so we don’t wake up whoever else is around.”

  “Sister Gabriel . . . er . . . Ginger isn’t. She’s on the mainland. In police custody. She told them everything.”

  “This, I doubt. Ginger doesn’t have the brains to get in out of the rain.”

  “But she did have the package.” The lie fell so easily from my lips, even I nearly believed it. “She left it behind when she ran off this morning and the other nuns . . . they, they gave it to me.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You can take that chance . . .” I slewed to my right and the deeper shadows over near the island in the center of the kitchen. “But if you and your associates . . .” There was something about the word that made my spine tingle. “If you want it back, then you’d better believe me. I’m the only one who knows where the package is.”

  “Then you’d better start talking.” When he raised the gun, the barrel glinted in the light.

  I didn’t have a moment to lose, no weapon to speak of, and nothing to go on but instinct and instinct alone. I groped a hand across the island and grabbed onto the first thing my fingers touched. It happened to be a stainless steel bowl, and I winged it at Joe Roscoe. It clunked him in the side of the head just as the gun went off and I ducked behind the island.

  As Fate would have it (thank you, Fate!) that was the exact moment Hank and a SWAT team burst through the back door.

  18

  “I have to admit, the first thing I thought of when I watched the cops arrest the guy was if it meant he didn’t have to pay for his room.”

  Honestly, I wouldn’t have admitted it if I didn’t think Sister Catherine would understand. I guess she did because she laughed. “That just means you’ve got a good head on your shoulders,” she told me. “And what was the second thing you thought of?”

  I laughed, too. “The second thing was that if he didn’t pay, I could take the amount he owed me and write it off my taxes as a business expense.”

  This, too, she thought was pretty funny. But then, I couldn’t blame her for laughing at my lame jokes. It was Friday morning, less than twelve hours since Hank and his crew had swept into the house and hauled away the man I thought was bland-as-toast genealogist Joe Roscoe. We were all in pretty good moods that morning. So much so that Sister Catherine had volunteered to bake what she called her Official Special Day Hallelujah Celebration Cake, a dessert that she traditionally served at the shelter in Philadelphia when one of the women there achieved some milestone like finding a job or starting back to school.

  I had offered to help, not because I’m especially good at baking, but because the cake—a chocolate chiffon confection iced with salted caramel butter cream frosting—sounded so scrumptious, I had to see how it was made.

  Sister Catherine and I had already been to the grocery store that morning and we had our ingredients lined up on the island that—so few hours before—had provided me shelter when Joe took a shot at me.

  “Joe.” I grumbled the name and didn’t bother to apologize. “Imagine the nerve of the guy pretending to be a regular guest over at the B and B.”

  Sister Catherine cut parchment paper to fit into the bottoms of three round cake pans. “The police still aren’t sure who he is?”

  I’d been given the task of getting the salted caramel icing started and I measured brown sugar, salt, and cream into a saucepan. “They’re sure they’ll know soon enough. After they run his fingerprints. I’d bet anything that he’s a professional hit man.” I shivered at the very thought.

  “Sent to retrieve whatever it was that Sister Gabriel . . . or whoever she is . . . had sent here.” Sister Catherine shook her head in wonder. “How are they going to make sense of it all?”

  “It would help if we could find that package.” Thinking, I drummed my fingers on the countertop. “Sister Gabriel . . . or Ginger Mancini . . . or whoever she is . . . she’s not talking and our hit man isn’t, either. What do you suppose happened to it?”

  “The package?” Sister Catherine shrugged. “Sister Liliosa swears it was delivered.”

  “And Ginger obviously never found it. Something told me if she had, she would have cut and run even sooner. Instead, she waited around and searched for it, and my guess is she only decided to get out of Dodge when she realized someone was after her. By then, she didn’t care if she had the package or not, she just wanted to make sure she got off the island alive.”

  “Can’t say I blame her.”

  “Me, either.”

  “But why have something sent here anyway? Why not just bring it along?”

  This was something that hadn’t escaped my attention, and I told Sister Catherine the theory I’d come up with during the night when I couldn’t get a wink of sleep and I found myself pacing and sipping the last of that Château Lafite Rothschild 1996 in an effort to calm my nerves.

  “It was something she couldn’t get caught with,” I said, sounding for all the world like I knew what I was talking about rather than just speculating. “Not by
the cops and not by whoever it is who sent Joe Roscoe to find her.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Maybe.”

  “But why pretend to be Sister Gabriel?”

  This was the easy part. “The cops have talked to the real Sister Gabriel. Ginger Mancini is her great-niece. Ginger must have known her great-aunt was invited to the retreat and she must have known that Sister Gabriel—the real Sister Gabriel—was too sick to go to the dinner in New York. She knew no one would recognize her. Why, even in that article in the New York Times about all of you, there was no picture of Sister Gabriel, not from the front. The photo they ran of her showed a nun kneeling in front of an altar. It was taken from behind.”

  “So the Sister we thought was Sister Gabriel—”

  “Was using a very clever disguise. She didn’t count on the determination of whoever it was Joe called his associates.” The very word made a tingle creep up my spine. “She sent the package along, thought she’d meet it here, and my guess is that’s why she stashed the disguise in the attic. As soon as the package showed, she planned to ditch her habit behind and leave South Bass.”

  “But Joe showed first.”

  Another cold chill reminded me that we’d all been very lucky.

  Well, not all of us.

  I drummed my fingers some more.

  “It doesn’t explain Sister Sheila,” I said, just like I’d said to myself a dozen times the night before. “Or Sister Helene.”

  “Maybe they saw something. Maybe they knew something.”

  “But it doesn’t explain how Sister Grace nearly tripped and fell down the steps here in the house, or how that piece of the exterior stone fell on top of us.”

  “Maybe Joe just made a mistake,” Sister Catherine said. “Maybe he wasn’t sure which of us was Ginger Mancini. I suppose to the untrained eye, one nun looks like any other.”

  “I suppose,” I admitted. “Anything’s possible. Chances are, the cops aren’t going to get much out of Joe, not for a while, anyway. Hank tells me Joe asked for his attorney. It’s some high-powered guy from Chicago and he’s on his way to the island now.”