Killer in the Cloister

by Camille Minichino

  “Good afternoon. Sacred Heart.” A young woman’s voice, sounding too close to be in another time zone. I pictured a high school girl serving as all-purpose secretary/receptionist/server of tea and cookies/sweeper of the sacristy and sanctuary, like my job at St. Leonard’s rectory at that age.

  I swallowed hard and thought about hanging up. No harm done, just a few glasses of ice tea lost.

  “Hello?” The sharpness of the tone shook me into action, less patient than I’d been trained to be in the same position.

  “Hello. Uh, good afternoon. Is Mother Consiliatrix there, please?”

  “She’s not in at the moment. May I ask who’s calling?”

  The first tough question. But at least I’d read the handwriting on the letters correctly. I’d half-expected to hear, “You mean Mother Consolata?” Or even “Mother Cuthburga?”

  I looked at the wall around St. Lucy’s pay phone. Names, numbers, and assorted swirls decorated the top page of a note pad that hung from a small bulletin board. I focused on large, elaborate letters—NY—doodled in blue ink, styled like the logo of the New York Yankees, my father’s favorite team.

  “I’m calling from New York,” I said, as if it mattered to the nuns in Albuquerque. “Sister Francesca.” I gave my name in a way that implied I was an important person, perhaps the Cardinal’s assistant.

  “May I take a message? We expect her back this evening.”

  Another complication. After a pause—I was sure the young woman wondered why it took me so long to answer her simple queries—I left my name and the number on the phone in the booth.

  “May I say what this is regarding?”

  I drew a deep breath and cleared my throat to fill in the silence.

  “Tell her it’s about Mother Ignatius.”

  CHAPTER 21

  By eight o’clock, about the time my St. Lucy’s Hall neighbors would be watching “Nights of Cabiria,” I was on my bed, fully dressed, waiting for Sister Ann William. Although the hours for the wake were seven to nine, I hadn’t expected her to stay that long. Either things were going very well for the amateur detective, or very badly.

  I played mind games, predicting which would come first, a return call from Mother Consiliatrix or the appearance of Sister Ann William. I hadn’t allowed for a third possibility. When I answered my bell around nine-thirty, I heard Mother Julia’s voice.

  “Your sister, Patricia, called me,” she said slowly, as if she were keeping pace with a dirge.

  I felt my knees weaken, my mouth go dry. I knew Patty would call the Motherhouse so late in the evening for only one reason.

  “Your father has gone to God, Sister Francesca. He died peacefully about an hour ago.”

  A surge of sadness flowed through my body, blocking out the light on the stairway, and I had to hold back tears. Gone to God. I tried to summon an image of my father as part of a Botticelli painting, floating to heaven, the Beatific Vision ready to embrace him, my mother holding out her arms.

  “Sister Francesca?” Mother Julia’s voice was soft, gentler than I’d ever heard it.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “You may use your September allowance for a bus ticket, Sister. Finish your week of classes tomorrow and plan to be here for confession on Saturday. Then you may attend the wake and visit your family on Sunday. You may also attend the funeral service, on Monday morning.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  “All our masses through this weekend will be offered for your father’s soul, and for your family, Sister. And several Sisters have asked to accompany you to the services.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  I hung up the phone and leaned against the wall, my senses overloaded. I could see the tiny cracks in the ceiling paint, hear the ticking of the clock in the main parlor two floors below, taste the Communion wafer I’d had early in the morning.

  My father’s voice took over my brain as I walked back to my room, nearly bumping into a Sister on her way to the showers. From some trick of memory, I saw Brendan Patrick Wickes again as the star of a parish show one St. Patrick’s Day. He’d stood front and center, in an ugly green costume that nearly made baby Timothy throw up. He’d sung with all his heart.

  Here lies the Mick that threw a brick

  but he’ll never throw another.

  For calling me a P.I.A.,

  he now lays undercover.

  On his tombstone you can read

  if you care to rub her:

  Here lies the Mick that threw a brick

  But he’ll never throw another.

  I brushed away tears and saw my father as clearly as when I was ten years old, with his twinkle, his shuffle, his lumbering gait. As my father sang the ditty, never came out “niver” and he refused to tell us what a P.I.A. was.

  Now, I’ll niver know, I thought, and I cried as if that were the saddest thing about my father’s death.

  <><><>

  “Now I feel doubly sorry, “ Sister Ann William said when I told her of my father’s death. She’d knocked on my door at close to eleven o’clock, explaining how she’d allowed herself to be talked into ‘Nights of Cabiria.’ “And afterward we went to a place called Jahn’s for ice cream,” she said, her voice repentant, as if she’d eaten roast beef on a Friday.

  “No need to apologize, Sister. I’m fine.”

  “I’m sure you could be excused from class tomorrow if you asked.”

  I shook my head. “It’s the first class in research methods, and I don’t want to miss it. There’s no reason to be in Potterstown tomorrow anyway.”

  Except to be with my sisters and brother, I thought. But I’d given up that comfort when I took my vows. Only Timothy would have a hard time understanding my choice.

  Sister Ann William and I stood on opposite sides of my threshold, whispering, although the hallway was noisy with Sisters returning from an apparently eventful evening.

  “What about Mother Ignatius’ wake?” I asked her.

  “I didn’t think you’d want to talk about it.” She paused and gave me a sympathetic look. “Under the circumstances?”

  The anticipation of a weekend with what was left of my family did put wakes in a new light. I shuddered to think of someone attending my father’s services with the ulterior motive of observing the guests. On the other hand, Sister Ann William had already carried out that unpleasant duty, Mother Ignatius’ killer was still at large, and we needed all the information we could get.

  “Why don’t you come in and tell me who was there.”

  Sister Ann William stepped into my room. I motioned her to my chair and sat on the edge of my bed, ready to hear evidence. “Well, the seven or eight of us from St. Lucy’s, of course. Plus Mr. and Mrs. Driscoll and lots of priests. Sister Felix sat with a young woman who was introduced as Mother Ignatius’ grandniece from Maine.”

  “I thought she didn’t have any relatives.”

  “None close by. Just this one, I guess. It was nice that Father Malbert addressed her by name when he gave a little eulogy.”

  “Was he wearing khakis?” As soon as I said it, I regretted the uncharitable remark. Sister Ann William stifled a laugh, and did me the courtesy of not answering the question.

  “I was surprised at his talk—very touching and poetic. He said something like Saint Peter must have thought she was an angel, arriving in lily white, head to toe.”

  “That is nice.”

  She frowned, appearing to remember a distasteful aspect. “And then he said something almost embarrassing—he said, ‘Of course, I have no first hand experience. I’m just assuming Sisters wear only white at night’ Everyone else seemed to think it was amusing.”

  Father Malbert’s patronizing attitude bothered me too, but I was able to resist a sarcas
tic retort. One of my pet peeves was how people often treated nuns as if they were children, prone to giggling at the slightest mention of personal or intimate matters.

  “So you didn’t see anyone suspicious?” I asked, although I was at a loss as to how I’d define suspect behavior.

  She shook her head. “At least a dozen Sisters from Mother Ignatius’ community were there.” Sister Ann William held her hand a few inches above her head to represent the high white headpiece that characterized Mother Ignatius and Sister Felix’s habit. “Very few lay people attended. We left right after the rosary. Then everyone but me was going to the movie and I didn’t want to walk home alone, so I gave in and went. I think my superior would understand. I closed my eyes at some unseemly parts, but on the whole it was an interesting story.”

  “I’m sure it was a wise choice, Sister, for safety reasons,” I told her, as if I were any model of decision making lately.

  “I wish I could go to Potterstown with you. Maybe if I call Mother . . .”

  I shook my head. “No need, Sister, but I really appreciate your offer.”

  I thought of Mother Julia’s most likely reaction to a “friend” arriving with me—not favorable. I could hear her as clearly as if she were perched on my sink watching us. “It’s not appropriate for you to form a particular friendship with anyone, Sister Francesca, let alone a Sister of another order.”

  There was a time when I would have agreed wholeheartedly with her imaginary voice, but not this evening.

  <><><>

  While Mother Ignatius’ body was being delivered to the earth, I attended my Friday morning class in theological research methods. Just the distraction I needed, although I didn’t forget to pray for her.

  Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Would the souls of Mother Ignatius and my father meet? It was a question for a more experienced theologian than I was, but I thought they’d have liked each other if they’d met. Two old school Catholics.

  No more than ten minutes into Dr. Baron’s lecture, I realized the papers I’d written in college weren’t worthy of the term “research.” A small man, with a weak voice and thin graying hair, Dr. Baron was the only lay person on the Theology Department faculty. I wondered if, like Aidan, he’d dropped out of seminary. An image came into my mind unbidden—Dr. Aidan Connors, theology professor, a few years from now, wearing a pale blue sweater, standing before a class of graduate students.

  This was the only one of my classes Aidan wasn’t also enrolled in. I wondered what he’d chosen instead. Through with mental wandering, I sat up and tuned in, in time to hear our term assignment.

  “A substantial research paper using a distinctive theological methodology,” Dr. Baron said, hefting a pile of textbooks in the air. “This is graduate school, not an extension of your undergraduate studies. You may choose among textual, historical, and social methods, insofar as they contribute to constructive theology.”

  Clearly a well-organized seminar leader, Dr. Baron had advised us of the project in advance through a notice that came with our registration packets. I’d already decided to write my paper on Saint Augustine of Hippo, considered by many scholars as the first Christian theologian. When I entered the convent, I’d wanted to take the name of his mother, Saint Monica. Her prayers for her son brought him out of a worldly, sinful life into the Church and ultimately to sainthood. I had grand designs about my ability to do the same for my wayward brother Timothy.

  However, there already was a Sister Monica, SMI, as well as a Sister Mary Monica and a Sister Monica Ann. I was too late. In the end I became satisfied with my religious name, my patron, Saint Francis of Assisi, and my connection to Great-aunt Francesca Sforzo.

  “They all talk to each other up there, anyway,” Mother Julia had said, her lips stretching into a rare grin.

  Ten of us had enrolled in Dr. Baron’s class: five Sisters and five young men dressed in the telltale black pants of seminarians. I noticed each man wore something distinctively not seminary garb—brightly colored socks, an elaborate ski sweater over a black shirt, and a few maroon sweatshirts with St. Alban’s logo in gold.

  I didn’t recognize any of the Sisters as St. Lucy’s residents and assumed they commuted from their local convents. I found myself wistful about living “at home,” sure that all my difficulties of the past week were a direct consequence of residing outside my Motherhouse.

  One of the nuns, who referred to herself by her full name—Sister Ruth Fitzpatrick—wore a habit modified in the extreme. Her street-length dark green dress appeared to be store-bought. A bronze cross hanging from a cord around her neck was the only sign of a religious affiliation. I wondered vaguely how long it would take to grow my hair to a length appropriate for public viewing. I’d never considered its wild shade of red natural in the first place.

  The newly deceased Brendan Patrick Wickes slipped to the back corner of my mind as I involved myself in each person’s preliminary ideas for a term project. The construction of arguments in theological disciplines. The relationship between theology and social theory. The discipleship of Saint Anthony of the Desert. All fascinating research topics.

  To my surprise, I was impressed by Sister Ruth Fitzpatrick’s proposal.

  “I’d like to pursue the idea of a discipleship of equals,” she said. Her voice was soft, her words revealing a thoughtful attitude. “I’ve been reading a collection of essays showing feminist methodology in textual interpretation. . . women who emerged as exceptions to the patriarchy. My tentative title is ‘Feminist Critique of Prophetic Traditions’. I intend to stay within the bounds of Scripture.”

  “Should be interesting,” Dr. Baron said.

  I had to agree.

  <><><>

  When I caught up with Sister Ann William in front of the student union building, she was talking to two other St. Lucy’s residents—Sisters Teresa and Veronique had asked to join us on our trip home.

  “I was so sorry to hear about your father,” Sister Teresa said. “I’ve asked my Motherhouse to offer mass for him on Monday during his funeral service.”

  “Me, too,” Sister Veronique said.

  “Thank you very much,” I said, happy that spiritual bouquets had survived the changes in the Church, at least so far.

  We walked four abreast on the campus path, splitting up when faced with foot traffic from the other direction. Several times other pedestrians interrupted our conversation with greetings learned in grade school.

  “Good morning, Sisters,” from a group of three young women whose hair was longer than their skirts.

  “Can I help you with your books?” from a construction worker who’d crossed the lawn with his arms outstretched, ready to ease our burden. I wondered if his coffee break was long enough to allow him to walk us all the way home.

  We all agreed we’d have been disappointed if we hadn’t heard the most commonly asked type of question—”Do you know Sister Grace Marie from St. Agatha’s in White Plains?” As if everyone in a habit knew everyone else who wore one.

  I had suppressed my strong desire to ask Sister Teresa about the drama in Room 26 the previous afternoon, but she brought it up herself.

  “I hope we didn’t disturb you yesterday, Francesca.” Sister Teresa called to me from the end of our row of four. “Veronique and I were having a little disagreement.” She laughed, as if to indicate it was just a silly spat between friends.

  Veronique nodded her agreement. “I guess we’ve been seeing too much of each other,” she said in a playful tone.

  I suspected they’d arranged this ambush to dispel gossip or rumor I might be tempted to spread. I hoped they’d explain further what their argument had been about, perhaps naming the “he” they’d mentioned in unflattering tones. But Sister Ann William broke in with another topic.

  “Wasn’t that a nice little talk Father Malbe
rt gave at Mother Ignatius’ wake?” she asked.

  Sister Teresa frowned and shrugged her shoulders. “He does have the gift,” she said, her tone grudging.

  A Gift of the Holy Spirit? Or the gift of blarney? I wondered, surprised at her attitude.

  “He’ll need it in his new job,” Sister Veronique said with a touch of sarcasm. “His bright career . . .”

  “Veronique.” Sister Teresa interrupted her with a tone meant to end the subject. I guessed this outpouring was not part of their original script.

  “Oh, Teresa, it’ll be out soon enough.”

  Sister Teresa sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “You’re right.” She turned to include both me and Sister Ann William who had fallen behind as we crossed Webster Avenue. “Father Malbert’s been named Dean of Academic Affairs.”

  “I still can’t figure Father O’Neill choosing him. He hates him,” Sister Veronique said.

  “That’s a little strong,” Sister Teresa said. “Anyway, the official announcement won’t be out until tomorrow.”

  “But of course Teresa got the news first. It’s the little perk the new dean chose to give her,” Sister Veronique said.

  Sister Ann William and I seemed to be unnecessary to the conversation our companions were having. I had the feeling it was a continuation of the discussion that I’d eavesdropped on.

  Sister Ann William, always the first to recover from awkward situations, offered a good cover for my uneasiness.

  “How nice for Father Malbert,” she said, leaving me to wonder if Texans had special training in social grace.

  “Nice, all right. He doesn’t care what he leaves behind,” Sister Veronique said.

  “So he’s withdrawing as chaplain at St. Lucy’s?” I asked, trying to keep the hopefulness out of my voice.

  “No, he’ll still be around for that. He’s not about to give up anything that really matters to him.”