I couldn’t help feeling Sister Ann William and I had been listening in on a discussion that had started the day before in Room 26.
We turned up East 198th Street, holding down skirts that fluttered in unexpected gusts of wind. Sister Teresa walked ahead of us in silence. Behind her Sister Ann William and Sister Veronique shared anecdotes about their younger siblings.
I walked alone, a few yards behind. I wondered what Father Malbert had done to alienate his biggest fans. With no effort, I created a scenario that named Father Malbert as the “he” who didn’t love Sister Teresa as much as she loved him, who might be responsible for sending her back to Michigan, who’d do anything to save his career.
Including murder? I wondered.
CHAPTER 22
Sister Felix had posted a note on the bulletin board by the mailboxes. I was pleased to read that masses on Saturday through Monday would be offered for the repose of the soul of Brendan Patrick Wickes. Masses celebrated by Father Malbert held the same benefits as those by any other priest, including His Holiness Pope Paul VI, I reminded myself.
Sister Ann William knew I had only one suitcase, an enormous silver metal box, so she kindly suggested I borrow her new leather garment bag for my weekend trip. Without considering whether Mother Julia would approve, I accepted, and packed in it my Sunday habit, one clean chemise, stockings, and night clothes.
While I assembled my wardrobe, I tried to prepare my mind for Potterstown. I couldn’t ignore completely the fleeting images of the past week’s puzzle, but on the whole, I’d pushed Mother Ignatius’ death so far back in my mind that even my mother’s passing ten years ago seemed more recent.
My most vivid memory of that day was of Timothy, in a white shirt and little black tie, refusing consolation from any of us—especially Father Mulrooney, whom he seemed to blame for the loss of his mother.
“You said she’d be all right if I prayed,” he’d told our pastor, his eyes red from crying. He seemed much too young to shoulder grief.
“I said things would be all right, Timothy, meaning we would all care for you. I didn’t promise God wouldn’t take your dear mother.”
Father Mulrooney’s meticulous logic worked for me— God’s will was the best explanation for everything, good and bad in my life. But the reasoning was lost on my eight-year-old brother. He refused to continue his assignment as an altar boy at St. Leonard’s, and had to be forced to attend mass from then on. I was fairly sure he’d never gone willingly since.
I picked up my missal and pulled out the card Patty had designed for the mourners at my mother’s funeral. The only picture I had of my mother was the grainy black and white image on the two-by-four-inch holy card. On one side was her photograph, bordered in black, cropped from a snapshot taken on my parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary. She died a month later. Under the photo, in an elaborate type style, was the prayer of St. Francis of Assisi. Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace. . . . Important dates in Helen Louise Sforzo’s life were listed on the back.
Born June 3, 1912
Married to Brendan Patrick Wickes, October 5, 1935
Mother of Susan Marie, August 20, 1937
Mother of Patricia Catherine, June 27, 1939
Mother of Kathleen Anne, July 15, 1943
Mother of Gabriella, April 14, 1945
Mother of Timothy Edward, December 3, 1946
Died November 23, 1955
I smiled as I thought of Gabriella and her whining. “I’m the only one in the family without a middle name.”
“We thought Gabriella Wickes was enough of a mouthful,” my father would tell her, pretending to struggle over the syllables.
To make up for it, she’d said, she chose Bernadette, the longest saint’s name she could think of, at confirmation. I hadn’t seen Gabriella Bernadette in a couple of months, since she’d been ill with a flu on my last family visiting day in Potterstown.
If I could change a single SMI rule, I thought, it would be the one forbidding Sisters to keep photographs except as they appeared on holy cards given out at funerals. I hoped Patty had thought to put our father’s picture on his card. I looked out my window at the gold and red asters in front of Our Lady’s shrine and drafted an amendment to the Holy Rule: Each Sister of Mary Immaculate shall be permitted one photograph of each member of her immediate family. The frame shall be simple . . .
Two rings. Pause. Five rings.
I abandoned my hypothetical role as Superior General of the SMIs and went down the hall to answer the intercom signal.
“There’s a call for you on my line, Sister Francesca.” Sister Felix sounded unhappy about the inconvenience. “Did you give this number to anyone?”
“No, Sister, I’m sorry. I don’t even know your number.”
“It’s long distance. From New Mexico.”
I sucked in my breath. “Thank you, Sister.”
“You’ll have to come to my office to answer it.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I hurried down the stairs, wondering why the call had gone to Sister Felix’s phone, in what was Mother Ignatius’ office until that morning. I’d used the pay phone in the basement to contact Mother Consiliatrix. I’d left her secretary the number for the Sisters’ line upstairs, since only those on the first floor could hear the pay phone ring. As far as I knew, neither of the lines went to Sister Felix’s office.
Sister Felix was waiting at her door when I reached the ground floor. She motioned me to her desk, and stood next to me, arms folded. The frown lines crossing her forehead seemed to struggle against her tight headpiece.
I swallowed hard and picked up the receiver. “Hello. This is Sister Francesca.” I turned my back to Sister Felix, brushing her wide veil.
“Hello? Sister Francesca? I have a message that you called me.” Mother Consiliatrix’ voice was high-pitched and shaky. She sounded so much like Mother Ignatius, I had the sudden image of my temporary Superior alive and well, living in Albuquerque, her alleged death a big out-of-season April Fool joke. “You said it was regarding Mother Ignatius?”
“Yes, Mother, thank you for returning my call.” I put my hand over the mouthpiece and gave Sister Felix a pleading look, casting my eyes toward her door. She let me know by an intensified scowl she was unhappy about the arrangement. She took quick, angry steps out of the office, leaving the door ajar.
I told myself I’d worry later about Sister Felix’s likely eavesdropping. Since she answered the phone, she already knew I’d contacted Mother Ignatius’ friend.
My jaw tensed as I tried to remember what I’d rehearsed for my conversation with a nun I’d never met. A wave of embarrassment came over me as I realized I’d read her private correspondence. I wondered if policemen felt as guilty when they had to delve into the personal lives of victims and witnesses.
“Mother, I was wondering if you’d heard about Mother Ignatius’ death.”
“Yes, Sister. Her Superior General knows we’ve corresponded for years. She was kind enough to call me.” She paused, then filled in the gap left by my tongue-tied silence. “Mother Ignatius never mentioned you.” Her tone was more a question than an accusation.
“We’d just met. I’m a new graduate student. I live at St. Lucy’s Hall.”
She laughed. “I know where you live, Sister. I called Mother Ignatius’ old number, to be sure I was indeed responding to someone at St. Lucy’s. I didn’t recognize the number you left.”
Good detective work, I thought. Mother Consiliatrix is just the person I need to help solve this puzzle. I launched into my prepared presentation. “Mother, I’m sure it’s hard for you to trust someone you’ve never met. But I assure you I have only the best intentions. I may have been the last person Mother Ignatius communicated with before she died.” I struggled to keep my voice low, but lou
d enough to reach New Mexico.
The other end of the line was quiet, the long pause concerning me. I pictured Mother Consiliatrix pushing a button on the phone to call Mother Julia in Potterstown and have her dispatch Sister Magdalene back to the Bronx immediately. That, or the Bronx police to have me arrested. I cleared my throat to remind Mother Consiliatrix of my presence.
“What is it you want of me, Sister?” she asked. Her tone turned serious, as if she’d just realized I hadn’t called to invite her to a memorial service for our mutual friend.
Time to get to the point. I took advantage of new noises in the hallway to drown me out in case Sister Felix was listening. “I know Mother Ignatius was concerned about something, and afraid of someone. I thought you might know more about it.” I spoke quickly, in case the hall fell silent again. I left out the part about reading her mail.
I was breathing hard, as if I’d been running around the bases for Immaculate High’s softball team. I thought I might faint from anxiety. What if Mother Ignatius’ death was nothing more than it seemed? Then I’d bothered this old nun, costing her a long distance call, for nothing. I couldn’t decide if that would be better or worse than confirmation of a murder in my residence hall.
“I’m not sure I can help you, Sister. I haven’t seen Mother Ignatius since a retreat we were on together nearly two years ago.”
My turn again. Mother Consiliatrix was letting me do all the work. My only recourse seemed to be a lie. “I know about D, E, and F,” I said, recalling the code in the letters I’d read. Only a partial lie, since I was convinced Mother Ignatius would have told me if she had lived. I heard Mother Consiliatrix draw in her breath. “Does that sound familiar to you?”
“This is very difficult for me, Sister,” she said. “Mother Ignatius and I shared confidences.”
“Please, Mother. I can’t help feeling she wanted me to do something about what troubled her. She asked to see me that same evening, but before she could meet me, she was . . .” I glanced toward the hallway. The edge of Sister Felix’s habit and one shiny black shoe were visible, peeking from behind the door. I turned back to the phone, frustrated at the limitations of being virtually in front of Sister Felix as I talked. “Mother Consiliatrix, I promise you on the soul of my own mother, that I will not use the information you give me unless it becomes legally or morally necessary.”
I heard a sigh that gave me reason to hope. “Very well, Sister. I can only trust my instincts. And you do sound sincere. Yes, indeed, Mother Ignatius was worried about her obligation to report something she’d learned serendipitously. It involved real estate, and . . . some other goings on.”
I bit my lips in an effort not to gasp audibly while my mind skipped over the connecting steps. From real estate deal to Driscoll & Sons. “Did she say who it was?” I nearly tripped over my tongue to avoid prompting her with Jake Driscoll’s name.
“No, no names ever,” Mother Consiliatrix said, as if I should know better.
“Is there anything else you can tell me? I think I know the deal in question, but it would help if I had even one more clue.” And then what? I asked myself. Go to the police? I clenched my fists in frustration. After a long pause, she continued, speaking so slowly I thought she might stop altogether.
“She said only that a member of the St. Alban’s community—I can’t be more specific than that—was involved in a fraudulent real estate deal. Money was donated to the school in exchange for a favorable decision. I’m not sure of the details, but what should have been a sealed bidding process was made known to one individual so he would win a contract for new buildings on campus.”
Mother Consiliatrix sighed. She sounded exhausted, as if speaking to me was a great strain. I couldn’t blame her.
“No wonder Mother Ignatius was upset,” I said, too loudly I realized, when I heard shuffling at the doorway. Sister Felix was making no secret of her impatience and her curiosity. Matter “D” for Driscoll was now clear to me, but I needed to complete my list. “What about the other problems, Mother?” I meant E and F, and I guessed Mother Consiliatrix probably had surmised by now I seen her letters. Good detective that she was.
“There were other burdens Mother Ignatius was carrying, Sister. A St. Lucy’s Hall Sister and a priest violating their vows. Not illegally, mind you, but nevertheless . . . Who is responsible for the integrity of religious life if not those who wear the habit?” I suspected Mother Consiliatrix didn’t expect an answer. I uttered a sound of agreement and waited for her to continue. “And there was one other matter of manipulating the administration for personal gain.”
I blew out a soft breath, wondering if Mother Consiliatrix was being deliberately vague. I couldn’t blame her if she was. She had no reason to trust me with names and dates.
Still, I tried one last question. “Did you save Mother Ignatius’ letters?”
“No, indeed, Sister,” she said in a sharp voice, causing me to regret the final intrusion. “I thought it best to destroy them, but I doubt I would give them to you even if I could.”
“I understand. Thank you, Mother. You’ve been a great help.”
“I don’t know what you plan to do with the information, Sister . . .”
“I honestly don’t either.”
“Do be careful, Sister Francesca.”
I hung up the phone, chilled to the bone, in spite of a comfortable temperature in the room. Out of curiosity, I took a quick look around the office as I left, as if I’d hoped to find an incriminating piece of evidence. All I saw were partially unpacked boxes and a collection of spiritual reading filling one bookshelf.
From the look on Sister Felix’s face, now staring directly at me from the doorway, she might have been the one Mother Consiliatrix warned me to be careful of.
I hurried past her.
CHAPTER 23
Friday, mid-afternoon, there wasn’t much traffic through the foyer. Most Sisters were either on campus or doing research at the 42nd Street Library. I made a visit to chapel, then went upstairs.
It felt strange to be in my room with a bag packed, only a week after I’d arrived at St. Lucy’s. Alone at my desk, things didn’t seem as clear to me as they had while I’d been on the phone to New Mexico.
One confusing phrase was Mother Consiliatrix’s “a member of St. Alban’s community.” Not the way I’d have described Jake Driscoll. Apparently he was a presence around the campus and St. Lucy’s Hall long before Sister Felix invited him to dinner, so much that Mother Ignatius had thought of him as part of the community.
I tore a piece of paper from my Church History notebook, and made a list, matching the letters in Mother Ignatius’ code with what I’d just learned. I had three issues, as the Mothers referred to them, and three letters.
D — Driscoll, real estate crime, owner of cuff link? Secular issue.
E — ?
F — Felix, sinner with E? I couldn’t picture cold, steely-eyed Sister Felix, with her witch-like features, in a violation of the vow of chastity with anyone, but I had to allow the possibility. Religious issue.
Or
F — Father Malbert, sinner with E? Religious issue.
I looked at my chart. Who was E? There was a Sister Emmanuel in the house, but she seemed one of the more sensible nuns, among the few who didn’t go to the movies. I certainly hadn’t observed untoward behavior between her and Father Malbert. I wondered why the letters weren’t D, F, and T for Teresa. Perhaps the two extra horizontal lines on the E were ink smudges, and the letter was in fact a T. I doubted it. Mother Consiliatrix’s letter was neatly written, and I had the feeling from our brief conversation that she wouldn’t have mailed a messy letter across the country.
The question marks in my chart left me unsatisfied. I had only the slimmest of evidence that what had bothered Mother Ignatius was related to people I
knew personally. With great reluctance, I scribbled a more realistic list.
D — ?
E — ?
F — ?
Secular issue #1: real estate deal
Secular issue #2: ?
Religious issue: violation of chastity. Who?
I felt no smarter than a child just learning her catechism. I wished Sister Ann William were around to hear a review of my conversation with Mother Consiliatrix and help with the alphabet puzzle. She’d left immediately after our walk home, to join a study group at a lay student’s apartment a block away—something I wasn’t allowed to do. I wondered at my continual comparison of SMI rules to those of other orders.
I put my notepad with its scribbling in the desk with the other so-called evidence in the case—the cuff link and Mother Consiliatrix’ letters. I added a mental record of my accident on Southern Boulevard, in case it was connected, and closed the drawer on the memory.
I settled down and organized the notes I’d take with me to Potterstown over the weekend. I wasn’t sure how much time Mother Julia would allow with my family, but I expected I’d have a good amount of time for study.
A couple of hours spent in earlier centuries—the fifth with Saint Augustine and the thirteenth with Saint Thomas Aquinas—helped my mood considerably. I constructed a bibliography of Augustine’s writings against heretics for my research seminar. Preparation for Father Glanz’s class sent me to texts on how the early Christian communities contended with their secular culture. Not much has changed, I noted.
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I didn’t think of Potterstown or Mother Ignatius until I heard the bell for dinner, when all the problems of the present century flooded back into my brain. At the same time, Sister Ann William appeared at my door.
“Anything new since I saw you?” She laughed at what she apparently thought was a silly question.
Killer in the Cloister Page 16
