Killer in the Cloister

by Camille Minichino

  “A lot, in fact. I’ll tell you after dinner.” Sister Ann William frowned, as if she was annoyed she’d left my side, where excitement reigned.

  “Just a quick tiny hint?” she asked, in her irresistible drawl.

  “It’s a long story. Do you mind being late for dinner?”

  She smiled and shook her head.

  We stepped out of line, into the small parlor. I was surprised how short a time it took for me to bring Sister Ann William up to date. To give her a meaningful timeline, I summarized the episodes: my snooping in Mother Ignatius office, reading her correspondence from Mother Consiliatrix, and the return call from New Mexico. Long and intense in real life, the events fit nicely into a four-sentence précis.

  I finished the story in a soft voice after we attached ourselves to the back of the line for the refectory. The Sisters in front of us seemed too busy discussing the latest campus film to care about our conversation.

  “So, there’s definitely a real estate scam going on,” I said. “She wouldn’t name names, so I’m not sure who the corrupt developer is.”

  “We can at least eliminate one, just by asking. Remember how easy it was the last time?”

  “With Mr. Driscoll?”

  She nodded. I’d also thought about confronting Jake Driscoll. I envisioned the interaction—he’d be waiting for me, ready to hand over his financial records, with a caustic “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “But how would we recognize a shady deal even if he spread his bookkeeping at our feet?” I asked Sister Ann William, now holding the door to the refectory for me.

  “I see your point.”

  We took places together at the end of the long table—Sister Felix had abandoned the custom of special cards to identify each Sister’s seat. We’d been so busy whispering, with our heads together, neither of us noticed the guests at the head of the table. We made “hmpf” sounds in unison, asking each other if we’d ever have a meal again without lay people.

  Jake Driscoll sat on Sister Felix’s left, Father Malbert on her right, and his sister, Mrs. Edson, next to him.

  Having little choice, Sister Ann William and I joined the conversation of the Sisters near us. None of the popular topics particularly interested me. Impossibly long papers assigned by Father O’Neill. Fascination with students at a downtown campus who were burning their underwear to make a point about the war in Vietnam. And the new Student Union Building, which would include a 1000-seat auditorium. Too bad it wouldn’t be ready for the winter festival of Fellini and Bergman films, which were sure to be meaningful.

  Sister Ann William and I made polite contributions whenever possible, but all the topics seemed to pale in significance compared to real estate fraud, infidelity to sacred vows, and murder.

  I perked up my ears only once.

  “I guess Sister Felix will finally be made Superior here,” I heard from a Sister I didn’t know.

  “About time,” said the Sister across from her, whom I recognized as an old-timer. “Sister Felix told us she expected Mother Ignatius to retire when I got here five years ago.”

  Retire how? I wondered.

  <><><>

  After dinner I steered Sister Ann William toward the garden. “It’s better to talk outside,” I said, feeling like a Communist spy worried about her room’s being bugged.

  “I think we should just ask Mr. Driscoll,” she said after she’d heard my whole report on Mother Consiliatrix’ telephone call one more time.

  “Ask him what?”

  “You know, what his business policies are. Whether he follows the proper rules for bidding on a contract.” Her voice was so sweet, she might have been discussing the recipe for honeyed corn bread. If we do approach Driscoll, I thought, Sister Ann William should do the talking.

  I wasn’t convinced it would do any good, however.

  “We have no more competence in finances than in autopsy reports,” I reminded her. “And this time we don’t even have an Uncle Jeb to help out.”

  “You’re right. We need something concrete, but simple.”

  We’d strolled to the new limit of St. Lucy’s yard, on the Marion Avenue side of the property. A long narrow trailer, big enough for a couple of offices sat where the lavender bushes used to grow. The steel-gray temporary building was just off the ground, with a two-step metal staircase leading up to the front door. A sign by the side of the door read, DRISCOLL & SONS.

  Its low windows were uncurtained, tempting to two tall busy-bodies. We stood on our tip toes and peered in. Nothing surprising—file cabinets, worktables cluttered with a mixture of tools and office supplies, a typewriter and gooseneck lamp on a small table. The furniture seemed old and battered, as if it had endured many moves in its lifetime.

  We looked at each other, and at the flimsy door. “What are you thinking?” I asked Sister Ann William, though I knew the answer. I’d been thinking along the same lines. Without waiting for an answer, I shook my head. “Not a good idea.”

  “Not now,” she said. “But we could come back after dark.”

  I sucked in my breath, an ominous feeling creeping along my spine. We walked around the perimeter of the trailer in silence, hands in our sleeves, like other-worldly building inspectors on a stroll. For a former tree-house builder like me, and a spirited adventuress like Sister Ann William, the job seemed trivial. That it would be unlawful trespassing—a felony probably worse than anything my parolee brother Timothy had done—also crossed my mind.

  <><><>

  We waited till eleven o’clock, when most lights in St. Lucy’s were out, and left through the back door. The night was still and noiseless except for an occasional car on Marion Avenue. I could think of no precedent for what I was doing, except for the time I’d sneaked into Mother Ignatius’ office. But her door had been unlocked, and the action had been spontaneous. Breaking into the Driscoll & Sons trailer was more like a planned operation by two seasoned burglars.

  Sister Ann William had removed the white collar from her navy blue dress, and I’d turned my white bib to the back where it would be hidden by my veil. No reflecting surfaces on either of us. We both wore black gloves meant for walking to school on cold winter days, not for second-story jobs. I held a flashlight, borrowed from Sister Miriam—I’d told her I dropped something behind my bed—while Sister Ann William picked at the lock on the trailer door with a long thin instrument from her pharmacist’s kit. It looked like a dentist’s tool, and I didn’t ask for further explanation.

  I thought I heard my partner mutter a prayer as she fiddled with grooves and tumblers, and I hoped she wasn’t wasting precious indulgences on this questionable project.

  At a particularly quiet moment, the phone inside the trailer rang.

  Sister Ann William jumped, causing her implement to slip along the metal door. Who’d be calling a work site at this hour? I wondered. Sister Ann William looked at me, her eyes an eerie yellow in the glow of the flashlight. The phone stopped after three rings.

  “Wrong number,” Sister Ann William whispered, as if to calm herself and remove the idea of a threat to our maneuvers.

  After what seemed like hours, we heard a click and the door gave way. We stood up and took deep breaths. We made motions with our heads and hands toward the inside of the trailer, and then toward our residence hall, as if to weigh our options. Perhaps only a venial sin if we turned back at this point?

  Another long exhalation and we entered the office. I started to remove my gloves, a reflexive action on arriving indoors, and Sister Ann William put a hand out to stop me.

  “Fingerprints,” she mouthed.

  In the next moment she made a move to pull the chain on the desk lamp, and I held her back. It appeared we were learning on the job.

  We hadn’t talked much about what we’d do once we were inside the t
railer. Probably because we never thought we’d get that far. We stayed close together as we tugged at drawers, cabinets, and a storage box, all locked. We fingered rolls of blueprints leaning against the walls and a row of hardhats on top of the file cabinet, coming across nothing that looked like a ledger. Or evidence of shady dealings.

  “Everything incriminating is locked up,” Sister Ann William said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

  I winced at her assumption of Driscoll’s guilt, but nodded in agreement. “Can’t you use your tool?” I asked, pointing my flashlight toward her pocket.

  She shook her head. “Not on those kinds of locks. I could try the padlock on the storage container though.”

  “Let’s try the desk first.” I swung the flashlight toward the scarred gray metal desk, strewn with floor plans, correspondence, and to-do lists. My hope was renewed when the light landed on a half-completed letter in the typewriter. We bent over to read the text.

  Memo: To the Property Committee, St. Alban’s University

  From: Driscoll & Sons

  “Aha,” I said.

  “What is it?” Sister Ann William asked.

  “Hold it right there,” said Jake Driscoll, as the overhead lights rained down on us.

  CHAPTER 24

  Sister Ann William and I stopped in our tracks, like children in a game of “statues.”

  My flashlight was trained on Jake Driscoll. His gun was pointed at us. It didn’t seem an even fight.

  “Well, well,” he said, in a sing-song voice that sent a chill through my body. I thought I could hear my partner’s breathing, coming in short spasms. “I saw you hovering around here after dinner. You have a lot to learn about criminal behavior.”

  The sides of my bonnet kept me from seeing where Sister Ann William’s eyes were focused. Mine were on Jake Driscoll’s gun. Neither of us had uttered a syllable since the lights went on. I couldn’t imagine screaming even if I could reclaim my voice. No one was likely to be within earshot, unless a Sister with insomnia was taking a stroll in the garden. Or some real burglars lurked outside the trailer.

  As if finally noticing our discomfort, Driscoll put his weapon in the pocket of his jacket. “Relax, Sisters. I brought this along, in case it wasn’t you. Although I couldn’t imagine any other thieves in flowing veils.”

  “We know we shouldn’t be here, Mr. Driscoll,” Sister Ann William said as I tried to recover my equilibrium.

  “Let’s have a seat,” he said, ignoring her confession. He pointed to a small round conference table at the end of the trailer. Although he’d put his gun away, his tone didn’t seem to allow a choice.

  The three of us sat on uncomfortable swivel chairs covered in blue fabric that had seen hard labor. For a moment I was concerned that pieces of white plaster would stick to the skirt of my habit, as if that were all I had to worry about. Driscoll looked from one of us to the other, shaking his head. A parent preparing to discipline his children? A priest considering which penance to issue? Or a crooked real estate developer about to murder two sleuths who’d found him out?

  “I don’t know what to do with you two. You’re trespassing here, and I could make a lot of trouble for you.” We gave him vigorous nods. “If I wanted to. And I don’t know why I don’t. Anybody else and I would’ve searched them straight off. All those years of Catholic school I guess. Taught me to respect the habit. Though I never had any nuns like the two of you.”

  Driscoll got up and paced the short width of the trailer, passing back and forth in front of us. He rubbed his forehead, like a man hoping for inspiration before an important decision. His collegiate outfit—well-pressed khakis and a navy blazer— did nothing to mitigate his hulking presence. I called up my special repertoire of prayers, that he wouldn’t reach for his gun.

  He took a seat again, hands folded on the scratched-up table. “I’m afraid I know the answer, but I’m going to ask you anyway. What are you doing here?”

  Driscoll’s pacing had given me time to organize my thoughts, and I remembered the phone call from Mother Consiliatrix that prompted our illegal nighttime activity.

  “It came to my attention that a local real estate developer has been engaging in questionable business practices,” I said. I wasn’t proud of my stilted explanation, but it was the best I could manage.

  “Questionable business practices? What do you know about business practices, Sisters? When was the last time you even handled more than milk money from third-graders?”

  Neither of us had ever taught grammar school, but we made no attempt to correct his impression. “We know what’s right and wrong,” Sister Ann William said, though I doubted she did in this case, any more than I did. If Jake Driscoll thought he could intimidate us, both by his expertise in economics and his powerful voice, he was right.

  “You think you can apply your simple rules of ethics to the real world? Well, it doesn’t work.”

  “So cheating is a normal way of life, even for a practicing Catholic?”

  Jake Driscoll stared at me. “I won’t dignify that Sister.” I tried to inspect his eyes, as if I were a living polygraph machine. The light in the trailer wasn’t good enough for me to see his expression, but his tone was unmistakably angry. “Unlike your sheltered life, the world is complicated.”

  “Bending the law is never the answer to complication,” Sister Ann William said. It came out as if she were pouting, but I knew it was due partly to fear and partly to her accent. I wondered if I were the only one aware that, moments ago, two nuns had bent the rules to enter a trailer unlawfully.

  Driscoll laughed, a low, condescending chuckle. “It happens all the time, Sisters. One hand washes the other.” He elaborated by rubbing his hands together, then made a steeple of his fingers and pointed it at me. “I didn’t interview a dozen twenty-year-olds for the construction job, did I, Sister Francesca? I gave it to your brother. As a favor, because I know you.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. I felt my whole body redden when I realized my bib was turned around, exposing the straight pins I used to fasten the bodice of my habit. I jerked my bib around to the front in one quick practiced gesture. “Maybe you should have held the interviews, Mr. Driscoll. I didn’t ask you for any favors.”

  “The point is, Tim can do the job. It saves everybody time.”

  “You don’t know anything about his ability to do the job. And the analogy is weak from at least two other aspects . . . “

  He interrupted me with a long, exasperated breath. “I can’t argue with you, Sister. You’re a professional at Thomistic logic. But I’ll tell you this—I wouldn’t know about the twelve other guys either after an interview. And this way I get to help a friend.”

  While I bristled at his calling me a friend, Sister Ann William had clearly decided to move the discussion forward.

  “We heard you . . . someone . . . obtained a contract from St. Alban’s faculty committee illegally,” she said, pointing to the letter we’d glimpsed in the typewriter.

  Driscoll put his hand in his pocket—where the gun was, I noted—and turned to her. She cleared her throat and continued in a shaky voice. “This hypothetical person acquired information about the competing bids by giving money to the university.”

  In spite of the gravity of the situation, I smiled at Sister Ann William’s attempt to sound proficient in the language of law.

  “And you’re in my trailer to find evidence about this hypothetical crook?” He pulled the sheet of paper from the typewriter and showed it to us. “Not that I’m obliged, mind you, but for your information, this is a legitimate memo to the faculty committee advising them of a change in tax status. It concerns a project that’s at least fifteen years old.” He flicked his fingers at the limp page. “But that’s not the point. Apparently convent training hasn’t changed much in fifty years. You two are ju
st like Mother Ignatius—she thought she could stop the wheels of progress by her own will.”

  “So you killed her because she wouldn’t conform to your values?” I asked, as surprised as he and Sister Ann William seemed to be at my outburst.

  Jake Driscoll threw up his hands. “I’ve had about enough for one night.”

  I swallowed hard as he stood up and walked to the door. He pointed to the outside world. “Sisters, if you’d be so kind as to leave my office?”

  Only then, as I brushed by him did I notice his tie clip. A round onyx stone with an elaborate silver letter D.

  Jake Driscoll’s face was red, his eyes were stone cold.

  We walked out without a word.

  <><><>

  I woke up on Saturday after a restless night, still tired and relieved to be alive. In unspoken agreement after leaving the construction trailer, Sister Ann William and I had gone directly to our rooms, with a goodnight nod and weak smiles.

  I’d put the last book into my travel portfolio when I heard my signal. I went to the intercom, thinking how I’d placed and received more phone calls in a week at St. Lucy’s than in my entire religious life.

  Timothy was on the line.

  I leaned against the wall—and against SMI custom. A passage from our Holy Rule flashed before me.

  The Sisters shall not lean for support on the backs of chairs while sitting, or other surfaces while standing, preferring instead to stand straight and lean on Our Lord.

  I moved away from the wall and braced myself for Timothy’s sarcasm. “How is everyone doing?” I asked.

  “How do you think?”

  “I’ll be in Potterstown this afternoon. I’m taking a ten o’clock bus.”

  “I wonder how much time Mother Julia will allow you to grieve.”

  “Timothy . . .” I swallowed my annoyance and resolved to allow my brother more leeway than usual. We’d lost our father. It would be worse for him, not even twenty years old, and without direction as far as I could tell. I looked at the wall around the phone, a soothing, pale green. “We’ll all be together tomorrow, Timothy.”