Killer in the Cloister

by Camille Minichino

  “I haven’t given it any more thought.”

  He scratched his head. “I guess that’s one of the reasons I left the seminary. At the time it was a closed society. No awareness of what was going on in the world. As if war didn’t affect us because we’d taken vows.”

  It was a debate we’d all been drawn into since the start of Vatican II. I was distressed at how my confidence in my position had eroded after one short week in the Bronx.

  “Why now?” I asked him. I was sure Mother Julia and Sister Magdalene hadn’t had to wrestle with these issues when they were young nuns.

  “I don’t know,” Aidan said. “We’re all more aware now. Maybe TV did it.” And maybe our rule about no TV was wiser than I thought. “The point is now that we’re aware we can’t close our eyes.” He paused. “But you know what, I think this conversation is ruining our day.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  <><><>

  Aidan drove carefully through the rainy streets, laughing about his noisy windshield wipers. I enjoyed his amusing anecdotes about his part time job at Lloyd’s Used Cars.

  “Believe it or not, there are cars in even worse shape than my bug,” he said.

  By the time we reached St. Lucy’s, I’d had such a pleasant time, I knew I’d done something wrong.

  <><><>

  I’d just reached my room and toweled raindrops off my bib when I heard my call signal. I picked up the hallway phone and heard a breathless Sister Ann William.

  “Sister Francesca, I’m so excited. I couldn’t wait to tell you. I may have what we need.”

  I drew in my breath. “The sign-in sheet for the drug room?”

  She laughed. “We call it the pharmaceuticals lab log. But, yes.”

  “How did you manage to get it? Have you had a chance to look at it?”

  A tingle of excitement coursed through my body. Perhaps there was one good thing I could do before Mother Julia pulled me from my studies for my transgressions—so many I was beginning to lose count. I pictured myself bringing to justice the murderer of sweet old Mother Ignatius.

  “I don’t quite have it, but I will almost certainly by tomorrow.” Sister Ann William lowered her voice, making it even harder to hear her above the background noises. I assumed she was calling from a campus phone booth. “I’m not exactly proud of my tactics.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, I sort of used my habit to persuade the pharmacy clerk that I should have a copy of the log. I could tell she was one of those Catholic school girls who’d think a nun can do no wrong.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  Did I want to know? I already felt guilty about Sister Ann William’s questionable behavior.

  “I . . . I told her I needed the information for a survey. We sort of do, don’t we?”

  “Hmm. We need to survey the list, for sure.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. Grace—that’s the clerk—said she’d have to check with her supervisor but she doesn’t think it will be a problem as long as it’s a Sister who made the request. That’s where I felt a little guilty.” I could see why, but chose not to express it. “Grace said to come back tomorrow and she’ll have it for me.”

  “Good work.”

  “Thank you, Sister. Won’t it be wonderful if we can solve this crime?”

  “It certainly will.”

  “Well, I have to get ready for my one o’clock class. Then I’m meeting Sister Veronique at two-thirty. So I’ll be back to St. Lucy’s by three.”

  “Did you already pick up your medal?”

  “I did. It’s lovely—a large silver oval, with a matching chain. And a handsome etching of Saint William, meditating in his cave.”

  “It sounds perfect. I look forward to seeing it.”

  “I’ll check in with you as soon as I get home.”

  I hung up with Sister Ann William, remembering conversations as a teenager in Potterstown, chatting on and on with my friends though we’d hardly been apart a few hours.

  Apparently, I’d reverted not just to a laywoman, but to a high school girl.

  <><><>

  At a little past three I knocked on Sister Ann William’s door. No answer.

  And no excuse to avoid my homework assignment from Father Glanz. He’d asked us to write a two-thousand-word critique on the liturgy we’d attended in Xavier Hall that morning.

  “Don’t tell me whether you liked it or didn’t like it,” he’d warned. “I don’t want to know if it moved you to tears for whatever reason, good or bad.” He’d paced behind the large counter in the lecture hall, using his long fingers to count off his requirements. “I want analysis, documentation, evaluation. Use Scripture, exegesis, encyclicals, the documents of Vatican II. I want historical arguments, pastoral arguments, theological arguments.”

  I sighed and opened my copy of The Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy, barely two years old.

  “It is the wish of the church to undertake a careful general reform of the liturgy . . . “

  I outlined my paper, reluctantly acknowledging Father Glanz had not tampered with what Vatican documents called immutable elements, such as the Consecration of bread and wine. I had to admit, he’d stayed within the norms for reform of the variable elements—the music, the language, the vestments. I tried to open my mind to the church’s deep interest in adapting to the changing needs of the faithful.

  The modern world seemed to be drawing me in. I prayed fervently I’d be able to embrace sensibly it and still keep my spiritual commitment.

  <><><>

  When my call signal rang for the second time that afternoon, I envisioned an annoyed Sister Felix reporting my decadent social habits to Mother Julia.

  As I passed Sister Ann William’s room I checked it again. Still no sign of her. I picked up the phone, thinking she might be calling to tell me why she’d been delayed.

  Instead, Timothy was on the other end of the line.

  “Hi, just want you to know I’m back in town.”

  “I’m surprised to hear from you. I thought you’d stay home longer. But . . . welcome back.”

  It was always a struggle for me to strike just the right note with Timothy. Not criticizing him for leaving Potterstown early. Not too happy he’s back, so he won’t rebel against my enthusiasm.

  “Yeah, well, I need to get to work. I’m going to start at Mr. Driscoll’s site in Westchester tomorrow.”

  “What’s in Westchester?”

  “A new shopping plaza. He has things going on in about five parts of the city right now. I had my choice, so I thought I’d start in a high-rent district.”

  “I thought he was anxious to start the development in St. Lucy’s back yard. The new housing and recreation center.”

  “Not really. In fact he doesn’t think he can get that going for a year or so. Too busy.”

  So why would he want Mother Ignatius out of the picture now, if his business is booming?

  “Then I wonder why he was so anxious to renegotiate the contract with St. Lucy’s?” I hadn’t meant to ask Timothy, but he was ready with an answer.

  “He mentioned how he wanted to make sure no one else got the property.” Timothy paused and continued on an upbeat note. “I’m already learning a lot about this business.”

  What Jake Driscoll wants you to learn, I mused. I wasn’t ready to cross him off my suspect list, but I certainly had to alter the motive I’d assigned him. I needed Sister Ann William’s opinion, and wished she’d hurry back. I stood facing her end of the hallway to monitor her doorway.

  “He likes you, you know,” Timothy said.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Driscoll. He likes you. Says you’re feisty.”

  One of my least favorite words. In my
mind, feisty called up an image of a bent old lady beating a dog with her cane.

  I changed the subject. “How’s everyone doing?”

  “You mean all the Wickes? OK, I guess. Patty’s stepped up her Church visits, Kathleen and Neal went back home to their little love nest, and Gabriella’s back in her shopping mode.”

  I smiled at Timothy’s pithy summary of our family. “And you?”

  “I’m fine. I’m calling from Aidan’s. He likes you, too. Want to come over?”

  I took a deep breath to prepare my response, but Timothy cut in.

  “Never mind. I’m just kidding and I’m going to lay off that for a while. Your life is your life. I don’t want you to tell me how to live mine . . . and so on and so on, Rory Mory.”

  We laughed at one of my father’s favorite expressions. We never knew who Rory Mory was, but we knew the song by heart. Timothy and I sang together, from one end of the Bronx to the other.

  Oh Rory Mory, get out the dory

  There’s a herring in the bay.

  We’ll work all night

  With all our might

  Let not one get away.

  By the end of the ditty, we were both on the verge of tears. I didn’t know about Timothy, but my sadness encompassed more losses than that of Brendan Patrick Wickes.

  CHAPTER 30

  I looked around the refectory, up and down the length of the two long tables, in case I’d missed Sister Ann William’s arrival on the top floor. She was nowhere to be found.

  Halfway down my row, I saw Sister Veronique, Sister Ann William’s scheduled walking partner. I tried to catch her eye, but her attention was on her neighbors as she chatted in her usual animated style. I’d have to wait until after dinner.

  I thought about where Sister Ann William might be. Knocked down on Southern Boulevard? I prayed not. I couldn’t remember her saying anything about a study group or another meeting. In fact, every time I replayed our last conversation in my mind, I distinctly heard, “I’ll be back to St. Lucy’s at three.”

  I felt strangely nervous, as if a dark cloud were hovering over me. My last hope was she’d been feeling ill, and had gone straight to her room while we were at dinner. Or even earlier—she may not have heard my knock. I considered bringing a tray of food to her for a change, but when I looked at the heavy meatloaf and gravy I had no interest in either eating the meal or packing it up for transport.

  I kept my eye on Sister Veronique and caught up with her as soon as she left the refectory. She was carrying several cookies from the dessert tray, partly wrapped in a handkerchief. When I approached, she offered me one.

  “My favorite kind, “ she said.

  “No, thank you. I was just wondering—did Sister Ann William come home with you?”

  She shook her head and swallowed the last of a cookie. “I’d planned to meet her, but I got a message to report to my department chairman at the same time. Can’t ignore it when Father O’Neill summons his minions.” She laughed in a way that said she was actually flattered by the order to appear. “So I called the pharmacy office and left a message for Sister Ann William to go on without me.”

  “Do you know if she got the message? Maybe she’s still waiting for you.”

  Sister Veronique pointed to the clock on the wall over the refectory doorway. Six-thirty.

  She laughed and rolled her eyes. “For four hours? She’s not that dumb.”

  I bristled. When Sister Veronique turned to go upstairs I tugged at her sleeve.

  “Sister Ann William’s not dumb at all. She was counting on you to walk home with her.”

  My head was pounding, my voice raised well above the level for normal conversation. As the rest of St. Lucy’s filed past us, some Sisters gave us curious looks, apparently wondering what the excitement was about. I wanted to pull each Sister aside and interrogate her as to Sister Ann William’s whereabouts, as though one of them might have kidnapped her and held her hostage under flowing skirts.

  Sister Veronique gave me a surprised look as she steadied the cross that hung around her neck— my jerky motion had set it swinging from side to side.

  “I’m sorry, Sister,” I said.

  “It’s OK,” she said, pocketing her cookies and taking a step back.

  “But I’m worried about Sister Ann William. She was supposed to be home by three . . . “

  “Well, she could be anywhere. Maybe someone invited her for coffee or something.”

  I started to explain how unlikely that was for Sister Ann William, but stopped when I realized Sister Veronique and the former Sister Teresa had probably engaged in impromptu social intercourse routinely. Certainly one of them had. I suspected it was not unusual for Sister Teresa to simply not show up in her room of an evening. No wonder Sister Veronique didn’t understand my concern.

  <><><>

  Sister Felix gave me no more satisfaction. I’d stopped at her doorway, still wound up from my interaction with Sister Veronique.

  “Sister, it’s barely dark out.” Sister Felix spoke from behind the small mahogany desk that had once been Mother Ignatius’. The desk that had held a cuff link with the letter D, and a package of letters from Mother Consiliatrix. What would Sister Felix think if she knew I’d . . .

  Back to the present.

  “Did she call and say she’d be missing dinner?” I asked.

  “No, she didn’t. Many don’t.”

  “I suppose you mean Teresa Barnes. And we know what happened to her. Sister Ann William is not like that.”

  Sister Felix stood up, her palms flat on the desktop, and leaned over to me. “You don’t know that, do you, Sister? Perhaps if the two of you were not such busybodies, Sister Ann William would be in her room right now.”

  I gasped, partly from repugnance at my own outburst, and partly at what Sister Felix was implying. What did she know of our activities? And what did they have to do with the missing Sister Ann William? Before I could think better of it, I asked her outright.

  “What are you saying, Sister Felix? That Sister Ann William is in trouble?”

  Sister Felix came from behind the desk and glared at me. Although I was younger and probably stronger than she, the look in her eyes frightened me.

  At that moment, a woman I vaguely recognized stepped into the doorway and knocked on the frame. Sister Felix’s expression changed to a warm smile.

  “Pamela,” she said. “How nice to see you.”

  When she said her name, I remembered—Father Malbert’s sister, who’d had dinner with us a couple of times. Evidently she rated a more cordial welcome than I ever did.

  Pamela looked at me, her perfect hair unaffected by the wind I’d noticed whipping up the leaves in the back yard. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Sister. I thought Sister Felix and I were going to meet at eight.”

  Sister Felix gave me a cold stare and addressed her visitor. “We are. Sister Francesca was about to leave.”

  And I did.

  <><><>

  A walk in what was left of St. Lucy’s garden would calm me down, I decided, before I alienated everyone who lived there. It was a cold, windy evening, and following the rule—no woolen shawls before the first of October—seemed meaningless in the light of all the customs I’d already abandoned. I went upstairs and got my shawl out of the armoire, checking Sister Ann William’s room before and after the errand.

  I paced the short walkway in front of the shrine of Our Lady, hugging the black wool square to my chest. My teeth chattered, certainly not from the temperature. I’d been inclined to think Sister Ann William’s disappearance—four hours was enough for me to label it that—was related to our murder investigation, and Sister Felix’s comment convinced me further.

  I created the most likely scenario—it must have to do with her makin
g inquiries about the sign-in sheet for the pharmacy department’s supply of drugs. I was afraid the murderer had attacked Sister Ann William while she was walking home alone. If she’d been detained for any other reason, she would have called me. She’d made a spontaneous phone call to update me on her progress with the clerk, surely she’d make another if she’d changed her mind about coming home right after class.

  How lucky for the murderer that Sister Veronique was called away.

  I stopped short.

  My hands went to my face, leaving my shawl to fall to the ground at Our Lady’s feet. The soot-streaked yellow brick tenements of the Bronx, darkening with the evening shadows, seemed to close in on me.

  What if it wasn’t a coincidence? What if the murderer lured Sister Veronique away to create the opportunity? The assault I’d invented against Sister Ann William was as real to me as my own on Southern Boulevard.

  I gathered up my shawl and hurried back to the house and straight to Room 19. Sister Veronique was at her desk, her door open. The pile of cookies I’d seen in the handkerchief was next to her notebook, down by half.

  Looking at her large body, it occurred to me that Sister Veronique herself might have been an accomplice in the crimes—both Mother Ignatius murder and Sister Ann William’s present predicament, whatever that was. I thought it unlikely, but chose to remain on her threshold, one foot in the hallway, just in case.

  “Sister, first let me apologize for my behavior.”

  Sister Veronique waved her chubby hand. “Don’t worry about it, Francesca. I know you’re worried. I’m starting to wonder myself.”

  “May I ask—what was your meeting about?”

  She gave me a questioning look.

  “The meeting with Father O’Neill—the one you’re were called to suddenly.”

  “Oh that. Funny thing. When I got there, all out of breath I might add, since I didn’t have much notice, Father O’Neill was gone. And his secretary said she didn’t know anything about a meeting with me.” Sister Veronique shrugged and took a cookie from the dwindling pile. “There must have been some mix-up.”