by Metsy Hingle
Returning her focus to the evening ahead, she studied the table. Her grandmother’s lace tablecloth had been the right choice, she decided, noting how the light from the chandelier picked out the delicate fleur-de-lis pattern. As she moved about the table inspecting the place settings, she straightened a silver spoon, adjusted one of the place cards. She caught the scent of the peach roses that she’d clipped from her garden that very afternoon and had arranged in Waterford vases. Satisfied all was ready, she smiled.
It was perfect. Elegant, tasteful. Perhaps even worthy of a page in Southern Living, she mused, pleased with the results of her handiwork. Trailing her fingers along the edge of the lace tablecloth, Mary Ellen marveled at its beauty. She sighed as she remembered when she’d inherited it from her grandmother as a young bride. Oh, she’d been so sure that she would have passed it on to her own daughter or to the wife of one of her sons by now. But neither Meredith nor Jackson had married. And Peter…poor Peter’s marriage had been brief and had ended tragically.
But soon all that would change, she promised herself. If all went as she hoped it would, she would get her birthday wish and it wouldn’t be long before she’d be helping to plan her son Jackson’s wedding. He and Alicia made a lovely couple, she thought. Since her little nudges hadn’t been working, she’d decided it was time she gave that boy of hers a little push. Surely Jackson would see, as she did, that Alicia was perfect for him. Once he did, he’d ask her to marry him. And then, God willing, the two of them wouldn’t waste any time making her a grandmother.
“There you are,” Jack said as he entered the room and walked over to her.
“Jackson, darling. I was just thinking about you.”
“Were you now? Good thoughts, I hope.”
“Yes.” And because she was Catholic, she couldn’t help thinking her son’s appearance now was a sign.
“Happy birthday, Mother,” he said, and kissed her cheek.
“Thank you, dear. But I do think this is a first. You’re early and you’re never early for parties.”
“That’s because it’s your birthday. Besides, you said this wasn’t going to be a party, just a simple dinner with family and a few friends.” He eyed the table suspiciously. “This doesn’t look like a simple dinner to me.”
“Of course it is. But we’re having cake and champagne, so that makes it a party, too,” she explained. She straightened his tie and couldn’t help thinking how much he looked like his father. “You looked so handsome at the charity ball on Halloween. And wasn’t Alicia just beautiful?”
“Yes, she was.”
Disturbed by the lack of enthusiasm in her son’s voice, Mary Ellen said, “She’s a lovely young woman, Jackson. She’s well-bred and talented. And smart, too. Why look how well she’s done for herself since she moved here. She picked up that Devereaux house for a song and turn it into a showplace. And according to Phyllis Ladner, Alicia’s already among the top real estates associates in her firm.”
“As you said, she’s talented and smart,” Jack replied with that same lack of conviction.
“It still amazes me that any daughter of Abigail Beaumont could be so sweet-natured,” Mary Ellen told him, referring to the former debutante she’d had the misfortune of calling a sorority sister at Vanderbilt. The other woman had been the coldest, most calculating female she’d ever met—and she had met quite a few in her seventy years. “I can only think that Alicia must have taken after her father. I only met him once or twice, but Charles Van Owen seemed like a nice man.” Suddenly ashamed of her uncharitable thoughts about Abigail she said, “Listen to me. You must think I’m a mean-spirited old biddy, speaking ill of a dead friend that way.”
“You couldn’t be mean-spirited if you tried,” her son informed her. He held her by the shoulders, pressed a kiss to the top of her head and looked at her out of eyes that reminded her so much of her Tommy’s. “And I certainly don’t think of you as old or a biddy.”
She patted his cheek. “You’re a charmer, just like your father was,” she told him, and sighed wistfully.
“You still miss him, don’t you?”
Mary Ellen nodded and attempted a smile. “We were married for more than forty years. I was lucky we had so long together. Not everyone is as lucky,” she pointed out, thinking of Peter’s short marriage and the death of his wife to melanoma. “When the right person comes along, waiting isn’t always the smart thing to do.”
“Mother,” Jack began.
Deciding to ignore that “don’t go there” note in his voice, she forged ahead. “I know that you’re too old to have your mother telling you what to do. And you certainly don’t need me to tell you how to run your love life.”
“No, I don’t,” he said firmly.
Taken aback by his bluntness, she said, “Fine. Then all I’m going to say is that Alicia Van Owen is a wonderful young woman who obviously cares a great deal for you. I don’t know what that little spat was the two of you had the other night, and I don’t want to know.”
“We didn’t have a spat, and I don’t want to discuss this.”
Irritated with him for being so stubborn, Mary Ellen poked a finger at his chest and gave him a quelling look. “We’re not discussing it. I’m simply telling you that whatever’s wrong, I suggest you fix it and fix it fast. Because if you keep dragging your feet and acting like a horse’s rear end the way you’ve been doing, some other man is going to come along and steal her right from under your nose.”
Her son said nothing, but judging by the way his mouth had tightened, he was none too pleased with her remarks. Too bad, Mary Ellen thought. But when a rap came at the door, she was grateful for the interruption.
“What?” Jack snapped.
Alexander Kusak stuck his head inside the door. “What’s your problem, Callaghan?”
“Oh Alexander, you came,” Mary Ellen cried out, genuinely pleased to see the young man who was practically a third son to her.
“Of course I came. Did you really think I would have missed your birthday?”
Pleasure washed through her. “You’re such a busy man these days and it’s been months since you’ve come to dinner. I was afraid you might not be able to get away tonight either.”
“I’m never too busy for you.” He strolled over, kissed her cheek. “Happy Birthday, Mrs. C.”
“Thank you, dear.”
“Don’t believe him,” Jack said, losing some of his somberness. “Kusak only came for the food.”
“I came for Mrs. C. and the food,” he amended.
“Right. You’d better check the kitchen, Mother. The last time this guy showed up here for a party, he practically wiped out the fridge.”
“I’m a hardworking D.A. who doesn’t have time to cook. And your mother and Tilly took pity on me,” he explained, referring to the longtime cook who had been with the Callaghan family almost as long as he had. “They allowed me to take home a few leftovers.”
“Leftovers my as—”
“Jackson!”
“Excuse me,” her son murmured.
She didn’t have to have eyes in the back of her head to know that Alex was grinning at her reprimand of his friend. “And you can wipe that smile off your face, Alexander Kusak.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said politely as she turned back to him.
The smile was gone, but not the mischievous gleam in his dark eyes as he exchanged looks with her son. Theirs had been an unlikely friendship, she mused as she considered their diverse backgrounds. Alex had been such a wild and angry young man. And with reason, considering that his mother had left him with that drunken excuse of a father when he’d been little more than a baby. He’d practically raised himself and had been in several skirmishes with the law before he was even sixteen. She had worried that he would be a bad influence on her son. But her worries had been unfounded. Alex had never led Jack astray. For a while during his political campaign she’d even thought that he and Meredith might finally pair up. It had been something she’d ho
ped for for quite some time. But alas, whatever had gone on between them seemed to be over now. Such a shame, too, because the two of them would have been good for each other, and she certainly would have welcomed Alexander as a son-in-law. Some things just weren’t meant to be, she supposed. But she was still proud of him. She was proud of all three of her boys. And by golly, she wanted them married and making grandbabies for her to spoil.
But one thing at a time, Mary Ellen reminded herself. First she’d have to see what she could do to mend whatever this little tiff was between Alicia and Jack. “Shall we see if the others are here yet?”
“By all means,” Alex told her, and held out his arm for her.
She rested her hand atop his arm. “I’ve asked Tilly to prepare some of those mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat that you like so much,” she informed him as he escorted her from the room.
Alex groaned. “Mrs. C., you’re a woman after my own heart.”
Mary Ellen smiled. “Since the way to your heart is obviously through your stomach, perhaps I should introduce you to my friend Emily’s daughter Victoria. She’s a gourmet chef.”
Six
“I know this is a terrible imposition, my coming here during the dinner hour, Reverend Mother. I appreciate you agreeing to see me,” Kelly told the nun as she sat across from her in the parlor of the convent.
“You made it sound so urgent on the phone.”
“I know. And I’m sorry if I alarmed you. But I have some questions about Sister Grace’s death, important questions, and I didn’t know who else to ask. I’m hoping that you’ll be able to provide me with the answers,” Kelly explained, her stomach knotting again as it had in Peter Callaghan’s office earlier that day when she’d first held the rosary.
“Well, I’ll certainly try,” the Reverend Mother told her. She folded her hands in her lap and sat back in her chair. “What is it you want to know?”
Where to begin? How to begin? she wondered for a moment, then breathed deeply in an effort to calm herself. “You said that Sister Grace’s death was ruled as a heart attack. Are you sure that’s what killed her?”
The nun blinked her hazel eyes. “That’s what the doctor said,” she replied.
“When…how did it happen?” Kelly asked, making an effort to speak slowly, rationally.
“We found her in the chapel. When she didn’t return from evening prayers, one of the sisters went to look for her and discovered her slumped over in the pew where she’d been praying. She wasn’t breathing,” the Reverend Mother explained. “We tried CPR, but she didn’t respond. By then, someone had dialed 911 for an ambulance and had called her doctor, Dr. Fontenot. Both arrived within a few minutes, but it was too late. Dr. Fontenot examined her and said that her heart had finally given out.”
“Did the coroner do an autopsy?”
Surprise flitted across the nun’s face for a moment. “Dr. Fontenot didn’t see a need for an autopsy. Nor did I. As I said, Sister Grace wasn’t well, Kelly. She hadn’t been for some time. Besides her heart being weak, she’d never fully regained her strength after that bout of pneumonia she suffered last winter.”
“I didn’t realize she’d had pneumonia,” Kelly said. “I mean, I knew she’d been ill, but she’d told me it was just the flu.”
“I’m afraid it was much more serious than the flu. She was in the hospital for nearly two weeks. But even when she was released and returned to the convent, she had to continue breathing treatments for more than a month. We were all quite concerned about her.”
“I didn’t know. She never told me,” Kelly said, more to herself than the nun.
The Reverend Mother reached over and patted Kelly’s hand. “Don’t fret over it, child. Sister Grace hated to have anyone make a fuss over her. She probably didn’t tell you because she knew you would worry and she didn’t want that.”
But she should have known, Kelly told herself as guilt rushed through her. Just as she should have known that something was troubling Sister Grace. She’d sensed it several times during those last few months. And one of the last times they’d spoken, when Sister Grace had asked her if she’d ever thought about pursuing information about her past, alarms should have gone off in her head. That question alone should have alerted her to the fact that something was wrong.
After all, it had been Sister Grace who had discouraged her from searching for the answers about her past all those years ago. She could remember sitting with her and discussing it almost as though it were only yesterday…
“Sister, I’ve decided to try to find out who my parents were.”
“But why, child?” Sister Grace asked.
“Because I want to find out why they left me.”
A sad expression crossed the nun’s face. “Kelly, don’t you remember? I explained to you a long time ago that the authorities tried to locate your parents when you first came to us. If they weren’t successful back then, think how much more difficult it would be to find them now, after all this time.”
“I realize that it won’t be easy,” Kelly insisted. “But there’s been a lot of new technology since I was a kid. They might have more luck locating them now.”
Sister Grace shook her head. “Oh, Kelly, I’d thought you’d gotten past this. Do you really want to put yourself through that?”
“Yes,” she persisted, refusing to have her hopes derailed. “I want to at least try to find them.”
“And what happens if you’re successful?”
Kelly frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, suppose you do locate your parents. What is it you’re hoping for? That they will welcome you with open arms? That they will want you in their lives now after all of these years?”
“No,” she answered honestly. She was twelve years old, old enough to know that no one wanted half-grown girls—especially ones who saw things that no one else could see. No, if her parents hadn’t wanted her as a baby, she was sure they wouldn’t want her now, either. “I’m not hoping for anything.”
“Then why do this? What purpose would it serve?”
“Because if I find them, then I would finally know who I am.”
“But you already know who you are—you’re Kelly Santos.” Sister Grace’s expression softened. “Kelly, who and what you are, the person you become, isn’t determined by genetics. It’s determined by what’s in here and here,” she said, touching her head and then her heart. “God has given you many gifts and the potential to do great things with those gifts, both for yourself and for others. Instead of searching for answers to a past that can’t be changed, why not concentrate on the future? Why not become the person the Lord meant for you to be? Become the person you want to be.”
And she’d tried to do what Sister Grace had suggested. She’d stopped looking for answers, stopped asking herself why her parents hadn’t wanted her, stopped wishing she hadn’t been born with second sight. She’d used her skill as a photographer to become someone she could be proud of, someone she respected. She’d accepted herself.
Then why when she’d sensed something was troubling Sister Grace hadn’t she pressed the nun for answers?
Because she had feared what those answers might be, she admitted.
“I know that you and Sister Grace were close. I’m sure the last thing she would want is for you to feel guilty because of her,” the Reverend Mother assured her.
But she did feel guilty. And ever since Peter Callaghan had put that rosary into her hand, ever since she’d seen the nun’s face, heard her words in the chapel, she was sure of one thing. That Sister Grace’s death had not been due to a simple heart attack. Someone had killed her. And she intended to prove it. “Reverend Mother, you said that Sister Grace’s body was discovered in the chapel after vespers. Was anyone else with her?”
“Hmm, let me think. It’s not uncommon for a few of the sisters to remain a little longer to pray. On that evening, I believe Sister Maria and Sister Veronica, one of our novices, stayed behind in the chapel, along with
Sister Grace. According to them, Sister was still in prayer when they left her.”
“Would it have been possible for someone else…someone who wasn’t a member of the order, perhaps a parishioner or a visitor, to have been in the chapel with her?”
“Possible, but not likely. Once Father completes the Saturday vigil mass, most of the parishioners leave. The few who remain only do so for a short time. As sad as it sounds, to protect the sacristy and the religious, the doors to the chapel are no longer left open. They’re locked for the night.”
“But they’re not locked right away, are they?”
“Well, no. Not immediately, but certainly within a short time after the mass has ended. Either Father or the deacon does a check of the chapel, to make sure that it’s empty and then they lock the doors for the night. According to Sister Veronica, Father Allen came into the chapel and told them he would be locking the doors shortly. That’s when she and Sister Maria left.”
“But Sister Grace remained.”
“Yes. She often did.”
Kelly leaned forward. “Reverend Mother, suppose Sister Grace wasn’t really alone? Suppose there was someone else in the chapel who was hiding, maybe in the confessional or behind the altar. Someone that Sister Maria and Sister Veronica and Father didn’t see?”
The nun studied her with troubled eyes. “Where are you going with this, Kelly?”
Kelly hesitated, unsure what to tell her, how to explain what she’d seen when she’d held the rosary. Finally, she opted for the truth. “I don’t think Sister Grace died because of a heart attack. I think someone killed her.”
The Reverend Mother brought a hand to her throat. “Why would you think such a thing?”
