Perhaps I'd find the answer here in Annapolis.
Picking up the bottle of wine, I took it, along with my teeming glass, to Ulpio's study. There, after a close study of his humidor's contents, I settled into a high-backed chair and lit up a Nat Sherman.
The house had more rooms in it than Ulpio and his family had needed even in the days when his two daughters still lived at home. This room, the study, had been earmarked as a bedroom once—and a sizable one, at that. Bookcases heavier than a grown man lined the four walls, loaded with books. Most dealt with medical subjects, though the bookcase to the left of the study window boasted three full shelves of gritty thrillers and airport novels. The desk at which I was seated was longer than I was tall, and I wasn't exactly short at over six feet. A laptop sat upon it, along with the humidor, an assortment of sticky notes, ledgers and the obligatory Newton's cradle.
Scanning the room by the low, yellowish light of the desk lamp, I loosed smoke into the air and studied the ornate carvings that covered the crown molding from corner to corner. As elsewhere in the house, the molding here had been carved by a skilled hand to depict various natural scenes; bunches of grapes, leaf-covered vines, clusters of flowers and the occasional songbird. I took in each panel absentmindedly—and then markedly less absentmindedly when one carving in particular caught my eye.
It was quite distinctive compared to the rest, and in both size and detail, it trumped its neighbors by a great margin. Positioned so that it sat directly above the door to the room, I wondered how I hadn't seen it sooner. A crack of lightning from the window across the room sent its glossy surface flickering, and for an instant imbued it with the stuff of movement.
It was a raven. Wings spread, beak sharp and raised, it looked more than a little hostile. Every feather had been painstakingly carved, the eyes smoothed into perfect orbs. These details, along with the natural stance the craftsman had so deftly bestowed on it, lent it the look of something real and set to take flight.
Over the course of the next hour, I worked on the cigar and emptied the bottle of wine. Thus with a red nose and a sway in my step, I retreated to my room. I glanced up at the raven as I exited, its talons appearing as fearsomely sharp as a razor, and I believe that I winced at the sight of it.
The storm waned and grew at turns; one moment the rain could be heard to thin to almost nothing, and the next the thunder would pulverize the quiet like a cannon-blast, bringing with it a fresh downpour.
Such weather, at least, made for good sleeping. And good sleep was what I needed if I was going to get to the bottom of things come morning.
Twenty-Three
Perhaps it was just my imagination, but the headquarters of the Diocese of Annapolis definitely looked affiliated with the Catholic Church. Standing out from the more modern buildings on its flanks, the towering stone structure with heavy wooden doors had more in common with a medieval cathedral than it did a modern-day office building. I wasn't sure what I'd find inside as I marched up the concrete steps just a hair past nine in the morning.
There were no monks wandering around in hair-shirts, no Gregorian chant issuing from the halls beyond the lobby, but there was a front counter, behind which I found a grey-haired woman in bifocals. She smiled and stood to welcome me.
Crossing the lobby, carpeted and somewhat stuffy, I leaned against the counter and adjusted my blazer. “Hello, I'm sorry to bother you. This'll seem a bit out of left field, but I have some questions regarding orphanages in this area. I understand there was once an orphanage on LeBlanc Street called Little Flower?”
I wasn't sure what'd done it, but the woman—the placard on her desk read “Ms. Anna Godfrey”—did not smile so widely as once, and plopped down onto her seat with a downward quirk of her lips which I took for distrust. “Erm, yes, I'm familiar. It's no longer in operation.” She balanced her elbows on the desk and leaned on them, asking, “What's this about, exactly?”
I grinned, hoping to put her at ease. “I'm in the area doing some genealogical research and my studies have led me to this particular orphanage, you see. I'm looking to speak to someone who knows about it and—if possible—to access some of the files from the 60's and 70's.”
Anna's expression relaxed, but there remained something of edginess in the arching of her thin brows. “Oh, I see. Yes, the Little Flower orphanage was run by the Carmelites. Unfortunately, the convent was closed not long after the orphanage was torn down. I don't know that we have the files here in the building.” She adjusted her thick lenses, her gaze riveted upon me. “I happen to know a good deal about it, though. Maybe I can answer some of your questions.”
I half-turned from the desk, shoulders loosening in a sigh. I hadn't come all the way here to chat with a secretary about the orphanage itself—I cared only for one of its former orphans. Sure that she was going to waste my time, I forced a tight smile. “You knew the place well?” I asked.
What she said surprised me. “Well, I should. I grew up there.”
“Y-You once lived at Little Flower?” I asked with a start.
At that moment the phone rang, but she gave me a quick nod as she went to answer it. “Diocese of Annapolis, this is Anna. How can I direct your call?” she asked over the phone. After a beat, she continued, “Sure, I'll forward you. Just one moment.” Finally, when the call had been transferred, she looked back to find me waiting anxiously for her to continue. “Yes,” she reiterated, “I grew up an orphan. The Carmelites raised me.” A warm smile graced her lips. “Very holy women, they were. They've all since passed on of course, but I think about the example they set for me every day. I don't know where I'd be without their guidance and care.”
“You don't say? When might that have been?” I asked. I studied Anna's face awhile, trying to guess her age. The bifocals threw me off, but I wagered she was a child of the 50's or 60's.
My guess proved right.
“Let's see... It was in the winter of '68-'69 that I arrived there. My parents died in a house fire when I was just shy of seven years old, and I stayed at Little Flower until I turned sixteen,” she said. Gaze narrowed, she laughed and readjusted herself in her chair, legs crossed. “So... what kind of work did you say you were doing? I don't think I've ever had someone come in here and ask about the orphanage before. Is there someone in particular you're interested in learning more about—one of the sisters, perhaps? I knew them very well, if so—”
“Actually,” I interrupted with a chuckle, “I'm looking to learn more about a particular orphan. Judging by the timeline of your stay, I think it's quite possible you might have run into them.”
“Oh? What was their name?”
I cleared my throat. “Her name was Fiona.”
Anna drew in a sharp breath, eyes widening as if I'd just slapped her across the face.
“You knew her?” I guessed.
The raw shock in her eyes shifted into a cold stare. Anna nodded. “I did.” The reply was uncharacteristically icy. Growing very small in her seat and digging a thumbnail into the hem of her blouse, she said nothing for a long while. The phone rang—twice, three times—but she didn't move to pick it up.
Her reaction had been so visceral that it'd taken me off-guard. I laughed nervously, tried to keep the conversation moving. “I know that she was adopted by the Weiss family prior to 1975, but my trail has gone cold and I know next to nothing about her. That's why I came, hopeful that her records might still be intact. Can you tell me anything about her? How well were you acquainted?”
She puckered her thin lips, her sharp gaze still dissecting me. “What kind of work did you say you were doing?”
“Genealogical—”
Snorting derisively, she threw up one of her hands as if to dismiss me. “Sir, I don't know why you'd come here asking about such a girl—especially one with her history—but you've come at a very bad time and I'm not inclined to discuss her at any rate.” Her fingers moved to the silver chain of what I took for a small crucifix pendant around her neck. “Gossip is a sin, a
fter all.”
“Ma'am,” I insisted, “I didn't come here with the intent to gossip, I assure you. The truth of the matter is that Fiona Weiss has been implicated in certain grave matters—matters that involve my nephew and his family. I'm actually from Illinois—do you think I'd have come all the way to Annapolis merely to gossip? No, I came here today because I need help—and because I have nowhere else to turn.” I pulled out my wallet and counted out several twenties. “Now, I understand you're busy, but I'd be more than happy to compensate you for your—”
“Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave,” was her reply. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes agitated behind the coke bottle glasses. She motioned to the door I'd come in through. “Please, leave.”
Having just encountered someone acquainted with Fiona Weiss in life, I wasn't about to back down. I made another appeal, desperate to follow this lead as far as it would take me. “Listen, I'm sorry to have bothered you, but I have nowhere else to turn. I'm not asking you to spin me a scandalous yarn. I'm only interested in facts—facts that may be of great importance in helping my family. My great niece—a girl as old as you were when you were orphaned—has been caught up in the middle of this. Anything you can tell me about Fiona could go a long way towards helping the girl. Wouldn't that be worth it? Would that not be a charitable act? I'm begging you, Anna. Please talk to me.”
Either I looked absolutely pathetic, or my talk of Megan back in Detroit got through to her, because she loosed a troubled sigh and stood up. “Sir, that's enough.” Standing beside her swivel chair, she kneaded her forehead and then looked down at the watch on the inside of her wrist. “What could you possibly need to know about Fiona?” she asked, and I thought I saw her stifle a shudder. Her hands locked around the backrest of the chair and she nodded to the front entrance. “What kind of grave matter could she have a part in? And anyway, this is not the time or place for this conversation...”
“That's perfectly fine,” I replied. “We can meet elsewhere, whenever is convenient for you. What time do you take lunch?”
She combed a few silver locks behind her ears nervously, staring down at her desk. Just when I'd been about to beg further, she responded. “I take lunch at noon.” Ambling into the lobby, she pointed at the door. “There's a cafe across the street called Dave's. I can... I can meet you there if you really insist on this...”
It was a date. “Absolutely,” I replied. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
She nodded, eyes averted and distant.
“I'll... I'll see you there. Noon. And I'm sorry for the trouble,” I added.
Anna returned to her seat and I stepped back out into the sunlight. Racing down the steps, I sought out Dave's and claimed a table, determined to wait there till Anna's lunch break three hours later. Ordering a coffee, I took the table for two nearest the door and wondered what she had to tell me.
Whatever it was, it'd been sufficient to make her shudder.
Anna walked into the cafe at a quarter before noon. She scanned the place with hooded eyes, and when she spotted me her gaze shifted to the floor. She stopped at the front counter, ordered a sandwich and fountain drink, and was seated across from me within minutes.
I didn't rush her. Sipping at a cup of tea—after four coffees in the preceding three hours, I'd opted for a change in beverage—I waited for her to dig into her food.
She crossed herself—though whether she was saying grace or spiritually steeling herself before sharing what she knew I couldn't say. Showing no interest in her food, she rearranged the sandwich on her plate a few times before starting. “So... what do you want to know about Fiona?” she asked, gaze darting nervously about us as if fearful that we might be overheard.
The cafe was hardly busy at the moment; our closest neighbors were seated three tables away, and the bossa nova playing overhead, coupled with the whir of the espresso machines behind the counter, all but ensured that the baristas couldn't hear anything we said.
“I want to know everything,” was my reply. I'd bummed a pen from one of the baristas and had a stack of napkins to jot notes on, just in case.
Anna drew a heavy sigh, adjusting her glasses. “We're close in age, Fiona and I.”
Hearing her talk about Fiona in the present tense that way wasn't exactly inappropriate, and I couldn't help but grimace.
“I was six when I arrived at the orphanage. It was a year or so before Fiona was adopted.” Anna paused to do some mental math. “Yes, Fiona was adopted by a family in 1970, if memory serves.”
I wrote down this detail with a nod. “So, you knew her for about a year, then?”
“That's right,” she continued. “Fiona had been there since birth, but unlike most of the children who'd been given up as infants, she actually knew her mother.” She took a gulp of soda and frowned like it didn't agree with her. Patting at her lips with a napkin, she went on more quietly than before, so that I had to strain to listen to her. “Some kids, like me, were orphaned later in life. I still have memories of my parents from before the fire. Other children, though, were often handed over shortly after birth, or abandoned on the orphanage grounds as toddlers in the middle of the night. Most of them never knew their parents, and among them there was a fair bit of curiosity about where they'd come from. Resentment, too.”
“But Fiona knew her mother?” I asked.
“Yes.” Anna squirmed in her chair, arms folded at her waist. “Fiona's mother was one of the nuns.”
I dropped my cup of tea onto the table, splashing the napkin I'd begun covering with notes. “How's that? Her mother was one of the Carmelite sisters?”
Anna nodded, then shook her head with sorry eyes.
“Did she have Fiona prior to becoming a nun, or after?”
Her frown deepened as she continued. “It was an enormous scandal, as you can imagine. Fiona was conceived not long after her mother, Sister Ethel, took the vows. But it wasn't intentional, her pregnancy. You see...” Anna's voice wavered and came out so quietly that she was practically mouthing the words. “She was raped.”
I set down the pen and folded my hands on the tabletop. “How hideous. Did she know the offender? Was he caught?”
“No,” she replied. “I don't know all the details. I know she'd been walking near the orphanage grounds one evening and was apparently assaulted by a number of men. I heard that they took her away in a car, possibly drugged her, and when she came to it was in a hospital bed. There was... evidence that several men had violated her, but I don't believe they were ever found. In the assault, she conceived.” Anna was clutching at her upper arms with searching, nervous fingers. “Following that, some choices had to be made. Abortion, of course, was never on the table, but Sister Ethel had to decide whether she was going to raise the child herself and become laicized, or put Fiona up for adoption. She chose the latter, keeping to her vows, but for whatever reason Fiona was placed at the Carmelite orphanage where Ethel herself worked.”
“Why was that?” I asked. “Seems like a poor decision—torturous for both mother and daughter. And anyway, wouldn't such an arrangement lead to favoritism?”
Anna shrugged weakly. “I don't know why the decision was made. But Fiona knew the score, and so did the rest of us. Sometimes, the topic would just come up. It was an open secret. I understand that Sister Ethel was instructed not to treat Fiona more favorably and, in fact... wishing to maintain the illusion of neutrality, she actively avoided Fiona wherever possible, which led to a troubling dynamic. It was very tense at times. Even when one is brought into the world through a vile assault, there still exists a link between mother and child. The two of them denying said link was unhealthy, and may have accounted for Fiona's strange development.
“Fiona had never been a friendly girl, and though I lived with her in the orphanage for a year I don't think I ever saw her smile. She spoke very little. Didn't play like the other children. She was especially interested in birds, I remember. She'd stand outside and the birds would land clos
e-by, like they didn't realize she was there. She'd talk to them, too. Some nights, owls or ravens would perch outside her window, and she'd speak to them through the glass. And then there was that toy of hers... None of us had much in the way of toys, as you can imagine, but I remember her having this little wooden bird. She'd stay up late, whispering to it, hardly sleeping. One of the other girls once asked her where she got it.” Here, Anna frowned. “She told them that her father had given it to her.”
“A wooden bird, you say? Some kind of carved toy?” I licked my lips pensively.
“That's right. She always had it with her. I saw it once or twice, up-close. It was pretty detailed—small enough to fit in your palm. I don't know where she actually got it. It's possible one of the foster families she stayed with gave it to her. You see, now and then she'd do a stint in foster care, take an adoptive family for a 'test drive', if you will. Every time, except for that last, it fell through. They all felt she was too strange and moody—unpredictable. And so, from a very early age, I think that Fiona realized no one in life—not even her biological mother—wanted anything to do with her, and she internalized that.
“When the rest of us would go outside to play hopscotch or pick flowers, she'd wander off to the graveyard next door and sit among the tombstones. Sometimes she'd sneak out at night and the abbess would find her sitting amidst the graves, talking to herself. Incidents like those made it hard for the rest of us not to gossip. Even when raised by a cloister of loving nuns, children can be very cruel to one another, and we all talked behind Fiona's back.
“There was, around that time, a minor Satanic panic going on locally. Throughout Annapolis and the neighboring suburbs, there was talk of cults. Dead stray dogs turned up—mangled—as if used in some kind of ritual. People went missing, too. A rumor spread amongst us kids was that Sister Ethel had been raped by devil-worshippers, and that Fiona, by extension, was the 'Devil's Daughter'.
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