Lovely, Dark and Deep (The Madeline Mann Mysteries)

by Buckley, Julia

  “Excuse me?” I asked primly.

  “Who's opening this up?”

  “I guess I am. At the request of an individual, I am looking into the incident again. Ten years cold.”

  “I don't suppose you want to reveal the individual?” he asked.

  “Not really, no.” I held my breath.

  “Well fine, Madeline, I can talk for a minute. There's not a lot to say, really.”

  “I'm wondering what made you suspicious.”

  “In retrospect I'm not really sure what the first thing was. I just had a—”

  “Vibe?” I asked, knowing that word well.

  “Yeah. Didn't seem right, somehow, and it was all so surreal, those silent nuns and the secluded convent. But the minute I asked some questions, that priest appeared at my side and told me to get lost.”

  “Father Fahey?”

  “He's the one. Kind of a power complex on that guy. Maybe he wants to be Pope someday. Anyway, that didn't bother me. Lots of people tell you to get lost, you know that.”

  I sure did.

  “So I pursued it for a while, but my boss, Dan Parkin, finally said stop. Fahey had called him.”

  “Didn't he want to know if you were right?”

  "Parkin didn't have the guts your boss does. And he also didn't have a clue what investigative journalism really was. He wanted to do a non-threatening little neighborhood paper about flower shows and high school honors. He didn't want to step on any toes, especially not holy toes." Astor's voice was half bitter, half amused.

  “Sandra says you got fired over this.”

  Rick chuckled. “Poor Sandy; it was hard on her then. She was only sixteen or so, and it was embarrassing for her, I think; plus she felt protective of me. It was partly due to her that I was suspicious.”

  “Huh?” I said, very unprofessionally.

  “Sandy knew the boy, Sister Joanna's brother. Jeremy. She didn't go to St. Roselle High, but the boy lived near us, and Sandy knew him. She was the one who told me that the boy was involved in drugs, and that the sister had been too.”

  “Wait—Sister Joanna was involved with drugs?” I asked.

  “No, not Sister Joanna. Before she was a nun she was a girl, and that girl, way back when, according to the gossip my daughter heard on our little street, had been taking drugs. It's not fact, it's rumor, but it might have been something I looked into, if I'd been given a chance to pursue it.”

  “Still, what she did as a girl probably had no bearing on a hit and run some ten years later.”

  “A person's past—especially an unholy past of a holy person—is always one of the first things on my list. Sometimes it's been relevant, sometimes it hasn't, but I've never regretted digging.”

  “Right,” I said, jotting down “drugs, motive? Past has secrets" on my pad. “So after you got fired—”

  “I actually was given the choice to walk or give in, and I walked. It wasn't just the Joanna thing, it was my boss. We didn't get along. It was time, and I had some other opportunities I wanted to pursue. I figured I'd look into the Joanna thing while I hunted for work, and sell the story freelance. But as luck would have it, I had another job two days later, and I had to let the Joanna investigation go. So I'm glad to hear you're picking it up. Good luck to you, hon.”

  “If I come up with more questions, Mr. Astor—”

  “The name's Rick. You give me a call.”

  I thanked him, said goodbye, and heard a click.

  I sat thoughtfully for a moment, looking at my pad, and then jotted down several names: Jeremy Yardley, Mr. and Mrs. Abel Yardley, Father Thomas Fahey. That would be enough to get started, I mused.

  I went to the office and spent the morning making calls, writing, and doing an interview for a personality profile piece. A Webley woman had started her own web-business advising people what to wear. Her clients were professionals who were sartorially impaired, and she suggested ensembles, week by week, and sent them these schedules online, for a fee. She was doing quite well. In the interview I asked how she would describe my style of dress, and she said “casual, yet elegant.” I liked that. I was a blonde minx, casual, yet elegant. I was slowly piecing together a profile of myself.

  Back at the office I shared my information with Bill and Sally, and they ruminated on it for a while. Finally Bill said, “Well, go ahead, Madeline. It's certainly an interesting idea; just don't fall behind with your other deadlines, if you can manage it.”

  Sally shook her head at me. “It's a shame you have to bother those poor ol' nuns,” she said. “Then again, they don't get much excitement. Rock their world for a while, hon.” She grinned, typing away.

  I sighed and glanced at a stack of papers that needed editing: Sharon, one of our computer entry clerks, was typing ads for an upcoming St. Valentine issue. Webleyites were able to publish personal ads in a special section, for their thrilled loved ones to read on that special day. Sharon was entering them in the computer as she got them, so that she wasn't inundated on February 6th, the deadline for these ads. Then she left them for me to proofread. Today's first submission said, “You have my heart. Be gentle.” I sneered at it, thinking that some people needed to get a dictionary of cliches before they wrote these. After about twenty love ads I was feeling nauseous, but I decided to finish the pile. The last one caught my eye, and I almost fainted when I read the words. Dearest Sandra, Make me the happiest man in the world and say you'll marry me. G.

  G? Was it too crazy to assume that G was Gerhard, my older brother, and that he was proposing marriage to his girlfriend?

  I was out of my desk in a shot, asking Sally what she thought.

  She eyed me suspiciously. “Either way, you've got to keep out of it. You'll find out on February 14th, just like everyone else.”

  I went back to my desk, muttering to myself. Keep out of it, my foot. There was a mystery here that I could solve, and I would darn well do it today.

  I was just about to leave when my phone rang. I glanced at the caller id, as I always do out of habit. It said “Public Phone.” Intrigued, I picked up. A voice whispered at me, and I felt a little shimmer of anxiety.

  “Madeline Mann?” the voice asked.

  “Yes. Who is this? Can you speak up, please?”

  “Stop investigating Sister Joanna,” the voice said. “Or you'll be sorry.”

  I laughed. This is why my brothers fear for my life, why they call me Madman. I chuckled at the whispering voice and said, “You have got to be kidding.” It was so cliché, especially the 'you'll be sorry' part.

  In response I got a CLICK. Call terminated. I held the receiver in my hand for a moment, still sort of smiling, but wondering all the same. Who knew I was investigating Joanna? Sister Moira. Sister Francis. Father Fahey, and whomever he might have told. Rick Astor. My family. Whomever they might have told. It was possible, I supposed, that the news could have spread fairly rapidly to a number of people. Webley was a relatively small town.

  I glanced at Sally. Should I tell her? No, I decided. If they called again, then I'd make a big deal of it. It was very probably some crackpot. Goofy people loved to call newspaper offices. They'd done it before, and Sally and I both had stories we liked to tell at parties about the unstable people who had called us at the Wire. It was no big deal, I told myself.

  When I got home, ready to tell Jack about the strange call, I was surprised to find that Jack and Juan were practicing in my living room. “Sorry,” Jack yelled. “The rehearsal rooms were full, so I figured we would practice here. We're almost done.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said, blushing slightly under Juan O'Leary's stare. Every time I visited Jack at school it was painfully obvious that all of his students spent the time picturing the two of us having sex, and that Juan was doing something along those lines now. Jack sent him to the hallway to grab another pick from a sideboard drawer, and Juan peeked playfully into our bedroom.

  “So this is where it happens, hey Mr. S?” Juan said.

  “Mr. O
'Leary, you are seconds away from a detention,” Jack said calmly.

  “Sorry,” said Juan, who obviously wasn't sorry at all.

  “Would you guys like something to drink? Some hot chocolate or something?” I asked, as a distraction.

  “I'd love some, Mrs. S,” Juan said sweetly. He always called me Mrs. S, probably because he didn't want to memorize a new letter. Kids today, as far as I could tell, weren't thrilled with learning or with being respectful. I couldn't fathom how Jack put up with it day after day.

  Juan followed me into the kitchen, apparently to watch me prepare his drink. I was about to feel extremely self-conscious, but it turned out that Juan wasn't ogling me—he wanted information. “So, you work at the Wire, huh?” he asked me, shifting from foot to foot. His jeans looked too long at the bottom and too low at the top. Luckily, the polo shirt he'd tucked into them prevented me from seeing his underwear. “I don't suppose you know a girl there from Webley High? She told me she works there.” He affected an uncaring attitude, but I saw it all in a flash.

  “You must mean Adelaide, the girl who does our phone sales.” I smiled at him knowingly.

  “Yeah. Right. She's in my math class, and stuff.”

  “Ah. And do you like her?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “Sure. I mean, I like everybody. I'm an easygoing guy, and stuff.”

  “Well, I'll tell her I ran into you,” I said, tempted to add, “and stuff.”

  “Okay. Maybe if you do, you know, you could mention the coffee house. Just that I'll be playing with Mr. S, and all that. I'm not sure if she's heard me play but, you know, she might like to.”

  “Well, I'll do that,” I said, taking the boiling kettle off the stove. Juan continued nodding at me, and the moment could have become awkward, but luckily Jack called him back, rather ferociously. Juan darted out, and I was able to prepare his cocoa in peace. I hunted in the cabinet for a mug. I heard Jack strumming something that sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. “What's that tune?” I called.

  “Nothing,” Jack called. I heard murmurings that turned to whispers, and suddenly they were playing something different.

  “Okay,” I said, opening a packet of cocoa and putting the powder in the dark blue mug I'd chosen. I was starting to feel paranoid. Maybe people really did conspire when one's back was turned. Maybe one really did have to suspect nuns and priests of murdering one another. Maybe murderers really called reporters on the phone and whispered warnings. And maybe Sister Joanna, young martyr of Webley, hadn't been killed in a random hit and run.

  I delivered Juan's beverage to him, then returned to the kitchen and hauled out my yellow pages. I looked up the number for the Yardleys—Sister Joanna's parents—and found that they still lived in Mosston. I jotted down their number and address, then saw that Yardley, Jeremy, was listed separately, with a Webley address. I wrote down Jeremy's number as well, then took the slip of paper into my room. “I'm making some phone calls,” I told Jack, who still looked mysterious. Juan sipped his cocoa with a virtuous expression, so I knew something was going on. I shrugged, then ensconced myself in the bedroom. First I dialed Gerhard, I admit, with the intention of forcing him to tell me the truth about the love ad in the paper. There was no answer. I turned back to business, and dialed again, hoping to make appointments with a dead nun's family.

  Chapter Five

  The last day of January dawned with milk-pale sunbeams. I looked out the window to find that the world had frozen overnight. The parking lot had a sheen of ice, and Mr. Altschul was out with his salt bag, sprinkling here and there like some wintry sandman, while the man he paid to plow the parking lot was driving and reversing, making a scraping sound, shaving off bits of ice in an ineffectual manner.

  “Might be hard to get out today,” I said to Jack, who was humming something familiar as he tied his tie.

  “No problem. I'll walk,” he said. Jack was this great outdoorsman who loved the challenges of every season. Sometimes I really wondered how we ended up together. He moved into the hallway and started digging in the closet for his good boots, the ones with traction so amazing he could probably walk up the side of a glacier with confidence. Jack had great equipment, I mused, as I stood in the doorway and watched his backside wiggle while he dug through the mess of shoes, boots, and appliances.

  “Here we are!” he yelled triumphantly, holding up the gargantuan specimens with a joyful smile. I had to go over and kiss him; he looked so cute.

  He returned my kiss in his warm way, and I was starting to wish we both had the day off. Jack finally pulled away, pointed regretfully at his watch, and asked, “Are you going to change out of your pajamas at some point?”

  I'd forgotten I was still wearing them. They were blue flannel separates with little penguins all over. I was also wearing a pair of thick blue socks, since Jack had once informed me that I had the coldest feet in North America. “Yes, of course,” I said haughtily. “In fact, I need to get into the shower, so you'd best be off. I just hope Mr. Altschul makes some progress on that lot in the meantime, or I'll have to walk, too, and I don't relish the thought.”

  “I don't either,” Jack said. “Not while goofballs are making vague threats to you over the phone.” I'd told Jack about the whisperer the night before, and he, too, had asked if I might be willing to give up the Joanna investigation. One look from me had ended that line of thought.

  “I know what you mean, but I just meant that I'm lazy,” I said. “And I'll be very careful.”

  While Jack's place of employment, Webley High School, was a mere eight blocks away, the newspaper office was two and a half miles. I didn't have boots like Jack's, or a huge love of extreme temperatures, and I tended to walk slowly, especially on ice. I'd be lucky if I made it in by mid-morning. Jack tut-tutted about my lack of enthusiasm for winter, then packed his gear, donned his warm parka and shouldered his guitar. “Practicing for the coffee house today,” he said before he left. “Call me later, okay?”

  “Sure, Sweetie,” I said, and I waved him out the door.

  I hadn't reached the elder Yardleys the night before, but I'd talked to Jeremy Yardley and arranged to see him at noon. He was meeting me on his lunch break from Webley Public Works. I was curious to see the place, since I'd driven past it now and then, but never got the sense that anyone was inside. From the outside it merely looked like a giant garage. I'd interviewed the director before, a man named Ted Voss, but the inner workings I had never observed.

  I quickly showered and dressed in warm clothing: a light blue sweater, a pair of grey wool pants. I'm not much of a dress-wearing girl, unless it's a special occasion. I like flat shoes—really flat shoes—and they don't tend to go with dresses. Today I wore black boots with flat heels, and tossed on a long necklace with blue and green stones. I was trying to maintain the "casually elegant" title I'd earned yesterday. I bundled up and marched into the cold morning. Cold was an understatement, I decided, as I struggled toward Mr. Altschul. It felt as if the whites of my eyes had frozen.

  “Hi,” I said. I saw that he and his plower had indeed made progress, and I'd be able to remove my car after all. “Some weather, huh?” I called in a cliché morning greeting. Mr. Altschul squinted at me, as though he couldn't quite see me.

  “Yah,” he said. I headed toward the car, then heard Mr. Altschul doing something unprecedented: he was singing. He warbled, in a croaky, German-accented voice, the words, “It's not just a hunch, you'll be making my lunch tomorr—oh-oh!” Then he beamed at me.

  I almost fainted. He was singing a song from Fritz's cd, a horrible, weird song called “Make My Lunch.” The thing about it, though, was that it had a great tune, which Fritz had written, and it was so catchy that it stayed in your head for days on end. And now my old German landlord was singing it. The strangest part was that Fritz had been right. If he left the cd's with people, they would listen and they would sing. I managed a weak smile and a wave before I escaped into the safety of my frigid car. Whenever F
ritz succeeded in one of his odd ventures, I felt off balance, like the earth had suddenly tipped sideways.

  With a weary sigh, I coaxed my shivering Scorpio into starting and made my way toward the newspaper offices. Sally was at her desk, resplendent in a Christmas sweater of red and green sequined ornaments on a black background and tight black jeans. Sally's style was unique, but I sort of envied that. “I have to wear it today, hon,” Sally said, noting my glance. “It's the last day of January, and after that I can't really push the Christmas season any farther. You've got some notes on your desk from Bill.”

  I smiled and nodded, then sat down, rubbed my hands to warm them, and got to work on the jobs my boss had assigned me. I asked Sally to let me know when it was 11:30, and when she did so, hours later, I couldn't believe the morning was gone.

  I hastily grabbed my purse and coat and headed back out to the car. I tried to formulate some questions for Jeremy Yardley, but I generally found that planning questions in advance didn't do me much good in an interview. Being so reliant upon vibes, I usually have to meet a person first, toss out my opener, and then see what their comments and reactions suggest.

  What I knew was that this man I was meeting was Sister Joanna's only sibling; that he had been fifteen at the time of her death; and that he had worked for the Public Works Department for eight years. He had told me the last fact over the phone; the other two I knew from the reading I'd done.

  When I arrived at the Public Works garage, everything was nicely plowed, of course, and the walkway properly salted. I was able to march with confidence to the doorway, which I traversed into a cavernous building which was, as I'd thought, a giant garage. To my right was a long cement area housing many village vehicles. The snow plows were parked nearest the door for ready access, but all sorts of things were parked toward the back: wood chippers, lawn mowers, street cleaners, and various large vehicles I didn't recognize. The whole place smelled like gasoline and tar.

  One of the large garage doors opened suddenly, letting in a bit of light, and a salt truck pulled into a vacant area, parked, and stopped rumbling. A man in a down vest, blue jeans and knee-high boots jumped out; he walked past me, belching gently into a fist held against his mouth, never once looking my way, and entered a room to my left. I followed him, not only because he was the only human I'd seen, but because I could hear the deep reverberations of male conversation. I went to the doorway, on which a little sign said “Break Room,” and stood there momentarily, trying to pick out Jeremy Yardley. The talking stopped, and about fifteen men, seated at picnic tables that were crammed into a rather small space, stared at me with various levels of interest. Someone let out a wolf whistle, and I'm sure I blushed twelve shades of red as I pretended that I hadn't heard it. “I'm looking for Jeremy,” I said into the silence.