Killer in the Cloister Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  KILLER IN THE CLOISTER

  By Camille Minichino

  Dedication

  For my husband, Richard Rufer

  Acknowledgements

  For my special, supportive family and friends.

  CHAPTER 1

  It wasn’t easy being conservative in 1965, even for a nun.

  But I was as determined and sure of myself as only a twenty-eight-year-old could be.

  My Superiors thought there was some risk, sending me away to graduate school right after my final vows, but I was firm in my faith and confident in my vocation as a Sister of Mary Immaculate. Hadn’t I made a mature decision to give my life to the service of God? I would do His will as revealed to me by my Superiors.

  I had no intention of opening my mind to the passing fads Mother Julia had warned us against, like priest-social workers and peace signs made of colored felt glued to burlap banners. Without saying so explicitly, Mother Julia’s lessons left us with the unmistakable impression that the underlying cause of the unrest in the United States stemmed from the assassination, two years earlier, of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the first Roman Catholic president.

  I sat in my dormitory room in the middle of the Bronx, a four-hour bus ride from my Motherhouse convent in Potterstown, New York, and took a copy of St. Alban’s University catalog from the deep pocket of my Sunday habit. Mother Julia had circled the required curriculum for my first semester—courses in Thomistic theology, modern philosophy, research methods, and a seminar in comparative religions. I twisted my nose at the last one, as if I smelled a bad batch of incense. I didn’t see why I should be studying other belief systems when there was enough to learn in my own two-thousand-year-old tradition, thank you.

  My small mahogany desk was ready with new spiral notebooks, sharpened pencils, and a framed image of St. Francis of Assisi, my patron saint.

  I’d chosen my religious name not in his honor, however, but for my great aunt, Francesca Sforzo—part of the small fraction of my heritage that wasn’t Irish.

  I celebrated my feast day every year on October 4, and prayed daily to Saint Francis to lead my brother Timothy back to the faith—perhaps not to Holy Orders, as our parents wished, but at least to a law-abiding life.

  “Sister Francesca, are you settled in?”

  I recognized the voice on the other side of my door as that of Mother Ignatius, the old Albanite Sister in charge of St. Lucy’s Hall, the Sisters’ dormitory. She’d been on hand earlier to greet each student. I opened my door and looked down on her thin five-foot frame, a good six inches below my eye level.

  “I want to remind you that we’ll say Vespers at four,” she said, her voice wavering, as if it had been in use for too many decades. “And then some of the Sisters have asked for a little get-together afterwards so you can all meet each other.”

  Mother Ignatius, wrapped in yards of black serge, seemed as uncomfortable as I was at the idea of a “get-together.”

  I checked that the long hallway was clear, then leaned down and whispered, as if we were standing in the sanctuary of St. Lucy’s chapel. “Whatever you say, Mother. But may I ask—will this be a regular practice?”

  Observing the rule of no frivolous touching, Mother Ignatius gave a slight nod to indicate that we should move into my room. Once over the threshold, with the door still open, again according to custom, she let out a heavy sigh. I offered her my straight-backed wooden chair and sat on the edge of my bed facing her, the small room now filled almost to capacity. A third person would have had to perch on the tiny sink by the window. It hadn’t taken long for my first challenge to surface, I’d noticed, in the form of the small rectangular mirror above the sink. SMIs were forbidden to look at their reflections. I shifted my gaze to a spot between the mirror and the window.

  “I’m glad you asked about the get-together, Sister.” Mother Ignatius leaned into me and squeezed her eyes into a gesture that was close to a wink. Her half smile revealed long, overlapping teeth. “Your Mother Julia and I had a long talk about you when she called to make arrangements for your stay here. She said I could count on you. She said that although you’re very young, you have the values of the old.”

  “I didn’t mean to question you, Mother Ignatius. I—.”

  “No, no, Sister. You weren’t wrong to speak up. I don’t mind telling you I’m not at ease with these changes either. The Sisters want wine and cheese at this gathering. It disturbs me greatly. Even though you’re all from different orders, this is still a convent.” Mother Ignatius made a prayerful gesture with her tiny hands, as if to emphasize the core of her existence. “It’s a slippery slope. Who knows what’s next? These new Sisters make me feel that I’m the only thing standing in the way of the life they want.”

  I threw my shoulders back and lifted my eyes to heaven, unable to contain my opinion of spontaneous social intercourse among religious.

  “It’s not as if we’re in a sorority house. You’re our Superior, Mother Ignatius.”

  I seemed to have spat out my words, and was immediately sorry, but Mother Ignatius didn’t seem to notice my intense response.

  “I wish it were so, Sister Francesca,” she said. “There’s just so much authority I can maintain. Your home congregations are paying room and board for you to live here at St. Lucy’s.”

  I rubbed my fingers along my jaw. All my muscles were tight—a sensation that came often lately as I wrestled with my feelings about the wave of modernization taking over the church. The Second Vatican Council, convened in 1962, and still in session in 1965, was sweeping through the Church like a coup to bring democracy to the hierarchical structure ordained by God himself. I agreed with Mother Julia:

  Consensus and collegiality are fine for President Johnson and his administration, Sisters, but it is not what Our Lord had in mind when he anointed Peter the first Pope.

  Solemn high Latin masses had become harder and harder to find, especially in university chapels. Guitars and secular banners replaced the pipe organ and priestly vestments in Roman Catholic churches everywhere. Each day brought a burning issue to the fore, and convent life—up to now a bulwark of permanence—had turned into an arena of debate, as frantic as secular election campaigns.

  But until my arrival at St. Lucy’s, I’d had to deal with the issues only in the abstract, with Mother Julia always on hand to interpret. I wondered if I was prepared to face the consequences alone in my daily life. I pushed my hands far up into my sleeves, grasping my elbows, as if to hold onto my resolve to stay with the rules I’d promised to live by on the day of my final vows.

  Mother Ignatius seemed also to have disappeared into a different century. Sh
e sighed and shook her head inside her stiff black bonnet, which stayed pointing straight ahead.

  “It certainly was easier in the old days,” she said.

  I felt a twinge of regret. “I’m sorry I missed them.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Behind St. Lucy’s was a yard, large by Bronx standards, a long stretch of green lawn dotted with maples and elms. From my window, I could see wide rows of flowers brightening the landscape with September colors—oranges, deep yellow, purple, and red.

  I remembered reading in the brochure that St. Lucy’s property, which was about a mile from St. Alban’s main campus, was owned by the Albanites, the same order of priests who ran the University. At one edge of the lot I could see the beginnings of a new development and I guessed it wouldn’t be long before we saw the lovely convent lawn absorbed by a housing project and a row of shops.

  A stone pathway led to a shrine of Our Lady of Sorrows at the far end of the yard. I took my spiritual reading and light summer shawl—heavy wraps weren’t permitted until October first, no matter what the weather—to one of the benches farthest from the house.

  I breathed in the dry, crisp fall air. For about a half hour I visited the thirteenth, the greatest of centuries, enjoying the flawless logic in The Summa Theologica of Saint Thomas Aquinas.

  Human nature needs the help of God as First Mover, to do or will any good whatsoever, as was . . .

  The bell for chapel.

  I closed the book immediately and walked toward the house. As I entered through the back door, I resolved to go straight to my room after Vespers if I detected the smell of wine from the gathering in the parlor.

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  Apparently, Mother Ignatius had prevailed, at least as far as keeping an alcohol-free environment, so I stopped in at the social hour that followed prayers. I was greeted by a Sister in a modified habit. Teresa—she hadn’t included her title on her name sticker—looked like a schoolgirl, with a calf-length dress and hose in dark blue, a white Peter Pan collar, and a silver cross pinned over her heart.

  “You’re Francesca,” she said, with a broad smile. Wisps of dark, curly hair slipped from under the pretend veil hugging the back of her head. “I think we’re neighbors. I’m in Room 26.”

  Neighbors live in suburbs, I wanted to tell her. They’re married with two children and have afternoon chats in coffee shops.

  “Good evening, Sister,” I said. I managed a smile while I emphasized her title.

  I moved past her and found Mother Ignatius.

  “A glass of punch, Sister Francesca?” She held up a ladle of pink liquid that smelled to me like at least a partial victory, but her face had a worried look, her forehead even more wrinkled than her advanced age allowed.

  “Is something wrong, Mother Ignatius?”

  “You’re a St. Lucy’s resident now, Sister,” she said, her voice low and shaky. “So you should be aware of this.” She pulled a piece of yellow lined paper from the folds of her skirt and gave it a slight wave under my chin, which was about as high as she could reach with comfort. “This is a list of demands I received.”

  I drew in my breath. I’d heard of sit-ins that were popular on college campuses, and lists of demands by unruly students. Mother Julia had summarized the news for us, informing us of students’ cries for more participation in classes and better food in the cafeterias. I didn’t expect to experience the phenomenon in a convent.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mother. How can anyone have a demand so soon? We’ve just arrived. Classes haven’t even started yet.”

  “The list was drawn up by the Sisters returning for their second or third year. Sister Teresa, Sister Veronique especially. You’ll meet them all.” Mother Ignatius swept her short arm to encompass the parlor. “They warned me when they left last June that they expected changes this year.”

  “What kinds of changes?” We already have mirrors in our rooms and social hours, I mused.

  “For one thing, they want keys to this building to come and go as they please.”

  I clenched and unclenched my fists as Mother Ignatius talked, as if I were keeping count of unpleasant notions.

  “How does Sister Felix feel about this?” I asked her.

  “I’m afraid my assistant agrees with most of the new rules, or I should say, lack of rules. Even our chaplain, Father Malbert, is of the same mind.” Mother Ignatius tilted her elaborate headdress in the direction of the fireplace, where a sandy-haired man—I put his age at about mid-thirties—in khakis and an Irish knit crew neck sweater was the center of attention for a group of Sisters.

  “That’s our chaplain?”

  She nodded toward the man. “That’s our chaplain.”

  I looked across the room at Father Malbert and saw no outward sign that he was Our Lord’s representative on earth. No collar, no cross, not even a decent pair of black pants. Just brown tassel loafers and a hail-fellow loud voice as he entertained his audience. I turned back to Mother Ignatius.

  “May I see the list of demands, Mother?”

  “Not here, Sister.” Mother Ignatius had tucked the yellow paper out of sight as if it were a top secret document for a modern-day Inquisition.

  As I straightened up from talking to Mother Ignatius, I nearly bumped into a large white-haired man in casual slacks and a maroon sweater who had moved in right behind me. The gardener? Another priest? It was hard to tell these days.

  “Good evening, Mother Ignatius,” he said, giving both of us a broad smile.

  He looked at my white bib, where a name sticker might have been if I’d chosen to use one.

  “Sister . . . ?” he asked.

  “Sister Francesca.”

  “Sister Francesca,” he said, taking my hand although I hadn’t offered it. “You’re a Sister of Mary Immaculate. I recognize the SMI habit. I’m Jake Driscoll. Had your order in school, K through six. Before you were born, I suppose.” He laughed as if he’d told a clever joke.

  “Good evening, Mr. Driscoll.”

  I couldn’t say why, but the name seemed familiar to me. Probably because every third family in the Irish neighborhood where I grew up was Driscoll, I thought.

  I noticed Mother Ignatius tightening her arms across her chest, as if to keep her body and soul together. Or to prepare for battle.

  “If you’ll excuse us, Sister Francesca, Mother Ignatius and I have some unfinished business.”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Driscoll,” Mother Ignatius told him, “our business has been finished for quite some time.”

  Jake Driscoll managed to place his body in front of mine, cutting me out of the conversation and blocking my view of Mother Ignatius, so I couldn’t tell whether or not she wanted me to stay. I chose the conservative route and edged past them.

  Looking for a Sister who might be a kindred soul, I found one without a name tag, sitting on a straight chair by the window. She balanced a small plate of cheese and crackers on her lap and seemed to focus on eating, one of the few Sisters not in the group paying homage to Father Malbert. I approached her, having decided to consider the gathering one of those occasions Mother Julia had referred to, requiring conversation.

  “I’m Sister Francesca,” I said to the Sister who was snacking. “I’m in theology.”

  She covered her mouth as she finished chewing, then smiled up at me.

  “Sister Ann William. Pharmacy?” she said, her voice ending in a question mark. “I’m from Texas. I guess that’s clear?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I’ve never been west of the Hudson River or south of Washington, D. C.”

  She laughed. “And I’ve never been this far north.”

  “I didn’t know St. Alban’s offered a pharmacy curriculum?” I seemed to have caught her accent already.

  “Oh, yes. The School of
Pharmacy is pretty big. Lots of our Sisters have degrees from here. Sisters of Holy Charity? We run small hospitals and convalescent homes all over Texas and the Midwest.” Sister Ann William brushed crumbs from her habit—a royal blue with white trim—and from the chair next to her in a gesture of welcome.

  I sat down and turned my body so I could see Mother Ignatius and Jake Driscoll. I wasn’t happy about my behavior. Giving only half my attention to the person I was with, and eavesdropping—if reading body language could be called that—on other people at the same time.

  Simultaneously I heard from Sister Ann William that she’d located a Latin mass on campus, and I saw that Mother Ignatius and Jake Driscoll, who towered over her, were at odds. They stood across from each other, arms folded, their faces wrinkled with frown lines visible even at room’s length.

  After a few minutes of surprisingly pleasant small talk with Sister Ann William, I made plans to walk to campus with her the next day. I excused myself and walked toward the hallway and the stairway to the dormitory rooms, anxious to escape a sing-along that had started up.