Killer in the Cloister Read online

  The smell of ham and cheese filled the tiny space that was my room. I reached for my sandwich and continued my debate. What if reading these letters helps me solve a crime of murder? Surely righting the wrong of a mortal sin would justify a venial sin. If I find nothing useful, I’ll destroy them and no harm will be done. In either case, I’ll say my Act of Contrition and go to confession as soon as possible.

  During the final round of internal questions and answers, I slipped the rubber band from the letters. The sound it made when it snapped out of my hands seemed as loud as a whip cracking against the back of an infidel in the Middle Ages.

  I sat on the bed, within stretching distance of my lunch, and flipped through the stack of mail. The letters seemed to have been written by the same person, someone as old as Mother Ignatius by the look of the script. Return address—Convent of the Sacred Hearts, Albuquerque, New Mexico. Postmarked between July and September, the latest one a week before Mother Ignatius’ death. So recent, they could be significant. I told myself if the letters had been decades old, I wouldn’t intrude on the privacy of the sender or the receiver.

  I took a cookie and washed it down with a mouthful of milk, as if physical nourishment could compensate for the spiritual weakening I brought on myself. I pulled the letters from their envelopes and laid them out on my white chenille bedspread in chronological order. The stationery was heavy white stock with plain letterhead—The Order of the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary. The signature on each was difficult to read—Mother Consiliatrix, I guessed—followed by her order’s initials, S.H.J.M.

  She had written to Mother Ignatius every other Sunday since July 4, an unusually high frequency. In most communities, Sisters wrote to their immediate families each Sunday, and once a month to non-family members, with special permission only. From her use of letterhead, I knew Mother Ignatius’ correspondent must be Mother Superior of her convent, but even so she would have kept the rules unless urgent matters were being discussed.

  I ran my eyes across the pages, reading only a phrase or a sentence here and there. I was reminded how, as children, my friends and I peeked through our fingers at the scary parts of a movie. Was I trying to lessen the impact of reading someone else’s mail by this same, casual approach? At my Motherhouse, I wasn’t even allowed to read my own mail until it had been screened by Mother Julia or Sister Magdalene.

  You’ve already committed a sin, I told myself, go ahead and finish the task. I took a deep breath and read the first letter, skipping past the preliminary greetings.

  The matters of which you speak—D, E, and F—are serious indeed. It’s always a strain on our faith in Holy Mother Church when one of its own is seen to be all too fallible. I understand your reluctance to be specific, but perhaps if I had more details, I could be of more assistance.

  Remember the words of Saint John: “the world and its desires shall pass away, but the man who does the will of God shall live forever.”

  I reread the beginning.

  D, E, and F.

  D for Driscoll, E for someone whose name began with E, and F for Felix? Or just three letters of the alphabet, part of a longer list that began with A? Maybe Mother Consiliatrix simply wasn’t interested in matters A, B, and C. I thought of the cuff link with the letter D. Just as likely as not, a coincidence.

  Mother Consiliatrix’s reference to one of its own could mean any Roman Catholic. Unfortunately, all my suspects fit that criterion.

  I moved on to the other five letters, hoping for something more specific. Mother Consiliatrix offered Mother Ignatius prayers, support, and advice, but continued to be vague about the exact nature of the problems causing the stress. I felt as if I were trying to learn a new hymn, while missing every other note. And of course that was true—I didn’t have Mother Ignatius’ side of the correspondence.

  In the last communication, written on September 12, Mother Consiliatrix seemed to have made up her mind regarding what Mother Ignatius should do.

  If what you’ve told me is true, you are certainly correct in assessing your obligation. Difficult as it may be, I urge you to follow your inclinations and go to the authorities. Two of the issues seem to be matters for the secular courts, the other should be taken to the Chancery. I pray to the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary . . .

  Three issues. Two secular, one religious. What I had was one real estate deal and one case of a flirting nun. I was missing one secular issue, and a person with the initial E, among other things. And which so-called issue got Mother Ignatius killed? All of them? None of them?

  At the end of a half-hour, I’d finished reading each letter twice. I’d been so engrossed, I was sure I’d have missed my own call signal if it had rung. The correspondence deepened my conviction that Mother Ignatius’ death was related to something she knew, but gave me nothing concrete to work with.

  Thoughts about going to the police with the packet crossed my mind, but I couldn’t imagine they’d perceive anything suspicious. They hadn’t seen the look on Mother Ignatius’ face when she told me how frightened she was, and the letters alone could be dismissed as the chatter of two elderly nuns, perhaps old friends, separated by thousands of miles.

  I stood up for what was becoming routine pacing, and glanced at the remains of my lunch. My heart lurched. Next to the last cookie was the card for the note to my father. I uttered a disgusted grunt—what sort of person is distracted from writing to her critically ill parent by a potentially non-existent crime?

  As soon as I sat at my desk to address my father, images of our life together flooded my mind and pushed out thoughts of murder and religious mayhem.

  I remembered my favorite time of day as a child—Patty and I would go to our living room window at precisely four-thirty in the afternoon. My father would round the bend of Firth Road in Potterstown, on his way home, taking a short-cut through the field across from our house. Day after day, he’d pretend to trip and fall, each time in a different spot. Then he’d get up and take a bow, swinging his old striped railroad hat in front of him. The smile on our faces would still be there when we’d greet him at the door.

  I struggled to suppress tears as I wrote. In letters to our families, we were never allowed to discuss details of our daily customs, nor share any news of other Sisters, good or bad. In spite of the restrictions I’d always found enough to write about—rehearsals for a Christmas pageant, classes in Sacred Scripture, a visit from the Bishop, a Silver Jubilee celebration.

  But this time it was hard to fill a page with news that would cheer my father. My new Superior had died, my old Superior had to send her delegate to manage my behavior, my classes were unsatisfying, St. Lucy’s Hall was a den of reformers, and I’d launched a one-nun murder investigation.

  Nothing fit for the resident of an intensive care unit.

  I looked out my window for inspiration and came up with a few words about the lovely fall weather in the Bronx and the splendid flowers and bushes in the garden. I was happy to add a paragraph about the positive changes in Timothy’s life, and closed with a promise of my loving prayers. It felt strange to lick and stamp the envelope. For the first time in six years I’d be mailing an uncensored letter. I placed a Saint Anthony Guide sticker on the back, as if to take the curse off an unsupervised communication.

  A knock on my door startled me. My eyes darted to the incriminating evidence spread out on my bed. I scooped up the pile of Mother Consiliatrix’s letters and stuffed them into my drawer along with a few tufts of chenille.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me. Sister Ann William.”

  “Yes, Sister. One minute.” I brushed my habit, as if to clear it of signs of my transgressions before I opened the door. “Thank you for lunch, Sister. I’m going to have to do your chores for a month to make up for all your service.”

  She laughed. “Too bad we don’t have any chores here. I
kind of miss them.”

  “I know what you mean. It’s strange to live as though we were in a hotel. I keep looking for the lists and charts. Scullery duty, dormitory floors, laundry room . . .”

  “And don’t forget the plum job—starching the altar linens!”

  I smiled and nodded. We shared a moment of silence in which I suspected Sister Ann William, like me, revisited her Motherhouse and its familiar, comforting routines.

  “Are you on your way to class?” I asked her.

  “I am. I’m going to stop at the campus store first, to order a medal of Saint William for my brother. He’s entering the seminary in Houston next week.” Sister Ann William’s broad smile told me she was proud of the young man whose name she’d chosen as her own in religion. Seeing my questioning frown, she added a quick explanation. “I have permission from Mother Clarisse to use the discretionary money I have for snacks and supplies.”

  “What a wonderful idea. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

  “Is there anything I can pick up for you while I’m at the store?”

  I started to shake my head, when my eyes landed on my desk drawer. “I think I’ll come to campus with you,” I said. “I’d like to go to confession.”

  CHAPTER 16

  On the way to campus, I added two more “firsts” to my list—I dropped the note to my father in a mailbox on Southern Boulevard, and I told Sister Ann William about his heart attack. In Potterstown, I wouldn’t have been allowed to mention such a personal matter—Mother Julia would inform the community whenever there was a special occasion for prayers. I was sure she’d already put a notice on the bulletin board in the assembly room, asking the Sisters to remember Brendan Patrick Wickes at mass and Benediction. She’d also remind them at grace before dinner.

  Thinking of Mother Julia gave me a sudden longing to be back with my community and the ordered, regular life of the Potterstown Motherhouse. I regretted manipulating Sister Magdalene into leaving me at St. Lucy’s. I thought if I made a list of all the recent departures from my normal SMI life, it would stretch from the Bronx Zoo to St. Patrick’s Cathedral in midtown Manhattan.

  Sister Ann William was solicitous, stopping in her tracks to make the sign of the cross. “I’m glad you told me, Sister. I’ll make a novena for your father to Saint William, starting today.”

  “Thank you, Sister. I know that would mean a great deal to him.”

  “A daily communicant, I’ll bet.”

  I nodded. “Only a stay in the hospital can keep him away. And I’m sure he asked for Communion as soon as he could speak.”

  Sister Ann William was such a reasonable religious, I considered sharing the information I’d learned from Mother Consiliatrix’s letters and asking her advice. Should I mail the letters back to Albuquerque anonymously? Mail them to the police? Tear them to shreds? Toss the cuff link in the fountain by the University library? I ruled out the idea of sneaking back into Mother Ignatius’ office and restoring everything to its original place.

  In the end, I was dissuaded from confiding in Sister Ann William—I couldn’t bring myself to admit to her how I’d come upon these items in the first place.

  We parted ways at the Mary Chapel. I checked the schedule at the door and was happy I’d remembered correctly—confession daily at two o’clock. The priest on duty was the chairman of the History Department and Sister Veronique’s “very important person on the faculty,” Father Joseph O’Neill. I hoped there was a chance he wouldn’t want to give me a lesson in social consciousness.

  I’d seen Father Malbert talking to him in the hall near the chapel and worried it was Father Malbert’s turn in the confessional booth. I didn’t relish the idea of having to report specifics of my behavior to him again. Nor did I want to be let off easy, as I’d expect him to do. After waving to me, Father Malbert entered a doorway several yards away.

  As it turned out, Father O’Neill was cut from the same cloth.

  “Don’t be hard on yourself, Sister,” he told me in the confessional. “Did you intend any harm to the person whose letters you read?”

  “No, Father.”

  “Did you read them from concupiscence, hoping for pleasures of the flesh?”

  I winced at the suggestion, and shook my head, as if he could see me in the darkness behind the grille. “No, Father.”

  “Did you hope for some personal gain?” He leaned closer to the grille and laughed. I smelled alcohol on his breath, and hoped it was sacramental. “Are you going to blackmail the good nun in New Mexico?”

  Another flip Albanite. “No, Father,” I said, without a trace of humor.

  “Then, say three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys, and make a good Act of Contrition. God bless you, Sister.”

  Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry . . .

  I pushed aside the heavy maroon curtain and left the booth. I wondered if there was a priest anywhere in the Bronx who’d take me to task and give me a decent penance. Not wishing to assume the “holier than thou” attitude Mother Julia warned us against, I restricted myself to the meager propitiation Father O’Neill had prescribed.

  I’d just finished the five sorrowful mysteries of the rosary for my father when Father O’Neill exited the booth and came over to the pew in front of me. Unlike the dashing, fair-haired Father Malbert, Father O’Neill was dark, squat, and balding. His large nose had the red glow of someone who drank more than his share of non-sacramental wine.

  “Sister Francesca, you’re new at St. Lucy’s. I’ve been wanting to meet you.” Another surprise. Had Sister Veronique talked about me? I wondered. Described me? I imagined her reporting on my rudeness, and thus awakening interest in knowing me. All to my chagrin. To my further dismay, Father O’Neill addressed me in normal tones, though we were in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament.

  “How do you do, Father.” I tried to whisper without seeming to reproach him for his loud voice.

  “Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”

  I shook my head and shrank back, nearly falling off the kneeler.

  “Uh, no. Thank you, Father.”

  “Some other time, then.”

  I nodded and collapsed on the seat.

  St. Alban’s was the friendliest place I’d ever been to, as a nun or otherwise.

  <><><>

  I’d told Sister Ann William I’d be going straight home to St. Lucy’s after confession. I took comfort in the long walk, no longer sore from my adventure on Southern Boulevard. I thought of my sisters and brother, who were most likely camping out in the Fishkill General Hospital waiting room.

  I could picture them: Patty leading the rosary for the family and friends who’d gathered in the hospital waiting room. Timothy sitting with his arms folded, lips unyielding. Kathleen, now Mrs. Neal Mooney, would be bringing cups of coffee to everyone, and trying to comfort Gabriella, who’d be sobbing quietly. At least two of our neighbors on Firth Road would be standing by at the Wickes home ready to serve a meal to anyone who walked in the door.

  By now the route between the campus and St. Lucy’s was familiar, and I was able to lose myself in Potterstown and Fishkill.

  If I hadn’t been so engrossed, I might have been aware of the vehicle bearing down on me from behind.

  Before I heard it, I felt it. Just as I turned the bend in the boulevard, where the sidewalk sloped downward. A wallop on my right side. I was knocked to the ground, the wind sucked out of me. I fell on my back, my legs thrust into the air, so it was impossible to see who or what went spinning down the sidewalk after the impact. Faster and noisier than a bicycle. Not as big as a motorcycle.

  “A motor scooter,” someone said.

  “Are you all right, Sister?”

  “What a jerk.”

  “It was a guy in a blue jacket.”

  “We shou
ld call an ambulance.”

  “There’s a phone booth on the corner.”

  “I think it was a woman, not a man. And it was a brown jacket.”

  More startled than injured, I straightened my bonnet and opened my eyes. I focused on two young women kneeling beside me, concern on their faces. I could tell they were reluctant to touch me, except to pull the skirt of my habit down over my legs. Aidan wouldn’t have had a problem, I thought.

  A man standing to one side pointed to a vehicle at the curb. “I have a car. I can take her to a hospital,” he said.

  “No. Thank you. I’m fine. I was just surprised.”

  After a few more minutes of fussing and opining as to what the reckless driver looked like and what he or she was wearing, I realized we’d never know for sure. Once I stood up, pains raced up my spine and I agreed to a ride home. One of the women, a slim blonde who identified herself as Mary Margaret showed her Catholic upbringing by offering to accompany me so I wouldn’t be in a car alone with a man.

  “St. Stephen’s, White Plains,” she said as she climbed in the back seat with me. She smiled broadly. “Twelve years with the Augustinian nuns. I know the rules.”

  “Thank you, Mary Margaret.”

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  It was only ten minutes by car from where I’d been sprawled on the sidewalk, to St. Lucy’s Hall. I learned the driver of the car was Mark Dealy, a graduate student in business administration. With my new freedom as an uncensored letter writer, I decided to get his address so I could write him a thank you note.