Killer in the Cloister: A Sister Francesca Mystery (Sister Francesca Mysteries) Page 22

  I shivered. Anyone could have pretended to be calling from the chairman’s office. Or did I now have to add Father O’Neill to my list of suspects?

  I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders, but no amount of wool serge could keep the chill from my body and soul.

  CHAPTER 31

  I’d waited around long enough. If no one would help, I’d have to take care of things myself. I climbed the stairs to the third floor, peeked once more into Sister Ann William’s room, then went to the phone.

  “NYPD, Bronx,” a gruff male voice answered.

  Having had a little practice interviewing Mother Consiliatrix in New Mexico, I was prepared for this call. I introduced myself and, with relative calm, told the officer of my concern.

  “How long did you say she was missing?” he asked. I was disappointed he didn’t address me by my title, as a Catholic would have. I’d been hoping for special treatment, of the sort Grace, the pharmacy clerk, had given Sister Ann William. Of course it was the special treatment that might have gotten her in trouble, I reminded myself.

  “She was due home at three. It’s now nearly eight and there’s no sign of her.”

  He grunted. “Five hours? It has to be at least forty-eight for an adult before we can do anything.”

  “Two whole days? She has to be missing two whole days before you’ll look for her?”

  My calmness had gone the way of my rules and customs. I walked up and down in front of the telephone base, as far as the cord would allow.

  “I’m afraid so,” he said.

  “Don’t you even want her description? In case . . . “ I gulped. “In case she’s found at a hospital?”

  I heard a heavy sigh, the sound of a man resigned to doing something he thought useless. “Sure, ma’am, why don’t you tell us what she was wearing.”

  Ma’am. Definitely not Catholic. Not even a lapsed one. He was humoring me, but he was all I had.

  “Her habit is a bright blue, with white trim. Her veil is blue also. She’s about my height—uh, she’s about five feet eight and thin.”

  “Glasses?”

  “No.”

  “Give me your name again, and if we hear anything we’ll call you.”

  My turn for a heavy sigh. I recited the information and hung up the phone.

  As I passed Sister Ann William’s door, I knocked half-heartedly. I knew she wasn’t in, but it gave me a feeling of connectedness to her, as if I were tapping my friend’s shoulder, reassuring her I hadn’t forgotten her.

  <><><>

  Kneeling in the front row of St. Lucy’s chapel, I focused on the statue of Our Lady. I breathed in the sweet waxy smell from the candles and asked myself how I’d managed to stray so far, so quickly, from the folds of her mantle. I said one rosary, then another, with a plea that Sister Ann William would be all right. I wasn’t sure whether a promise never to speak to her again might work in my favor. I was prepared to offer anything.

  The chapel was dark except for the row of votive lights to the side of the altar and the sanctuary candle in its ornate gold casing by the Repository. I heard a noise and glanced toward the side door.

  Father Malbert.

  Here for a nighttime visit? I didn’t think he was the type. It was hard to look at him without thinking of his affair with Teresa Barnes. The red flicker from the stubby votive candles cast shadows on his face, giving our chaplain the look of the devil himself.

  “Sister Francesca, I thought you might be here. Sister Felix tells me you’re worried about Sister Ann William.” I raised my eyebrows in surprise. Sister Felix certainly hadn’t given me any indication she’d cared. Father Malbert leaned closer to me, apparently close enough to see tense facial muscles and a deep frown. “Are you upset?”

  Tears spilled over onto my cheeks, in spite of my best attempts to keep my emotions in check. Perhaps because someone finally seemed to care. I told him Sister Ann William’s plans for coming home, and how positive I was she was in harm’s way.

  “And the police won’t do anything for two days. She could be . . .”

  Father Malbert put his hand on my shoulder. I shrank back. A reflex I regretted. He was, after all, showing concern for my plight.

  “Let’s see what we can do about that,” he said, removing his hand. “I have a few friends at the precinct.”

  A surge of hope. “You know a policeman?”

  He smiled and nodded. “Come back to my office and we’ll make some calls.”

  I followed Father Malbert past the altar rail, through the sacristy to a small room with a desk and two chairs. I’d never been to this part of the first floor. His counseling area, I guessed, since there were no papers or office supplies in sight.

  He motioned me to a soft chair while he took his place behind his desk. I stared up at the crucifix while he dialed.

  “Is Charlie Ahern there?”

  He seemed to know the number by heart and I wondered how often he had occasion to call in favors from the police department. I hoped Charlie Ahern wasn’t the gruff officer who’d taken my call.

  “Charlie, Father Dave here. How’s it going?”

  I listened as Father Malbert gave Officer Ahern a summary of the day’s events.

  “She would have been walking from St. Alban’s campus to St. Lucy’s. So somewhere along Southern Boulevard . . .” He cupped his hand over the telephone. “Is that the route you usually take, Sister?”

  I nodded.

  Father Malbert made some notes on the pages of his desk calendar. He hung up the phone and addressed me.

  “OK. He gave me some contacts in the hospitals and emergency rooms in the area. Charlie always gives me the code to identify myself. It changes every week or so.”

  A wave of relief flooded over me, until I realized I might be close to having my worst fears confirmed. I preferred the other possibility—that I’d feel completely foolish learning Sister Ann William was not in a hospital ward. In fact, she’d just slipped into the chapel for a visit after having caught a movie on campus with some classmates.

  Father Malbert made several calls, each time giving the code—42 Pelham. I found it frustrating hearing only one side of the conversations.

  “A young woman in a nun’s habit.” Pause. “Yes, blue and white.” Pause. “Any time between about three o’clock and now. “ Pause. “Thanks, anyway.”

  And then finally, on the third call, the moment I’d both hoped for and dreaded.

  “You do?” Pause. “Hmm. No clothing?” He tapped his pencil on the desk. I sat up straighter and fingered my rosary, matching his rhythm. “How old? Uh-huh. On the thin side, fair skin.” Pause.

  Father Malbert’s face took on a somber look as he hung up the phone.

  “St. Anselmo’s Hospital on the Parkway. It might not be Sister Ann William. I’m going over to check. You stay here.”

  Father Malbert sounded excited and ready to take charge. I started to shake my head, but his confident and kind manner persuaded me to do as he said.

  “I’ll take Sister Felix with me. Stay by my phone and I’ll call you at this number as soon as we know anything, either way.”

  Father Malbert put his hand on my shoulder. I didn’t flinch. “Try to relax,” he said, his voice gentle. “Promise?”

  I nodded. I wasn’t sure I could stand up anyway. My heart had fallen to my feet, my sturdy black shoes seeming to collapse under the burden.

  CHAPTER 32

  I waited an eternity in Father Malbert’s office. To distract myself, I studied the few items on his bookshelves. Extra copies of the new hymnals I’d seen in the Xavier Hall chapel. A row of bibles of different sizes. A photo of himself with a group of Sisters from St. Lucy’s, taken on the grounds that now belonged to Jake Driscoll. The sight of Mother Ignatius in the front row saddene
d me further. The ex-Sister Teresa stood next to Father Malbert. I wondered if they’d been dating at the time, and who knew about it.

  Another frame held a photo of Father Malbert’s sister, Pamela Edson with a man I assumed to be her husband, in front of the partially-built student union building. Edson & Sons. The contractor. Father Malbert’s brother-in-law was the contractor for all the new campus buildings. After my preoccupation with real estate signs, how could I have missed the connection?

  Interesting.

  I’d started down new lines of thinking when the phone rang. I jumped, as if I’d been caught snooping again. I hesitated to answer, but remembered Father Malbert’s instruction and picked up the phone. Sister Felix was on the line, calling from St. Anselmo’s Hospital. I heard none of her introductory remarks, only the summary at the end.

  “. . . and the doctors say she’s in a coma.”

  I wasn’t sure anyone but me could hear my moan, which seemed to go on forever.

  “I am so sorry, Sister Francesca. I don’t know what to say, except please try to stay calm. Father Malbert and I will be home shortly. There’s nothing anyone can do here right now.”

  In the background I could hear hospital noises—pages, bells, unintelligible conversation bouncing off bare walls. I thought of Fishkill General, where my father died a few days before, and imagined my family in just such a waiting area.

  What of Sister Ann William’s family? “Her community in Texas . . . “ I said to Sister Felix.

  “I’ll take care of it when I get there, Sister. For now, try to rest. When she wakes up, Sister Ann William will need you. You must stay strong for her.”

  I had a flash of hope. Sister Felix assumed Sister Ann William would be waking up. I started to think rationally, wanting information. What exactly was a coma? Did people recover from them? Did St. Anselmo’s have a competent staff? If only I had her Uncle Jeb’s number in Texas, so I could ask him all my questions.

  I wished I could wind back the clock and relive my entire life in the Bronx.

  I went out through the sacristy to the chapel and knelt in the front pew until Father Malbert woke me up some time later.

  “Sister Francesca, this can’t be good for you.”

  I shook my head. My neck hurt from the unnatural sleeping position. Since I could barely straighten my knees, I slid back onto the pew without unfolding my legs.

  Father Malbert sat down next to me. He described Sister Ann William’s condition as best he could—she’d been found naked, badly beaten, in some bushes on the Botanical Gardens side of Southern Boulevard.

  I shuddered at the image. But at the same time my brain processed an inconsistency. “That’s not the side we usually walked on. We never cross the street until we pass Webster.” As if a week of walking to and from class together established an iron-clad habit. In my mind, it did.

  “Whoever it was must have lured her over there,” Father Malbert said. Probably because it’s easier to hide someone in the shrubbery on that side.”

  “It’s all my fault,” I told him.

  “Now, how can you blame yourself, Sister?”

  “I led Sister Ann William into foolish behavior.” I started recounting instances of my bad influence, my breath labored. I realized I might as well seek absolution at the same time.

  “Father, I’d like you to hear my confession.”

  “Certainly, Sister.” He went to the sacristy and returned wearing his purple stole. I was glad to see he wore the official narrow mantle, and not some updated multi-colored version.

  Once in the booth, my breathing returned to normal. I was comforted knowing my soul would receive the grace of God through the sacrament, even if couldn’t think clearly, and even if I had little respect for a Confessor of questionable morals, including fathering an illegitimate child. He had, after all, located Sister Ann William for me.

  Father Malbert was so sympathetic, I was afraid I was going to have to assign my own penance once more.

  “It’s not your fault. It’s the mugger’s fault,” he told me. He laughed—a low, throaty sound to signal irony. “Times have certainly changed when someone would attack and rob a nun. Only a lowlife. I’ll bet he was disappointed to get a mere few coins and a Saint William medal.”

  I nodded, though I knew he couldn’t see me clearly. I’d also wondered what attraction a nun would have for a robber. And why Sister Ann William would follow a lowlife across the street.

  The Saint William medal.

  The light flooded my brain with the intensity of a cathedral full of Christmas candles. Who knew Sister Ann William had been carrying the medal she’d bought for her brother? Only me. And her attacker. She’d just picked it up at the campus store.

  Within seconds, all the other clues fell into place.

  D for Dave. And Dean. I remember Father O’Neill’s comment about the dean’s office not being for sale, or something like that. Mother Consiliatrix’s words also came back to me—manipulating the administration for personal gain. I was certain Father Malbert got the position under false pretenses, though I didn’t know the details.

  E for Edson, Father Malbert’s brother-in-law. I’d started to put it together when I saw the photo of the Edsons in Father Malbert’s office. Mother Ignatius had written that the shady real estate deal was for campus buildings. Driscoll & Sons’ buildings were off campus. Father Malbert probably finagled the contract bidding to favor his sister’s husband. How could I have missed that possibility?

  And F for father, his child with Teresa Barnes.

  All the code letters Mother Ignatius used with Mother Consiliatrix were about the same person. Father Malbert was D, E, and F.

  Sister Ann William’s report on Father Malbert’s eulogy at Mother Ignatius’ wake came back to my mind, its significance now clear. He’d said she was in white, head to toe—he must have seen her in her slippers.

  All of this came to me in seconds, together with gasps I tried to stifle.

  “Sister Francesca?”

  I jumped, hitting my fist on the small counter at the bottom of the grille between us. “I’m fine, thank you, Father. I’d like to make my Act of Contrition now.”

  My voice trembled and I worried that I’d alerted him to my new awareness—our chaplain was a fraud, a father, and a murderer. I said my Act of Contraction so rapidly, the opening Oh, My God . . . became one syllable with the ending . . . and amend my life. Amen.

  I pulled the heavy curtain aside without waiting for the blessing.

  A mistake.

  I heard a low moan from Father Malbert. Apparently that gesture was the last thing Father Malbert needed to assure himself he’d slipped up.

  He opened his door in the center of the booth and stood facing me in the aisle. His stylish brown hair seemed messier than when he entered and I couldn’t imagine how it got that way. His dark eyes were different—staring, without the gentleness I thought I’d seen while he was helping me find Sister Ann William. I realized what I’d mistook for sympathy was relief as he thought he’d gotten away with murder.

  “Sister Francesca, what are we going to do now?” His voice seemed higher pitched than usual, as if a deranged demon had taken over his body. I wanted to scream out for an exorcist, but I couldn’t catch my breath enough to make anything but the tiniest of sounds.

  He moved toward me. “You and your little friend couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

  As Father Malbert talked, he stared over my shoulder at the altar, as if into the future. As if I wasn’t part of the future he envisioned.

  I turned and ran toward the front of the chapel, to the hallway door. But, unencumbered by skirts or a heavy rosary, he was faster than I was.

  He caught up with me halfway down the aisle and grabbed me around my waist. He landed on top of me. My bonn
et fell off, leaving my carrot-red stubble wrapped only in the narrow white band pinned at the back of my head. I struggled to get from under him, but I couldn’t muster the strength. My limbs were weak as the palm fronds that greeted Our Lord before his crucifixion.

  What time was it? I wondered vaguely if it were close to dawn and Sisters would be pouring into the chapel for mass. I knew I’d been screaming, not because I heard myself, but because my throat was hoarse. Where was everyone? I’d lost track of the day, the time, the place. I felt every nerve in my body at the edge of my skin.

  Father Malbert hadn’t stopped talking since he left the confessional. I tried to listen, in case what he said was important in my struggle for my life. I was horrified by his words.

  “She was old. She’d be dying soon. I figured a few months quicker wouldn’t do any harm.”

  “You’re a priest. How could you think that way?”

  Not smart, I told myself. For once, don’t argue.

  “She wouldn’t give up. All she had to do was wait until I’d been appointed. A matter of days. Then nothing would have mattered. But once she found out, she was determined . . . never mind. It’s over.”

  What’s over? My life, too? In a burst of energy brought on by fear, I freed one arm and reached into a pew near me. My fingers landed on a missal tucked into a rack near the floor. I picked it up and swung back as far as I could, smashing the hard cover into his eyes. The first time I’d ever picked up a holy book without kissing it. The first time I’d ever deliberately struck someone to hurt him. I made the sign of the cross mentally to take the curse off my action.

  He screamed and let go of me, covering his eye. No blood that I could see, so I thought I didn’t have much time. I gathered up the skirts of my habit and ran.

  He overtook me again.

  “You’re so light, Francesca. Just like Mother Ignatius. Some mornings it’s harder to lift the chalice above my head than it was to get her onto that bed.”