Killer in the Cloister: A Sister Francesca Mystery (Sister Francesca Mysteries) Page 9

  As the muscles in my arms tensed, my penitential chain tightened and a stab of pain from the spikes went through me. Good. Something to offer up, Mother Julia would have said. Sister Teresa had stepped to the front and faced the assembly, standing to the left of the television set. For once I would have chosen the evening news over a community meeting.

  Sister Teresa shook a box full of keys, causing them to jingle like the bell at Benediction. “Here they are,” she said. “Sister Felix, soon to be Mother Felix, we hope, has taken care of one of our main requests with great speed. Thank you, Sister.”

  Sister Veronique led a round of applause. She’d assumed the role of acolyte, her plump body spilling over the sides of a chair directly in front of Sister Teresa. Sister Ann William’s clap was nearly soundless, while I kept my hands folded on my lap and turned slightly to get a measure of the response of others. I was looking for allies, should the need arise, and located several potential supporters.

  “Of course, this means an end to the curfew also,” Sister Teresa said. “We’re all adults and we can make our own decisions about what time to come home. Any comments or questions?”

  I had a few. What was this about “adults?” I wanted to ask. Had they forgotten Our Lord’s admonition in Matthew’s Gospel? Unless you become as little children, you shall not enter the Kingdom of Heaven. That was the idea behind our vow of obedience. To become childlike and, therefore, closer to God. I considered commenting on the breakdown of discipline that personal keys represented, but decided to wait and fight a bigger battle.

  One came soon enough.

  “Number two. Changes in the liturgy.” Sister Teresa’s announcement was accompanied by a deep sigh, as if she’d been waiting for centuries to get her hands on the way Mass was celebrated. “We’ll no longer need those little boys from St. Mark’s Prep. Father Malbert is happy to work with us so we can be his servers. Altar Sisters, you might say.”

  Another round of applause, as Sister Teresa made a show of folding her hands, prayer-style, in front of her chest, and nodding, imitating the movements of altar boys in parish churches everywhere.

  “What about receiving the wine—drinking the Blood of Christ?” a Sister in the row behind me asked. “I hear they’re doing it at Marymount.”

  Sister Teresa nodded. “We’ve talked about everybody drinking from the chalice, and a few other things, like taking the host in our hands. Father Malbert is planning to introduce one thing at a time, with homilies to explain each change.”

  How considerate, I thought. My head was pounding from the strain of keeping my opinions to myself. I weighed the idea of bolting from the room in protest. Instead, I raised my hand and Sister Teresa acknowledged me.

  “Sister Francesca?”

  “I just want to mention that the Mary Chapel on the north side of campus offers a Latin mass every morning at eight, and an extra one at ten on Sundays. In case anyone’s interested.” I heard my voice quiver at the end, and I dared not glance at anyone, lest they read uncertainty in my face.

  Sister Teresa looked surprised, but recovered quickly. “Uh, thank you Sister. Did everyone hear that?”

  She repeated my information in a neutral tone, with no sign of mockery or displeasure, making it difficult for me to justify an angry exit. I wasn’t sure how to deal with such courteous, rational opposition. For the moment, I decided to stay put.

  The remaining topics were matters of housekeeping. A small refrigerator for drinks and snacks would be placed on each floor. Guests would be welcome at dinner, as long as we gave reasonable notice to the kitchen staff. Sister Felix was looking into having more phone lines brought into the house. And Jake Driscoll, our favorite guest, had made arrangements for the Sisters to have private time at a local gym to make up for the loss of our yard.

  None of the changes was earthshaking, but each one represented a departure from normal convent rules, and that saddened me. Our vows of obedience seemed useless. I seemed to have given up my family and my own dear friends only to become buddies with the rest of the world.

  “That’s it for now,” Sister Teresa said. “But watch this spot, as they say. Sister Veronique and I will continue to work with Sister Felix and Father Malbert. We’ll be reporting to you regularly via the new bulletin board in the laundry room, and we’ll have another meeting next month. Now let’s have tea and cookies.”

  “The last time I’d heard a speech like that, the person was running for office,” I said to Sister Ann William.

  “Me, too, Sister. Shall we leave now?”

  “Definitely. They’ll never miss us.”

  Our exit was masked by the general hubbub of the room—metal chairs being folded, excited babble about the cookies and the effort to improve the quality of life at St. Lucy’s Hall.

  Sister Ann William and I walked up the stairs and into our rooms in silence, our hands buried in our sleeves, as if we were clinging to at least one of the customs that had been breached in the past few days.

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  Alone in my room, I tried to devise a strategy for dealing with my new situation. If I did nothing, Sister Teresa and her followers would take over the management of St. Lucy’s Hall, and our lives would be practically indistinguishable from that of any other female graduate student.

  To make matters worse, the only two priests I’d met—our chaplain, Father David Malbert, and my liturgy professor, Father Leo Glanz—didn’t inspire confidence as counselors. Vatican Council II was not yet over, and already both priests had bandied about the directives as if Pope John XXIII had given us free reign to reinterpret the constitutions of the Roman Catholic Church. Open the windows of the Church to let in a new spirit, the bishops had said, but I was certain they hadn’t meant to tear down the walls at the same time.

  A few minutes after I took out my bedtime prayer book, ready to give up thinking for the night, the message bell sounded. Two rings, a pause, five rings. My signal. Another late night visit? I put on my robe, bonnet and veil, and walked down the hall to the intercom.

  “Telephone call for you, Sister Francesca,” Sister Felix said. I wondered why she sounded cheery so late in the evening. I also wondered who could be calling me at nine-thirty.

  I picked up the telephone next to the intercom grille, hoping there was no emergency in Potterstown. I thought of my brother Timothy in a bus crash on his way home, my father with another heart attack, one of my sisters the victim of a tragic accident.

  A call from Mother Julia from the Motherhouse was not on my list.

  “Good evening, Sister Francesca.” Mother Julia’s voice sounded anything but cheery. My stomach spun around, the taste of berries and whipped cream turning sour in my mouth.

  “Good evening, Mother Julia.”

  “I’m concerned about a report I’ve had on your first few days away, Sister.”

  Mother Julia was not one to beat around the bush. “Please may I ask what it’s about, Mother?”

  “Sister Felix tells me you’ve not shown the spirit of cooperation and obedience I would expect of you, Sister Francesca.” Mother Julia paused. If she was waiting for me to comment, she was disappointed. My mouth was dry and my mind reeling. She continued. “And I’ve learned of other deviations as well.”

  I was glad Mother Julia couldn’t see my widening eyes and tense muscles. It was out of the question for me to defend myself—a breach of the vow of obedience to do anything but accept blame, just or unjust. In fact, we’d been taught that accepting an unfair accusation without question earned us far more merit in the eyes of God.

  “Please pardon me, Mother Julia.” Although I spoke softly, my voice seemed to echo through the empty, otherwise silent hallway. I envisioned a Sister in a white broadcloth nightgown behind each door, eavesdropping, hearing my humiliation.

  “I’m sending Sister Magdalene to s
ee you, Sister. She’ll be taking an early bus in the morning. Do you have class tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Mother Julia. I have Modern Philosophy at ten. I’ll be back at St. Lucy’s by eleven-thirty.”

  “I’ll have Sister Magdalene go directly to St. Lucy’s. Expect her around noon. Perhaps you could arrange for her to have lunch in the refectory.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “You’ve been such an exemplary religious thus far, Sister Francesca. I hesitate to bring you home until I learn more about the circumstances. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mother. Thank you, Mother.”

  I hung up the phone, my heart beating rapidly, my stomach unsettled. I went over Mother Julia’s words in my head as if they were scriptural text and I’d been asked to write a treatise on the passage. I was frustrated by a list of questions I wasn’t allowed to ask. I knew I’d shown unwillingness to embrace the St. Lucy’s Hall community, but I was sure Mother Julia would take my side if she knew what I was being asked to do.

  To my dismay, I could think of many instances of deviant behavior for an SMI in any circumstances—committing myself to further involvement with my brother’s life, having company in my room, not honoring the Great Silence, even snooping in Mother Ignatius’ office.

  And I thought it ironic that Mother Julia probably hadn’t learned about my worst violation—strong feelings of friendship and affection for Sister Ann William and Aidan Connors.

  I recited each prayer in my bedtime book three times before I fell asleep. The picture in my mind as I dozed off was of old Sister Magdalene, her teeth cracked and yellow, bent over in a St. Lucy’s parlor chair, shaking a crooked finger at me.

  CHAPTER 13

  At mass the next morning, I was struck by how well the Second Reading, from the Letter of Saint James, suited me. If I didn’t know liturgical readings were fixed by the Church calendar, I’d have been sure Father Malbert had chosen the passage with me in mine.

  For every kind of beast and of bird and of serpent is tamed, but the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison.

  I was so busy resolving to curb my own tongue, I didn’t notice Jake Driscoll until I turned to pick up my hymnal. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him sitting in one of the back pews. If he can eat with us, I guess he can pray with us, I thought, hoping his privileges wouldn’t be extended to the upper floors before I graduated.

  Sister Veronique served mass for Father Malbert, bobbing up and down the steps in the sanctuary, unlike any altar boy I’d ever seen. I was afraid she was going to trip over her long white habit in her enthusiasm as a ground-breaker—the first Sister to assist a priest during a formal liturgical service, at least in my experience. I left the chapel immediately after the blessing, although most Sisters went into the sacristy, presumably to congratulate Sister Veronique.

  My head down, my thoughts in another century, I walked right into Jake Driscoll.

  “Good morning, Sister Francesca. I hoped I’d bump into you.”

  He laughed at his pun, and I joined him before I could stop myself. Was there no end to the man’s corny jokes?

  “Good morning, Mr. Driscoll.”

  “If you have a minute, Sister, I’d like a word with you.”

  “Certainly,” I said, wondering if he’d planned to give me another lecture on Church finance.

  He followed me into the small parlor and sat opposite me. “I think I can be of some assistance to your brother.”

  I stifled a gasp and folded my arms across my chest as if to protect my privacy, and my family. “Timothy?” I asked him, in a voice made weak by surprise.

  He nodded. “Yes, I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds, Sister, but I had a call from Steve Rooney, and I told him—”

  “From whom?”

  “Steve Rooney. Your brother’s parole officer. From the Review Board upstate.” Mr. Driscoll sounded as though he were prompting a second grader who didn’t know the name of the saint whose feast day it was.

  I leaned against the door jamb and felt like I’d swallowed loudly enough for the whole house to hear. How could Jake Driscoll know the name of Timothy’s parole officer when I didn’t even know it?

  To his credit, if he noticed my discomfort and display of ignorance, he didn’t let on.

  “Steve’s a friend of mine from years ago. I guess when he approved your brother’s plans for relocating down here for a while, he thought of me. He asked if I might be able to help out. It turns out, I can use a strong young man like Tim right now. Most of our summer crew has already gone back to school.”

  I was still too stunned to respond, so he continued.

  “Nothing too exciting, but good, honest, construction work can sometimes be therapeutic for a guy.”

  Honest, indeed. Now what? I asked myself. What was that line about agreements with the devil? I considered this new option—getting my family involved with a manipulative real estate developer who was still on my list of murder suspects. And here was one more thing to explain to Sister Magdalene, at this moment on her way to the Bronx and a judgment of me.

  “I think we can handle Timothy’s employment without—”

  “Sister, I’m not asking your permission.” Jake Driscoll smiled, but his voice was emphatic. “I just thought I’d let you know.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Driscoll. That’s very kind of you,” I said, and rushed up the stairs to my room.

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  I had time to spare before class, having decided to skip breakfast—I couldn’t bear the idea of rehashing Sister Veronique’s performance as stand-in for a real altar boy. My stomach growled and I turned my ear to the door, selfishly hoping for another room service visit from Sister Ann William.

  I opened my Modern Philosophy text, an anthology of Alfred North Whitehead, and read the description on the back cover. Another twentieth century non-Catholic, I noted, frowning at phrases like ‘God is in flux’ and ‘the relevance of God to the evolving world.’

  I let out a heavy sigh and looked out the window. Longing for an image of stability, I focused on the powerful old oaks and the weathered multi-story tenements lining the streets of the Bronx. I thought of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the stately monument to the glory of God, only a subway ride away on Fifth Avenue, with spires that reached toward heaven and the red hats of deceased Cardinals floating above its massive altar.

  As my eyes drifted to the garden two stories below me, a more worldly sight came into view—Sister Teresa and Father Malbert sitting on a bench, their heads bent low, almost touching. Was this an outdoor confession? I wondered. I wouldn’t have been surprised if neither of the pair saw the need for a purple stole or the formal atmosphere of an authorized confessional. Sister Teresa was without her veil, her fine brown hair an easy mark for the slightest breeze.

  Much as I knew I should look away, I was fascinated by their gestures. Father Malbert waving his hands, then putting them together as if in prayer. Saying please? Sister Teresa first shaking her head, then nodding. No, then yes?

  After a few minutes, they stood and embraced, certainly longer than they would have during the newly instituted Kiss of Peace at mass. Another perfect example of the slippery slope, I thought, as I watched Sister Teresa’s flirtatious walk away from Father Malbert. I stepped back from the window, feeling like the voyeur that I was.

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  Sister Ann William came through with a plate of toast and jam. I hoped she couldn’t tell what I’d been doing before her light knock. Discreet as she was, she never asked why I wasn’t at breakfast.

  “I don’t have class until two o’clock this afternoon,” she told me. “So I won’t be going with you this morning. If you’re still around campus about three, maybe we can walk back together?”

  I shook my head. “I have a visitor coming from m
y Motherhouse. I’m to meet her here at eleven-thirty, right after my class.”

  Sister Ann William raised her eyebrows, the only way I could tell she was surprised. “Is something wrong?”

  I had an urge to confide in her, to help relieve the tension of Sister Magdalene’s visit. I swallowed the impulse.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I said, as if it were perfectly normal to have a visit from my Motherhouse less than a week into my assignment.

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  On the way to campus, I prepared myself for the interview with Sister Magdalene. I remembered she’d celebrated her golden jubilee the year before—fifty years as an SMI. I wondered what she’d think of my comfortable room at St. Lucy’s. Besides my own sink and desk, I had a door that closed and locked, instead of the thin curtain that separated the tiny cells at the Motherhouse. I had no chores, and decided on my own when to pray, when to study, what to eat.

  Would that alone be enough for Sister Magdalene to recommend my removal from graduate studies? I hoped not. I wondered if I should tell her how liberal I found most of my new community. Or my suspicions regarding Mother Ignatius’ death. Each step on the way to St. Alban’s seemed to bring a new question, and no answers.

  In spite of the crystal-clear fall day, I felt a cloud over my head all along Southern Boulevard.

  I was distracted also by Jake Driscoll’s job offer and what motivated his interest in Timothy. I tossed about theories that he was generous on the one hand, and wanting to control my family on the other. A caring, Catholic gentleman? Or a conniving murderer trying to buy my loyalty?

  I told myself a man wouldn’t commit murder and then talk about being the instrument of God’s will, as he had called himself at dinner. However, it didn’t take long for me to remember stories of the Crusades and the Spanish Inquisition—killing in the name of God was not a new concept. From the philosophy he expounded, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Jake Driscoll thought he was doing the Roman Catholic Church a favor by eliminating a fiscal innocent like Mother Ignatius. For the time being, I’d keep him on my list of suspects.