by A W Hartoin
That last one had the only effect. She clouded over, but it didn’t change her mind and I ended up stomping through the apartment and into the hall, almost bowling over another nun.
“Oh, shit,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Never mind that.” Sister Frances loomed over me with a Starbucks cup in one hand and a rosary in the other. “What’s happening with Miriam?”
“Oh that. Nothing. She’s fine.”
Sister Frances’ eyelids went to half-mast and she merely watched patiently.
“Alright. Alright. She had a thing, but it’s fine.”
“Come with me.” Sister Frances turned around and walked briskly away. I briefly considered hightailing it out of there. I wasn’t Fats fast, but I figured I could beat the oldest nun in the order, even if she was a fast walker.
Then it dawned on me that Sister Frances was the oldest surviving nun there. She would’ve known Maggie. I chased after her and we went into her little apartment. The senior nuns had little efficiency apartments, simple but comfy with a small kitchen equipped with the basics. She went in the kitchen and pulled out a frying pan. “I’m just back from the hospital. Long night. Poor Mrs. Wilkes. God is testing her, but she pulled through.”
I had no idea who Mrs. Wilkes was, but I thought it best not to ask.
“Did you want to talk to me about something in particular?” I asked.
“Other than Miriam?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Yes,” she said.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Go sit with Clarence. I’ll make us a snack.” Sister Frances cracked an egg into the frying pan and I turned around to find Sister Clarence tucked away in a corner with a paperback on her lap and a smile on her round face. The last time I’d seen her, Clarence had been a novitiate, but it looked like she was a full-fledged sister now.
“Hi,” I said. “I didn’t see you there.”
“I try to be unobtrusive.”
“I wish Aunt Miriam felt that way.”
“Oh, no. Sister Miriam always knows the right thing to do. I don’t, so I stay quiet.”
I sat down on the love seat next to her chair. “I wish I understood why you like her so much.”
Sister Clarence put her hand on her chest and her face flushed. “She’s so good to me and helps me with all my endeavors. You are so lucky to have her. I never had an aunt like that.”
Sister Frances glanced back at me. Sometimes a split second glance can say it all. Frances thought Clarence was nuts. For me, the jury was still out.
“So why are you here?” I asked. “Do you want to tell me something, too?”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Yes, I do, but it’s very delicate.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Sister Miriam is ill and she’s hiding it. We’re very concerned.”
“I know and I’m on it,” I said.
Relief flooded over Clarence. “Oh, thank goodness. Are you taking her to a psychiatrist?”
“A psychiatrist?” Not a terrible idea. “Why do you think she needs a psychiatrist?”
Clarence and Frances knew something was wrong with Aunt Miriam, but they’d landed on the wrong thing. It was Clarence’s job to clean Aunt Miriam’s apartment. No trouble, she assured me. And during her cleaning she discovered a pile of papers to do with the Kansas burial ground, including photos (some gruesome), interviews of the men they’d already arrested, and news clippings. There was quite a lot.
“So you think she’s crazy?”
“Not crazy,” said Sister Clarence, horrified. “Troubled. She isn’t sleeping and I think she may be taking drugs.”
“Drugs? Aunt Miriam?”
“A sleeping pill called Ambien is in her cabinet and a bunch of painkillers that weren’t prescribed to her.”
Sister Frances brought over a tray with our snack. Fried egg sandwiches with plenty of Miracle Whip and Swiss Miss Hot Cocoa. I better not let Aaron smell that on my breath. It wouldn’t be pretty. He considered himself to be my sole supplier of hot chocolate and I wasn’t about to ruin that.
We ate our sandwiches and I have to say they were perfect, drippy egg and crispy edges. Yum. That I’d mention to Aaron. I just wanted to see what he’d do with a simple fried egg sandwich. No doubt it would be phenomenal. And fattening. So maybe I shouldn’t.
“You don’t seem concerned,” said Sister Frances, dabbing at the edge of her mouth with a napkin.
“I’m not. I think I know why that’s all happening,” I said.
Sister Frances’ eyelids went half-mast again. “Enlighten us.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have done it, but I told them about Dr. Harrison. I needed backup and who better than women who could understand her. Except that they didn’t understand her. They’d both had pap smears and considered them just a normal part of life.
“Miriam,” said Sister Frances. “Good gracious. I’ve never known anyone so ridiculously private. Did you know that she used to go out of her way to buy her sanitary products where none of us could see her buying them? As if she isn’t supposed to be a real human.”
“She could’ve trusted me to help,” said Sister Clarence, tearfully.
“It’s not about trust. She’s embarrassed and in pain,” I said.
Sister Frances started to gather the plates. “Hold on a moment. That explains the pain pills and you helping her walk in. What about the sleeplessness?”
“Pain isn’t helpful for sleep.”
“And the serial killer burial ground?”
“I was getting to that,” I said.
Sister Frances sat back down and the nuns listened quietly. Well, Clarence got tearful again, but she was quiet about it. She didn’t know about Maggie and the murder hurt her sweet heart, but what hurt her more was Aunt Miriam’s pain.
“So Myrtle wants you to do it, so you’re doing it,” said Sister Frances with finality.
“But Sister Miriam doesn’t want her to,” said Sister Clarence. “What would Mother Superior say?”
“She won’t say anything. She’s at a conference in Maine. We will handle this and we’re already handling it.”
“We are?” I asked. “You just found out.”
“Not exactly,” said Sister Frances.
Uncle Morty told me about the traffic that kicked off after my visit with Father Bernard. He didn’t mention that Sister Frances was contacted. They were so worked up, Bishop Tyler paid her a visit and got her out of bed.
“Why you and not Miriam?” I asked.
She snorted. “They don’t know anything and I do mean not anything. That young man sat right where you are and asked why he’d never heard Maggie’s name before.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him the truth. Bishop Fowler had bigger fish to fry than catching a nun’s murderer. He wanted an easy answer and Father Dominic jumping off that bridge gave him one.”
“Do you think Dominic did it?” I asked.
The old nun got up and went to turn the kettle on for more Swiss Miss. Then she took off her veil and loosened the pins that held her white hair back from her face. Sister Clarence shifted anxiously in her chair, but I knew Sister Frances needed this ritual to give her time to think.
The kettle whistled and she made us more Swiss Miss. “I don’t know. I want to say no, but I can’t.”
“Really? Father Bernard didn’t think he did it. The Girls don’t.”
“He was a young man in love who wasn’t allowed to be in love. I’ve seen men beat the wives they love for fear of losing them. Love and destruction can go hand in hand.”
“Do you think they were going to run away together? Myrtle says yes.”
“I wasn’t that close to either of them, but I thought they might and that it would’ve been a mistake.”
“Why?”
“They were dedicated to the church and its teaching. To give it up would have tainted their love, particularly for Maggie. She was absolutely devoted to h
er work. She would’ve been adrift without it.”
“You think he killed her because she wouldn’t go with him?” asked Clarence.
“If he did it, that’s why. I can tell you that Miriam thought he did it.”
I gasped. I actually did and it surprised all of us.
“You didn’t know that?” asked Sister Frances.
“I told you she won’t say anything about it. She’s not going to identify that medal. Can you do it?”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t ever remember seeing it. The police came and searched her room after they found her body.”
“Who did? St. Louis didn’t take the case as far as I know.”
The St. Sebastian police chief came up with a deputy. With the consent of the Mother Superior, they searched Sister Maggie’s room. Sister Frances supervised and they didn’t take anything. They were looking for the medal because Miriam reported that she always wore it and it wasn’t on her body.
“Nothing? What about journals and things like that?” I asked.
“No.” Sister Frances paused for a moment and Clarence looked at me with worry.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I spoke to that police chief and I remember it like it was yesterday.” She swallowed hard. “I never told anyone what he said.”
So many things went through my head. Did he make it sound like it was Sister Maggie’s fault? What was she doing out there? She had one man. She might’ve had another. The awful things people say so it can’t happen to them or those they love.
“What did he say?” asked Sister Clarence. “Was it terrible? Did he talk about how she died?”
Sister Frances looked up. “No. That was the odd thing. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. He said she didn’t suffer and not to think about it anymore. He was very firm with me about that.”
“She was strangled,” I said. “That’s suffering.”
“I know. I thought it was very odd for him to say that.”
“Was that what bothered you?” I asked.
“No. Not that.” She took a sip. “First of all, he was drunk. I smelled it on him and he slurred. His deputy was embarrassed and kept trying to hurry him along.”
“I can’t believe it,” said Sister Clarence. “How could he do a good job? Maggie was counting on him. We were counting on him.”
“He couldn’t,” I said. If I told Dad, he’d lose his mind. Grandad, too. They had a thing about drunk cops, the stereotype. And on duty, forget about it. “What did he say to you? Was he rude?”
“No, not at all. A sad man, I thought. It was hard for him. But what he said, I think he meant it as a comfort. He said that Maggie’s murder was nothing to worry about. These things happen. It was a small time crime.”
“What does that mean?” asked Clarence. “She was murdered.”
These things happen? Since when?
“That’s unbelievable,” I said.
Sister Frances developed a tremor in her hands and Sister Clarence took her cup from her. I don’t think she noticed. “I can hear him saying it in my head. That slur and the sadness in his voice. Funny how some things stay with you. I can’t remember who told me my father had died in Korea or my favorite nephew in Vietnam, but I remember the policeman telling me that about Maggie and I can’t even say that I loved her. She was a casual friend, a sister, of course, but I didn’t care for her like Miriam or Dominic.”
“But you still couldn’t talk about what he said,” said Sister Clarence.
She shook her head. “I couldn’t. It was awful. It made Maggie small, like she was nothing. Murdering her was similar to poaching a deer or jaywalking.”
“Did he say anything else about crime in his area? Anything at all?” I asked.
That shook her out of her reminiscences. “No. Why would you ask that?”
“‘These things happen.’ Sounds to me like something was going on in St. Seb. Nobody minimizes murder, especially a nun’s murder. I think the chief had a problem and he didn’t have a clue what to do about it.”
Sister Frances frowned and took her cup back. Her hands were steady. Her eyes intense and unclouded. “You got that from ‘These things happen’?”
“It’s a weird thing to say and ‘small time crime’? Come on.”
“He…” Sister Clarence trailed off.
“Yes?” I asked.
“I teach kindergarten and I say things like that to the children when they’re upset.”
Sister Frances stiffened. “I was an adult.”
“Hold on,” I said. “I think she’s on to something. You say it to calm the kids down.”
“Yes. They often make mountains out of molehills as the saying goes,” said Sister Clarence.
“Maggie’s murder was hardly a molehill,” said Sister Frances.
I sat back with my Swiss Miss. “But he wanted it to be a molehill. What do you want to bet he’d said that before?”
“We do not bet, Mercy.” Sister Frances sounded stern, but there was a twinkle in her eyes.
“Oh, no,” I said. “I bet you do.”
The nuns laughed and the tension instantly lifted.
“Money,” said Sister Frances.
“You could bet something else,” said Sister Clarence.
“Do you think I’m wrong?” I asked. “That the chief never said that about other crimes before Maggie’s?”
“I don’t. I believe you.”
I had the feeling that Clarence would believe me if I said I was a virgin or hated dessert. “And you, Sister Frances?” I asked.
“I think you’re right, but let’s make it interesting anyway,” said Sister Frances.
Aunt Miriam had been known to call Sister Frances a wily old codger and I had the feeling that I was about to find out why.
“What do you have in mind?” I asked.
“I will bet you two that the St. Sebastian chief of police never said that before.”
“And?” Sister Clarence was suspicious. I wouldn’t have thought she had it in her.
“And,” said Sister Frances, “if I win, you two have to run the first two fish fries during Lent.”
“Lent? That’s forever away,” I said.
She smiled. “I won’t forget.”
“You know I hate fish.”
Sister Clarence grimaced. “You’re not the only one.”
“Is it a bet or not?”
Since I knew I was going to win, I thought what’s the harm. That’s a dangerous statement, if there ever was one. What’s the harm? A lot of bad has come from ‘what’s the harm.’ “Alright. You’re on. What do we get? And don’t say you’ll pray for us,” I said. “I know you pray for me already.”
“How do you know that?” asked Sister Frances. “I don’t pray for everyone I know.”
“Aunt Miriam’s your nemesis. You pray for me just to thwart her.”
The old nun got miffed. “As if I would wish bad things to happen to my sister.”
“Not bad things,” I said. “Me. I bother her.”
It took a second, but she broke down and smiled. “You do aggravate her and I have had to ask for forgiveness for enjoying it. She’s just so much fun to bother.”
“I understand completely.”
“I don’t,” said Sister Clarence. “Sister Miriam is the best person I know. She helps me every day. I love her.”
Sister Frances reached over and patted the younger sister’s knee. “You are a special case. Your heart is so pure Miriam would never think of whacking you with a cane.”
“Whacking me with a cane? She would never do anything like that.”
Sister Frances and I exchanged a look, but we stayed silent. No point in ruining Sister Clarence’s hero worship.
“So what do we get?” I asked. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that.”
“I will break it to Miriam when it becomes necessary to tell her that you’ve continued to work on the case,” she said.
“Done,” I said. “But what about Clarence? Tha
t’s not for her.”
“It is. Truly,” said Sister Clarence. “Sister Frances will know what to do. I couldn’t possibly tell her and she’ll be so upset with you that you can’t.”
“It’s a deal then. But somehow I think I’m going to lose rather than win.”
Sister Frances’ eyes twinkled again. “Could be. So it’s Miriam and fish fries.”
“I wish I knew what you were up to with these fish fries,” I said.
“Fish fries,” said Sister Clarence rather loudly and then she clamped a hand over her mouth embarrassed.
“What? You know? Do tell.”
“No. I just remembered. Sister Frances, you said the bishop had other fish to fry. What fish?”
Sister Frances frowned. She was a wily old codger. Hoped I’d forget. Well, I did, but thank goodness for Clarence.
“Sister Clarence, I’m liking you more every minute,” I said. “Spill it, Sister.”
The sister delayed by spilling her Swiss Miss, but Clarence and I would wait, all day, if necessary. “Oh, well. You’re going to be disappointed.”
“I’m used to it,” I said.
She wasn’t wrong. I was disappointed, but only with the lack of detail. But like Dad always said, you only need one thread to unravel the whole thing. Sister Frances gave me a thread and I was going to pull the hell out of it.
From the end of 1965 through the spring of 1966, something was happening in the diocese. There were meetings, not just meetings, panicked meetings. The Catholic church was not prone to panic, but the upper echelon was panicking to Sister Frances’ mind. Hastily called meetings with closed doors. The nuns were completely shut out, which was unusual. Apparently, our diocese was an open and inclusive one. The archbishop, at the time, prized dialog and ideas, but all that shut down during that period. The male side of the house stopped talking to the female side and it was evident in every parish. Sister Frances had the impression that there was a flurry of words going on and they were words deemed unfit for feminine ears.
“What was it?” asked Sister Clarence fearfully.
Sister Frances pursed her lips and said, “I don’t know. I never got a hint and then Maggie died. Nothing mattered for a long time after.”
“Did the meetings stop after she died?” I asked.