“Why must we race to the hotel now?” Sister Carmen broke the heavy silence. “It’s not even noon.”
“I’d asked Mo to arrive early to help us greet our guests.” Sister Lou’s watch now read eleven seventeen. “He promised to be here by eleven.”
“So he’s late.”
“Mo’s never late. In fact, he’s always early.” She felt a squirt of anxiety.
“Then maybe he forgot to be early.” Sister Carmen checked her rear and side mirrors before signaling to switch lanes. “So he’s late for the reception. At least he’ll be on time for his presentation.”
“Mo wouldn’t forget the reception. And he would’ve called if he was running late.” Sister Lou’s agitation dipped toward unease.
He wouldn’t forget. Then what was wrong?
“Did you try calling him?” Sister Carmen turned onto Town Street.
“Yes. Four times.” She’d left two messages and a text on his cell. She’d even called the hotel’s front desk to leave a message on his room phone.
“Maybe he’s having car trouble.”
“Then he should’ve called.” Her irritation returned, accompanied by a burgeoning fear. This wasn’t like Mo. “He’d better have a good explanation for this.”
The hotel came into view. Sister Lou drew a breath in an attempt to cool her growing temper and quiet her increasing discomfort. The effort failed.
Sister Carmen pulled into the hotel’s driveway and stopped in front of its entrance. “I’m going back to help with the rest of the preparations. Tell Maurice I’m looking forward to his presentation.”
“Thanks, Carm. Hopefully, Mo and I will see you soon.” Sister Lou unfastened her seatbelt. She climbed from the car and marched into the hotel.
Sister Lou paused in the lobby. A careful survey showed her that Maurice wasn’t nearby. Her disappointment stung. She was going to give him a piece of her mind—provided he was OK. She crossed to the bank of elevators on the other side of the lobby. Maurice’s room was on the eighth floor. The few people who joined her in the elevator disembarked on earlier stops. She was alone when the doors opened at her destination.
She stepped off the elevator and looked around. This was where the hotel showed its age. The hallway was dim and musty with faded, striped wallpaper, and worn ivory-and-orange carpeting. Creepy. A sign mounted to the wall told Sister Lou that Maurice’s room was to the right. The handful of guests and the maid in the shadowy hallway kept her from fearing she’d wandered into an extra-special episode of The Twilight Zone.
Her footsteps slowed as she approached her destination. The moment of truth. She took a deep breath and knocked on Maurice’s door. She waited perhaps ten seconds, then knocked again. And again.
“Mo? It’s me, Lou. Let me in.” Sister Lou stepped closer to the door, straining to hear movement—anything—behind it. But she couldn’t hear above the pounding of her pulse.
Where is he?
Her annoyance crumbled, leaving only apprehension, which threatened to spiral out of control. She knocked a fourth time, even harder. “Mo? It’s Lou.” Still no response.
She stepped back from Maurice’s door. He hadn’t shown up at the motherhouse. He hadn’t returned her messages, and now he wasn’t answering his door. Her panic escalated. She had to get into his room. Now.
But how?
She looked up and down the hallway. The maid assigned to the floor was three doors away. Sister Lou hurried toward her.
“Excuse me. I’m Sister Lou LaSalle. I’m from the Congregation of the Sisters of Saint Hermione of Ephesus.” She gestured toward Maurice’s room. “My friend is staying here, but I haven’t been able to reach him. Could you possibly let me into his room?”
The tall, curvy blonde’s tired brown eyes widened. Her voice was thin with scandal and thick with the notes of a New England transplant. “Sister, I can’t let you into a guest’s room.”
Sister Lou tamped down her frustration and fear. “I just want to check on my friend’s safety. I assure you, I’m not going to steal anything. You can watch me.”
“I dunno, Sister.” The maid’s words slowed with lingering doubt. Her eyes dashed toward Maurice’s room and back.
“Please. I can’t reach him. I’ve left four messages. He hasn’t returned any of them. This isn’t like him. I’m very worried.” I’m frightened almost out of my mind.
The maid hesitated a moment longer. “All right, Sister. But we’ve gotta be quick. And don’t go tellin’ my boss.”
“No, of course not.” Shaking with relief, Sister Lou followed the woman back to Maurice’s room. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
The maid knocked warily on Maurice’s door. “Housekeepin’.” She repeated herself, then waited a beat before unlocking the room.
The housekeeper entered with caution. She took one hesitant step, then another, and then froze. A scream seemed to rise from her abdomen and burst from her lips. “No! Oh, no! No!” She turned, speeding past Sister Lou and into the hallway, screaming the entire time.
Sister Lou stepped forward, slowly. Her muscles were weighted with dread. Her body shook with ice-cold fear. Then she saw him, face down on the blood-stained carpet in front of the bed. She trapped her scream in her throat. Tears stung her eyes. She couldn’t breathe.
“Mo. Mo.” His name came without intent. Without thought. Without hope.
Sometimes I think my work will be the death of me. His words from last night whispered across her memory like a responsorial psalm.
Without realizing it, she’d pulled her cellular phone from her purse and hit the speed-dial button for Chris.
“Hi, Aunt Lou.” He sounded so far away.
“Chris.” Her voice caught in a hiccup.
“Aunt Lou, what’s wrong?” Chris’s voice sharpened.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry to interrupt you. I just . . . I panicked.” She knew she was babbling but couldn’t stop. “Chris, I’m in Mo’s room. He’s dead. Someone killed him.”
“What’s the room number?”
“It’s . . .” Sister Lou struggled to focus. Shock and fear made it hard for her to think. She staggered into the hallway to find the number. “It’s eight thirty-two.”
“I’m on my way. Call the sheriff.”
She slid down the wall, landing on the threadbare carpet just outside the door. Her voice was a whisper. “Hurry.”
* * *
Chris strode down the dark, musty hotel hallway, propelled by worry for his aunt. His concern spiked when he saw a thin, stuffy-looking man of average height berating her. Chris broke into a jog, his worry morphing into anger as he caught the man’s fussy words.
“Madame, no one gave you the authority to act on behalf of this hotel.” His words led Chris to believe the man was the hotel’s manager. His receding brown hair was dark against his pale, pockmarked features.
“I wasn’t acting for the hotel. I called the sheriff’s office because my friend was murdered in one of your rooms.” The bite in Sister Lou’s voice contradicted the genteel image she projected in her pale pink blouse and beige skirt suit. Her cap of dark brown hair framed her youthful, golden brown face. Her low-heeled beige shoes didn’t supplement her short stature.
The man leaned forward, using his average height to loom over Chris’s petite aunt, and raised his voice. “You don’t know that it was murder. That’s just your assumption. You should have brought the matter to me.”
Chris saw red. “Get away from my aunt.”
Chapter 3
The words pushed past Chris’s clenched teeth before he realized he was going to say them. He stepped in front of his aunt, putting himself between her and the hotel’s bully.
“Who are you?” At six-feet-plus, Chris loomed over the smaller man without even trying.
The other man hopped back. “Who am I? Who are you?” His startled gaze looked Chris over from head to toe.
“I’m Chris LaSalle.” Chris sensed his aunt stepping forward to stand b
eside him.
“I’m the hotel manager, Alvin Lyle.” Alvin didn’t seem as aggressive now that he was confronted by someone bigger than him. His nasal voice became almost conciliatory. “I was just explaining to your aunt that we don’t need her meddling in hotel affairs.”
“Hotel affairs?” Chris raised his eyebrows. “Do you mean the murder of her friend who was a guest in your hotel?”
Alvin’s thin lips moved like a suffocating fish, gasping for breath. “We don’t know that it was a murder.”
“That’s why we’re here.” A woman’s voice interrupted them. Her tone was long-suffering.
Chris turned to find two uniformed sheriff’s deputies standing behind him.
“I’m Deputy Fran Cole.” The skinny, blonde woman gestured to the chubby, older man beside her. “This is my partner, Deputy Ted Tate.
His aunt offered her hand to Fran, who stood closest to her. “I’m Sister Lou LaSalle—”
“Sister?” Alvin hissed the title on a shocked breath. He probably feared that he was on his way to hell on an express train for trying to intimidate a member of the Church.
His aunt continued as though she hadn’t heard him. “I’m the one who called you. This is my nephew, Chris LaSalle.”
Deputy Fran Cole eyed the hotel employee. “And you are?”
Alvin straightened to his full, modest height. “Alvin Lyle. I manage the hotel. If there’s anything you need, deputies, all you have to do is ask.”
“We’ll need to speak with you before we leave, and we’ll need a place to speak privately with the sister and her nephew. That’s all we need right now. Thanks.” Deputy Ted Tate didn’t sound impressed.
Alvin regarded the deputies, seeming to take their measure. “I know the sheriff.”
Ted snorted. “So do we.”
The hotel manager bristled. “Fine. I’ll be in my office.” He glared at Sister Lou before stalking away.
“Don’t go too far, Al,” Ted called after him.
“Alvin!” The fussy little man barked his response.
Sister Lou watched the deputies pull latex gloves from their rear pockets and snap them over their hands.
Fran looked closely at Sister Lou. “The crime scene techs are on their way, but we’re going to look around a bit first. Will you be OK to wait here?”
“I’ll be fine.” Sister Lou took a deep breath, pressing her hand to her chest.
Fran and Ted seemed skeptical. Fran glanced toward Chris before entering Maurice’s room.
“I’m so sorry, Aunt Lou.” Chris hugged her. His voice was low.
Sister Lou held him tightly, desperate for his warmth and caring to chase away her grief. In her mind’s eye, she could picture what the deputies were seeing. The closet’s mirrored door stood open. Maurice’s clothes were arranged neatly inside. Did there seem to be too many of them for a weekend trip?
It was farther into the room that the deputies would find her friend’s body. They might have thought he was asleep on the floor if it wasn’t for the fact that someone had bashed in the back of his head. Repeatedly. There was so much blood. It had spattered onto the carpet and the hem of the bedsheets. Sister Lou shook, struggling against the bile that was gathering in the back of her throat.
Chris stepped back, still holding her. His dark eyes—so like her brother’s—studied her. “Do you need to find a restroom?”
Sister Lou inhaled deeply. “No, I’ll be fine.”
She closed her eyes, but she could still see Maurice’s room. It was tidy. Even the bed was made. His suitcase stood in a corner beside the closet. His briefcase was across the room beside the writing table and executive chair.
On the ground near the foot of the bed in front of the windows, Maurice lay, face down on the tan carpet as though he’d collapsed forward, unable to brace for his fall. His killer must have struck him as he stood with his back turned between the executive chair and the bed. Her friend would have had no idea the blow was coming.
His white long-sleeved shirt was untucked. His feet were bare under the hem of his black pants. His shaggy, graying hair was matted at the crown of his head as though someone had continued to bludgeon him even after the first blow had rendered him unconscious and dropped him to the floor.
Mo, who hated you so much?
* * *
“Why would someone kill Maurice?” Sister Lou gripped the bottle of water Chris had given her in both hands. The plastic container was cold and wet against her palms. It mimicked the chill inside her that made her muscles shake. Her eyes felt swollen and scratchy from the tears she’d shed as she’d waited with Chris for the deputies.
Crime scene technicians had taken over Maurice’s room. Sister Lou sat on the right side of the rectangular honey-wood table next to Chris in the small conference room Alvin had offered for the interview. The space picked up the ivory-and-orange color scheme from the hotel’s lobby.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Fran spoke from the seat across from her. “You said Doctor Jordan was a friend of yours.”
“Yes, we’ve been friends since graduate school.” Sister Lou used her damp tissue to dry a stray tear.
“We’re sorry for your loss.” Fran paused in the process of taking her interview notes.
“Thank you.”
“Was he a medical doctor?” Seated beside Fran, Ted moved the line of questioning along.
“No, he had a doctorate in theology.” Sister Lou absently toyed with the blue, gold, and white Hermionean cross was pinned on the right lapel of her beige suit jacket. “He taught at a small university in Buffalo.”
“What was he doing here?” Ted’s pen moved across his notebook as he documented her answers.
“He was the guest speaker for our congregation’s Saint Hermione of Ephesus Feast Day presentation.”
“When last had you seen him?” Fran asked.
“We had dinner last night.” The last time she would ever see her friend alive. The realization cut like a blade. Chris’s steady hand on her shoulder kept her emotions from taking over.
“How was he?” Ted’s question forced her to stay focused.
An image of Maurice during their dinner formed in her mind. Tears made her voice husky. “He seemed tired and maybe a little unsettled.”
“What d’you mean?” Fran’s voice was puzzled.
Sister Lou looked toward the door. It was closed. Was that the reason the room was suffocatingly stuffy? She took a deep drink of water from the bottle. “He wouldn’t tell me what was bothering him. But he did say something that worried me.”
“What?” Ted waited to take more notes.
“He said he thought his work would be the death of him.” Sister Lou shook her head. “Maybe I’m making too much of it.”
“What did he mean?” Fran flexed her small, pale hand before repositioning her pen.
Sister Lou sipped more water. She was suddenly so very tired. “He said it was just a figure of speech.”
“But you didn’t believe him.” Fran made it a statement rather than a question.
Sister Lou met Chris’s eyes. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. She returned her attention to the deputies. “I should have taken his words more seriously. I should have been a better friend.” I could have done something to protect him if only I’d been a better friend.
Chris leaned forward, cupping her forearm with his large hand. “Aunt Lou, this wasn’t your fault. There’s nothing you could have done.”
She didn’t believe him. “Why didn’t I push harder to find out what was bothering him? I’ve known Mo for more than forty years.”
“That’s a really long time.” Fran’s expression was stunned.
Sister Lou considered the deputy. “Probably longer than you’ve been alive.”
“Just a bit.” Fran’s tone was dry.
“Did he have any critics?” Ted brought the discussion back to the present.
“He had many.” Sister Lou sipped more water. “His present
ations were controversial. Sometimes they even brought protesters. But I wasn’t aware of any threats.”
Ted frowned. “Do any of his critics stand out as possible perps?”
Sister Lou flinched at the deputy’s blunt phrasing. “No, no one.” She searched her mind. It was as blank as the room’s ivory walls. “The protests were always peaceful. These weren’t people who’d bash . . .” She broke off, swallowing hard.
“Who was this Saint Hermione of Ephrates?” Ted asked.
“Ephesus,” Sister Lou corrected the deputy. “She was a second-century martyr who was killed in one hundred seventeen during the persecutions of Christians. In the Acts of the Apostles, Saint Hermione is called a prophetess.”
Ted nodded, though his expression was still puzzled. “So she’s a big deal in your church?”
Sister Lou nodded. “A very big deal.”
“You said Dr. Jordan was controversial.” Fran seemed to be measuring her words. “Were there members of your congregation who didn’t want him to make this presentation?”
“There may have been a few who were uneasy about his event.” None were as vocal as Sister Marianna.
“Who knew he was at this hotel?” Ted shot the question at her as though trying to catch her off guard. Sister Lou didn’t care for the direction the deputies were trying to take.
Chris answered for her. “Everyone knew Maurice was here, members of the congregation as well as the college and the public. We didn’t think we had to make a secret of where he was staying.”
“Did you cancel Doctor Jordan’s presentation?” Fran directed this question at Sister Lou.
“It’s too late to cancel it. Sister Carmen Vega agreed to do the presentation in place of Maurice.” Sister Lou watched Fran make a note of this new information. “Carmen wasn’t involved in this.”
“We’ll need to question everyone, ma’am.” Ted looked up from his notes.
Sister Lou looked at Chris. He appeared to share her concern. It would be a great waste of time to interview the congregation. While they were questioning people like Sister Carmen, Maurice’s murderer could be escaping from the area.
Ted exchanged a glance with Fran before broaching his next question. “We think your friend knew the person who attacked him.”
Mayhem & Mass Page 3