Mayhem & Mass

by Olivia Matthews

  Sister Lou frowned. “What makes you think that?”

  “There wasn’t any sign of a struggle.” Fran sat back in her seat. A faraway look entered her eyes as she seemed to recall the scene in Maurice’s room. “He must have let the person into his room. The perp hit him when his back was turned.”

  Ted cocked his head. “Sister, where were you—”

  “Do you think my aunt had something to do with this?” Chris’s grip tightened on Sister Lou’s hands.

  “We want to eliminate her as a suspect,” Fran offered.

  Chris wasn’t mollified. “If Maurice’s head was bashed in, there must have been a lot of blood. As you can see, my aunt doesn’t have any blood on her.”

  Ted turned to Chris. “We think the victim was killed last night.”

  Sister Lou stiffened. She flashed back to the scene in Maurice’s room. “His bed was made.”

  Chris interjected again. “My aunt called you—”

  Sister Lou patted Chris’s hand. “It’s all right, Chris. I don’t have anything to hide. Maurice brought me home around eight o’clock last night.”

  “Can anyone verify that, Sister?” Ted asked.

  “Yes, the night receptionist and several other sisters saw me.” Sister Lou gave the deputies the names of her alibis, starting with Sister Carmen.

  Fran looked to Chris. “Mind if we ask where you were last night, Mr. LaSalle?”

  “I had dinner with friends.” Chris named a few of them.

  The deputies asked additional questions, including contact information for Maurice’s next of kin. Sister Lou gave them his home phone number and his wife’s name. “I can’t believe someone would want to kill Maurice.”

  “The perp planned to kill your friend.” Ted sounded definite. “This attack was quick, and it was personal.”

  Fran turned to another page in her notebook. “It wasn’t staged to look like an accident or even a robbery. Your friend’s watch is still on his wrist. His wallet and car keys are on his nightstand. His computer is on his desk.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us, Sister?” Ted seemed impatient.

  Sister Lou glanced at Chris before returning Ted’s gaze. “You won’t find Maurice’s murderer in the congregation.”

  Ted put away his notebook. “Leave the investigation to us, ma’am.”

  Chris arched an eyebrow. “How many sisters do you think are with the congregation?”

  Ted shrugged. “Twenty-five? Thirty?”

  Chris gave a slight smile. “Try sixty-three.”

  Her patience slipping, Sister Lou addressed Ted. “While you investigate people who couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with Maurice’s murder, the killer will slip past you.”

  Fran’s gaze was steady on hers. “Sister, we’re going to find the man who killed your friend.”

  “I have no doubt of that.” Sister Lou sighed. “But how much of your investigation will be spent looking in the wrong place?”

  * * *

  Chris dropped off Sister Lou in front of the motherhouse of the Congregation of St. Hermione of Ephesus. She watched as he pulled back out of the parking lot. She’d insisted he not escort her inside. She wanted to be alone. A glance at her crimson Timex showed the feast day presentation had started, but she was too dispirited to join the event. Sister Lou turned to enter the building, intending to go to her room to cry, quiet her mind, then sleep.

  Sister Marianna met her in the lobby. “Louise, I’m sorry about your friend’s death. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Your prayers for Maurice and his family would be appreciated.” She felt small for being surprised by Sister Marianna’s empathy. The other woman may be cool and arrogant, but she wasn’t heartless.

  “Of course.” Sister Marianna linked her fingers together in front of her hips. It was almost as though she was standing at ease in a military formation. “I understand Carmen’s doing the presentation. I was just on my way over. She’s an excellent choice. Perhaps you should have asked her from the beginning.”

  Would Mo still be alive if I hadn’t invited him to be our presenter? Sister Marianna seemed to think so.

  Sister Lou swallowed the lump in her throat. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  An unexpected expression of concern softened Sister Marianna’s features. “Why don’t you get some rest? It may help you to feel stronger.”

  “I was on my way up.” Sister Lou continued to the bank of elevators at the end of the hall.

  One of the elevators brought her to the third floor. Muscle memory carried Sister Lou down the long, spacious hall and around the corner to her room. She unlocked her door, dropped her purse on the curved dark wood console table near the entrance, and hung her coat in the corner closet. She walked past the fluffy furniture in her living room and the cherrywood set in her dining area.

  Sister Lou turned on a light as she entered her bedroom. It was early in the day, but she still changed into her nightgown in preparation for her nap. She’d turned down her bedsheets and started to turn off the overhead light when her gaze drifted to her dressing table and the manila envelope Maurice had given her the night before.

  Sometimes I think my work will be the death of me.

  She lifted the packet from the table and studied it. Maurice had written her full name on the front of the envelope. His familiar, sloppy cursive made her smile and blink back more tears. “Oh, Mo.”

  As she’d predicted, she hadn’t had a chance to read Maurice’s draft article last night. She’d promised him she’d read it tonight, though. They were supposed to have gotten together to discuss it this weekend. Sister Lou dried her eyes again.

  Am I going to cry all night?

  She turned on her bedside lamp, turned off the overhead light, then carried Maurice’s article into bed with her. In the past, he’d written about Christian egalitarianism, women in the early Catholic Church, the argument for female priests, and other provocative topics. He’d never shied from them.

  It took Sister Lou more than an hour to read the article. It was thorough. It was gripping. And it was classic Maurice Jordan: controversial. She lowered the stack of numbered pages and stared blindly across her room.

  Is this project the reason someone killed you, Mo?

  Chapter 4

  What weren’t the sisters telling them?

  Shari’s impatience escalated as she squirmed on the padded sapphire seats in the college’s auditorium. She only half listened as Sister Carmen Vega stood on the dark wood stage, lecturing on St. Hermione of Ephesus. The other half of her mind concentrated on dissecting Sister May Chen’s earlier explanation that their scheduled speaker had to cancel unexpectedly. It didn’t take divine intuition—was that a thing?—to realize the excuse was only half of the story.

  And where was Chris LaSalle? Shari was certain he’d planned to attend the lecture. Once again, she scanned the little theater. The room was more than half full. She hadn’t expected that.

  It was a nice theater. Its vaulted blond-wood ceiling and huge stained-glass windows reminded Shari of photos she’d seen of historic churches. Was the similarity deliberate? She’d never attended a religious service but, in her current environment, she could almost hear a choir singing from the balcony in the back of the room.

  Shari shifted again on the cushioned theater seat. She needed answers, and she didn’t want to wait. The old guy beside her pinned her with a disapproving glare from his faded blue eyes. Who was he—faculty or a member of the community? Shari turned to him with a vacuous smile. He looked away, not at all mollified. Someone get the old grouch some coffee.

  She glanced over her shoulder toward the auditorium entrance in time to see one of the doors open. Chris LaSalle crossed the threshold, carrying sorrow like a placard. Shari popped out of her chair. Her caffeine-deprived row mate grumbled as she squeezed past him.

  Time to get my answers.

  She scrutinized the college advancement officer as she strode up th
e aisle toward him. He really was a very handsome man, especially in that gunmetal gray suit. But she didn’t think it was the suit that made this man.

  Had he ever done any modeling? The desk jockey was built like a professional football player—a tight end—tall and lean with broad shoulders and long legs. Watching him, Shari swore she heard “Whatta Man,” the 1993 duet by rap artists Salt-N-Pepa and pop group En Vogue. But the concern clouding his dark, almost black, eyes gave her pause.

  Shari stopped less than an arm’s length from him. “What happened to your speaker?” She whispered to avoid disturbing the presentation.

  Chris looked away from her. “He couldn’t make it.”

  “Why not?”

  Silence stretched between them. She sensed the debate in him, the back-and-forth argument. Should I tell her? Should I not? How much, if anything, should I say?

  Tell me what?

  Shari stood firm, willing him to look at her.

  Finally, Chris cupped her left elbow and escorted her into the hallway in silence. He stepped away from the auditorium and released her. Cold air replaced his warm touch. Still, he remained silent.

  This guy really doesn’t like reporters. She folded her arms, prepared to wait him out.

  “Doctor Maurice Jordan is dead.” His statement was the last thing she’d expected.

  Shari caught her breath. “What was it, a heart attack?”

  “No.” Chris’s eyes searched hers as though looking for a reason not to tell her. “Someone killed him.”

  “What?” Shock rolled through Shari’s body. She pulled her thoughts back together. “How’s Sister Louise?”

  Surprise flashed in Chris’s dark eyes. “She’s upset. Thank you for asking.”

  “Of course.” Now that she’d had a chance to process Chris’s announcement, Shari’s thoughts came together. “Can I speak with her?”

  “Do you mean interview her?” His eyes iced over. “She’s resting.”

  “Is she the one who found Doctor Jordan’s body?” Hadn’t Sister Lou gone to get their speaker for the event?

  “My aunt just lost one of her best friends. She’s devastated. I don’t want you to upset her further by making her relive this trauma.”

  “I’m sorry for your aunt’s loss. I really am. But the public has the right to know that someone in their community has been murdered.”

  “The public’s right to know.” Chris’s smile was devoid of humor. “Does that excuse make you feel less like a vulture when you pry into innocent people’s lives?”

  Shari absorbed the virtual body blow. “Hello? There’s a murderer in your town, in your neighborhood. How would you feel if no one told you that?”

  “You don’t have to speak with my aunt to write your article.”

  “Your aunt’s my source.”

  “No, she’s not.”

  “I can’t just say, ‘There’s a killer on the loose’ and expect people to believe me.”

  “Then quote the sheriff’s deputies. There were two of them there.” Chris turned to leave.

  “But your aunt found the body.” Shari caught his arm to detain him. He looked at her as though she was gum on the bottom of his shoe. “She knew the victim.”

  “You’re not talking with her.”

  “Isn’t that her decision?” Shari dropped her hand.

  He gave her a dismissive look before crossing the lobby and descending the staircase. Shari watched him walk away.

  What was Chris LaSalle’s problem?

  Of course, she didn’t need to interview Sister Lou for her first article on Dr. Jordan’s murder. She could get by with information from the deputies’ report. But for her follow-up story, she’d need the sister’s input, her impressions, and any ideas she had on why someone would want to kill her friend.

  This murder investigation could help her move away from general reporting and civic events, and on to hard news. Her pulse kicked up. This was her opportunity. She wasn’t going to let anyone intimidate her out of it.

  * * *

  “You’re upset.” Sister Carmen gasped the observation as she jogged beside Sister Lou early Friday morning.

  “Of course.” Sister Lou swiped sweat from her brow with her right thumb. She took a deep breath so she could keep speaking. “Someone killed my friend yesterday.”

  It was the first day of September, and summer still clung to the moist air. Mission-style wrought iron lamp posts held back the predawn darkness as they made their way along the makeshift jogging course.

  “If you don’t slow down, you’ll lose another friend today. Me.” Sister Carmen puffed the words with what seemed like exaggerated breaths.

  “Sorry.” Startled, Sister Lou slowed to match her pace to Sister Carmen’s.

  They’d already moved past the well-tended landscaping of the congregation’s motherhouse and its adjoining assisted-living facility. An asphalt parking lot about half the size of a football field separated the congregation’s grounds from those of the College of St. Hermione of Ephesus. This early in the morning, there were very few cars in the lot. The college’s residence halls came into view in the distance.

  “It’s more than grief that has you running like a fugitive from the law. What’s chasing you?”

  Sister Lou stumbled at her friend’s words. What’s chasing you? Once again, Sister Carmen’s perception was discomforting. What am I running from? Sorrow? Fear?

  “Guilt.” Sister Lou leaned forward and shortened her stride as she ran up one of several hills on the college’s campus.

  “Guilt? Why?”

  “I never once asked him . . .” Sister Lou broke off to catch her breath. “What was wrong.” She maintained a steady pace until she crested the hill that led toward the student residence halls. “I think Mo suspected that his life was in danger.”

  “You think he knew someone was going to kill him?” Sister Carmen’s voice rose in disbelief.

  “Perhaps.” Sister Lou dug through her memories of her last dinner with Maurice. “He seemed depressed. And preoccupied with death. He said his work would be the death of him.”

  Sister Carmen seemed to mull that over. “It was probably just a figure of speech. You said Maurice worked all the time.”

  Sister Lou shook her head. “It was the way he said it. The look in his eyes. The tone of his voice. Something was wrong. I could feel it. But I didn’t ask him how I could help. What kind of friend am I?”

  After looping around the residence halls, Sister Lou jogged beside Sister Carmen as they made their way to the college’s oval, the heart of the campus. Academic buildings and stately trees embraced the well-manicured lawns and pedestrian pathways.

  “Lou, for whatever reason, Maurice didn’t share his troubles. That was his choice and his right.” Sister Carmen’s voice was low.

  Sister Lou swallowed the hot lump of emotion in her throat. “Thank you for doing the Saint Hermione presentation yesterday.”

  “I was glad to help.”

  “I should have at least asked him what was on his mind. I should have taken his concerns more seriously.” Sister Lou settled back into her thoughts.

  Sister Carmen broke the silence as they started their second loop of the oval. “Briar Coast is one of the quietest towns in the East.”

  “I know.” Sister Lou glanced at the red-brick, Federal-style academic buildings edging the oval.

  “When do you think the town’s last murder occurred?”

  Sister Lou spread her hands as they turned back toward the residence halls. “Eight years ago. About two years before we moved here. Most of the crimes here involve property. Burglary, car thefts, and graffiti.”

  “Still, a lot of people don’t lock their doors.”

  “I will never get used to that.” Born and raised in Los Angeles, Sister Lou grew up locking everything: doors, windows, cars, bikes. Even then, there wasn’t a guaranty that a determined criminal wouldn’t be able to break in.

  “Neither will I.” Sister Ca
rmen was from San Diego, another city that believed in keeping valuables under lock and key. They’d both relocated to the congregation in Briar Coast more than six years ago, arriving within months of each other. And they still locked everything.

  Sister Lou’s thoughts wandered as she and Sister Carmen completed their third loop of the oval before entering the path that led from the college’s campus to the center of Briar Coast. Two miles on this path completed their five-mile morning run. How soon should she pay her respects to Maurice’s family? She hadn’t seen his wife and son in years. She regretted that now.

  Sister Carmen interrupted her thoughts. “Why do you think someone killed him?”

  Sister Lou glanced at the lamp posts that brought light to the dirt path. “I hope we find out.”

  * * *

  “Where’s the article I wrote on Doctor Jordan’s murder?” Shari marched up to Perry O’Toole’s beige modular desk Friday morning and shook her copy of The Briar Coast Telegraph at the newspaper’s managing editor.

  It was minutes before eight AM. Seated behind his desk, Perry lowered his coffee mug, and turned his beady blue eyes up to her.

  “Where’s my article on that feast-day thing? That’s the article I assigned you.” New York City trudged out of his mouth. Every time he spoke, she swore she heard Frank Sinatra’s Nathan Detroit character from Guys and Dolls.

  Shari’s face burned with anger. “It was the lecture celebrating the feast day of Saint Hermione of Ephesus. The guest speaker was murdered.”

  “Was the lecture canceled?”

  “No, but—”

  “There are no ‘buts.’” Perry stabbed a stubby index finger toward her. Anger and arrogance swirled in his eyes. “I gave you an assignment. Death is the only thing that should have prevented you from doing it.”

  Did I hear him correctly?

  Shari’s eyes flared with disbelief. “You expected me to ignore Briar Coast’s first murder in God knows how many years, to write a fluff piece on some lecture?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. But because you can’t follow instructions, I had to find a replacement for your article.” Perry’s breathing was erratic.