Closely Akin to Murder

by Joan Hess

  The traffic in Phoenix was typical of any sprawling city; the only evidence I wasn’t in Atlanta or Dallas was the occasional swollen cactus holding up its arms as if the victim of a mugging. The artificial greenery of the city gave way to the browns and siennas of the high desert, and then to piñon and ponderosa pines as I drove into the mountains. Here there were streams, some rushing and some trickling, and forests with shadowy tunnels. I found a country music station to distract myself from worrying about coming face-to-face with another Sister Mary Clarissa.

  Buckneck turned out to be seventy-five miles from Phoenix. The town was no more than a single street lined with dilapidated houses, trailers, and a couple of all-purpose stores. A gas station seemed to be the social hub; half a dozen trucks were parked nearby and a bench out front was occupied by a row of stubbly old men, oblivious to the bony yellow dog sniffing at their khaki trouser cuffs.

  The convent was at the end of the street. I parked in front of an adobe wall and mindlessly stared at the cracks, riveted by the same ridiculous anxiety I’d felt outside St. Martin’s Academy. When my cowardice became unbearable, I checked my hair and lipstick in the rearview mirror and climbed out of the car.

  The wooden gates were open wide enough to permit pedestrians, bicycles, and emaciated burros. I continued into a courtyard landscaped only with asymmetrical flagstones. In front of me was a simple church, done in a style reminiscent of the architecture of Acapulco; fences on either side made it obvious that the only approach to the convent was through its doors.

  This was my last chance to find Fran Pickett, I told myself as I entered the church. Two sections of a dozen pews were divided by an aisle sloping down to a pulpit. On the wall behind it hung a massive, elaborately framed painting of the Virgin Mary with a baby in her lap and a pair of celestial attendants. On a side wall was a shallow recess with another painting that I presumed involved San Jacinto; candles set in small glass dishes flickered on a railing in front of it.

  The pews were uninhabited. The doors on either side of me did not have signs that invited admission. Since I’d arrived, I’d not heard one noise that indicated there was anyone currently in residence within the walls. People had been here earlier, unless the candles had lit themselves through spontaneous combustion.

  I could either sit passively in a pew, or conduct myself like a reasonably assertive forty-year-old woman and take action. It was a tough call, but I finally went to one of the doors and determined it was locked. The other door was locked, too, but beside it was a faded, hand-printed card that advised visitors to push a button. I did so, and heard a buzz somewhere in the distance.

  That was about as assertive as I could be, so I sat down in the back pew and waited. Several minutes later, the door opened and a wizened figure emerged. She was dressed in an old-fashioned black habit that brushed the floor as she scuttled toward me.

  “Yes?” she said, looking at me through rheumy eyes so clouded with cataracts that I doubted she could see me.

  “Are you the Mother Superior?” I asked.

  “Oh, heavens no. I’m Sister Jerome. I’m supposed to tend the door today. You haven’t been waiting too long, have you?”

  She sounded so distressed that I said, “I just came inside a second ago, and was admiring the church.”

  “Shall I take you to the Reverend Mother?”

  “Yes, please.” I followed her through the doorway and down a hall to a closed door. Sister Jerome opened the door with a leathery hand, stepped aside, and poked me in the back.

  “Thank you,” I said to her, then went into what proved to be a rather standard office. The woman behind the desk wore the same black habit as her colleague, and she was at least as old and worn. The look she gave me, however, was a good deal sharper.

  “Yes?” she said in a steady baritone.

  “I’m trying to find a girl who attended the convent school about thirty years ago,” I began in a somewhat higher voice.

  “The school has been closed for twenty years. We do not hold class reunions, and few of the girls bother to keep in touch these days. But why should they? There are only six of us left in what is basically a retirement home. His Holiness has given us permission to live out our days here. Despite appearances, I suspect Sister Jerome will be left to turn out the lights and lock the door.”

  “Oh,” I said, disconcerted.

  “Sister Ursala has developed a very bad cough,” the Reverend Mother continued. “I doubt she’ll survive the winter. I can’t think how many times I told her not to tend to her bees without a proper wrap, but she’s as rebellious as a schoolgirl.”

  I seized the opportunity to steer the conversation back to Fran. “As I mentioned, I’m trying to locate one of your former students, Franchesca Pickett, who attended classes in the sixties. Her mother had remarried, and I was hoping you might have records that reflected her name.”

  “Even if that were available, it would not be appropriate to give it to anyone who asked for it. We have a policy of strict adherence to the laws of confidentiality. Over the years, I’ve turned down numerous requests such as yours.”

  I’d run into dead ends before, but I felt as though I’d smacked into this one with enough force to make my head reel. The woman had the demeanor of a judge who’d been on the bench well past retirement age, who’d never fallen for a contrived alibi or an outlandish excuse, who had no qualms about handing out the most severe sentences. She might have intimidated Sister Mary Clarissa.

  I tried to sound confident as I said, “What a shame. I have some wonderful news for Franchesca, but no way to share it with her.”

  “Do tell,” commanded the Reverend Mother.

  I sank down on a chair and crossed my ankles while I groped for a suitable story. “I’m also governed by the laws of confidentiality, but I can tell you that there’s half a million dollars at stake. If Franchesca were to collect it, she might be so grateful to you that she would make a substantial donation to the convent.”

  “So that we can put in tennis courts and a hot tub?”

  “Or a medical clinic for your parishioners.”

  The Reverend Mother rocked back and folded her arms, staring at me as if I’d been caught with a cigarette in the restroom. “Franchesca was very unhappy here. She’d be more likely to buy the property from under us and have it bulldozed.”

  “Then you remember her?”

  “I remember all the troublemakers. Franchesca was very intelligent and industrious about her studies, but she was also stubborn. She and I had many long discussions in this room about her failure to conform to our rules. She would sit in that chair with her ankles crossed like yours, her hands in her lap and her eyes wide with repentance, readily accepting penance in the chapel and additional chores in the kitchen. Hours later a deputy sheriff would spot her trying to hitchhike into Phoenix and bring her back. At her mother’s insistence, we did all we could to instill in Franchesca a sense of respect and obedience, but we had no success. The heart of her problem lay in her parents’ divorce.”

  “Her father’s death must have been devastating,” I said, wondering how the Reverend Mother defined the concept of confidentiality. I wasn’t about to interrupt her to discuss it, though. Maybe twenty years of conversation with Sister Jerome and others of a similar age hadn’t been especially engrossing.

  “She never returned to us after her ill-fated vacation to Mexico. Her mother refused my calls and sent back my letters unopened. Franchesca’s clothing and personal possessions were stored in the basement of the dormitory; to the best of my knowledge, no one ever came for the suitcases and the trunk.”

  “I guess that’s that,” I said with a polite smile. “Thank you so much for your time, Reverend Mother.”

  She nodded dismissively and picked up a pen. I returned to the church proper, where I found Sister Jerome napping in the first pew. I sat down next to her and gently shook her shoulder.

  “Sister Jerome,” I said, “there’s something I’d like t
o ask you before I leave.”

  Her eyes fluttered open. “You were here earlier, weren’t you? Did you have a nice visit with the Reverend Mother?”

  “Very nice,” I said. Ignoring the fact I was about to lie to an elderly nun under the scrutiny of the Virgin Mary and her crew, I added, “She said something about one of the sisters keeping bees. I’m an avid bee enthusiast, and it would mean a great deal to me to see the hives.”

  She recoiled so abruptly that I had to catch her arm to keep her from sliding off the pew. “Oh, no, that would never be permitted. Several of the sisters have chosen to lead cloistered lives, including Sister Ursala. On mornings like this, she often sits in the garden and watches her little bees buzz merrily among the flowers.”

  “Could I see the dormitory where the students lived?” I asked.

  “The dormitory and the classrooms are directly across from our living quarters. Dear Sister Ambrose would have another stroke if she happened to see an outsider, and she’s so very frail that she might not survive. It’s out of the question, my dear.” She stood up as if to scuttle away, then clasped her hands and gave me a doleful look. “But I do hate to disappoint you. I don’t suppose there would be any harm in allowing you to peek through the window in the sacristy.”

  “That would be wonderful,” I said. The Reverend Mother knew perfectly well what she’d said about Fran’s belongings. She hadn’t issued an open invitation to break into the basement, but she must have suspected I would consider the idea. It really was unfortunate there was no book entitled Know Your Nuns, because this one was quite an enigma.

  We went up the aisle. Sister Jerome took a key ring from an invisible pocket and unlocked the door opposite the one with the buzzer. The hallway on this side of the church was narrower, and there were no doors except the one at the end. With her head lowered and her sleeves swishing, she hurried along like a bat returning to its belfry after a busy night.

  The sacristy turned out to be nothing more than a mundane storage room with an exotic label. The window gave a limited view of a garden, stucco buildings forming the back three quarters of a quadrangle, and what Sister Jerome assured me was the apiary. It looked like a bunch of gray crates to me, but I murmured appreciative noises as I tried to determine a route to the dormitory.

  “Is there any sort of service this evening?” I asked as I watched one of the sisters rise from a bench in the garden and move very slowly toward the building that Sister Jerome had told me was their living quarters.

  “We gather to recite the rosary at seven, but we don’t permit visitors. Father Filicales comes on Saturdays to hear confessions and conduct mass.” She gestured at a black robe on a hook. “That’s his cassock. It’s been mended so often that one of these days it’s liable to fall apart. So is Father Filicales, I’m sorry to say.”

  An exceedingly wicked idea came to mind. “Oh,” I said, tilting my head like a robin within range of a worm, “I believe I heard someone come into the church. Shouldn’t you see who it is?”

  “We’ve been waiting for days for a plumber. If he leaves without fixing the leak in the kitchen, the Reverend Mother will be beside herself.”

  I resumed gazing out the window with a rapt expression. “This is so peaceful and inspiring. Would you mind if I stayed a few minutes longer?”

  After a moment of indecision, Sister Jerome handed me the key ring. “Please lock the door and return the keys to me before you leave.”

  Seconds later, I had the cassock rolled up into the smallest bundle possible. I tucked it under my waistband in the middle of my back, arranged my shirttail over it, fastidiously locked the door, and returned to the church, where I found my guide looking out at the empty courtyard.

  “There’s no one here,” she said. “Whatever shall I say to the Reverend Mother if the plumber is already on his way back to Phoenix? It’s so difficult to get anyone to come all this way.”

  “I must have been mistaken,” I said soothingly. I handed her the key ring and eased around her, all the while thanking her for her hospitality. The bulge in my back might have been noticeable to someone with keener eyesight, but I felt fairly confident as I walked across the courtyard and out the gate.

  One of the two stores had bolts of fabric. I bought a yard of black cotton, a packet of bobby pins, and a disposable flashlight, then stopped at a cafe and bought the makings of a primitive picnic. I drove back to a stream that had been particularly picturesque and spent the afternoon dabbling my toes in the water, munching crackers and cheese, and reading the paperback I’d cleverly thought to put in my purse. And plotting a commando raid on the convent, of course.

  As the sun set, I pulled on the cassock and drove into Buckneck. The men on the bench in front of the gas station had departed for the day, as had the yellow dog. The stores were closed, the street deserted. I parked half a block from the convent. The cassock lacked pockets, so I put my purse under the seat, then draped the fabric over my head and pinned it in place. The effect was minimal, but so was the light.

  There was a glow from inside the church, but the courtyard was empty. I slithered along the wall until I reached the fence, searched unsuccessfully for a gate, and then, amid muffled curses and admonishments to myself to take care of Father Whatever’s cassock, clambered over the fence and landed on my derriere in what I supposed was hallowed dirt. When no alarms went off or armed guards appeared, I headed for the vacant dormitory, hoping that the sister with the history of strokes had not decided to skip the service.

  No one had thought to lock the building. I went inside, switched on the cheap flashlight, and glanced around what had been a communal living room. The furniture that remained was stark and clearly selected for function rather than comfort; the only decor on the walls was of a religious nature. I prowled down a hall, opening doors and illuminating a kitchen, an office, a closet, and eventually a flight of stairs descending into utter blackness.

  Gulping, I slowly went down the steps, feeling as though I should have been wearing a negligee and carrying a candle. The air was stagnant. The beam of my flashlight flickered on cardboard boxes, broken chairs, an ancient bicycle, and an impresssive collection of dusty jars. In one corner I spotted several suitcases and a worn trunk from a much earlier era.

  Trying not to chortle (and perhaps end up in hysterics), I knelt next to the trunk and examined it for an identifying label. When I found none, I shifted my attention to the suitcases. The last one had a small piece of paper held in place by tape. The writing had faded, but I was able to make out Fran’s name and what I dearly hoped was a home address: Rt. 3, Box 77, Phoenix.

  “A hot tub might do much to ease Sister Jerome’s arthritis,” said a baritone voice at the top of the stairs.

  I decided not to congratulate myself on the breadth of my resourcefulness just yet. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied.

  “You may leave Father Filicales’s cassock by the door of the church.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “With a donation for the indigent of the parish.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The floor creaked as she left, and only then did I enjoy the luxury of a deep breath. Being accused of murder in Acapulco didn’t begin to compare to being caught red-handed (as well as red-faced) in a cloistered convent.

  Fran Pickett had been one tough cookie to defy the Reverend Mother, I thought as I sharted up the stairs.

  CHAPTER 10

  After breakfast, I called the main post office and asked for the location of Route 3, Box 77. I was advised that the route consisted of Old Madrid Road and the identity of the boxholder was none of my business. I debated whether or not to pack and check out of the hotel. If the road was now lined with convenience stores and parking lots, I’d have no choice but to head for the airport to catch the next flight back to Farberville.

  I left my suitcase in the room as a gesture of optimism. After all, I had tracked down the address, which at one time had seemed a task of Herculean magnitude.
I’d been humiliated in the process, but I’d survived with a shred or two of dignity left intact—and the Sisters of the Holy Shrine of San Jacinto were fifty dollars richer.

  According to my map, Old Madrid Road originated in the south part of Phoenix and at one time might have been the primary route to Tucson. I plotted my course and in less than half an hour spotted the pertinent street sign.

  Old Madrid Road didn’t dally inside the city limits. Within minutes, I was squinting at numbers on mailboxes in front of isolated houses. It was easy to understand why Fran had been so desperate to live with her father in Beverly Hills and hang out with mall rats rather than kangaroo rats.

  I was running out of mailboxes when I saw a billboard heralding the proximity of the Tricky M Ranchettes. The half-acre “ranchettes” were available for a low down payment and affordable monthly payments. Friendly agents were awaiting my family’s arrival with complimentary coffee, tea, and lemonade. No appointment necessary.

  I drove through a gate made of railroad ties adorned with horseshoes and antique oddments. The street was as broad as a boulevard, but not clogged with mothers in station wagons and children on bicycles. I quickly deduced this was due to the scarcity of houses; the sole completed one didn’t appear to be inhabited. A dozen others were in varying stages of construction, from skeletal frames to half-completed exteriors. There were no workmen or trucks, however, in what amounted to a suburban ghost town.

  I followed signs purporting to lead the way to the office, where I was most likely to encounter a friendly agent, a complimentary cup of coffee, and perhaps a clue as to the location of Fran Pickett’s home of thirty years ago.

  Several streets later, I saw a battered silver trailer under the only tree I’d seen thus far. The tree was not comparable to the stately elms commonplace on the Farber College campus, but it provided a small amount of shade. Beyond the trailer was a lunar landscape of rocks and jutting hills. High above me, buzzards circled, monitoring that which would be lunch when nicely ripened.