L'Oro Verde

by Coralie Hughes Jensen

  Sister Angela had been called early that morning—before seven, just as she strolled toward the chapel to attend the morning service. It was lucky she carried her red cell phone with her. In just minutes she would have turned it to vibrate for the service, but the telltale rendition of Ave Maria echoed through the pillared corridor and spilled into the courtyard. The other nuns paused to listen, but when they realized it was Sister Angela’s phone, they progressed toward the chapel doors. Sister Angela quickly pulled the wireless from her pocket and pressed it to her ear. It was Inspector DiMarco. Something was terribly wrong.

  *

  The phone was a gift from the Montriano Police Department in gratitude for services Sister Angela rendered in previous cases. On one occasion after she recognized the suspect on the news, she helped them nab a bank robber from Petraggio. Though he lived in another city at the bottom of the hill, the thief had actually worked one summer as a waiter in the Montriano café where she regularly stopped for a shot of coffee. It was not the best coffee, requiring at least two servings of cream to make the taste bearable, but she enjoyed sitting outside. Since Montriano was closer to a village than a full-fledged town, there was only one outdoor café. On another occasion, Sister Angela discovered a stash of drugs buried in one of the towers. She carried all five bags to the police station herself after taking pictures of them with her little Brownie camera. She feared leaving them where a young person playing in the area might haul them away.

  Realizing Sister Angela had a special gift, Inspector Alessandro DiMarco wanted to make her an official detective, but his captain found the idea ridiculous.

  “She’s a wonderful resource for the department,” DiMarco said.

  “She’s trained to be a nun, not a detective,” the chief said. “Don’t forget you had to work your way up, DiMarco. If she wanted to be a policeman, why did she prepare to serve God?” He had said it just like that, like going into the Church was the exact opposite of what they did.

  “I don’t believe it was necessary for me to start at the bottom either, Sir. Some of us have a mind for the job, and I believe Sister Angela has one too.”

  “She can’t be both. What if she’s forced to kill a man in order to protect her partner? Would she commit murder? I think not.”

  But DiMarco still felt she would make a great resource and offered her the phone.

  When she first saw it, Mother Margherita was not pleased either. “Sister Angela, you don’t need a phone for your vocation,” she told her. “You are getting far too familiar with the ways outside our school. I find it unseemly.”

  “It’s important to the community that the police get to me quickly,” Sister Angela said. “I have volunteered to help them with their investigations. I would worry incessantly if I let murderers and thieves run rampant in Montriano.”

  While her mother superior sat back and thought about it, Sister Angela continued, “It is, after all, a God-given talent that shouldn’t be ignored. Isn’t that in the Bible? Matthew states, ‘So take the talent from him, and give to him who has the ten talents. For to everyone who has will more be given.’ I strongly believe I must use my talents wisely, Mother.”

  “I suppose you can keep the phone while I pray for an answer, but I won’t tolerate that thing going off in the middle of services or during your class time.”

  “Oh no, Mother. Look here, it has a vibrate button. I’ll feel it and—”

  “And wriggle out of the pew in the middle of prayers so you can answer the important call?”

  “I promise I won’t even look at it.”

  “You’ll turn it off, Sister. And as for your responsibilities here—”

  “Yes, Mother. I promise I’ll talk to you before I leave my students without a teacher.”

  *

  On an uneventful afternoon, Sister Angela’s walks would have taken her to Porto San Donato. From there, she could look out over the vineyards and olive orchards. A mist would emerge from between the neat rows, like rainbows dancing and shimmering in the morning sun. Soon, the carpet of green grass under the meandering succession of vines and branches would turn to gold, and the summer winds would make the tall blades crawl like caterpillars. On hot days, Sister Angela would often stop in the shade of the ancient canopied laundry to dip her handkerchief in the water that trickled into the stone tub, letting the breezes from the sea just over the next ridge cool her damp neck. She would inhale the aroma of the withering meadow—musty? No, sweeter than that—pungent, like a dying rose. And soon the smell of agitation would permeate the salty breezes—the odor of fermenting grapes and pressed olives. She loved it here in the heart of the olive orchards. It was her home.

  Olives were most likely first cultivated in the “fertile crescent” of the eastern part of the Mediterranean in the fifth century B.C. In Crete, Syria, Palestine, and Israel, interest in the fruit grew. It was most heavily cultivated in Greece where it appeared in mythology as both a food and a cosmetic. The trees were so sacred it was a capital offense to cut one down. Known for its powers to bestow youth and vigor, the olive’s oil was rubbed on athletes’ bodies and dropped through holes in the tombs of saints and martyrs. Olive branches were even waved by followers of Jesus as a symbol of welcome. Since the Second World War, the value of olive oil increased steadily, making the industry in the Tuscan hills even stronger and more competitive.

  Sister Angela was raised on a farm just down the hill. When their business did not prosper, her parents sold it to conglomerates, buying up land for olive orchards. The family moved to Petraggio, but she was already a novice then and did not go with them. She prized summer evenings. In the town graveyard that balanced precariously on the side of Montriano’s hill, she would sit atop a headstone and watch the skyline as the sun cast its last red embers on the fields’ non-descript shades of brown. Now, she visited the cemetery often, placing flowers on the graves of her parents whom she had brought home for burial. She often felt their presence—especially when she to marveled at the beautiful sunsets.

  Sister Angela had another vocation. She taught history at the Scuola Media di Santa Donata, a school for teenage boys and girls. Mother Margherita, the headmistress, often reminded her she had to fulfill her important teaching duties before joining the inspector on his exploits. But Sister Angela had a gift. Ever since childhood, the nun was good at solving mysteries. She could put clues together and see possibilities. They were sometimes remote—“far flung” was how the police captain described them. But she always managed to find the answers and explain the inexplicable. Sister Angela called her gift “an instrument for divine intervention.” Inspector DiMarco said it was a “nose for official inquiry.” Either way, it worked.

  Montriano, a medieval town, was the ideal place to teach medieval history. Sister Angela’s students could stand in the middle of their own town, touch it, and imagine what it was like to live centuries ago. They could look across one tower to the other and pretend the opposite tower belonged to their rivals. They could imagine hurling stones at their rival’s windows.

  If she had a fault, and Sister Angela admitted to many, it was a lack of respect for authority. Her superiors in the church regarded this a considerable weakness, in view of her position in the Church. In her quests to solve a crime, she often forgot that a subtle approach might appease those with influence in both the diocese and the police department.

  “I should think, Captain, you might be more effective if you got out there and talked to witnesses yourself,” she once told the police chief when he questioned the veracity of a bank employee’s statement after a robbery.

  “And we would be more effective here at the station if you would remain in your classroom. We aren’t children, Sister Angela. We are professionals.”

  If she thought of the rules of conduct, she would try hard to follow them. But most of the time when she was in the middle of a case, procedure eluded her. Her strong curiosity seemed to hinder her ability to control her tongue, which Father Sergio, a
ssistant to the bishop, described as “razor sharp.”

  When her cell phone rang, and she listened to the details of an ugly and clearly sinful deed, she felt a tingle of excitement. Her brain went into high gear. She got wrapped up in the mystery and forgot her other duties. When she got results, at least her faux pas were forgotten.

  This morning she felt the same reaction. She answered the phone and listened intently to the inspector’s instructions. She must go to San Benedetto Church right away. Young Father Domenic had found a body behind the vault of Cardinal Bartoli and had administered last rites, though perhaps too late. The inspector wanted her to see the crime scene before the body was transported to Petraggio for examination.

  *

  Sister Angela roused from her thoughts. She had to hurry. It was critical to view the body, but she had to talk to Mother Margherita before she could leave her class. She already knew the headmistress would refuse if Sister Angela’s class was left unsupervised. It might be smarter to first ask Sister Daniela to take over the class. If she did, Mother Margherita could not use that argument against her.

  In the cafeteria, she found Sister Daniela at a table in the corner. “Good morning,” Sister Angela said. “I have a big favor to ask. I hope you haven’t promised to fill in for someone else today.”

  “No,” said the novice, perking up.

  “I need help in the classroom. Do you think I can tell Mother Margherita I have a replacement?” she asked, adding, “The lesson plan is already in the book.”

  “If it will help your cause, but I’m disappointed you aren’t asking me to help with the investigation. Is there an investigation? Is that why you can’t teach this morning?”

  “I promise you’ll be the first to know after Mother Margherita,” the older nun said, turning to rush over to the school office.

  *

  The nun’s first hurdle would be the headmistress’ secretary who sat like a sentry outside the office door. Sister Marcella had been protecting the headmistress for ages. She fussed around her mother superior like a bird building a nest.

  “I must see Mother quickly,” Sister Angela said, trying to catch her breath.

  The secretary put her pencil down slowly. “I’m afraid Mother is busy right now. You may take a seat, Sister Angela,” she said, appearing to enjoy her task far too much. “I’ll tell her you are here when she becomes free.”

  “I must teach my first class in half an hour,” Sister Angela said as she wriggled into a chair designed for a fourteen year old. “If I can’t see her before that, we’ll all be in trouble.”

  “Ah there,” Sister Marcella said not ten minutes later. “She’s off the phone now.”

  The secretary stood up and opened the door for the teacher. Sister Angela quickly explained her problem as she approached the mother superior’s desk.

  “Sister, I think you had better turn them down this time and get to your classroom. Your students should be arriving soon. We don’t want them to be in the classroom by themselves.”

  “I can go and return in time for my second class, Reverend Mother. If I leave now, I’ll make it back with plenty of time to spare,” Sister Angela said, urgency in her voice. “And besides, Sister Daniela is in the classroom right now. I gave her my lesson plans, and she’s looking forward to the teaching experience.”

  “I suppose you can go if you’re back for your next class, Sister,” Mother Margherita conceded. “But I don’t want to hear there were problems and that you didn’t show up.”

  “And no calling the novice to fill in for your other class,” Sister Marcella added from the open doorway.

  Sister Angela had her arguments in place. Had the mother superior not conceded so readily, she would have presented them. She had certainly done it before. Mother Margherita always resisted at first. It was her nature. The school was important. The headmistress had to answer for her charges to the strictly conservative Father Sergio, and Sister Angela was sometimes summoned to meetings over which he presided. He had a long narrow face that was only slightly wider than his nose, making his eyes very close together. His glare, piercing Sister Angela on the bridge of her glasses, always seemed judgmental. The nun remembered one meeting in which he complained bitterly about her investigations.

  “Your vocation is teaching, Sister Angela, is it not?” he had said.

  “If by vocation, you mean the work I do here, yes. But my calling is my detective work, Father Sergio. I have permission to do it here in Montriano.”

  “The Church does not allow such work to be done by nuns.”

  “The Church doesn’t prohibit such work, Father,” the nun said.

  “That will be decided by the bishop’s council. You will follow the council’s decision if you wish to retain your veil.”

  “Perhaps it might be more appropriate to pray. I answer to my Savior, Father. We both do.”

  “And we have our hands full with Christ’s work, Sister. We do not need to take on any more. Let the police do their own work. We help souls pass into the next world. We do not care how the body got that way or ‘who dun it.’ You will just have to make a choice—the secular world or the Church.”

  “He has a point,” Mother Margherita explained. “I find it appalling, however, that Father Sergio sees everything as right and wrong. Sometimes he forgets which side he’s taken and what’s wrong suddenly becomes right. I must say it gives me headaches.”

  But Mother Margherita had criticized the priest in front of Sister Angela only once, and Sister Angela was not about to push too hard now—especially not since Mother Margherita usually saw both sides of an issue.

  “Well, God’s will is just as important,” the mother superior contended. “Should we let a killer go free to kill again? After all, the Church takes a position in war and in politics. Isn’t that just as secular?”

  Sister Angela did not have to hint. She did not have to question the woman’s opinions. Mother Margherita would come to the right conclusions on her own. The nun doubted

  Father Sergio really gave the mother superior headaches. She concluded that reverend mother could handle the priest since she, too, knew how to cause headaches.

  *

  So Sister Angela trundled up the steep hill to San Benedetto and paused for a moment in front of it now. The nun always marveled at the church’s simple beauty and the round window that fit above the door of the austere brown brick front. The inside, however, was another matter.

  The Madonna above the high altar was beautiful. No doubt about that. And the nun was in awe of the marble statue of St. Francis of Assisi. The statue’s simplicity and flawless white marble were indescribable. It was her favorite part of the church. The diocese started building the Romanesque church in 1275, but it remained unadorned until the fifteenth century when well-known Tuscan artists embellished the walls with frescos featuring the lives of martyrs. Sister Angela could not decide if they were beautiful or hideous. Of course the lives of the saints and martyrs were important to the Church, but the lengths to which the painters went to illustrate their suffering made her wonder. In order to become a saint today, someone could have a spiritual vision or help the poor, but how would artists depict that later?

  Certainly not with arrows or decapitations like those in the frescoes. She shook her head at the thought of automatic weapons in a painting. That would be a bit much in a church.

  Sister Angela considered all this as she slowly made her way up the hill. She would not think about murder or the body on such a lovely day nor would she dwell on being back for her second class. Happy she could contribute, Sister Angela thought only about how proud she was that the Montriano police needed her. Sighing, she reminded herself to do penance for the sin of pride.

  Of course, the idea that the paintings of martyrs on the walls of San Benedetto were unsuitable or too violent faded from her mind when she walked through the door into the narthex. In fact, any feelings about the loveliness of the day would quickly evaporate once she arriv
ed at the crime scene—and recognized the victim.

  ~Three~

  The nave was dark. Light streamed in through the stained glass high above, but the rays did not reach the tile floor. Instead, they illuminated the painting of the Madonna and child above the high altar, and of course, the Crucifix. Suddenly envisioning Michelangelo’s Last Judgment, Sister Angela let her gaze drop to the small group of onlookers, encircling an object at the feet of St. Francis.

  “Over here, Sister Angela,” DiMarco said, waving her toward the group. “You know Dr. Piombo, the medical examiner from Petraggio, don’t you?”

  “Yes, buongiorno, Andreus. What do we have here?” she asked.

  “Young man, early to mid-twenties,” the doctor said. “Homicide. Apparently occurred here. Someone attempted to mop up the blood. There’s evidence it splattered all over the walls on this side of the nave.”

  Dr. Andreus Piombo was a man of few words. Each one meant something. He would blurt them out in a staccato string and stop talking just as quickly. Sister Angela liked him. The aging doctor was efficient and accurate. He respected her too, though neither ever complimented the other. There was a bond there—a silent bond. He never hesitated to give his findings to the nun. She was a colleague and detective who could adeptly turn facts from a crime into plain and simple solutions.

  “Father Domenic says he closed the church up at ten-thirty, and there was nothing amiss then,” he said. “That makes the time of death between ten-thirty and maybe four this morning. I’ll know more when we get the body to my lab.”

  Sister Angela put her hand over her mouth when she saw it; the body was curled in the fetal position. “Blessed Mary and Joseph,” she said softly, crossing herself.