Force of Habit: A Falcone & Driscoll Investigation

by Alice Loweecey

  In addition, please contact the Motherhouse by August 1st with your acceptance, so we will have accurate numbers for the celebratory banquet. The price for this banquet is $25.00 for former Sisters, and $30.00 each for spouses and children, if any. Make checks payable to the Bursar General.

  On behalf of Sister Mary Fabian, Superior General, we hope to see all of our former Sisters on this joyful occasion.

  In the Spirit of Saint Francis,

  Sister Mary Beatrice, Bursar General

  The light flickered. A police siren swelled and blared and faded.

  “I always knew that woman had brass balls.” Lord, what a vulgar expression. Her father used to say that after a weekend shift at the power plant. Dad, no shift supervisor ever came close to Sister Mary Fabian.

  Her lock turned like normal. Must’ve been the humidity. She turned on the kitchen light and set everything on the table, marveling at the fact that some people enjoyed opening the mail.

  I know the response I’d like to send. Dear Hypocritical Tightwad: I’ll be happy to spend money I don’t have renting a car and buying gas to drive to Pittsburgh if you’ll be available to do me one favor. I’ll climb on your antique mahogany rolltop desk and you can kiss my butt.

  Giulia started to laugh, but she must’ve been more tired than she thought. Her throat closed and a couple of tears formed in her burning eyes.

  “To hell with you, lady.” She crumpled the letter into a ball and shoved it into the coffee grounds at the top of the trash can. “And you, too.” She popped her flute case and wadded the stalker’s note into a tighter ball.

  Wait. She couldn’t do that. She had to figure out exactly what the stalker was talking about.

  Giulia un-mashed the note and dragged it over the edge of the table to iron out some of the wrinkles.

  The clock read 12:20. Her brain was fried. She’d only reread it over and over and over. Probably get pieces of the reunion letter mixed up with it, too.

  Forget it. Bed.

  Giulia groped for the alarm’s off button. 3:30. “Awake, O sleeper, arise from the dead. It’s your turn for Pamela’s street,” she muttered into her pillow.

  No. Wait. She quit yesterday. Surveillance was Frank’s problem now.

  _____

  Early Mass a stressful memory, frying pan scrubbed, plate and utensils drying in the dish rack, Giulia studied the want ads over her second cup of coffee. Two bucks for the Sunday paper would be thievery except for the expanded classifieds.

  Lifeguard. If she had to, but she wanted to work past Labor Day. Waitress. No. Not after the disaster at her last waitressing job. Bookstore clerk. Painless, and heavy lifting would be no problem.

  All the hotel chains needed housekeepers. That was code for “maid,” but so what? She could work an institutional buffer. Might pull her above the other applicants. Those years polishing the chapel floor might finally pay off.

  Doughnut baker. There. Start early, end early, just her and the ovens. A little hot now through August, but she could punch in at four a.m. every day no problem. Piece of cake after ten years of two a.m. Vigils and five a.m. Mass. She circled the ad with a magic marker. It said to call between six and seven a.m. Sweetness and Lite must want to hear only from true early risers. Worked for her. Tomorrow at 6:01 she’d dial that number.

  She pulled out her interview suit and the ironing board. Early Mass gave her the whole day free. The wrong attitude toward the Sacrament, but... really, why was she still attending Mass?

  Easy. Guilt. Ask a harder one. Okay. Why was she still attending Mass?

  Force of habit. No pun intended. Ask a harder one.

  Oh, just admit it.

  She was still attending Mass because she wanted to believe He didn’t really boot her to the curb.

  That’s why. So shut up, iron your suit, and get out your résumé disk. The library opens at eight tomorrow; you can update it and be back here on the phone by nine, calling other ads.

  She was still avoiding the note, and she knew it. She could study it out in the courtyard if she didn’t want to be trapped inside with it. Fear of the stalker was going to consume her life if she didn’t take control of it now, today.

  Giulia wrung the dishcloth tighter and tighter.

  “Fine.” She threw the twisted cloth in the sink and lifted the toaster off the still-wrinkled stalker note. It didn’t bite her. Did she have a wacko dream about the letter last night? Yes... And the convent... Sister Mary Beatrice’s desk had chased her through the Motherhouse halls. The rolltop snapped at her and spewed out Barbie dolls and pomegranates and reams of letters.

  Time to shake it off. She’d escaped the nunnery, she had enough money to make rent this month, and Scott wanted her bod. That was antidote for quite a few obsessive stalker letters. Now to analyze this one and get on with her life.

  She carried it to the living-room window and laid it out on the floor in the sunshine. She would not get her Bible. That’d be just another excuse. It didn’t matter what Prophet the stalker took the quote from. What mattered is what it meant.

  “Your day has come, the time for you to be punished.” I’ve already been punished. No job. Reputation in shreds. “All your friends have betrayed you; they have become your enemies.” In Frank’s case at least. “There is no one to help you.” I suppose that’s true. I’ll have to find a job on my own. Common Grounds doesn’t need another barista. “Your enemies will look at you and laugh at your destruction.” Could that mean the ex is still spying on me? Why? I’m no threat to her getting Blake back. Any woman who wants him is welcome. If the ex wants to gloat over me as I ice doughnuts at six a.m.... Nah. No one’s that obsessed. Ms. Bible-Twister will leave me—and Pamela—alone now that Blake’s free.

  “Fallen are you, never to rise again.” Does that woman think I’ll never get another job? Is she waiting for me to throw myself off the nearest overpass?

  “Forget it, broad. I’m not going to lie down and die to make you happy.” Giulia tore the note into a pile of ragged little squares. She didn’t need to keep it—Frank didn’t care, and she was no longer working on the case. He’d figure out which blonde had a Blake-and-Bible fetish. It wasn’t her problem anymore.

  “Scott, do you know a good locksmith?” Giulia sat on the First Violin’s chair while Scott unwound a broken E string.

  “At least the stupid thing didn’t break during the show. A locksmith? Why?” He took a new string out of its square envelope.

  “My front door is acting up and my landlord moves in slow motion.” He didn’t need to know the other reason.

  “Excuse me.”

  Giulia looked up past a purple case, way up to the First Violin’s multiple blue-and-blonde braids. “Sorry, Lois. Talk to you at intermission, Scott.”

  Scott grunted in her direction as he plucked the new string and turned the tuning peg.

  If she’d been hitting on all cylinders yesterday, she would’ve thought to check the lock last night when her key stuck. But what about the possibility that someone had accessed her flute case while she talked to Scott? That meant someone in the orchestra might be the stalker’s flunky. A scary thought, that the hands of a fellow musician strangled lovebirds in anger. Did the ex pay her assistant so little salary that he or she needed the twenty bucks per performance to make the rent? Possible. Blast, that widened the field. Or maybe narrowed it, since she—no, no, no. It narrowed the field for Frank, since he no longer employed her. Driscoll Investigations, aka Frank Driscoll, would soon realize he had access to all these people Friday nights, Saturday nights, and Sunday matinees. He could study the Clarinet’s hands, the Bass’s hands, the Piccolo’s hands. Sidney could research them for her first assignment.

  The conductor walked past her, talking on his cell phone. She put her flute together in record time and warmed up. To her right, Frank ran scales and adjusted tuning pegs. On the other side of the half-circle of musicians, Scott played the opening measures of “Till There Was You” and gave the E-stri
ng microtuner one more tweak.

  _____

  “Ready for an evening of pizza, beer, and the finer points of ogre-dom?” Scott plucked Giulia’s flute head joint from her hands and blew a piercing note through it.

  “Ouch! Give me that.” She snatched it and pushed her cleaning cloth through it again. “Philistine. Keep your spit to yourself.”

  “How would you like me to apologize?” He kissed the back of her neck.

  She giggled. “Stop that.”

  “Okay. For now.” He sat on the Second Flute’s chair. “So what do you say?”

  “Have you ever had homemade pizza?”

  “Uh, no. Why?”

  She nudged the small cooler under her chair. “I didn’t think so. In this magic box are the ingredients for traditional Sicilian pizza. After tonight you’ll be spoiled for anything else.”

  “You’re going to cook for me? Awesome. No woman’s cooked for me since mom.”

  She rolled her eyes and finished stowing her flute. “I am not your mother.”

  “You bet you’re not.” He picked up the cooler. “Ready?”

  “There’s one minor difficulty. I’m applying for a new job at six a.m. tomorrow, so I have to get home early.”

  Scott looked over at Frank and lowered his voice. “I thought you had a job.”

  Giulia didn’t lower hers. “Time for a change.”

  Frank slapped his music folder onto his chair.

  Scott’s eyes seesawed from Giulia to Frank and back to Giulia. “What happened?”

  She was not going to dredge any of it up. Her imaginary X-rated past was in the kitchen trash with that last shredded note. Giulia Falcone was going to create her own future. “Nothing happened. Some jobs just aren’t a good fit.”

  His hand came down on hers as she closed her case. “You’re a lousy liar, Giulia. Did he try something? Is that why you want your lock changed?” He squeezed her hand. “If he did anything to you, I’ll make sure he never touches you again.”

  Giulia shook her head. “Nothing like that happened. It’s just a personalities thing.” Liar. Big, fat, hairy liar. Good thing none of her former students could hear her. Some example she was setting now.

  Well, she wasn’t a repressed, obedient high-school teacher anymore. She was a modern woman who was going home with Scott to explore RPGs and the muscles under his tight shirts.

  Scott said, “I’ve got a printer. We’ll fix your résumé while we eat.”

  “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

  “I have several reasons.” He wagged his eyebrows. “And I’ll be showing some of them to you very shortly.”

  Frank walked past them without a glance at her. The Percussion and Clarinet, each talking on cell phones, snaked in opposite directions between chairs and stands. The Saxophone and Tuba emptied their spit valves and went out the stage-right door. Except for the ushers banging chair seats into their upright positions, she and Scott were alone.

  “And as though I’m not tempting enough, Urnu wants you, too. In a few weeks the groupies will applaud us and lick their lips as my hand kneads your back. And the lower parts, maybe.”

  Giulia pasted on a polite smile. Learning intimacy behind closed doors was one thing. Public groping... no. Modern Giulia still had standards. “You’re such a tease.”

  “Consort, I always deliver.” He traced her ear with one finger. “I thought of names for our characters. Tammuz—that’s me—and you can be Veiled Siduri. Cool, huh? I’ll show you where I got them from later.”

  “The Gilgamesh epic.”

  He blinked. “How’d you know?”

  “I used to teach high-school English.”

  “I’m looking forward to learning all about you, my Siren.” He slung his violin over his shoulder and squeezed her with his free arm. “Kyle clued me in on Urnu’s initiation process. I’ll tell you about it later. Ready?”

  “Just have to hit the bathroom. Be right back.”

  Locked into a toilet stall, Giulia tucked the cheap T-shirt into the zipper pocket of her purse. The red sweater came out wrinkled, but it was the tiniest bit too small, and the creases disappeared when she smoothed her hands down her front and sides.

  Two bra straps were the first things she saw in the mirror.

  “Bad.” She tugged the neckline, but her straps were too wide to conceal. Instead, she slid them over her shoulders so they rested on the tops of her biceps. That’s what they mean by décolletage, Veiled Siduri. Veiled. Sheesh. Wonder what he’ll say if he ever finds out where I spent the past ten years? Hopefully he’ll laugh at the irony. She reapplied lipstick and concealer. Everything else was holding up.

  Should she unbutton one more button? Why did she buy a sweater that buttoned top to bottom? It screamed temptation.

  Shut up, dowdy self. Unbutton it. Whoa. Cleavage. She rebuttoned it. Not dowdy now, just modest. Why did she want to be modest in a sweater that revealed every single curve she had? Scott was waiting. Go on, unbutton it. Just one more. There.

  Before her former-nun self could claw her back to spinsterhood, Giulia opened the door.

  _____

  “Scott, do you have a large knife or a cleaver? I have to slice the mozzarella.” Giulia touched the grocery-store dough ball in its bowl on the counter. Almost room temp.

  “Isn’t it pre-shredded?” Scott handed her a chef’s knife after rummaging through a crowded, noisy drawer.

  “I weep for your palate. Come here and be educated, Prince Charming.” She slit the cheese’s plastic wrapping and carved it into narrow slices.

  He leaned one elbow on the counter. “A Prince Charming has a bevy of kitchen wenches for these tasks.”

  “And I’ve read about how Prince Charmings like to exert their charm on said wenches.”

  “Not while they’re holding ten-inch knives.”

  “Which is why we’re so skilled with them.” She set the knife in the sink. “The dough should be ready. Watch how true pizza is made.”

  Giulia let the dough hang by its own weight, turning it ninety degrees twice, until it fit the oblong pan. “Sauce, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am. The spoon, too?”

  “Yes. You take three or four tablespoons of sauce and spread them over the dough. Not too much, or the finished product will be a soggy mess. Now lay the cheese over it. Leave space between each slice because cheese spreads as it melts.”

  “See what a quick study I am, kitchen wench?”

  “No lip, or I’ll take a wooden spoon to you.” She ripped open the sliced pepperoni package. “Now lay these in rows. Just touching, not too many. Good. In about twenty minutes we’ll have supper.” She sealed the bag. “Do you have any plastic wrap for the extra cheese?”

  “I’ll get it. You wash your hands.”

  Giulia turned off the water and reached for the towel when Scott’s arms appeared around her waist. “Prince Charmings give favorite kitchen wenches extra attention.”

  “I, I thought your time was spent learning to rule wisely and sit regally on a noble steed.” Her breathing picked up speed.

  “And looking manly in those puffy shorts.”

  Giulia laughed. Too breathy.

  “Did I tell you how much I approve of this sweater?” Scott’s hands traveled up her ribs to the curve of her breasts.

  “I thought it, um, might be, um, too revealing.”

  “Not at all.” He kissed her neck. “You’ve unbuttoned just the right number of buttons.” He kissed her collarbone, and his hand snaked over her shoulder and into her cleavage.

  Giulia let out a tiny gasp. Scott’s hand slid farther.

  What if he felt the scabs? She wasn’t ready. Yes, she was. Cosmo said to go for it.

  She twisted around and kissed him.

  Scott paused a moment, his hand bent at an awkward angle. Then he tugged it out from between them and returned the kiss. His tongue touched her lips, pushed between them, brushed her shrinking tongue.

  Pot-Breath did that—in
the park. Giulia almost gagged at the memory, but then tasted peppermint. This wasn’t any rapist. It was Scott. Her muscles unlocked and she opened her mouth.

  Scott’s hand dropped to her butt and kneaded. Giulia pressed closer. Then his fingers slipped between her legs and touched... Giulia stopped breathing.

  It didn’t feel anything like in the park. It made her tingle. What should she do? If she opened her legs she’d signal “yes” to sex. She wasn’t ready. She was an idiot. But his touch felt good... He’d think she was easy... but wasn’t she? This was only their second date... His fingers moved against the seam of her jeans and her legs wobbled.

  Her own voice, eight years younger, came back to her. I, Sister Mary Regina Coelis, do hereby vow to Almighty God and to you, Sister Mary Fabian, Superior General, His representative on earth, perpetual poverty, chastity, and obedience...

  A high-pitched Meep! Meep! Meep! made them both jump.

  “Damn. Stupid printer.” Scott’s voice came huskier than usual. “Sorry, Giulia. Be right back.”

  Giulia braced herself against the cutting board. What was she doing? Who was she trying to become? A she-camel, sniffing the wind in her lust?

  She should leave. But what could she tell Scott? That she couldn’t drag herself kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century? That Jesus was busting a gut laughing at her? That she finally might’ve driven away the Holy Spirit?

  She ran water on a scouring pad and scrubbed the cheese dregs off the cutting board.

  From the living room came the unmistakable sound of a printer top snapping open and paper zzzzipp-ing through rollers. “Giulia, the printer ate two résumés. Give me a second to reset it.”

  Thank you, printer. You’re a true deus ex machina.

  “Giulia, you were right. All pizza should taste like this.” Scott leaned against the back of the couch and finished his third slice. His laptop sat in the middle of his coffee table, his pizza and beer on one side of it and hers on the other.

  “Thank you. The cook always likes it when the Prince appreciates her food.” She sipped beer and started her second slice.