Killer in the Cloister

by Camille Minichino

  “I’m thinking someone may have poisoned Mother Ignatius.” With my thoughts—ugly as they were—out in the open, a wave of relief swept over me, carrying almost-sweet perfume from the massive gardens on my left. “She was afraid of something. She was going to tell me what it was, and then . . .”

  “So you think whoever was with her on Sunday night might have killed Mother Ignatius?”

  “What do you mean ‘whoever was with her?’”

  Sister Ann William’s steps faltered as she tried to keep up with my questions. I realized my excitement was intimidating her and forced myself to calm down. “I’m sorry, Sister, but this could be really important,” I told her in as soft a voice as I could manage.

  She took a breath. “I heard Mother Ignatius, in her office that night, and I heard another voice—I’m sure someone was in there with her.”

  “A man or a woman?”

  Sister Ann William paused and tilted her head to the side, as if straining to hear the sounds again. She shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t be positive. I’d say either a man or a woman with a low-pitched voice. They were definitely arguing, however.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Well, it was after Compline. I went to watch an eight o’clock news program in the parlor. But then I got these guilty feelings, since we’re not allowed television at my Motherhouse except for occasional documentaries. I probably left about eight fifteen.”

  I made a quick calculation, figuring that eight fifteen was exactly between the time Mother Ignatius wrote the note at eight o’clock and my arrival in the parlor at eight thirty. I wondered why I hadn’t heard anything when I passed the office myself, but Sister Ann William cleared it up for me.

  “The door wasn’t quite closed when I walked by to go upstairs. Once they closed it, I couldn’t hear a thing. Not that I was listening.”

  “But why didn’t you tell anyone? I mean, she was dead the next morning.”

  “She was an old woman who died in her sleep, Sister Francesca. Why would I think of mentioning that she was talking to someone so many hours before?”

  I took a deep breath to calm myself. “You wouldn’t, Sister. Of course not. Did you by any chance catch word or a glimpse through the crack in the door? Did you hear what they were arguing about?”

  “No. I wasn’t paying attention. I just vaguely remember there was a conversation. It’s not as if they were really yelling or anything. I might even be wrong that it sounded confrontational. And I could still hear the television set down the hall.”

  Sister Ann William shuddered, and I knew the crisp air was not the reason. I felt responsible for her agitated state, and without thinking I put my hand on her shoulder. I removed it immediately, hoping she didn’t notice. While Christian comfort was a virtue, a physical expression of it was forbidden a person with a vow of chastity. I looked around the wide boulevard that led to the campus, as if I expected to see Mother Julia’s disapproving look from the window of a passing car.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Sister,” I said.

  “It’s all right, Sister Francesca. But what do you think happened to Mother Ignatius if it wasn’t a peaceful death?”

  “Well, suppose Mother Ignatius served tea or coffee to the man—or woman—in her office. And suppose he had something with him, some poisonous liquid, or powder, and he put it in her drink. Suppose it was timed so it would take effect while she was sleeping . . .”

  I didn’t need Sister Ann William to tell me that was a lot of supposes.

  “If there were anything strange about Mother Ignatius’s death, wouldn’t the police have noticed?”

  “But that’s just it. As far as we know, the police weren’t called in. The murderer probably counted on everyone’s assuming the death was natural, but I’m guessing he took precautions anyway. That’s why I need you to find out what kind of poisons wouldn’t leave an obvious trace.”

  Sister Ann William let out a long breath. I could tell she was struggling to process the scenario I’d presented. I pictured her writing to her Superior at the Holy Charity Motherhouse in Texas about a crazy Sister of Mary Immaculate from upstate New York who thought up murder plots as a hobby.

  “Tell me again. What makes you suspicious in the first place?” she asked me, her briefcase back down at her side.

  I respected Sister Ann William’s need for reinforcement. I told her again about Mother Ignatius’s distraught state, her request to meet me, and the note she’d left in my mail slot. Leaving out my observations of the night before, I recounted the suspect list I’d built up in my head. A real estate developer who needed more property, an Albanite Sister who wanted a promotion, and a few others who wanted their own keys. It didn’t seem like much when I laid it all out, even after I threw in a chaplain who might be dating a nun.

  Sister Ann William didn’t think much of the list either.

  “First, Mr. Driscoll’s rich and powerful. He could have gotten that contract broken easily. I know the type. My older brother James is a lawyer and he’s always doing that kind of thing for Houston oil men.”

  “He makes illegal transactions?”

  “Not exactly. James explains it a little differently. He says no contract is impossible to break. There are always extenuating circumstances a good lawyer can find.”

  I nodded, trying to absorb the facts of the real world. “And in this case, I suppose Jake Driscoll could have claimed Mother Ignatius was too old to be responsible.”

  Sister William nodded. “Or that the original signers didn’t foresee future needs of the local community. So, for suspects, that leaves us with Sister Felix and the other Sisters, and Father Malbert.” She clucked her tongue. “I can’t believe a religious person would ever commit murder, let alone over some silly rules.”

  “I can’t either,” I said. “Let’s forget about it.”

  “Did you read a lot of Sherlock Holmes before you entered?”

  “Agatha Christie.”

  We shared a much needed laugh and turned onto the campus path.

  As we approached the pharmacy building where we would part for the morning, Sister Ann William brought her briefcase to her chest again.

  “It would still be interesting to find out what kind of poisons might not leave a trace,” she said, with a conspiratorial grin.

  “Yes, it would.”

  “Just from the scientific point of view.”

  “Of course.”

  Maybe it wasn’t so awful to have friends.

  CHAPTER 9

  I walked on to Aquinas Hall, where the Theology Department was housed, and made a ten-minute visit to the small chapel on the first floor. I looked for a priest in the confessionals, but found none. Except for a repetition of formal prayers and a prayer for Timothy, I was unable to focus on spiritual matters. The Case of the Dead Mother Ignatius, of concern only to me and Sister Ann William, it seemed, flooded my brain.

  What would the police do if they had my suspicions, I wondered? Although I was helpless to do anything about it, I came up with a list. Canvass the neighborhood. See what cars were in front of St. Lucy’s Hall on Sunday evening after eight o’clock. Talk to every Sister in residence, especially the ones on the first floor watching television—ask if anyone remembered a stranger arriving in the evening. Determine whether doors and first floor windows were kept locked routinely. Dig into Mother Ignatius’s past for anyone with a reason to kill her. Find out what her habits were with regard to drinking tea at night. Determine whether she made it herself or had someone bring it to her.

  I’d have asked Sister Felix some of these questions if she hadn’t aborted our interview.

  I wondered if I could get the china set I’d seen in Mother Ignatius’ office to a laboratory surreptitiously. Maybe I could also mail the packet of letters and the
cuff links to the Bronx Police Department. I sighed at the realization that it would be entirely inappropriate for me to carry out any of this.

  I thought about Sister Felix. Had she lied to me about Mother Ignatius’s not having a meeting or did she simply not know? Her suite was two doors down from Mother Ignatius, with a coat closet in between. It was impossible to know if she’d been in a position to hear her Superior’s last words. Or if she herself had been the combatant my friend Sister Ann William had heard.

  The strange behavior of Father Malbert also came to mind, though I had to admit it was no stranger than mine. There were certainly no altar linens or candelabra in Mother Ignatius’s suite when I’d snooped around in it, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t been there—they might have been removed without Father Malbert’s knowledge.

  Or, maybe he’d gone to her office for the same reason I did. Just to snoop. Something to consider.

  Since Mother Ignatius was at least in her late seventies and died without signs of struggle, I assumed no autopsy would have been conducted. I consoled myself with the thought that at least it wasn’t too late for that, since the Church didn’t allow cremation. How could our souls rise and join our bodies on the Last Day if we’d permitted ourselves to be turned into a pile of ashes beforehand?

  I heard the warning bell for my ten-thirty class and offered a quick genuflection as I left the chapel, no more at peace than when I entered.

  <><><>

  My first class was in Church history and liturgy, a last minute substitution for a cancelled comparative religions class. I was surprised to find myself looking around for Aidan. Wondering about Timothy’s night with him, of course.

  I took a seat near the middle of the large, sloped lecture hall, dominated by a long counter-like desk across the front, and dozens of rows of student chairs bolted to the old wooden floor. The only adornments were an American flag in one corner and an enormous crucifix centered over the blackboard.

  I tried to judge the political leanings of our professor, Father Glanz, by his looks as he walked in and sorted through his books and notes. Tall, with a weathered face and enough gray hair and thickness around the middle to be in his fifties at least. That should be old enough to be sensible, I thought.

  I knew it would impossible for any professor to teach a class in liturgy without entering into the debate sparked by Vatican II. The Roman Catholic mass, a commemoration of the Last Supper, was a central controversy. One faction wanted to keep the traditional ritual—Latin for the essential parts, the priest celebrant with his back to the congregation, Holy Communion place on our tongues. Liberal Catholics wanted the liturgy more accessible to everyone—using the local language and modern translations of scriptural passages. In the new liturgy the priest would face us and encourage us to add our own individual prayers and concerns.

  As a result, clergy and laity were encouraged to make the mass a social as well as a spiritual event. Halfway through the service, we were expected to turn to our neighbors in the pews nearest us and give them “the greeting of peace,” which meant anything from a kiss to a handshake. As if we’d gathered for the annual parish spaghetti supper. Not what I thought Jesus had in mind for the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.

  I didn’t wonder for long where Father Glanz stood on the issue, his sober appearance notwithstanding. One look at the syllabus he’d handed out told me I was in for more internal conflict. An expert in Semitic languages, Father Glanz had listed as one of his objectives “to understand the rational and historical bases for changes in the liturgy.”

  “Uh-oh,” said the person slipping into the seat next to me.

  With a bonnet extending six inches out from my face, I had to turn a full ninety degrees to see who was talking. I found myself eye to eye with Aidan Connors. He held the syllabus with two fingers of one hand as if it were evidence in a crime. With the other he pointed to the same line of text I had just read.

  “I hear he consecrates brownies and milk at home liturgies,” Aidan said. He wore a broad smile and a considerably better selection of clothing than the night before. His blue crew-neck sweater, which matched the color of his eyes, looked as new my own bib.

  “Good morning,” I said, laughing in spite of the near-blasphemy. “Did everything work out all right with Timothy?”

  “Absolutely fine, Sister. We talked for a while, made plans for him to meet us for lunch in the cafeteria between eleven thirty and noon. He was still sleeping when I left.”

  “I’m so grateful, Aidan.”

  “No problem. It was interesting, actually. I learned a lot about you last night.”

  My eyes widened as I tried to think of what Timothy knew about me that shouldn’t be broadcast to the world at large. Other than my baptismal name and my tomboy past, I couldn’t think of anything.

  I had a sudden recollection of my high school days when I’d sit around with my girlfriends and talk about the nuns who taught us. We had so many questions that seemed fascinating at the time. What color was Sister Dorothy’s hair? Black, probably, to match her eyebrows. Did the nuns swim in the pool after we’d gone home for the day? More interesting, what did they wear when they did?

  Now a nun myself, I wondered if Aidan had the same questions about me. Just in time to distract us both from my reddening face, Father Glanz let out a loud cough and banged his heavy notebook on the desk. If that didn’t get everyone’s attention, his opening words certainly did.

  “If Jesus held the Last Supper today,” he said, “He might not have chosen bread and wine to consecrate.” Father Glanz cleared his throat, as if to prepare us for the punch line. “More likely, He would have used pizza and beer, or brownies and milk.”

  <><><>

  By the time my first graduate school class was over, fifty minutes later, I longed for the days when I’d walked the paths of my Motherhouse, wrapped in a black wool shawl, oblivious to the winds of change swirling around me. My meditations then had been on the sufferings of Christ and the teachings of the Church, undistracted by the notion of consecrating fast food or chocolate dessert. I’d thought of heresy as a word that applied to the non-believers of earlier centuries, like Luther, Manicheus, and Jansen. Not to a priest/professor in a Catholic university.

  I said as much to Aidan as we walked toward the cafeteria.

  “I know what you mean,” he said, in a way that was more relaxed than I was ready for.

  I persisted. “Doesn’t he have to follow the Cardinal’s guidelines?”

  “I’m sure there are ways around them.”

  I seemed to be learning a lot about loopholes lately, in contract law and in the Church. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know any more.

  “What do you think of the new liturgy?” I asked Aidan, hopeful that a man who prayed the rosary held on to traditional views all around.

  “Well, Sister, at the moment, I’m open. To a certain extent, I mean. A lot of this so-called new stuff, like using the language of the people instead of Latin, is really old. Goes way back to the early days of the Church.”

  “I’m aware of that argument.”

  “Of course. You would be. I’m sorry.” Aidan sounded more contrite than the occasion called for.

  “No need to apologize. I did ask you.”

  “It’s a strange time in the history of the Church. In the country, actually. Everything seems to be in turmoil.”

  “I agree.”

  Ordinarily I would have stopped there, satisfied our conversation had been a necessary follow-up to our class together. But the sharp fall weather and my new life as a student overtook my better judgment and I was moved to pursue the topic.

  “I believe if you choose to be a Catholic, you know what you’re getting into. It’s not like joining a club. You should accept the Church for what it is and not try to change it.”

 
“It sounds a lot like, love it or leave it,” Aidan said.

  “So?”

  “So? Haven’t you been reading the papers?” He paused. “No, I guess you haven’t. It’s the slogan these days. It’s what we hear from people who refuse to think for themselves or question our government’s practices.”

  I had the urge to poll the students we passed along the pathway. Could I tell from what they wore where they stood on these issues? I constructed a chart in my head—a patch made from a faded American flag meant thumbs down on our government, a neat cardigan symbolized loyalty to our elected officials.

  My correlation fell apart when I tried to tie Aidan’s words to his classic blue sweater.

  We walked in silence for a few minutes while I adjusted my opinion of Aidan Connors. I had no hard evidence, but I put him in the group of Catholics who now would take the Host into their own hands at Holy Communion if offered it by the priest. As for me, I approached the Communion rail with my hands in a prayerful attitude and my tongue ready to have the priest lay the Host on it, just as I’d been taught when I was seven years old. But the tiny Susan Marie Wickes in the second grade at Immaculate Conception Grammar School in Potterstown seemed very far away.

  I walked up the path to St. Alban’s student union building, feeling nostalgic for the past.

  <><><>

  One night with Aidan Connors seemed to do a lot for my brother. When he joined us at lunch he was in a good mood, and, to my relief made no sarcastic remarks to Sister Ann William. The old Timothy might have offered her a beer or told her a joke of questionable taste.

  After lunch, Aidan left to put in a few hours at his part-time mechanics job at Lloyd’s shop.

  “Time to get my hands dirty,” he’d said. He won a look of approval from Timothy, who’d seemed to hang on Aidan’s every word during lunch.