Killer in the Cloister

by Camille Minichino

  Sister Ann William laughed. “It’s not that bad.” She pointed out the small print in the pamphlets and technical memos—voluminous details about which part of a flower is poisonous, and under what conditions. I noted that in some cases it would take a very large, unlikely dose of leaves or berries to do serious harm. “Merely handling flowers is different from actually consuming them,” she said. “But, you’re right, there’s a lot of potential for disaster if you don’t know what you’re doing with plants.”

  “Or if you do know.”

  She nodded. Her expression told me she was probably thinking along the same lines I was. “A lot of these symptoms are consistent with a heart attack or a stroke in an old person. We should find out which of these flowers might be here in our own garden.”

  “Also, we need more medical knowledge, like what are the symptoms that a doctor might miss without an autopsy.”

  “And there’s more than just plant poison to consider. I walked by the pharmacy lab today and noticed the cabinets that are kept locked—chemicals and pharmaceuticals—all controlled substances for one reason or another. I’m going to try to get some kind of inventory of what’s in there and a list of who has access to it.”

  Sister Ann William’s face was animated and flushed with the excitement that comes with a research project. At that moment a group of Sisters came up the stairs, chattering about their classes and professors. Sister Ann William and I stopped talking and looked at each other. We both seemed to feel the impact of what our research was about—a possible homicide in our own convent dormitory.

  A sudden wave of guilt came over me. I pictured myself at a Chapter of Faults accusing myself of being a bad influence on an otherwise trusting religious from a small town in Texas.

  “I hope you haven’t felt forced into this . . . project, Sister.”

  “Oh, not at all. It’s been very interesting to me. We don’t have to think of it as—well, anything but academic. That other matter probably has nothing to do with this anyway.”

  “Right,” I said, with no more conviction than I’d heard in Sister Ann William’s voice.

  I walked to my room and took stock of my afternoon. At three o’clock I’d cleansed my soul in the confessional, and at three-thirty I was back in the same spiritual quagmire.

  CHAPTER 11

  My napkin ring was at a different place when I walked in to dinner at six o’clock that evening. At our Motherhouse that usually meant a Sister had left the order—she’d have been ushered out the back door in disgrace while the rest of us were sleeping. On such occasions, everything would be changed to disguise the fact that there was an empty seat in chapel or at the table. Chore lists and places in study hall would be scrambled, dormitory rooms reassigned. If we did figure out who had left, we were forbidden to mention it or to ever speak of the defector.

  I doubted this was the reason my place at St. Lucy’s table had been changed. I was now next to Sister Felix, immediately to her right. I glanced around— Sister Teresa was on my right, Sister Veronique across from her. I wondered if a random placement of napkins could have resulted in this pattern. However, when Jake Driscoll entered the refectory and took the seat opposite me, to Sister Felix’s left, the thought crossed my mind that the new arrangement was not arbitrary. More like an ambush. Had I become a trouble-maker to be reckoned with?

  A general buzzing sound went through the large, hollow room when Mr. Driscoll appeared just behind Sister Felix. Not conversation, since we hadn’t yet said grace, but significant coughing, clearing of throats, and muffled gasps echoed from the plain walls and uncarpeted wooden floor. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who’d never seen a lay person at dinner in a convent refectory.

  After grace, Sister Felix, still standing at the head of the table, formally welcomed our guest. He had dressed for dinner in a shirt, tie and navy blue jacket. An image flashed across my mind and I looked at Jake Driscoll’s wrists. A twinge of disappointment—I’d hoped for the sight of one sleeve neatly tucked together with a gold and onyx cuff link bearing the letter D, and the other sleeve hanging loose, missing its partner. As it was, Mr. Driscoll’s pinkish shirt wasn’t the kind that required cuff links.

  Sister Felix continued to fulfill her duty as hostess with a final remark before signaling the server.

  “I hope this will be the first of many meals we’ll share with our neighbors and benefactors,” she said.

  Which category does Jake Driscoll come under? I wanted to ask. He doesn’t live in this neighborhood and what benefit is it that he’s taking away most of our grounds?

  “Good evening, Sister Felix, Sister Francesca, Sister Teresa, Sister Veronique,” he said, mercifully not addressing the whole length of the table. “This is quite an honor.”

  The server for the evening approached Sister Felix and handed her a heavy white platter of broiled chicken over rice.

  St. Lucy’s Hall employed young women from the Academy of St. Catherine of Sienna, a few blocks away, as housekeepers and servers at meals. I’d seen this evening’s waitress dusting the benches in chapel on my first day. She looked like a younger version of myself as a teenager—tall and skinny, with freckles and red hair that drew attention even if all you did was set bowls of vegetables and baskets of dinner rolls on the table.

  Sister Felix took a portion of meat and passed the dish to Mr. Driscoll.

  “Please, Sister,” Mr. Driscoll said, turning the utensils to me before taking a serving for himself. “After you.”

  I took a small piece of chicken and about a tablespoon of rice, having once again lost my appetite in the face of stress.

  As he took a healthy serving of meat, Mr. Driscoll made a teasing remark to the server, comparing her hair to the carrots she’d offered Sister Felix. He pointed to his own shock of straight white hair and said, “Rice.”

  The server and many of the Sisters joined in his laughter, as if he’d told a hilarious, original joke. I smiled weakly and said nothing, hoping my face didn’t betray either my feelings of irritation or the color of my own hair.

  If I’m going to have to sit here and talk, I thought, it might as well be about something I’m interested in.

  “How’s work on the new contract progressing, Mr. Driscoll?” I asked.

  “Very well, Sister, and how are your studies?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  Before I could say more, his loud voice broke in, continuing his new line of discussion.

  “I’ve heard great things about the new Theology faculty. One of the most important departments at the University these days, wouldn’t you say?”

  Hard to argue with that. One round for Jake Driscoll. A glance at the frown on Sister Felix’s face had thrown me off track and dissuaded me from making another unwelcome comment, at least for the moment.

  Sisters Teresa and Veronique held up their ends of a conversation about their classes in the English and History Departments. Both spoke freely of current events. They seemed well-versed in data—the death toll in Vietnam and the chemical makeup of the weapons. It seemed neither of them needed their superiors to filter the daily news for them.

  “Did you read about Father Ellison’s program to help clean up the streets of Harlem?” Sister Teresa asked.

  “We’re going down to 125th Street on Saturday,” Sister Veronique said. “Father Ellison has arranged for anyone who’s interested to be part of the crew. We’re going to sweep the streets, paint over the graffiti, whatever.” Sister Veronique swept her fork through the air in a breezy, cleansing motion, dropping bits of rice on the table.

  “I’m in,” said a Sister whose name I didn’t know.

  “Me, too,” said another.

  It was the first I’d heard of the event, although Mother Julia had told us about the famous Father Ellison, a Jesuit priest making a name for h
imself by preaching a social gospel. He and his followers had already been arrested several times. They’d been pulled from doorways and from the steps of administration buildings where they protested government policies in Vietnam, civil rights violations, and other causes that Mother Julia referred to as “worldly.” According to her, Father Ellison would have us believe that Jesus was a social worker—as if appearing on earth as the Son of God was not enough—and that we should follow suit.

  Lax as I’d been since my arrival at St. Lucy’s Hall, one rule I’d held to was abstention from newspapers, television, or any other source of worldly news.

  “Do you read newspapers at your home convents?” I asked. I looked past Mr. Driscoll, addressing the question to all Sisters within earshot.

  I heard a variety of overlapping answers—”of course,” from Sister Teresa, “not yet,” from Sister Veronique, and “some of us do,” from the unnamed nun next to Sister Veronique.

  Jake Driscoll hadn’t participated in the conversation about cleaning up Harlem, and I wondered where he stood on the political spectrum. After a bite of chicken, I was ready for another round with him.

  “What do you think of the reforms of Vatican II, Mr. Driscoll?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to plead the Fifth, Sister. I try to stay away from controversy.”

  “You seemed to have some with Mother Ignatius—controversy, that is.”

  “Sister Francesca.”

  Sister Felix’s voice was full of reproach. If my own Mother Julia had said my name that way I would have immediately fallen on my knees in front of her and begged forgiveness.

  But Sister Felix had already shown herself to be less than admirable—in my opinion, she hadn’t waited a decent amount of time before undoing Mother Ignatius’ legacy to St. Lucy’s Hall. In the two days since our old Superior’s death we’d acquired a new property contract with the University, the promise of keys for every Sister, and entertained a lay man in the refectory. And these were just the things I knew about.

  My stomach lurched at the thought of what might be decided later at the community meeting. I’d finally seen the notice Sister Ann William had told me about. “Come to the main parlor at eight o’clock. Important issues to be voted on,” the announcement read. As if God’s will were to be found in majority rule or consensus.

  The situation was strange enough to spur me on. After all, I told myself, Sister Felix has not been declared my superior yet. I ignored her warning look and pressed the issue.

  “Perhaps I misunderstood, Mr. Driscoll. I was under the impression that Mother Ignatius stood between you and your goals for this property.”

  “Sister!” Sister Felix made a motion to stand up, the better to make herself clear, I assumed, but Mr. Driscoll interrupted her.

  “No. It’s all right, Sister Felix,” he said. “Sister Francesca is a resident and she has a right to know what’s going on.”

  I felt my face heat up, knowing we had the attention of at least the first five sisters on each side of the table. Eating came to a halt, and even the carrot-topped server seemed unwilling to approach us. She kept herself busy filling water glasses at the far end of the refectory.

  “Mother Ignatius was an extraordinary religious,” Mr. Driscoll said. “ But she had no understanding of the unstable fiscal condition of the University and this house. Her ideas were not necessarily good for the Church of today.”

  Sister Felix gave him a smile of approval, as if she wished she’d said it herself.

  “So now St. Lucy’s and the University have more money than they did three days ago, and you have their property. Is that necessarily good for the Church?”

  “Good question. You have a point, Sister. I admit I’m talking about money, not the spiritual realm. I know you’d like to think the religious life has nothing to do with money, but that’s not realistic. Someone has to pay for this.” He swept his arms around in a large circle, embracing the refectory, floor to ceiling. “Whether it’s here or in your own convent, there are bills to be paid. Everything from your basic food and electricity to medical care and your long term needs. Where do you think that money comes from?”

  “God provides, Mr. Driscoll.”

  He nodded his head and looked straight at me. “Maybe I’m the way God provides, Sister Francesca.”

  <><><>

  I paced the tiny floor of Room 25 until I was nearly dizzy, running through the dinner conversation in my head. Intimidated a second time by Jake Driscoll, I’d excused myself from the table and gone to my room. I was distressed I hadn’t been a better spokesperson for Mother Ignatius on the one hand, and a more exemplary representative of my community on the other.

  Finally, I pulled my chair to the window and looked out over St. Lucy’s garden, as if I could protect both the yard and Mother Ignatius by the sheer power of my staring.

  Drawn by the soft colors of the setting sun, I allowed my glance to move upward. I found an unlikely source of inspiration in the imposing yellow and gray brick buildings of the Bronx, and I was able to ground myself once again. Although the campus was beyond my range of vision, I strained my eyes, focusing past the tenements of Marian Avenue and 198th Street, and imagined I could see the Gothic tower of St. Alban’s administration building.

  Homework. The sight of the campus, real or imagined, reminded me I needed to do my homework. That was my mission and that’s what would free me from the confusions of my new environment.

  I took up my text on Church liturgy, ready to read the chapters Father Glanz had assigned. The first few paragraphs were more thought-provoking than I’d expected.

  From time to time we need to re-examine the roots of our customs and laws. And if the reason for a particular rule has disappeared, then perhaps the practice of it ought to follow.

  I took a breath as I considered the logic of the statement. I had no trouble accepting it in theory, but I was suspicious of applying it to cherished rituals and mandates of the Church. I read further.

  Deep into an argument in favor of women as priests—we now know that women weren’t excluded at the Last Supper. They simply weren’t reported as being present, due to the custom of the times—I heard a soft knock at my door. Once again Sister Ann William appeared at my threshold with food. This time it was dessert.

  “I noticed you left early,” she said, offering me a slice of almond tart with an attractive topping of strawberries and blueberries in a thin layer of whipped cream. It looked both patriotic and delicious.

  “I wouldn’t have left if I’d known this was coming. Thank you.”

  Sister Ann William laughed and handed me the plate, a napkin, and fork. I wondered if she’d been a full-time server in a former life.

  “Are you going to the meeting?” she asked. “It starts in about ten minutes.”

  “I haven’t decided. Are you?”

  “I haven’t decided either.”

  “We could both go and cause trouble.”

  This time Sister Ann William’s laugh was loud enough to attract the attention of a Sister entering a room halfway down the corridor. Sister Ann William put her hand to her mouth, and I had another twinge of guilt that I was a bad influence on her.

  While Sister Ann William went to get a notebook, I took the time to eat the tart in the comfort of my room. Immediately afterwards, I wished I could transport myself to Potterstown to convene a special Chapter of Faults.

  “I allowed myself worldly pleasures,” I’d say to Mother Julia and the assembled community. “I ate in my room twice, and found comfort in food, friendship, and privacy.”

  Disgusted with myself, I rolled up my sleeve and wrapped my spiked chain around my upper arm, pressing the barbs into my flesh as I fastened the hook. Then I headed for the parlor, to resume my role as troublemaker.

 
CHAPTER 12

  Sister Ann William and I entered the parlor as Sister Felix finished her opening remarks.

  “. . . and since Sister Teresa Barnes is the most senior member of St. Lucy’s Hall,” she said, “I’ve asked her to chair this meeting.”

  Sister Felix’s smile reminded me of a proud high school principal introducing the new student body president. She was going against custom by mentioning Sister Teresa’s surname, which ordinarily would be used only in legal contexts like registering to vote or obtaining a driver’s license.

  Arriving late, Sister Ann William and I were forced to take seats in the front row of folding chairs that had been added to accommodate the thirty-nine residents. The room was filled to capacity, with some Sisters perched on the arms of easy chairs and on end tables. Most were fully dressed in their habits, but I noticed several nuns without their veils and a few with brightly colored sweaters or jackets.

  The atmosphere was more like a political rally than a convent assembly. The undercurrent of chatter and the plates of cookies were a stark contrast to the utter silence and spirit of abstinence at any community meeting I’d ever attended. I looked around at the walls of the parlor, expecting to see a pagan banner draped over the large oil painting of St. Lucy, patroness of the blind, that hung over the mantel. Fortunately, the image of the fourth century virgin and martyr was undisturbed. In silence, I invoked the aid of the woman whose eyes were torn out by secular authorities, then miraculously restored. I prayed we would all see clearly.

  Sister Veronique distributed an agenda, typed on onion skin paper with a thin red stripe along the side, like the kind required for theses. She wore a grin, giving her face a victorious look. The sight reminded me of the battles fought by the late Mother Ignatius, who seemed to me the loser in an undeclared war.

  I bristled as I read down the numbered list of topics. Nestled between item number one, Keys to the front door, and number three, New refrigerators, was number two, Changes in the Liturgy, as if the most sacred rituals of the Church were only slightly more important than the availability of a midnight snack.