Killer in the Cloister

by Camille Minichino

  I stepped out of Mark’s car in front of Sister Teresa as she approached the steps to St. Lucy’s front door. I didn’t realize the extent of my disheveled appearance until I saw the look on her face.

  “Francesca! What happened to you?”

  A sharp pain shot through my head as I twisted around to look at my skirt, soiled in the back. My bib was askew, my rosary broken. Apparently a protuberance on the bike got caught in a loop of the large beads that hung from my waist. One section of ten beads was detached from the rest, swinging well below my knees, like a renegade incense holder.

  “Some creep ran her down with a motor scooter,” Mary Margaret told her, shaking her head. “She could have been a lot worse off.”

  Sister Teresa gasped. Her hands flew to her face, her fair skin turning red, as if she herself were the culprit.

  “She didn’t want to go a hospital,” Mark said. “But I think someone should make sure she’s all right.”

  “I’m fine. Just a little shaken,” I said, tired of the third person references.

  “I’ll take care of her,” Sister Teresa said. She straightened her shoulders as if to assume a position of command, and in doing so pulled the front of her habit even tighter across her chest. I tried to dismiss an uncharitable image of her small silver cross disappearing into the horizontal fold at her bosom.

  <><><>

  I sat up in my bed, my head resting against extra pillows Sister Teresa had brought me. So much for joining myself to the sufferings of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane, I thought.

  To my chagrin, on the way to my room we’d passed several Sisters, including Sister Felix. They offered in turn tsk-tsks for the offender on the scooter, and good wishes for me. Sister Felix had put a note about my father’s heart attack on the bulletin board and all assured me of their prayers for his recovery. The Wickes family was getting its share of attention from the residents of St. Lucy’s.

  Sister Felix also stopped in to visit me—the first time I’d seen her since Sister Magdalene’s visit. An awkward moment.

  “Take care of yourself, Sister Francesca,” she’d said to me, with no warmth at all in her voice. From her manner, I wouldn’t have surprised if it had been she who’d run me down, except I didn’t think anyone would miss a nun on a motor scooter.

  I couldn’t help wondering what her motive was in lying to my Superiors—painting a false picture of life at St. Lucy’s. If her intention was to stop my meddling, why hadn’t she broached the topic directly? I yielded to common sense and put all unpleasant thoughts aside until I felt well enough to deal with them rationally.

  Sister Teresa checked in often during the afternoon, asking about my bruises and inquiring about the accident. Did I see who did it? Would I recognize the vehicle? Should the police be informed?

  I shook my head. “It wouldn’t do any good to report it since I didn’t see a thing. It happened very quickly.”

  On one of her visits, Sister Teresa proposed soothing music to help my recovery. “Veronique has a portable radio in her room,” she told me. “She’s not back from campus yet, but I know she’d be happy to have you borrow it. Some nice chamber music might help you relax.”

  “No, thank you, Sister,” I said. “I’ll probably fall asleep from the hot tea and aspirin.”

  I wished Sister Magdalene could have heard the suggestion—a radio in my room. In spite of her lack of religious decorum, however, Sister Teresa proved to be a gentle and attentive nurse. She’d taken the skirt of my habit to the laundry room and cleaned it, adding a promise to have my rosary repaired by morning.

  “Father Malbert is good with his hands,” she said.

  I groaned inwardly at surrendering my rosary to a priest who probably could no longer name its fifteen mysteries.

  “Did you ever wear a large rosary around your waist?” I asked Sister Teresa, for some reason unknown to me.

  She nodded. “We’re still supposed to, but . . . “ She shrugged her shoulders. “Anyway, don’t worry. I’ll take good care of yours.”

  I knew I’d have to rethink my assumed correlation between Sisters who wanted change, and rude or uncaring behavior.

  <><><>

  I’d thought of trying to negotiate the three flights of stairs down to St. Lucy’s dining room, but when Sister Ann William appeared at my door with a dinner tray, I was relieved. We laughed about the turn of events as I cut into a piece of pot roast with some difficulty. Although my right arm was sore, my unbecoming fall seemed to have done nothing to curb my appetite.

  “I may be destined never to eat in the refectory again,” I said between mouthfuls of soft, boiled potatoes.

  “Don’t say that, Sister Francesca. You’re going to be up and about in no time.”

  Instead of music to relieve stress, Sister Ann William suggested we say Compline together. I accepted gratefully, acknowledging that a round trip to the first floor chapel sounded like an exhausting journey.

  After I’d finished a large portion of butterscotch pudding, we read our evening prayer out loud. We decided to omit the customary hymn to the Virgin Mary at the end, since we both had voices that sounded best when buried in a choir. Instead, we recited the words of the Salve Regina.

  . . . mater miserecordiae, vita dulcedo et spes nostra, salve

  Hail Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, Our Life, Our Sweetness, and Our Hope. . .

  <><><>

  Once Sister Ann William had departed, I turned to the stack of mail she’d put on my tray—more mail than I’d receive in a month at the Motherhouse. I thought how delighted my father would be to see so many cards and notes from St. Lucy’s Sisters, offering spiritual bouquets for him.

  “I’m giving one daughter to God, and getting a convent full in return,” he’d said to Mother Julia when I entered.

  Considering the bounty of another house of prayer for my father, plus the solicitousness of Sister Teresa and Sister Ann William, I finally felt a sense of community with the Sisters of St. Lucy’s.

  Too bad it had taken Mary Margaret’s designated “creep on a motor scooter” on Southern Boulevard to bring it about.

  CHAPTER 17

  Timothy called me from Potterstown at ten in the morning to report on our father’s condition.

  “He’s stable, but not out of the woods.” A pause. “Everyone’s here. You should be, too.”

  I braced myself. Conversations with my brother were never easy, and I knew this one would be particularly difficult. We both had cause to be agitated, if for different reasons.

  “Where I should be is where God wants me, Timothy. Every Sister in the house is praying for Dad.”

  “Huh. That’s a big help. How come you’re breaking the rules—talking to me? Patty said not to bother you, and you probably wouldn’t pick up the phone anyway.”

  “I understand you’re upset.”

  “Has Driscoll called you yet?”

  I leaned against the wall, to support both my aching back and my emotional swings. “Why would Mr. Driscoll call me, Timothy?”

  “Steve Rooney, my Parole Officer, notified him about Dad.”

  Another inroad into the Wickes family. “I see. Why do you think he did that?”

  “Makes sense. Officially Driscoll’s my employer, although I won’t be able to start as soon as I thought. I’m staying home until Dad’s better.” I remembered Jake Driscoll making it clear he didn’t need my consent to hire Timothy. No matter, I thought, what my family does is out of my hands, as it should be. “He said he’s going to arrange a ride for you to come up here.”

  “I can’t do that, Timothy.”

  “I know you refused Aidan’s offer, but I figured if a girl drove you up it would be OK. A ton of college kids do that—drive people around for pay. And Driscoll knows a couple of undergrads who�
��d be happy to take you. It’s your father for Christ’s sake.”

  Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.

  My brother knew many ways to get to me. Breaking the Second Commandment was one of them. I took a deep breath. My whole body ached from my accident. Or what I hoped was an accident.

  “This is not a good time to have this discussion. I’m standing in the middle of a hallway, and I have to leave soon for class.”

  “Yeah, well, life goes on, I guess. Except maybe for Dad.”

  <><><>

  When we hung up my brother and I were no closer to understanding each other than when he was twelve years old. My father and sisters, delighted with my vocation, had tried to explain it to Timothy. “Susan Marie is going to help God save souls,” Patty told him.

  Young Timothy shook his head, looked at me and said, “God doesn’t need your help. We do.”

  Either my brother was right, or this past week was the greatest test of my vocation.

  As for Jake Driscoll, I couldn’t decide whether he should be nominated Catholic Man of the Year, or Bronx Prince of Darkness.

  I returned to my room, picked up my books, and met Sister Ann William for our walk to campus. On Thursdays we both had a class at noon. By then I was ready to face Southern Boulevard again, this time more aware of potential motor traffic on the sidewalk.

  I needed to talk to a person who’d be objective as well as trustworthy. Sister Ann William was my best candidate. Between the front door of St. Lucy’s Hall and Fordham Road I laid out the details of my week so far, beginning with my invasion of Mother Ignatius’ private chambers. She was a good listener, and took her time absorbing the synopsis. As I expected, she had a few questions.

  I had some myself, and it was my story.

  “Why do you suppose Sister Felix lied to Sister Magdalene?” she asked me.

  “I think it was a cover-up.” I checked her expression to see if I’d made sense.

  At first, she twisted her mouth to the side in apparent confusion. Then her eyes brightened and she snapped her fingers. “She wants you to stop investigating Mother Ignatius’ death and the real estate deal, but she doesn’t want to call attention to it. So she invents an excuse to have you reprimanded, sending a message to you, counting on you to back away. Otherwise, you get sent home. She doesn’t care which.”

  I smiled, as if one of my students had just recited correctly the six laws of the Holy Roman Catholic Church. “Right,” I said. “She knows I’m not the kind of religious who’d defend myself to a superior.”

  “What do we do now?” Sister Ann William asked me, with a look that furthered my perception of a teacher/pupil relationship.

  “I don’t know that there’s anything we can do. We seem to have nothing but coincidences and intuition.”

  “We also have suspects and motives,” she said, her voice inappropriately cheery, considering the topic.

  “I guess we do.”

  Sister Ann William listed our imagined killers and their reasons. She might have been reading from a chart that hung from the clouds over Southern Boulevard, not far from the spot where I’d been flattened the day before. “We have Sister Felix who’s ambitious for Mother Ignatius’ job; Mr. Driscoll—Mother Ignatius stood between him and significant financial gain. Sisters Teresa, Veronique, and all the other Sisters impatient for change. For all we know Mother Ignatius had threatened to tell their Superiors. And Father Malbert qualifies, too, for that matter, for the same reason.”

  It was hard not to notice all our suspects were liberal thinkers. “Maybe we’re too quick to accuse people who think differently from us,” I said. “Or it could be we’re manufacturing problems because we don’t have enough homework yet to keep us busy.”

  “Maybe. Or . . .” Sister Ann William cleared her throat, as if to signal a new stage in the dialogue. “Remember our conversation when we talked about poisons?” She lowered her voice as two chattering students passed us. “We realized we lacked information on the medical aspects, like what would be found in an autopsy if someone were poisoned to death?”

  I nodded, looking around at the placid scene. Students and faculty, some in habits and Roman collars, others in what appeared to be deliberately tattered clothing. A bright fall day smelling of freshly cut grass and new textbooks. The sun shone on majestic academic buildings. Who would guess the two young nuns walking with heads bent together were discussing a possible homicide in their convent?

  “I remember the talk about poisons,” I said, in a weak voice. I took a deep breath, wondering if I were the worst thing that could have happened to this sweet pharmacy student from the Sisters of Holy Charity in Texas.

  “Well, I have some information,” she said. A chill ran through me as I prepared myself for Sister Ann William’s report. “I’ve been doing some research in the pharmacy library. First of all, there are many substances in the body naturally, in small quantities—like insulin—that would be toxic in large doses. So even with an autopsy sometimes it’s impossible to tell if a lethal amount was ingested. It’s hard to distinguish between what a murderer might have administered and what was there in the first place. Some chemicals decay quickly into breakdown products, and the original poison eludes detection.”

  “Interesting.” Confusing was more accurate. But, as good a teacher as Sister Ann William might be, I thought it hopeless to try to repair the lack in my science education.

  “There’s more.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Once I got started, I found it quite engaging. And it’s all part of my pharmacy education, I decided.”

  “In case anyone asks?”

  Sister Ann William blushed and looked over her shoulder. Picturing her Mother Superior Clarisse following a few steps behind us, I guessed.

  “Anyway, I looked into the psychological aspects of poisoning. Did you know, for example, that it’s the weapon of choice for highly intelligent people?”

  “Such as our suspects.”

  “Exactly. The article I read said you have to be smart to locate substances and figure out doses and so forth. It’s more intellectually demanding than simply shooting a gun or stabbing someone. Especially if you’re trying to disguise the murder as a natural death.”

  “So that makes them more difficult to catch, I imagine.”

  She nodded. “Back to the autopsy—it only gives results if you know what to look for. The special tests—other than the usual screens for alcohol and common drugs—can be very expensive and time-consuming, so they’re not done routinely.”

  “Fascinating as it is, what good does it do to know all this now? It’s too late.”

  “Technically it isn’t. Mother Ignatius hasn’t been buried yet. You missed Sister Felix’s announcement at dinner last evening. The wake hours were extended a day to give Sisters from her Motherhouse in Reedville a chance to visit. So there’s a second wake tonight and the funeral is tomorrow.”

  “But it’s not as if we can demand an autopsy.”

  “I have an idea about that, too,” she said.

  Innocuous as it seemed, the news was too much for me to absorb. I pictured us picketing outside the funeral home where Mother Ignatius was waked, insisting on an autopsy. Or stealing her body and performing one ourselves, with our scissors and candles in a dark corner of St. Lucy’s.

  I was glad we’d come to the point where we had to go separate ways to class. I needed to think about whether it would be wise to pursue this business. Not only was my own vow of obedience on shaky ground, but I had the uncomfortable feeling Sister Ann William would follow my lead. I didn’t want that responsibility.

  “We can talk about it on the way home,” she said, apparently unaware of my quandary.

  I gave her a wan smile. “I can hardly wait.”


  CHAPTER 18

  I pulled my copy of Summa Contra Gentiles from my black canvas book bag. I’d looked forward to my first graduate theology class in the works of Saint Thomas, and hoped I wouldn’t be disappointed. As soon as I heard Father Barrett’s opening remark—how sad that students of today aren’t prepared to read original Latin texts—I knew I was in the right place at last.

  I thought back to my undergraduate Church Latin course. I’d written a paper using primary sources—on the proof that God is eternal, without beginning or end. Nothing was more inspirational than good, clean logic in the service of God, and Saint Thomas Aquinas—the Angelic Doctor and patron of Catholic colleges and universities—was the master of the genre.

  Our first class, on how likeness to God may be found in Creatures, passed quickly, with no reminders of the struggles of twentieth century life. I briefly considered doing our assignment in Latin, but decided I’d better see if I could meet Father Barrett’s expectations before trying to exceed them.

  It was only when the hour was over and I was heading up the stairs of the theater-style lecture room that I saw Aidan Connors. He waited for me at the top, near the door to the hallway. Due to my front-row seat, my eyes-forward bonnet, and my intentness on the thirteenth century, I hadn’t seen him during class.

  “Sister Francesca, how are you? I heard about your accident.” The concern on Aidan’s face wiped away the annoyance I’d felt at his earlier prodding—that I should suddenly appear at the Fishkill General Hospital.

  “It was nothing. I’m fine thank you.”

  “No bruises?” he asked, causing my irritation to reappear. No personal questions, I wanted to remind him. Did he expect me to discuss the enormous black and blue patch on my right hip? I was torn between wanting to know how he’d found out about my accident and a desire to end the discussion. The latter, I decided.

  “Really, I’m fine. Thank you.”