Killer in the Cloister

by Camille Minichino

  I heard a long sigh. “Right. Aidan will be driving up on Sunday for the wake. If he decides to stay over for the funeral, I might ride back to the Bronx with him on Monday.”

  “Aidan?”

  “Aidan Connors, Susan. My friend, Your friend. Can you get your head around that?”

  I ignored the question. “Wouldn’t you like to stay around Potterstown a little longer, maybe for the rest of the week?”

  “Yeah, but the sooner I start earning some income, the better for everyone.”

  Whether he meant it to or not, the reminder of my lost earning power caused its usual twinge. I wondered if Gabriella would be able to finish school—and how I’d feel if she couldn’t. My father had planned to work at least another ten years until he was sixty-five and all his children were well into adulthood.

  “Maybe you could ride back with us,” Timothy said, apparently not finished with his baiting. “Aidan says he’ll have a girl with him, if that matters to your bosses.”

  “I’ll stick to the bus. But thanks for the thought.”

  On the way back to my room, I speculated about the girl Aidan was taking to Potterstown. A girlfriend? A faculty member? They’d have to be pretty close, I thought, for him to take her to a wake upstate. His own family lived in New Jersey, so he wouldn’t be combining the trip with a visit to them.

  Why do I care? I asked myself. Here I am fingering my newly repaired rosary, dedicated to Christ by a vow of celibacy, and hoping Aidan doesn’t have a girlfriend.

  I blinked my eyes and prayed for the pitiful specimen of a religious I’d become.

  <><><>

  I’d planned to skip breakfast and walk to the satellite intrastate bus station on the Grand Concourse, the wide tree-lined thoroughfare a few blocks from St. Lucy’s Hall. A ten o’clock bus would get me to Potterstown around two-thirty, in time for the Saturday ritual of Confession, which I sorely needed.

  Sister Ann William offered to walk to the bus stop with me. We carried my luggage past dozens of stately art deco structures—I remembered reading in the St. Alban’s catalog that the Bronx had the world’s largest concentration of residential buildings in the art deco style. Nearly three hundred of them had been built in the late nineteen twenties and thirties, many of them on the Grand Concourse.

  As we talked about the narrow escape of the night before, the sleek lines and graceful curves of the tenements provided a safe, solid backdrop. I thought about more recent construction signs I’d seen—DRISCOLL & SONS development on St. Lucy’s old property and EDSON & SONS new Student Union building on campus. I doubted either would provide much inspiration for the generations to come.

  “I’ve never experienced anything like that in my life,” Sister Ann William said, interrupting my pilgrimage into the neutral world of architecture. “We’re lucky he didn’t have us arrested. And after all that, we didn’t find anything incriminating.”

  I shook my head and told her about the match between the cuff link I’d found in Mother Ignatius’ office and the tie clip Jake Driscoll was wearing. I didn’t need to have them side by side to know they were from the same set.

  “But he could have lost his jewelry at any time, not necessarily the night of Mother Ignatius’ death.”

  “True.”

  “On the other hand he owns a gun. That makes him suspicious right off.”

  “But Mother Ignatius wasn’t shot to death,” I reminded her. “And I’ll bet every construction manager in the city has a gun.”

  We seemed to be taking turns accusing and defending Jake Driscoll.

  “I guess we’re no smarter than before we broke and entered.” Sister Ann William smiled in spite of the bleak assessment.

  I smiled with her. There seemed nothing more we could do at the moment.

  CHAPTER 25

  Everything I saw through the wide window of the bus reminded me of Brendan Patrick Wickes. As we made our way through the small towns north of the Bronx, the general stores brought back memories of Saturday trips to the colorful, sweet-smelling candy barrels in our neighborhood. A red striped carnival tent took me back to county fairs with all of us girls in tow and Timothy in my father’s arms. A white church steeple spoke of the faithful usher in his Sunday suit pushing long-poled baskets, collecting the offerings of St. Leonard’s worshippers.

  I pictured my family—Patty in one of her many black outfits. Kathleen on the arm of her new husband. Gabriella erupting into tears. Timothy straight-faced and stoic. Aunt Celia from my mother’s side and Uncle Sean from my father’s, arranging the casseroles and folding chairs in the Wickes family dining room.

  By two-fifteen, when the bus stopped a few yards from the station parking lot, I’d come close to tears a half dozen times.

  Two SMIs were waiting for me in one of the Motherhouse cars. Sister Rosemary, a tiny woman who was about my age and her much older companion, Sister Geraldine, wore somber expressions—the most they’d be allowed to do to console me. No outward expression of sympathy was permitted.

  Sister Rosemary had on the special bonnet for driving—perforations along the side allowed part of it to be flipped back and pinned to its base. With our regular bonnets, we had no peripheral vision and could not legally drive wearing them.

  It was much colder in Potterstown than the Bronx, probably in the low forties, but true to the October first Rule, the Sisters wore their summer shawls.

  “Praised be Jesus Christ,” the Sisters said in unison.

  “Praised forever. Amen,” I replied.

  We rode in silence to the Motherhouse.

  I was home.

  <><><>

  Mother Julia’s Saturday afternoon lesson seemed chosen especially for me.

  “Poverty, my dear Sisters, does not begin and end with the renunciation of money.” Mother Julia faced us in the assembly hall, her back the straightest in the room. I sat with my community—eight rows of Sisters, six or seven to a row. “Our Lord taught us to be poor in spirit, to shun worldly comforts.”

  I was certain she had in mind the extra pillows I’d requested from Sister Felix. I wanted to stand up and announce that I’d only used them as an excuse to approach Sister Felix on a delicate matter. I hadn’t so much as rested my head on them. “Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money.”

  As Mother Julia quoted from the Gospel of Saint Luke, I thought of myself as the prodigal child, come back after a lifetime of debauchery.

  When the lesson was over, we lined up for confession with old Father Harrington. Often as an SMI I’d had to struggle to think of something to confess, using small transgressions like a hurried step or a less than perfect mopping of the scullery to fill the gap. No such problem this time. My struggle was how to phrase my sins to attract the least amount of attention from the other side of the grille.

  Besides excessive talking and snooping, I knew I’d have to confess my real sin against chastity—physical feelings for Aidan Connors. I couldn’t deny the emotion was different from my affection for Sister Ann William, which was itself forbidden by Holy Rule. It was just as well to face this head-on.

  Father Harrington didn’t seem as alarmed as I’d hoped.

  “Have you acted on these feelings, Sister?”

  “No, Father.”

  “Not even . . . uh, in the privacy of your cell?”

  “No, Father!” I hoped my vehemence didn’t persuade him I had something to hide.

  “Then you’ve nothing to worry about, Sister. It’s only natural. Ask Our Lady, virgin before, during, and after the birth of Christ, to guard your body and your soul.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Anything else?”

  Undecided about breaking and entering, I engaged in the Thomistic logic Jake Driscoll had found so annoying. I ar
gued with myself in the manner of the Angelic Doctor. Was every crime a sin? Not if you don’t intend to loot or maim. Did Sister Ann William and I intend harm in any way to the occupants of the trailer or its contents? Not at all. Therefore, not a sin.

  In the end, I talked my way around my activities in the Bronx. Father Harrington stayed awake longer than usual, and he gave me a strict admonition.

  “Make the Stations of the Cross, Sister, and make a firm resolution to renew your religious discipline.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  I began my walk around the chapel, pausing at each of the fourteen reminders of Our Lord’s passion and death.

  At last, I thought, a proper penance.

  <><><>

  We ate dinner in silence while a novice in the full habit, but with a white veil, read to us from a biography of an early SMI missionary. I listened to the trials of the women who underwent great hardship to set up the first SMI schools and felt pitifully lax at the thought of my full plate and warm bed.

  At least the fare at the Motherhouse was simpler than meals at St. Lucy’s. Sisters here were served a tin platter of food, each receiving identical portions of plain meat, vegetables, and potatoes. We were expected to eat everything put in front of us. No allowances for individual sizes or appetites. No leftovers. No second helpings.

  Later, on the dormitory floor, not a word was spoken except an occasional “Praised be . . . “ I thought how quickly we form new habits, and just as quickly break them. I saw the wisdom of the rules, and at the same time questioned them as I never had before.

  I’d expected Mother Julia to take me aside for private counseling. But other than an announcement before grace about my father’s death, she paid no special attention to me until after mass on Sunday.

  “How are your studies, Sister Francesca?” she asked. She’d invited me to take a chair across from her in the tiny, sparsely-furnished office overlooking the vast SMI property.

  I’d anticipated this question and had my answer ready. Overly enthusiastic and I’d be brought home—too comfortable in the world to be trusted without supervision. Not sufficiently positive and I’d be judged a complainer, unworthy of the mission.

  I’d have to be not too proud, not too humble—a tricky balance.

  “Classes are interesting, Mother. They promise to be useful in whatever mission I’m called to when I finish my studies.”

  “And your adjustment? Did Sister Magdalene’s visit help?”

  “Yes, Mother. It was a great blessing to have her.”

  Mother Julia leaned back in her chair, but not so far as to touch the surface, and smiled. I’d passed the test.

  “About your family visits, Sister . . . “ Mother Julia put her hands in her sleeves, a signal that the next words were to be taken as orders. “I’ve talked to your sister Patricia. A very holy woman, by the way.”

  “Yes, Mother.” I bit back the thought that Mother Julia would have preferred the saintly Patricia in her community.

  “Your family is coming here at one o’clock today for a private visit. Take the blue parlor. At four, you may ride with them to the funeral home. Sister Magdalene will accompany you. Patricia assures me there will be room for her.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  “Tomorrow you’ll be able to attend the funeral and take the noon bus back to the Bronx. That should get you there well before dark.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  I wondered what Timothy would have to say about the non-negotiable mourning arrangements.

  <><><>

  The blue parlor retained its name though much of the reason had vanished. The new carpet was closer to a shade of teal and the furniture was a cream-colored living room set donated by a benefactor. The only true blue was in the robe of the Blessed Virgin Mary in a large painting that hung over the sofa.

  Visiting days were usually full of laughter, my family showering me with armfuls of treats and gifts they knew I couldn’t keep. A pile of school supplies, a dozen pairs of black cotton stockings, boxes of candy and cookies. All went directly into the common store.

  This time my sisters were empty-handed, except for their grief.

  Gabriella jumped up to greet me, falling into my arms. “Oh, Susan. What will we do without him?”

  “We’ll be all right,” I told her, wishing I had a better answer. I found it strange to see Gabriella, usually in bright colors, in a dark dress—navy blue with long sleeves—and wondered irrelevantly if she’d borrowed it.

  Patty and Kathleen took their turns hugging me, wrinkling my bib and trying to smooth it over.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I told them. I took stock of the small room, then looked out into the hallway. “Timothy?”

  My sisters had crowded onto the sofa, their different shades of red hair giving them the look of a chorus line for St. Leonard’s fund-raising shows. They shook their heads. “He’ll see you at O’Farrell’s,” Kathleen said. “He’s so stubborn. Neal stayed behind so he wouldn’t be alone in the house.” Kathleen’s husband and high school sweetheart Neal had been like a second brother to us.

  “Timmy doesn’t like Mother Julia,” Gabriella said, earning a disapproving look and a stern “Gabriella” from Patty, whose black dress looked perfectly natural on her. I’d seldom seen her in anything but.

  “Well, he doesn’t,” Gabriella said, choking back tears that I knew had nothing to do with our brother’s quirky temperament.

  I’d taken a seat opposite them, when Patty made the pronouncement she usually made at wakes and funerals.

  “O’Farrell’s did a very good job. Dad looks wonderful,” she said, from her place in the middle of the sofa. Gabriella and Kathleen turned their heads to her and laughed in spite of themselves. Cliché though it was, Patty’s comment helped us all settle down to normal breathing.

  “He’s in his Sunday suit, of course,” Kathleen said. “Neal took care of getting the clothes down there.”

  “We should have put him in his ratty old slippers. He’d change into them, first thing every evening,” Gabriella said.

  “Dad would never let anyone replace those slippers,” Patty said. “I don’t know how many times he got new ones for Christmas and he’d give them to St. Leonard’s rummage sales.”

  “I think he wore them to bed,” Kathleen said, sending Patty and Gabriella into more nervous laughter, and me into another realm of memory.

  Mother Ignatius. The list of her clothing in the autopsy report. Nightgown. Night cap. Slippers. Who wears slippers to bed?

  At the same time, I remembered the pulls in the threads of Mother Ignatius’ otherwise smooth white bedspread. Slippers and pulls—to me it added up to a struggle.

  My hands and feet tingled, as if I were just waking up. Mother Ignatius didn’t die in bed, she was put there by whoever killed her, slippers and all.

  “Sister Francesca?” Patty said, addressing me as usual by my religious name. I snapped my head up. Apparently my chin had fallen to my bib as I’d taken the mental trip to the Bronx, and they thought I was asleep.

  Sister Rosemary’s sudden entrance into the parlor saved me from having to explain my wandering mind. I’d missed her knock and wondered what else had gone on in my absence.

  “Some tea and cookies. Right out of Sister Loretta’s oven,” she said, bending to place a large tray on the table in front of the sofa. She stood to her full five feet and faced my sisters. “I’m so sorry, girls. Our prayers are with you.” She smiled at me and left the room, making no further sound.

  I brought myself around to the present. There’s nothing I can do about Mother Ignatius now, I told myself. And I still don’t know who the killer is. Even a ten-year-old child could have overpowered Mother Ignatius.

  The three teacups on the tray reminded me where I
was—SMIs don’t eat or drink in front of laity, even their families. After only a week at St. Lucy’s, the rule seemed strange to me. I poured tea for my sisters, happy for once that Timothy wasn’t present to try and tease me into having a cookie.

  By the time Sr. Magdalene came to ride with me to the funeral parlor, I’d been back and forth between the blue parlor and the Bronx enough times to make me dizzy.

  CHAPTER 26

  I sat in the first row at O’Farrell’s, with my sisters and brother. It took another two rows to hold all our aunts and uncles and cousins, many of whom I hadn’t seen for years. Convent visits were limited to four relatives, not even enough spots to allow all my siblings to accompany my father every month. They’d all be able to come now, I realized, with great sadness.

  Heavy brown drapes, drab carpet, cheerless paisley seat covers on black wooden chairs—O’Farrell’s had a darkness about it that was probably meant to be soothing, but also intensified the gravity of the occasion. I looked around for my father’s cronies to lift our spirits with their songs and skits. Brendan Patrick Wickes, laid out in his Sunday clothes, would expect a big send-off. I suspected the men had planned their program for after Sister Magdalene and I left. As if we hadn’t attended our share of Irish wakes in our pre-convent lives.

  All faithful Catholics, my parents’ generation nearly genuflected when they approached me.

  “Sister Francesca, God bless you,” said my old Aunt Annie. She who’d slapped my bottom when I misbehaved as a toddler now addressed me as if I were her Superior. She ran her fingers over my large crucifix. “Such a wonderful thing you’re doing. You pray for us, Sister.”

  I thought of Elena Russo whose parents had disowned her, and realized how lucky I was.

  “I will pray for you, Aunt Annie. And your prayers are equally important.”