Killer in the Cloister

by Camille Minichino

  She nodded, her eyes showing a respect I knew I didn’t deserve, especially in the light of my recent conduct.

  Even more so in the next moment, when I felt my face redden at Aidan Connors’ approach to my father’s casket. A slender young woman with blond hair to the middle of her back knelt next to him. The cascade of silky locks reminded me of the reason we shaved our heads. As Saint Paul told us, if a woman has long hair, it is a glory to her. And glory for ourselves was the last thing we wanted as religious.

  Aidan leaned over, so close I could smell a lotion of some kind. He spoke in soft tones. “This is Colleen Shane. She’s finishing her master’s in our department.”

  “I’ve seen you around campus,” Colleen said. “I’m so sorry to meet you this way.”

  I nodded and gave her and Aidan a weak smile. “It’s good of you to come all this way.” I had a hard time picturing Colleen’s beautiful tresses draped over a Latin text on the Uncaused Cause. I wished Aidan had been more specific. His girlfriend? A cousin? Surely he wouldn’t take a casual acquaintance on a four-hour drive to O’Farrell’s Funeral Home.

  “Hey, Aidan, thanks for coming.” Timothy had left his seat at the end of the row to greet his new friend and future roommate. It was the first sign of life he’d shown since the start of the wake. He’d avoided talking to me at all and I wondered what I’d done to deserve his disapproval, other than live my life in a way he didn’t understand.

  Timothy had managed to turn Aidan and Colleen away from me, so I only heard the end of their conversation.

  “No, we can’t stay for the funeral,” Aidan said. “Colleen and I both have a class in New Testament. That way I’ll be able to take notes for your sister.” He turned and gave me a smile that caused another wave of red to cross my face. I counted on O’Farrell’s dim lighting to conceal my reaction.

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I’m not in that class. My first class of the week is with Father Glanz, on Tuesday.”

  Aidan snapped his fingers. “Right,” he said, turning to Colleen. “Sister Francesca is taking research methods instead. Much tougher.”

  How did he know my schedule? I wondered. He knew entirely too much about me. I was glad Sister Magdalene, several rows back on the other side of the parlor, had her head in her prayer book. Colleen is useful after all, I thought. If Aidan is seen as safely attached to another woman, Sister Magdalene would have a better interpretation of our connection.

  I’d been prepared to introduce Aidan as a friend of Timothy’s. That would require admitting that Timothy had visited me in the Bronx, but it wouldn’t be quite so bad as owning up to a male friend who’d come a great distance to offer me condolences.

  I couldn’t remember another time in my life when I’d had to skirt the truth so often. In retrospect I established a new bond with my Uncle Eddie, who did undercover work for the NYPD before retiring to Potterstown.

  I convinced myself my little distortions of reality were for a good cause. I’d managed to turn slippers and bedspread flaws into a reasonable murder scenario. I was more sure than ever Mother Ignatius did not slip away unaided and felt I needed to go back to the Bronx to help bring her killer to justice. Even if I were pulled out afterward, I’d consider my time there was worth it.

  I wished I could telephone Sister Ann William. In a short time, I’d gotten used to having someone to talk things over with. A fellow traveler. A friend. I glanced at Aidan, then at Sister Magdalene, who was looking my way. I quickly lowered my eyes, lest she read in them a violation of our Holy Rule.

  <><><>

  Just before Sister Magdalene and I were due to leave, a large man stepped to the kneeler, his mane of white hair a match for the mums and lilies surrounding my father’s casket.

  Jake Driscoll.

  I hadn’t seen him since he’d caught me and Sister Ann William in his trailer. I wondered if he’d done anything about the incident. I pictured a summons from the Bronx police waiting in my mail slot at St. Lucy’s. How did my life get so complicated?

  I could feel another white lie coming on if I were questioned about the presence of yet another resident of the Bronx. I wouldn’t blame Sister Magdalene if she told Mother Julia there was evidence I’d been acting like a coed with a robust social life.

  “My condolences, Sister Francesca,” he said simply. I read nothing in his eyes. If he had turned me in, he wasn’t gloating. To my relief, he moved on quickly to Timothy who introduced him to the family.

  As he spread his charm among my sisters, I held fast to my belief that Driscoll was the best candidate for murderer. He fit all the clues. He’d shown an irresponsible, cavalier attitude towards business fraud while Sister Ann William and I were captive in his trailer. The cufflink I’d confiscated from Mother Ignatius’ desk matched his tie clip. And he might well be the person I’d heard Sisters Teresa and Veronique talk about—Driscoll obviously had a career and family ties that would be hard to leave, and involvement with a nun could ruin his career.

  On the other hand, here he’d driven four hours to attend a wake for the father of a nun he’d just met and a young man with only tentative employment as a casual laborer. I was in my usual quandary regarding Jake Driscoll. A Good Samaritan? A killer? Or both?

  I looked again at the three men chatting in the corner of O’Farrell’s parlor—my brother Timothy, Aidan Connors, and Jake Driscoll—symbols of my new life in the Bronx.

  I imagined the ride home with Sister Magdalene and said a prayer of thanks for our rule of silence.

  <><><>

  Father O’Shaughnesy ushered the earthly remains of Brendan Patrick Wickes into the ground on a sunny Monday morning. I hugged my sisters good-bye and left my Motherhouse.

  Between stress over my family’s latest burden and the murder that was always in the back of my mind, I felt as wound up as the new alarm clock Mother Julia had put into my going-away packet. She’d been correct to assume there’d be no tower bells to wake us at five o’clock at St. Lucy’s Hall.

  Not until I was on the bus headed for the Bronx did I take a normal breath.

  Until then, I expected any minute Mother Julia would interrogate me about my friends. But either Sister Magdalene had chosen not to report on me or my superior was giving me the benefit of the doubt.

  I also expected criticism from Timothy since I wasn’t allowed to go to the Wickes family home after the funeral service, but he was in a surprisingly good mood and gave me no grief.

  As I left Potterstown, the final words I’d heard were, “God bless you, Sister,” from Mother Julia, and “See ya in the Bronx, Sis,” from Timothy, out of earshot of my Superior.

  I could hardly believe my good fortune.

  <><><>

  It was nearly six o’clock when the bus stopped on the Grand Concourse. Sister Ann William’s garment bag was heavier on the return trip, its many zippered compartments crammed with containers of food. Patty had obtained Mother Julia’s permission to pack up selections from the elaborate buffet I’d be missing.

  I trudged toward St. Lucy’s Hall, the smell of corned beef sandwiches, potato salad, and brownies trailing behind me. How far I was from the ideal of my patron Saint Francis of Assisi who admonished his followers to take nothing for your journey, not shoes nor clothing.

  It was a toss up as to which weighed me down more—my luggage or my duplicitous life.

  I was happy to find the Sisters of St. Lucy’s were still at dinner when I arrived at the house. I wanted nothing more than to go straight to my room and remain anonymous for as long as possible. Better still if I could set the calendar back a week and start again. I climbed the stairs to the third floor thinking what I would change. To begin with, no conspiratorial chats with Mother Ignatius. No prying into legal matters and real estate deals. No smiles that could be interpreted as welcoming friendship. Certainly
no favors from lay men, young or old.

  By the time I reached my room, I’d come up with at least six more decisions and behaviors I’d regretted. Strangely, since St. Lucy’s was kept very neat and clean, I had to climb over several carton boxes to get my door. I dumped my luggage on the floor near my bed and went back through my doorway to see what had been left in the corridor.

  Only then did I notice the room next to mine—Room 26, Sister Teresa’s—was empty. The bed had been stripped, the desk cleared. The boxes were spread in the hallway outside her room, neatly labeled with her name and an address in Michigan. There was no sign of Sister Teresa.

  I rushed down the hall to find Sister Ann William.

  My new start would have to wait.

  CHAPTER 27

  I caught up with Sister Ann William just before she reached our floor. She climbed the stairs slowly since, true to form, she was carrying a tray of food for me.

  “I thought you might be hungry after your long journey,” she said, as if I’d crossed the ocean like the first SMIs to settle in the United States a century ago.

  “This time I have food for you,” I told her, leading the way back to my room. I pulled packages of all sizes from the compartments of her garment bag. The aromas of spiced meat and chocolate leaked from wax paper wrappings and filled the small space. “But first, what happened to Sister Teresa?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I guess she slipped away over the weekend. I came down here to put some mail under your door and noticed those boxes. Her door was wide open, the floor had just been waxed, and the place was stripped of personal belongings.”

  “Has Sister Felix said anything?”

  She twisted her hand back and forth in a way that said sort of. “At the noon meal yesterday she announced simply that Sister Teresa Barnes was taking a leave from her studies and had returned to Michigan. That’s all she said.”

  No great loss, I thought. Sister Felix had lied more than once already. She’d lied to me about Mother Ignatius having a meeting on the evening of her death, and she’d made up a story about my behavior to Sister Magdalene. Why would we trust her information concerning Sister Teresa’s whereabouts?

  “What about Sister Veronique?”

  “I haven’t talked to her, but Sisters have been coming and going in her room all weekend.”

  Sister Ann William had set down the tray of food—its congealed potatoes and gravy notably less appetizing than the treats I’d brought from the kitchens of Potterstown. “Now that you’re back . . . .” She trailed off.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I didn’t feel free to barge in on Sister Veronique with questions by myself, but . . .”

  I took the cue. “Maybe we could both go—after all, the four of us did walk home together once. Doesn’t that make us bosom buddies?”

  We laughed at that and walked downstairs to visit Sister Veronique, whose room was on the second floor.

  I haven’t even unpacked, I thought. My father’s body is barely settled at Holy Family Cemetery, and all my Motherhouse resolutions have already faded.

  I sighed, resigned to my lack of will power, and followed Sister Ann William to Room 19. Two Sisters were leaving as we approached and Sister Veronique waved us in, as if she’d been expecting us. She sat facing the doorway, her wide body taking up all the available space in the center of the room. I suspected she liked her role as the chief source of information.

  “Francesca, you’re back. I hope your family is OK. Ann, come on in.”

  Until now I’d seen only my own room and Sister Ann William’s, neither of which had more than the standard St. Lucy’s furniture. Sister Veronique had managed to squeeze in several extra pieces—including two bookcases and a filing cabinet, giving her room the look of a crowded office or study instead of a nun’s cell. Every level surface was overrun with knickknacks—religious statues of all sizes, ceramic animals, candles, mugs with colorful logos. Her windowsill was lined with cola bottles, most of them empty, and on her bed was the largest bag of potato chips I’d ever seen.

  “Snack?” she said, holding out the bag.

  I declined, but Sister Ann William reached inside and took one. Part of her politeness program? I planned to ask her sometime for lessons. I hoped I didn’t have to go to Texas to learn charm.

  “Mmm,” said Sister Ann William.

  Sister Veronique swept her arm across her bed, indicating we should sit on her non-standard bedspread, a deep rose that matched curtains she’d hung on her window.

  “So, you’ve probably heard about my friend, Teresa.”

  We shook our heads, leaning forward together.

  Sister Veronique sat up straight and lowered the pitch of her voice, giving it a solemn tone. “Teresa is with child.”

  The room seemed suddenly quiet, not even traffic noise from Marion Avenue disturbed the moment. I thought the Angel Gabriel could not have done a better job of staging the announcement.

  Sister Ann William stopped chewing her potato chip. My mind flew quickly to D, E, and F, wondering which one was the father.

  “If you’re wondering who the father is . . . ,” Sister Veronique said. I lowered my eyes, in case she’d read the question in my expression. “It’s a big surprise.” She rolled her eyes, to indicate just the opposite was true.

  We said nothing. I sensed Sister Veronique wasn’t finished, and my patience was rewarded. She continued almost immediately, leaning forward.

  “I’ll just give you a hint that he’s a member of the clergy, chaplain of a community of nuns, recently appointed dean . . . are you getting the picture?”

  Sister Ann William and I blew out long breaths simultaneously.

  Father Malbert.

  Sister Veronique sat back and folded her arms across her chest—no small task, given her girth—seemingly satisfied at our reaction.

  “Is she sure about the father?” I asked, and regretted my question at once.

  Sister Veronique frowned at me. “Sis . . . Teresa wasn’t promiscuous.” As if intimacy with only one man were a virtue for a nun to aspire to. I held my tongue. “Sorry to jump at you. But I’m very upset about my friend. She seems to be the only one paying the price.”

  “Where is she?” Sister Ann William asked.

  “She went to stay with her brother and his family in Lansing, Michigan. Meanwhile the jerk in the Roman collar—not that he ever wears it—is happily continuing his life. I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  I remembered overhearing at least one argument between them that verified Sister Veronique’s assertion.

  Sister Veronique adjusted her glasses on her nose. “Sometimes I wish we’d never changed the rules.”

  Indeed.

  <><><>

  We left Room 19, each with a napkin full of potato chips, and sat across from each other at a card table in a newly created lounge.

  Sister Felix had converted a large storage area on the third floor into common space, as requested by the Sisters who wanted a room to congregate in. Apparently, visiting, fully dressed, using the two parlors on the main floor was inconvenient. A note on the wall of the lounge contained Sister Felix’s promise to replace the rickety furniture with more comfortable pieces, plus a small refrigerator and hot plate, soon.

  “Oh dear,” Sister Ann William said. “Father Malbert. It’s as if all the warnings are coming true. First you’re being polite and friendly, talking about classes . . .”

  I nodded. “Then you start meeting outside of the convent.”

  “Just to have lunch, since you have to eat anyway.”

  “Then you go to a movie on campus.”

  “And you sit around discussing its spiritual implications.”

  “And it’s late at night.”

  We
took turns developing our slippery slope as naturally as if we were reciting alternate antiphons of the Holy Office, except our phrases were punctuated by nibbles of salty chips. And the images in my mind were not of the Holy Trinity, but of Aidan Connors in his blue sweater, chatting with me about vocations and Kadota figs.

  “The next thing you know, you’re going to have a baby,” Sister Ann William said.

  I shuddered, and cleared away the inadvertent connection. “But what could this have to do with Mother Ignatius’ death? So what if Mother Ignatius threatened to expose them? It’s not as if it could be kept secret very long.”

  “But no one ever knows for sure who the father is.”

  “You’re right. Father Malbert could certainly deny it.”

  “Maybe Mother Ignatius saw them . . . together?” Sister Ann had as hard a time as I did with the language of unchaste behavior.

  The picture was fuzzy in my mind. I’d heard Mother Ignatius hardly ever left St. Lucy’s. It’s what made her “naïve about the world” according to Sister Veronique and Jake Driscoll. So where could she have seen Sister Teresa and Father Malbert carrying on? In the main parlor? In the basement by the ping pong table?

  “I think we need a break from this,” I said.

  Sister Ann William gasped, as if startled into a new insight. She broke a large potato chip on the way to her mouth, the crumbs scattering over her blue habit.

  “You don’t think you and I . . . talking . . . and . . . . being companions . . . You don’t think we’re doing anything wrong, do you, Sister?”

  I swallowed. “No, Sister. I don’t,” I said. I emphasized her title, thinking how little we had left of the formality required of us.

  We left our places at the wobbly card table and went silently to our rooms.

  <><><>

  Unlike the practice at our Motherhouse when a Sister left the order, there was no constraint on chatter about the defector from St. Lucy’s. Breakfast on Tuesday morning was a great source of information on Teresa Barnes and her affair. I learned Father Malbert would keep his new position as Dean of Academic Affairs, announced the Friday before. The administration had issued a second statement immediately, on Monday morning, asking faculty and students to disregard the “unfortunate rumors” and help the new Dean do the Lord’s work at St. Alban’s.