Killer in the Cloister

by Camille Minichino

  “I suppose it had to happen sooner or later,” said Sister Miriam, draining her glass of orange juice. “They spent a lot of time together.” Her pale blue eyes danced, as if she were enjoying a private vision of the couple on a date.

  “Poor Teresa,” said another Sister. “I wonder how she’ll manage. It’s not like she’d have any savings or anything.”

  “God works in strange ways,” said Sister Miriam. “In the end, everyone will be fine.”

  Except Mother Ignatius.

  I reviewed the order of events—Mother Ignatius dies, Jake Driscoll gets his new contract, Father Malbert is named Dean, Sister Felix is named superior, Sister Teresa leaves.

  The sequence cried out for more than just flimsy connections, but I was unable to fill the gaps.

  <><><>

  Sister Ann William and I exchanged awkward glances whenever we caught each other’s eye during the morning exercises—answering the bell for mass, lining up for the refectory, taking a place at table.

  After breakfast, she slipped me a note. On the way to my room to collect my school bag and umbrella for a rainy walk to class, I read her neat writing.

  Sister Francesca, I’ve thought about it, and I don’t believe our walking to campus together amounts to a breach of Rule, or constitutes a particular attachment. Meet me in the foyer at 9:30 if you agree. SAW

  “I agree,” I said when I joined her for the trip to St. Alban’s.

  “I guess what happened to Teresa has thrown me off balance. It’s not as if you and I are going to . . . “

  “Not at all. I think we need to use common sense.”

  Sister Ann William smiled. “Exactly. And it’s much safer to have a companion on Southern Boulevard.”

  I thought about the one time I’d walked home alone—the bruises from that day were nearly gone, but not the memory.

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  I wondered whether Mother Julia in Potterstown or Mother Clarisse in Texas would have been so quick to concur.

  CHAPTER 28

  The steady rain mixing with street debris produced a muddy Southern Boulevard, not the best-swept avenue in the city in any weather.

  I finally told Sister Ann William my new evidence, loosely defined, that Mother Ignatius’ death was not natural. Spoken out loud, a corpse in bed with slippers and a few pulls on a bedspread seemed less conclusive than I’d first thought.

  She gave me a characteristic “Hmmm . . . ,” and was silent for a few minutes.

  I checked the status of an abandoned car, a cream-colored sedan that had been at the same curbside spot the whole week. Clearly a magnet for vandals. Each day a new piece was missing—first the hubcaps, then the seats, then parts under the hood—until finally only the rusty shell remained.

  A metaphor for the most intense week of my life?

  At the next bend, Sister Ann William shared her thoughts. “Maybe we should make one last stab at tying Mother Ignatius’ death to poison.” Obviously, she hadn’t been meditating on the deterioration of an automobile.

  “But the autopsy report . . . “

  She shook her head before I could finish. “There are so many substances—too many to screen for unless you know exactly what you’re looking for. Last night I was reading about succinyl choline.”

  I winced, thinking of my high school chemistry class. If I’d ever passed a test with those words on it, it was pure luck, or my novena prayers.

  Sister Ann William had no such trouble, as the science rolled off her tongue. “Both succinyl and choline occur naturally in the body, but they’re also poisonous in certain doses, and it’s almost impossible to tell if the compound has been administered or was there all along. It takes a special machine and there are only a few in existence.”

  “Interesting. But now it sounds even more hopeless. Not detectable. No machines. What can we do?”

  “Approach it from a different angle. I’m going to try to get ahold of the log for the pharmacy, where all the drugs are kept. Maybe I’ll see the name of someone who’s not supposed to be in there.”

  “Is a murderer going to sign in?”

  She sighed. “I suppose not. But there’s always a clerk at the window, and theoretically you can’t get past her to the drug supply without checking in.”

  “Then the killer would have to be someone at least familiar to the clerk, or with an ID that lets him or her in.”

  “Right. And I’m going to find out exactly who else can get access to my poisons.” A frown accompanied her proprietary declaration.

  As she turned down the path toward her building, I wished I’d persuaded her to drop the undertaking. I had the strange feeling we should quit before something disastrous happened, for no apparent reason other than the word poisons sent a chill up my spine.

  “Be careful, Sister,” I said, but she was too far away to hear me.

  <><><>

  I stepped into St. Thomas Aquinas’ main lecture hall for my second class in Church Liturgy with Father Glanz.

  “Wait till you see what he has in store this time,” Aidan said, catching up with me near the top row. “I have the inside scoop from Colleen. She’s his TA. Remember her?”

  How could I forget? Colleen, the beautiful young woman who attended my father’s wake, who might be Aidan’s girlfriend.

  I nodded. “I suppose Colleen is going to say mass for us today?” I hoped my smile took the edge off my remark.

  He laughed. “You’re close.”

  I stared at Aidan, wide-eyed, but Father Glanz appeared before I could get more details. I didn’t have long to wait, however.

  “We’re going to do a little field work this morning,” Father Glanz said.

  Oh-oh. I turned my head to catch Aidan’s eye. He was smiling. “Told you,” he whispered.

  Father Glanz looked at his watch. “In fifteen minutes, we’ll all reconvene across campus at Xavier Hall. There’s a room on the first floor—Room 131—we’ve been using as a chapel. We’re going to celebrate what some are calling experimental liturgy. It’s an example of what Vatican II is doing for us.”

  Or to us. My muscles tensed. A lump formed in my throat. Could he do this—force us to attend an unorthodox mass?

  The dozen or so students around me seemed excited, uttering phrases like it’s about time, and just what I’ve been waiting for. I joined the exodus on a rainy walk toward Xavier Hall, Aidan by my side. He refrained from cheering with the others, possibly out of respect for my feelings.

  Was this a test of my faith? Was this where I was supposed to suffer punishment for refusing to stray from authorized liturgy? I remembered the true martyrs who had died for their faith, defending matters of dogma against heresies. I had to admit, changing the liturgy was not the same as heresy. It didn’t begin to approach the seriousness of doubting the divinity of Christ, for example, or the virginity of Mary. Those were matters of doctrine.

  “Are you all right with this, Sister?” Aidan asked me.

  “I guess so. I don’t have to take Communion, do I?” I asked, as if he would know the answer.

  “I don’t think it will affect your grade if you don’t. Colleen says he’s a good guy.”

  Colleen again. “I don’t remember a requirement that priests be good guys.”

  Aidan laughed. “So you believe all priests, even if they’re nasty men, even if they voted for Barry Goldwater for president, are God’s messengers on earth, and that’s all that matters.”

  “Yes.” That’s why I can go to confession to Father Malbert, I thought, wondering if Aidan knew of the new dean’s most recent transgression.

  “Colleen says this mass will be in English for sure. You can’t object to that?”

  I sighed, ready with my usual defense of the Vulgat
e. “The idea behind using Latin in the first place is so we can go to mass anywhere in the world and it will be the same.”

  Aidan was ready for me. “Right. Wherever you are, no one will be able to understand it.”

  I laughed. Not a bad point.

  The so-called chapel in the office building known as Xavier Hall was a small, unadorned room with a simple wooden table at the front, not even raised from the level of the carpet we stood on. No pews or stained-glass windows. No crucifix. No candle to indicate the presence of the Blessed Sacrament.

  I’d heard the floor below us housed the University’s new computer center. I pictured long, narrow cards with holes punched in them being mistaken for Holy Cards.

  I was surprised to see Sister Miriam from St. Lucy’s organizing the singing group. She handed out copies of a brightly colored paperback book, “Songs of Praise for the Liturgy,” to a varied collection of seminarians, lay students, and Sisters, some of whom held guitars.

  Sister Miriam’s blond hair seemed to have been styled since the last time I’d seen her bare-headed. Still short, it fell in soft waves around her ears. I wondered how she decided when to cover her head and when to tuck her veil in the pocket of her jacket, as it was now. She caught my eye and motioned to me.

  “Francesca, how nice to see you here. Do you want to come up front and join us? We’re just here to get each song started. Everyone sings.” Sister Miriam swung her arms in an arc to include the entire congregation.

  I shook my head. “No, thank you.” I whispered, although I realized technically I wasn’t in church.

  On the table were facsimiles of the elements of mass—a basket of bread that looked like chunks of a fresh-baked wheat loaf, not the lily white unleavened wafers that had served the church for . . . for how long? I was amazed to realize I didn’t know. I was sure Father Glanz would be happy to enlighten me.

  The bottle of wine next to the bread could have come from the liquor store down the street—quite a different container from the sacramental wine I’d helped set out for our chaplain at the Motherhouse.

  About thirty people had gathered, each holding a mimeographed sheet with the “program” for mass. They’d been distributed at the door by a seminarian with a wide grin, as if he’d just been rescued from the Dark Ages.

  Guitar chords were struck, and Father Glanz entered the room wearing the strangest vestments I’d ever seen. His chasuble was clearly hand-made, with patches of brightly colored felt in different shapes. I recognized the forms of a chalice, a Host, several candles. Slogans seemed to have been stitched into the fabric of his stole, the words running at odd angles down its length. Peace. Love not War. We are One.

  “I come to the altar of God,” Father Glanz said.

  We answered, following the script printed in purple on our programs. “To God who gives joy to my youth.”

  A reasonable translation of the official opening of mass. Not bad so far, except for the irregular ambience. I had an easier time than I thought following the essential parts of the Holy Sacrifice, in spite of the colloquial English.

  Father Glanz used his homily to explain changes to the liturgy, which he termed “a living ritual, subject to reconstruction throughout history.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice as if to share a secret with us. “A wise man once wrote: It is the customary fate of new truths to begin as heresies and end as superstitions. Let’s be careful we don’t turn our liturgical practices into superstitions.”

  Something to think about, I had to admit.

  The hardest part for me was the idea of taking the bread in my own hands. From the time we were children, Catholics were warned—never touch the Holy Eucharist. The Host was placed on our tongues by the sanctified fingers of the priest—it should not come in contact with our hands, our teeth, any part of our bodies. Every seven-year-old First Communicant lived in fear that the thin wafer would stick to the roof of her mouth—a mouth dry from strict fasting, even from water, from the night before.

  I watched as Aidan joined the long line of people holding out their hands for what looked like a hunk of bread from a deli. He moved aside to let me get in front of him.

  I’d heard Father Glanz’s words at the Consecration. I presented myself with the logic: If I believed a priest could transform unleavened bread into the Body of Christ, I had to assume he could transform anything, including this loaf of whole wheat.

  I looked at Aidan, his eyebrows raised in a question, waiting for my decision.

  I shook my head slightly. Not this time.

  <><><>

  At the kiss of peace, which I’d gotten used to from St. Lucy’s, a lay woman on my right had given me a bear hug. I was grateful Aidan’s greeting was more like a handshake.

  But the challenges of dealing with Aidan Connors were far from over.

  “Let me drive you home,” he said as we left Xavier Hall. “It’s pouring.”

  “Thank you, but I have an umbrella.”

  As I said this, at least two enormous umbrellas held by passersby turned inside out from the strong wind. Aidan stood in the doorway with me, arms folded across his chest. Waiting me out. I wondered if he’d learned the maneuver from his brief contact with my brother.

  I thought about my trip home. Sister Ann William planned to pick up the medal she’d ordered for her brother. She was to meet Sister Veronique later and walk home with her. I wasn’t eager to trek along Southern Boulevard by myself. Getting knocked down in the rain would be even more unpleasant than the first time.

  “If it would make you feel better, I could get Colleen to ride with us.”

  Who is this girl who seems to be at Aidan’s beck and call? A date at a wake. Chaperone duty at a moment’s notice.

  “I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

  Aidan’s face brightened. “Not a problem.” He looked at his watch. “Colleen’s a good friend, I know she’d be glad to come.”

  “Never mind,” I said, my voice wavering.

  He frowned. “You won’t take a ride?”

  “I’ll take the ride. Never mind getting Colleen.”

  “Terrific.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate your offer,” I said, my voice weaker with each syllable. I swung around and scanned the hallway, still echoing post-liturgy conversation.

  I sighed. No sign of Mother Julia.

  CHAPTER 29

  I stood at the glass front doors of Xavier Hall, waiting for Aidan. Through sheets of rain, I had a view of the two Student Union Buildings, one old, one under construction. The small contractor sign had been replaced by a billboard of grand proportions. EDSON & SONS had obviously grown in importance since I’d last looked. At least it wasn’t another conquest by DRISCOLL & SONS, who’d eaten up St. Lucy’s grounds.

  To avoid reexamining my decision to ride home with Aidan, I distracted myself with the signage. The new billboard boasted of other campus structures by the same firm. Coming soon were new bleachers for the stadium, renovation of the old performing arts theatre, an extension to one of the dorms. Busy Edsons.

  My thoughts drifted to Sister Ann William, perhaps because I thought I should be walking with her, not waiting to get into an automobile with a layman. I was happy she’d been able to order the medal for her seminarian brother, but felt a twinge of envy. The most I could hope for my own brother was a return to the faith as a law-abiding citizen. I wondered what I could have done differently when he was ten years old.

  I bargained with myself—I’d give Aidan two more minutes, then head home on foot. Not because he was taking too long, but because I questioned the wisdom of my choice. Maybe his delay would be a sign I should reverse my decision.

  Lacking a watch, I resorted to an old trick. One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand. Three-one-thousand.

  Too late. Aidan pulled up in a
blue Volkswagen, coincidentally the color of his eyes and most frequently worn sweater. No turning back. Why had I rejected the idea of including Colleen? I hoped it had nothing to do with wanting Aidan to myself.

  He came around to the curb and opened the door for me. I was clumsier than usual gathering my skirts, umbrella, and schoolbag into the small car.

  “So, dare I ask? What did you think of the liturgy?” he asked.

  “I missed the little bells at the Consecration.” Aidan looked at me, probably to see whether I was serious. I kept my head straight, the sides of my bonnet blocking his view of my face. I sensed him leaning forward to check on my expression, and in the interest of safe driving, I turned to show him a smile. “Really, it wasn’t as bad as I expected.”

  He laughed, and we fell easily into a dialogue about the role of priests and nuns in the church.

  “To set themselves apart from the laity as examples and ideals to strive for, the keepers of a life of prayer,” I said, echoing the training I’d received from Mother Julia and the elder Sisters at the Motherhouse.

  “Or to be part of the world, carrying out a special mission while living among the laity, distinguishable only by their spirituality,” Aidan said. I’d known for some time I’d been misled by his blue rosary the first day I met him. Not a traditionalist at all, but someone who was trying to balance the old and the new.

  “This reminds me of an earlier conversation we had,” Aidan told me. I knew his easy manner was purposeful, to lure me into another discussion of the pros and cons of the modern Church. “Are you still holding on to your love it or leave it position?”