Killer in the Cloister: A Sister Francesca Mystery (Sister Francesca Mysteries)
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“Sister Francesca, some pressing matters have come up, and I need to talk to someone. And I sense Mother Julia was right. In spite of your youth, you seem to be wise in the ways that count. Will you meet me in the small parlor after Compline?”
“Of course, Mother. Is something wrong?”
Mother Ignatius seemed out of breath, although as far as I could tell she hadn’t been rushing. “Frankly, yes, Sister. I’m afraid of . . . well, I don’t wish to speak of it here.”
“If I can help in any way . . .”
She nodded and licked her lips. I sensed her mouth went dry when she was stressed, as mine did. “About eight-thirty this evening? I need to take some action and perhaps you can help me order my thoughts. I get confused at times.”
I nodded, although I considered myself utterly inadequate to the task Mother Ignatius seemed to be giving me. I’d just met her. She was easily fifty years my senior. Why wouldn’t she turn to an older Sister or to our chaplain for guidance?
I glanced at the jolly group at the end of the parlor. A group of Sisters in various stages of habit sang something about all God’s children while a young man I guessed was a seminarian strummed a guitar. Our chaplain sat on the couch between two Sisters, with one arm around each, mouthing the words to the song with a vaudevillian flair.
“I can see why you might get confused, Mother,” I said.
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At eight-thirty, I went to the parlor for my meeting with Mother Ignatius. The fruity smell of punch lingered in the air throughout the main floor, reminding me of my first departure from SMI custom. I sat by a window, alternately reading Saint Thomas and watching the lights come on along Marian Avenue, which St. Lucy’s Hall shared with multi-story apartment buildings and an occasional small shop or grocery.
This time, as I looked out over the lawn, I saw the developer’s large sign in a new light. As hard as it was to read the letters by the dim glow of the street lamps, I made out the name of the construction company—J. DRISCOLL & SONS.
No wonder the name had sounded familiar. The world of real estate and property management was as foreign to me as the multitude of Protestant religions, but I had no trouble believing it offered a wealth of possibilities for the conflict I’d witnessed earlier between Jake Driscoll and Mother Ignatius.
When the Westminster clock chimed ten o’clock, I realized more than an hour had past. I decided Mother Ignatius had been sidetracked, or was too tired for a serious discussion. But on the way to my room, the memory of her worried look and fearful demeanor nagged at me.
I said a prayer for her well-being, just in case.
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By the end of my meditation period the next morning, I was ready to rid myself of the annoyance I’d felt at my new community of Sisters, most of whom I hadn’t met. For all I knew, many of them shared my outlook. I reminded myself that uncharitable thoughts were never in vogue, and I’d already found an ally in Sister Ann William. I thought of how often in the world a small minority makes a fuss that, in the end, amounts to nothing. As St. Paul said, All things come to those who wait.
At mass, I prayed for humility and guidance and focused on the excitement of the school year ahead—studying theology full time. My mood was also helped by delicious aromas of coffee, fresh cinnamon rolls, and bacon reaching my pew from the kitchen at the back of the house.
After Father Malbert’s final blessing, I fell into line for the refectory. I found a napkin ring with my name on it and stood at the long wooden table with the other Sisters. There were thirty-nine of us, I’d been told. We waited in silence for Mother Ignatius to arrive and begin grace.
After several minutes, Mother Ignatius’ assistant, Sister Felix, appeared at the head of the table. She folded her hands in front of her and took a long breath.
“Sisters,” she said in a solemn voice, “I have very sad news. Last night, Mother Ignatius died in her sleep.”
CHAPTER 3
I sipped plain black tea from a mug that seemed almost too heavy to lift, certain I wouldn’t be able to manage solid food. Although I’d known her for only a day, I’d felt a bond with Mother Ignatius and I mourned the sudden loss of a Superior.
Fortunately for my upset stomach, breakfast at St. Lucy’s was family style, and I could allow large platters of eggs and bacon and a basket of rolls to float past me. At my Motherhouse, we had no choices at mealtime. Postulants, the newest members of the community, laid a plate of food at each place and we were expected to eat every crumb, whatever our relative metabolic needs or the conditions of our digestive systems.
Maybe some flexibility in custom is good, I thought, but changed my mind when I realized that another departure involved talking at meals—permitted in St. Lucy’s refectory, to my dismay.
Several Sisters still had name stickers, to facilitate conversation or because they were unaware they were wearing the remnants of last evening’s party, I guessed. I looked for Sister Ann William and found her on the opposite side of the table, too far down the row to speak with. I caught her eye and raised my eyebrows until they hit against the starched white linen band across my forehead. She tilted her head in my direction, her otherwise perky features drawn into a sad smile.
Up and down the table, a limited rainbow of black, brown, blue, and white habits, talk was of little else besides Mother Ignatius. Wasn’t it a blessing that she died in her sleep? How old was she? Seventy-five was the average of the ages bandied about. Had she been ill? Not that anyone knew. Did she have any family? None, was the consensus.
I wondered where the information came from and what prompted the free-flowing conversation about a deceased member of the community. If it had been an SMI Superior who died, we wouldn’t have been allowed to ask such questions.
I cocked my head when I heard a remark outside of the usual queries and expressions of sympathy. The speaker was Sister Teresa, the official greeter at the get-together the evening before.
“I guess that’s it for the contract,” I heard her say in a loud voice. She threw her head back as if she’d just won a verdict from the College of Cardinals. I noticed her plate was piled high with scrambled eggs and rolls. Sister Teresa was as skinny as I was, but she wore the dress of her blue habit tight across her chest, calling attention to herself in a way that was decidedly unbecoming a Bride of Christ.
I leaned past the Sister between us—another gesture that was frowned upon at my Motherhouse. I marveled at how quickly I was adjusting to an environment that was almost secular in its practices.
“What contract?” I asked.
“There’s an agreement between St. Alban’s U. and the Sisters of St. Lucy’s Hall. It was created about twenty years ago—in the Middle Ages,” Sister Teresa said, drawing a laugh from several nuns around her. “It requires the signature of the Mother Superior of this house for any legal transactions, even though, technically, St. Alban’s owns the property.”
“They did business a little differently in those days,” I heard from a heavy-set Sister with thick glasses whose name sticker identified her as Sister Veronique. From the coarse white fabric of her habit, I guessed she was a Dominican. Her wide girth gave her the appearance of a cartoon monk. “One person could dictate for a whole group back then,” she said, as if she were referring to centuries past. “There wasn’t the accountability we expect these days.”
“We have Vatican II to thank,” another Sister said.
Thanks, or regrets? I asked myself.
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In the next few minutes, many of the old-timers—Sisters who had been at St. Lucy’s for four or five years finishing a doctorate—offered information and opinions regarding the antagonism over the contract. What I pieced together sounded like a battle with Mother Ignatius on one side and powerful, influential men like Jake Driscoll and Father Malbert on the other.
It made sense to me that Driscoll would lobby for the space to expand his development project. But I couldn’t imagine why anyone connected to St. Alban’s U. or St. Lucy’s would feel any differently from Mother Ignatius. The beautiful lawn and stone pathways were perfect for study and meditation, and for visiting days.
I looked at Sister Felix, seated at the head of the table, and wondered what was going through her mind, whether she looked forward to taking over, if that were the case. Her angular face, surrounded by a soft black veil, was animated as she talked to the Sisters to her immediate right and left. Her plate, too, overflowed with food I noticed, unable to curb my tendency to measure the level of a person’s emotional involvement by her ability to eat.
“Why would the new Superior at St. Lucy’s be any more likely to sign away our yard than Mother Ignatius would?” I asked.
“The contract dies with Mother Ignatius,” Sister Veronique said. Her fingers traced the edges of a large wooden crucifix that hung from her neck on a black cord.
“Sister Veronique always has the scoop for us,” Sister Teresa said. “Her department chairman—Father O’Neill in History—is the important person on campus. Head of the Faculty Senate.” Sister Teresa sounded like a proud parent, although both women seemed about the same age, probably as close to thirty years old as I was.
Sister Veronique continued, as if on cue from the director of a Christmas pageant. Even at a distance of several place settings, I could see that her pale blue eyes were magnified by her heavy lenses. “St. Alban’s drew up a new contract, effective with the next Superior, that gives the Sisters no power over St. Lucy’s property. They’ll just manage the daily operation of the house.”
“Of course, St. Alban’s stands to make a lot of money on the sale of the property, and right now that means more to them than land,” Sister Teresa added. “David—uh—Father Malbert says the money would go to scholarships for the poor youngsters in Harlem.”
“Sister Teresa knows ‘David-uh-Father Malbert’ really well,” Sister Veronique said, with a high voice and a teasing smile.
Sister Teresa blushed, and other Sisters giggled in a way that said they knew something I didn’t. I hoped my guess was very wrong.
“It’s not that anyone wants to lose the yard,” Sister Veronique said. “But there were lots of little clauses to that contract that affect us. Things about the quality of our lives. We couldn’t even have keys since Mother Ignatius didn’t think it was a good idea.”
“Or television after nine in the evening,” the Sister on my left added.
“Or extra telephones on each floor.”
“Or guests for dinner.”
“Or access to the kitchen between meals.”
One by one, the veteran Sisters addressed those of us who had just arrived, as if they’d been given the mission to train us in everything that was wrong with life at St. Lucy’s. I wanted to ask how many of them had such so-called privileges in their home communities, or if they’d entered their orders expecting no change in how they’d lived as secular women.
I held my tongue, and finally heard what seemed a more appropriate response to losing a Superior.
“I think it’s very sad,” a Sister named Miriam said. “Mother Ignatius was nice.”
Sisters around her uttered sounds of sympathy and agreement, but to me the tribute seemed like an afterthought. I had the feeling I’d been listening to the list of demands Mother Ignatius had clutched in her hands on the yellow paper.
I wondered what it meant that Mother Ignatius’ death was so convenient for so many people?
CHAPTER 4
Sister Ann William and I had made plans to walk to campus together after breakfast, for registration and an afternoon rosary. The removable white collar on her royal blue habit dress looked fresh and clean, as was the round white bib I wore. Like two grade school girls, about the same size and height, in new fall clothes, we carried our bag lunches and our umbrellas down 198th Street and across Webster Avenue toward the Gothic towers of St. Alban’s University.
A light rain fell, giving the Bronx the dark gray look it was famous for, even at ten in the morning.
I wished I had a hand free to check on the cash I was carrying. The set of two large blue denim pockets attached to a cord under my habit seemed extra heavy, but I knew it was all in my mind. Besides the required equipment of a handkerchief, a small cloth relic of our SMI foundress, a pen and pencil set, and a prayer book, I had money in my pocket for the first time since I’d entered the convent. I’d stuffed three ten dollar bills for my textbooks into the small leather purse Mother Julia had given me. I said a quick prayer to St. Anthony of Padua, the patron of lost and potentially lost things, to keep the money safe.
If I’d been walking with a Sister of my own order, say, on the way to teach Sunday School, we would have been silent the whole way, except for a “Praised be Jesus Christ” and a “Praised forever. Amen” as we started out.
“Do you have a rule of silence?” I asked Sister Ann William.
“We did until a few months ago. At the summer congress our delegates voted to dispense with it except during Lent.”
“What do you think prompted these changes? I know they’re from the Vatican Council, but why now?”
Sister Ann William shrugged her shoulders. “My Superior, Mother Clarisse, says it’s happening all over the country. The world, even. Changing values. More rebellion, she says.”
“We have to believe our Church knows what it’s doing. No Pope or College of Cardinals institutes changes that would weaken Holy Mother Church.”
I said this mostly to reassure myself.
“I’m getting used to the changes,” Sister Ann William said. “There’s a good chance we’ll have a modified veil by the end of the year. I suppose I should start letting my hair grow out.”
Without thinking, I shifted the brown lunch bag to the hand that was already holding my enormous black umbrella and pushed my bonnet down on my head, as if to secure it in the face of a windstorm. I tried to imagine myself maintaining religious decorum while my red hair spilled out around a short, skimpy veil pinned to my curls, reappearing unruly as ever after six years of being shaved off.
“I hope we never change our habit,” I told Sister Ann William. “It’s based on the outfit of our foundress, Blessed Mary Anaclete. She was a peasant woman working in the fields outside Paris more than a hundred years ago.” As we walked, I pointed out the pieces—a long black dress, a half apron tied under a white bib, a white linen band around my head, and a bonnet covered with a veil that came to my waist in back.
I thought of the prayer we said while pinning on our habits each morning.
As Mother Mary Anaclete donned a bonnet and veil to shield her from the sun, so we don ours to shield us from sin and the ways of the world.
“Our community doesn’t go back that far,” Sister Ann William said. “It’s only about fifty years old. The Sisters of Holy Charity mission is hospital work, and I think the blue is supposed to be soothing.”
“Do you think you’ll like studying pharmacy?”
“Oh, my, yes,” she said, stretching the three letters of yes into two syllables. “I was a chemistry major in college. I entered a hospital order because my two aunties are in it, not because I wanted to do nursing. But God’s will, you know, and I would have, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Are you looking forward t
o theology?” she asked.
“Very much. I know studying the writings of Saint Thomas Aquinas will be my favorite class.”
“For me it’s going to be plant pathology. Pharmacy and pre-med students take this class together. You’d be amazed at how often parents call their pharmacist or rush into an emergency room with children who’ve swallowed detergent or a gardening chemical. Or they’ve eaten a plant.”
“Sounds interesting,” I said, without enthusiasm. I had no happy memories of the science classes in my past.
Sister Ann William smiled, as if she were enjoying a private joke. “Some of the prettiest flowers can be deadly in the right doses. In high school we used to call this the Poison Class.”
I perked up my ears. “Now, that really is interesting.”
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Sister Ann William and I split up to go to our respective registration desks in St. Alban’s imposing administration building, constructed in the flat gray-stone Gothic style I’d seen on so many Catholic university campuses.
I had to admit this sight—men and women in flowing robes, teaching in a majestic setting dedicated to God—was one of the inspiring images that drew me to religious life. From my high school days, I easily pictured myself in a nun’s habit, living a life of prayerful scholarship. No worldly cares. Paying the mortgage, raising children, worrying about car maintenance or Easter outfits—all concerns of the laity—wouldn’t interfere with my spiritual goals.
The rain had stopped by the time Sister Ann William and I met again for lunch in an aging student union building. A more modern version was under construction behind the old one, the reason for a bright orange crane perilously close to the administration building tower. I looked at the signage for J. Driscoll & Sons, but saw a different name. EDSON & SONS. I wondered if anyone’s daughters ever went into construction.