Nun But The Brave (A Giulia Driscoll Mystery Book 3)

by Alice Loweecey

  For a former nun, her Catholic jokes edged close to heresy. She’d said so to Father Carlos, who wanted the Host joke repeated. He laughed loud enough in the Confessional for three old ladies to be staring at Giulia when she opened the wooden door afterward.

  “Husband of mine, I repeat that I am taking care of the baby while I perform my job.”

  “It’s not just Zlatan. I’m worried about you too.”

  She kissed him. “My gun is in the glove compartment. My keys will be in my pocket. If by any remote chance this goes south, I’ll trigger the retrofitted auto-unlock and shove his nasal cartilage up into his sinus cavity. After that I’ll either floor it and get out of Dodge, or he’ll have a chance to admire my meticulous gun barrel cleaning.”

  Early Mass finished at nine thirty. Giulia procured salted caramel dark roast and hit the road. As she drove the Nunmobile north into cow country, she recited all the Prepper lore she’d crammed last night after pruning her feet and making dinner on a modern gas stove with store-bought sausages. Which they ate while streaming the rest of Sherlock.

  Why Giulia Driscoll would never make it as a Prepper, reason number one: She had no desire whatsoever to live off grid.

  An hour later, the entire world seemed to drop away as she drove out of the last of the suburbs. Corn fields and apple orchards replaced cookie-cutter two-story houses with golf course-worthy lawns and streets with no sidewalks. Half a mile northeast, she reached the crossroad indicated in the directions and turned right. Another mile through air permeated with manure and she turned left. A third mile past horse paddocks and more corn, and she turned right again into a dirt driveway marked by a mailbox shaped like a largemouth bass.

  The driveway curved back and forth for another quarter mile until it ended at a small farmhouse. Chickens wandered the yard. Over to the right, rows of potted herbs grew in a fenced-in garden four times the size of Giulia’s backyard. Between the garden and the woods beyond, beehives and the beginnings of a patch of corn.

  She tapped the horn. Alexander came out from the woods. He too wore jeans plus a long-sleeved shirt and a straw hat. Weeds dangled from the hoe in his hand. Giulia got out and locked the car. He waved.

  “You didn’t stiff me.” His voice carried across the beehives and vegetables without effort.

  “Did you expect me to?” Giulia asked when he came nearer.

  “It’s happened. One woman saw the beehives and backed out of the driveway so fast she sprayed dirt all over the chickens. Guess she was allergic.” He wiped his left hand on his jeans and reached toward her. Giulia envisioned a repeat of Dan’s pelvic width test and kept space between them. His dark, straight eyebrows merged into a single entity. He dropped his hand.

  Giulia remembered her character. “Sorry. I had a trial meeting with someone else who didn’t understand boundaries.” When the eyebrows didn’t separate, she said, “He treated my hips like they were his personal property.”

  His face cleared. “Amateur. I can tell you’re good breeding stock by your stance and proportions. I wouldn’t have asked you here if you weren’t.”

  Giulia gave him the only possible reply not involving physical violence: “I’ve never thought about keeping bees. Does it require a significant initial investment?”

  “Can you work with wood enough to build and join several boxes? You can’t cut corners on lumber, screening, and beeswax to build the hives, so that’s a few hundred dollars. Some people purchase bees, which can be expensive. I brought wild bees into my hives.”

  She admired the stamped metal borders on the hives. One with maple leaves, one with a Greek key design, a third with ivy, and interlocking animal horns on the fourth.

  “I worked in a metal stamping plant in high school.” Alex held out his right hand. A thick scar puckered the base of his thumb. “When I moved up here I bought some used equipment and created my own designs. Our tools in the new world should have beauty as well as usefulness.”

  They passed the herb garden. Giulia saw the usuals: parsley, oregano, basil, marjoram, chives, thyme, lemon balm, coneflowers, and several plant leaves she couldn’t identify at a glance. Morning glory vines covered the entire side of the fence next to the beehives.

  “I bottle most of the honey. It’s the only sweetener I use. I’ve got two acres here, but growing sugar cane this far north isn’t practical. Besides, with honey I can make mead.”

  They discussed drying herbs and canning in greater detail than at their first Home Depot meeting. Giulia held her own for this part of the conversation with ease. He led her past the hives and onto a wide expanse of tilled land.

  “Wow.”

  His grin became proud. “It’s enough for three or four people to live on for years. I worked out a grid system to rotate the crops. The fruit trees are the exception, of course. Do you spin?”

  Giulia was quite sure he didn’t refer to a specialized class at the gym. “No, but I sew.”

  He made a wry face. “No one’s perfect. You should acquire the skill. There’s a learning curve, but department stores will be looted or torched or both within a month of the cataclysm.”

  Preppers appeared to be prone to mansplaining. Giulia let this one slide.

  “I thought hemp was more durable than wool.”

  He shook his head. “Why draw unwanted police attention? When flyovers happen out here they’re not reporting on rush-hour traffic.”

  Giulia turned her head toward the hedge beyond the beehives. “Do I hear sheep?”

  “You do. Also goats. Cows are great for manure, but sheep and goats serve the same purpose and take up much less room.”

  “And sheep have wool. I’ve eaten goat cheese but not sheep cheese.”

  “It’s quite tasty. Both animals provide milk and cheese and fertilizer. As an added bonus, they’re our garbage disposal for what doesn’t go in the compost pile.”

  Giulia was pleased he considered her one of the gang, but she had a creeping sense of time warp. When she got home, she was going to challenge Frank to a game of Tomb Raider to regain her sense of the modern world.

  “You’ve got a baseball bat growing under the zucchini leaves,” she said.

  He followed her pointing finger.

  “I was sure I harvested them all yesterday. Show me.”

  They walked the rows and found two oversized zucchinis. Giulia made the standard joke about leaving them on the neighbor’s doorstep at midnight. He laughed. She gave him a point for being polite on a first date.

  She met the sheep and goats, avoided the bees, and inspected his hand-carved bows and arrows. “My grandfather would have approved your hedge over there. When we were kids, we swore he used a level to trim it.”

  “My neighbors keep pigs. The hawthorn hedge keeps my crops safe, plus I make jelly from the berries.”

  “What do you use when the zucchini and cucumbers get attacked by white powdery mildew?”

  They discussed cayenne-based natural pesticides and the importance of planting marigolds around the vegetables to keep rabbits out.

  “What does your family think of you going off grid?” Giulia said after he made the standard joke about how quickly rabbits multiply.

  “I have two younger sisters, identical twins, who live in New York City,” he said. “They think I’ve taken preparedness to extremes. We don’t speak much now.”

  Maria Martin’s inner Giulia Falcone did a happy dance. A twin connection. Luck or coincidence, she didn’t care.

  “Who would’ve thought? I don’t talk about this much, but I had a twin. She died in a car accident in high school. Drunk driver.”

  “That’s rough.”

  Silence. Giulia didn’t want to overplay her hand, so she didn’t elaborate on her fake sob story.

  “My sisters have a pretty close connection,” he sai
d after deadheading several marigolds. “They say it’s a twin thing. Does it feel like part of you is missing?”

  “Yeah. That’s a good way to express it. For the first few years it was pretty bad, but it’s eased up now. Sometimes I still reach for the phone to call her when something we shared comes on TV or when I reread a book we both liked.” Her next Father Carlo confession list was shaping up to be the length of an epic poem.

  Awhile later, as he worked with the hoe and she weeded the smaller sprouts by hand, he said, “Have you ever visited an actual preparation community?”

  Giulia sat on her heels in triumph as her dating site persona reeled in the mark by virtue of knowing how to grow one’s own food. “Not yet.”

  “I belong to one not too far from here. Would you be interested in joining me for a visit?”

  Giulia pulled more weeds under pretense of considering the idea. “Yes, I would. It’d be good to meet with like-minded people. None of my friends are willing to acknowledge the current world reality.”

  He stepped over the broccoli, easy for his long legs. “Your two jobs. When do you have a day off?”

  She couldn’t make it seem too simple, so she brought out her cell phone and poked buttons. In her peripheral vision, she saw his frown of disapproval. At the use of technology? Probably.

  “I switched shifts with someone this weekend, so I have Tuesday off starting at noon.”

  He took out a pocket calendar and pen. “A perfect opportunity. I’ll clear it with the leader of our community and let you know, but Tuesday should be fine.” He wrote. “Shall I leave you a message?”

  Giulia refrained from pointing out the dichotomy of how all these anti-technology Preppers had no problem using evil internet tech to find women. “Yes, thanks. Just for now, you know?”

  “Not a problem. Not everyone is trustworthy, not like us who understand.”

  Giulia went into full-on rant mode when she got home.

  “These guys all seem to think my earthly value rests in my pelvis. As long as I can be their brood mare, my farming and cooking skills and ability to work from before sunrise to after sunset are an added bonus in their beautiful new technology-free world. That is, after they prostitute their values enough to hunt for the perfect pelvis.”

  Frank refilled her lemonade. “But, honey, don’t you want to shovel sheep manure on hot summer days and brew mead at night by the light of a whale oil lantern?”

  “After I cook three meals over an open fire and clean the dishes using homemade soap, which I’ll also make. In my spare time, of course, between spinning wool and sewing clothes and keeping radioactive dust out of the beehives.” She drank the entire glass of lemonade without taking a breath.

  “I thought these guys were into the EMP version of the fall of civilization?”

  “What’s the difference?” She opened the refrigerator. “Burgers for supper?”

  “Anything you want, my hardworking wife.”

  Her head poked around the open door. “Do I detect a touch of trepidation in your voice?”

  He joined her. “I was merely trying to show you I know the value of my life’s partner.”

  She handed him the hamburger buns. “A sentiment which garners my complete approval.” The barbecue sauce and onions came next. “I want to find evidence these extremists are using the internet to lure and seduce underage women.”

  “Nobody’s underage.”

  “That we know of. Maria Martin’s dates this weekend are all about making a new generation of Preppers. Younger women provide more childbearing years. It’s been that way for millennia in the Church. Remember, Juliet was fourteen.”

  “Romeo and Juliet is fiction.”

  “Based on current practice in Shakespeare’s time.” She took the barbecue seasoning from her spice rack, but held onto it instead of putting it on the counter. “Maybe we do know they’re targeting underage girls.”

  Frank said with his head in the lettuce drawer,” How?”

  “The teenagers in the park and behind the convenience store.”

  Frank’s head reappeared. “Based on?”

  “Are you really asking me that?”

  Out came the lettuce and the rest of Frank. “Drugs are drugs. Runaways are runaways.”

  “Frank, Frank, Frank. Just because a connection isn’t a blinking neon sign…”

  He peeled off lettuce leaves. “Based on skin discoloration, both teenagers had an allergic reaction.”

  “Not that simple. If they’d had a standard allergic reaction to the usual suspects, the toxicology reports would’ve pinpointed the culprit sooner.”

  Frank bit off the end of a carrot. “When fanatics go off grid they also grow their own versions of their favorite hallucinogens? Possible. Harder to detect, too.”

  She separated three burgers from the bag of frozen ones. “And what are all the men of the future seeking in their women?”

  He pointed the carrot at Giulia’s hips. “The ability to birth strong sons and hardy daughters.”

  “Very good, class. You’ve been paying attention. And what do teenagers think about?”

  “Sex, drugs, and rock and roll.” He chomped more of the carrot. “No rock and roll off grid.”

  “Not necessarily. Dan the Neanderthal plays the tuba.”

  “Like Opus the penguin in Bloom County? I hope I never meet this guy. I’ll bust out laughing.”

  Giulia punched in a microwave thaw cycle for the burgers. “Extrapolating from the relevant points, we have discontented women of childbearing age ready to be convinced they’re special and chosen.”

  “Your client’s sister.” Frank tossed the carrot end in the trash. “Those teenagers.”

  “My sister-in-law.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Frank called Giulia at work the next morning with all three toxicology reports: The teenagers’ and Giulia’s sister-in-law’s.

  “You are a miracle worker,” Giulia said. “How did you get access to Anne’s information?”

  “I made a vow never to reveal the inner workings of the police department.”

  “Which means you convinced Jimmy of the connection between all three women and he worked his magic.”

  “You used to be much more gullible.” A sigh. “You were right. They were all on homegrown junk. Most of the concoction is natural. The reports show valerian, hyssop, and fennel, but get this: it also shows traces of tannin and a ton of sugars.”

  “Tannin? As in tea leaves?”

  “Tannins also appear in fermentation, according to the lab guys who brew beer in their basements. Because of the sugar content, they think a sweet wine was used to hide the kicker ingredient: LSA.”

  Giulia opened a search window out of habit. “Define LSA, please?”

  “You started to Google it, didn’t you?” The smile in his voice came over the receiver. “LSA is a home-grown version of LSD. Now, class, who can tell me the number one problem with home-grown illegal substances? Ms. Driscoll, I see your hand up.”

  “Incorrect extraction, Mr. Driscoll.”

  “You’re my favorite student, Ms. Driscoll.”

  “You can also add the side effects of mixing it with alcohol.” Giulia typed as she talked. “Oh my, yes, such a bad idea.”

  Frank’s voice changed. “Your sister-in-law’s tox report showed traces of LSA as well as thebaine, papaverine, and a few other -ines, all derived from opium.”

  Giulia’s mouth tightened. “Is she dead?”

  “No, no. She’s out of lockdown but still in intensive care. She hasn’t woken up yet. Don’t worry, there’s still brain activity.”

  Giulia suppressed with difficulty the curses she wanted to bring down on her brother, her sister-in-law, and the irresponsible idiots creating their own version
of Breaking Bad with their gardens.

  “So the teenagers didn’t have the extra drugs in their systems, but they did have alcohol indicators?”

  “Correct, but their LSA levels were quadruple your sister-in-law’s. Still think all three are related?”

  Giulia clicked over to a “how to use LSA safely” discussion board. Good Heavens. “Yes,” she said, reading posts from several people in major denial about their addiction.

  “I can hear in your voice you’re already in clue-hunting mode. See you tonight.”

  “Thanks, honey.” She hung up and drilled deeper into the drug user blog, then found another, and another. The hardened users fell into two categories: People whose brains were so fried they couldn’t even spell “extract” half the time, and people who posted useful information about portions, how-tos, and potency. If one discounted the inevitable cumulative effect of LSA, one could almost believe the logical-sounding advice about counteracting a bad trip. The discussions of those still having flashbacks after weeks and months belied the pseudo-medical advice, though.

  “Anne, you idiot. Salvatore may be a bully and a psychological abuser, but you should’ve thought of the kids before you swallowed that first dose. Plus, you have me talking to myself again.”

  If Anne had been a prize idiot using Salvatore as justification, what had been the teenagers’ excuse? Disaffection or abuse or plain old rebellion? The idea of Anne and the teenagers and Joanne in the same Prepper cult took deeper root in her mind. She drew an arrow on the corner of her legal pad.

  ➔ Anne:

  • Trouble at home

  • Sneaks out multiple times

  • Runs away with camping gear

  • Weeks later comes to DI

  • High on something unusual and natural

  • Regrets change of lifestyle

  • Nearly dies

  ➔ Teenagers:

  • Trouble at home?

  • Sneak out? Multiple times?

  • Run away