MOON FALL

by Tamara Thorne

  They walked up the steps and John tried one of the massive oak doors. It swung silently open and they stepped into the cool interior. His stomach protested; he continued to ignore it. The entryway was lit from high above by sunlight streaming in through a stained-glass skylight which cast dancing colors across the polished wide-plank oak floor. On each side was a closed door, one with a brass plate reading ''Administrator," the other blank. Twenty feet farther, the main corridor crossed; then the entry hall dead ended at another stained-glass window, this one an arched starburst of dark colors barely touched by the sun. A Madonna-style statue stood before the window. A single ray of muted crimson light fell across the alabaster face like a bloody gash. Fascinated, slightly repelled, John took a step toward it

  ''May I help you?"

  John turned and saw the administrator's door had opened and a tall elderly woman in a long black habit was staring at them from the doorway. Cutter stepped forward and extended his hand, introducing himself. She nodded curtly and looked to John, who swallowed bile and introduced himself.

  ''Mother Lucy said you would come," she said, without bothering to give her name. "Follow me."

  With that, she turned to the wide entryway, approached it, then looked back at them, raising an eyebrow. Cutter stepped forward and held one of the doors for her. She exited like royalty and the men had to move quickly to keep up with her.

  She led them across a walkway toward the dorm building. As they passed the windows of the main building, John caught glimpses of students and nuns in classrooms-no summer vacation for the orphans. Farther along, he heard a sonorous voice droning in what he assumed was Latin, and as they reached the comer and turned, girls' voices raised in song. It was Monk Music, as he used to call it, and it raised the hackles on the back of his neck. A moment later they reached the dorm, and again the nameless nun waited while Cutter opened the door for her.

  The dormitory was long and dimly lit, the paint old and yellowed, the walls dotted with paintings between closed doors, ugly pictures of suffering saints. John barely noticed them as the nun approached a stairwell and led them up. The second floor landing was the same, murky light coming through small colored glass windows and twenty-five-watt bulbs. The place reminded him of a run-down WPA apartment building on a grand scale, but at least his nausea had abated.

  One more flight-the last- and the nun turned right, her black robes fluttering behind her. Toward the end of the corridor she halted and peered into an open room. Yellowish light poured through the doorway and a voice issued from the room. ''Hello, Sister Agatha." A second voice echoed the greeting.

  Irritated-he'd told them to stay out of the room-John stepped briskly into the doorway and silently groaned as he took in the buckets, rags, and mops. Christ, why me? He surveyed the rest of the room: the walls were pinkish and· red-streaked with watery blood, the small bed stripped, not only of its linen, but its mattress as well. Only a circular rag rug that extended beneath the bed and spread across most of the floor remained intact, and despite its multicolored braiding of autumn reds, oranges, and browns, John could make out a number of blood spatters, an especially heavy one near one edge of the bed. That was, at least, some testimony to the site of the incident.

  He started to open his mouth, but Sister Agatha cut him off. ''This is Sister Bibiana," she said, as a short, round nun pulled rubber gloves from her hands and came forward, her face dimpling in a cheerful smile.

  "Just Bibi," she said. "I'm sorry the room's so messy, Sheriff, but we're working hard." Color flooded her cheeks as she spoke. John wondered if she was embarrassed that two men were standing in a woman's bedroom.

  Again he opened his mouth, and again he was cut off by the administrative nun. "And this is Sister Mary Oswald."

  "Sheriff," she said, not bothering to put down her mop or come forward. She was blond, he assumed, since the black cowl covered her head. Of average height and weight, her skin almost white against the habit, she had pale everything-lips, eyes, and eyebrows, the last so pale that he wasn't sure if she actually had any.

  ''Ladies. Sisters," he amended, ''I asked your Mother Superior not to allow any one in this room until Dr. Cutter and I arrived."

  "Oh, well." Sister Bibi started to giggle nervously, then stopped, putting one hand to her mouth. "We were already working when Mother returned, so she said to go ahead."

  John glanced at Cutter, who looked as annoyed as he felt. "Please stop now and leave us to our work. We need to take photos and samples." He turned to Sister Agatha and ignored her sour expression. ''Please tell your Mother Superior that I'll need to speak with her and the rest of you when we're done here. Also, make sure that your resident physician will be available."

  The two younger nuns bustled by, Sister Mary Oswald giving John a shy smile as she passed. Sister Agatha only nodded before following them.

  Ten

  ''I guess that's the best we can do, under the circumstances." John Lawson put the lens cap on his camera and turned to Frank Cutter, who was sealing an envelope containing fibers he'd scraped from the rug. "Did you find anything in the lavatory?"

  ''It's spotless. Not a drop of water or a dirty towel anywhere. We'll have to check the laundry facility on the way out, but I don't think we'll find anything." Cutter put the envelope in his bag. "What's next?"

  "You wished to speak with me?"

  John looked up to see a tall, elegant man in a charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He raised his eyebrows. "Who are you?"

  ''Richard Dashwood, M.D.," the man said, stepping into the room.

  As John introduced himself and Cutter, he couldn't stop studying Dashwood's face. The man was between thirty-five and forty and almost too handsome, with thick, dark hair, high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a hawk nose. But it was his eyes, long, hooded, and dark, that captured John ... and made him uneasy. Uncomfortably familiar, Dashwood's gaze seemed to pierce through to his soul. He took an instant dislike to the man, and that was something that rarely happened. It intrigued him.

  ''Dashwood," Cutter said, as he removed his latex gloves. "The name's familiar." He walked up to the other doctor, peered at him. "You're too young to be-"

  "My father was St. Gertrude's physician before me." Dashwood's manner, the serenity in his appearance and voice, combined with a slight British accent, reminded John of Basil Rathbone as Sherlock Holmes relaxing with his violin. ''Dr. Cutter," Dashwood continued, ''I've heard of you as well, and I'm sorry to make your acquaintance over such an unfortunate incident." He turned his attention to John. "Haven't we met before, Sheriff?" A Mona Lisa smile crept across his lips.

  "It's possible," John said. "I've lived here all my life." The eyes drew him in. Something about them flickered through his memory but was gone before he could identify it. "You don't sound like a native, though, Doctor."

  ''I was schooled in England." One eyebrow arched slightly. "Poor Miss Tynan," he murmured. "She never should have come here, didn't have the temperament for it."

  John walked over and pushed the door shut, then moved to a round dinette table and indicated one of the chairs. "Have a seat, Dr. Dashwood." He waited for the physician to seat himself, then sat opposite him while Cutter leaned against the cold radiator on the wall between them.

  "Tell me about her," John began. "What didn't she have the temperament for? Teaching?"

  "She didn't have the kind of personality that could thrive in a school, especially a girls' school. She was very sensitive, very soft-hearted." Dashwood leaned forward slightly. "Some of the sisters are, well, rather harsh. There's only one other lay teacher, our gym instructor, Esther Roth, and she isn't the easiest person for a young woman like Miss Tynan to get along with, either. Then there are the girls, and, well, you know how they are."

  "No," John said, "I don't. Please tell me."

  ''Miss Tynan was very good with the younger girls, but she taught at the high school level, and adolescents-especially young women- can be very difficult to handle. Miss Tynan wasn't su
ited to the job."

  ''Did she talk to you about her problems?"

  "Yes, a little. She came to me for something to soothe her nerves. She requested Valium, or at least Xanax."

  "Did you give her something?" Cutter asked.

  “After examining her, I suggested herbal tea. Chamomile, actually. And I gave her advice on some simple relaxation techniques. We talked, and I realized that she was young, inexperienced, and really just needed to, ah, tough it out, as they say. I told her these things- in much kinder words, of course and tried to build up her self -esteem." Dashwood looked down at his hands, then back at Lawson, his expressive eyes filled with regret. ''I'm afraid I underestimated her mental instability. If I'd realized, I would have referred her to a psychiatrist. Perhaps she would still be with us."

  "You believe it was a suicide, then?" Lawson asked.

  "Depression?" Cutter asked simultaneously.

  "Yes to your question, Sheriff, and no to yours, Doctor. Or, more precisely, perhaps depression was part of why she took her life, but I've been thinking about something she mentioned a few times. She said it lightly and I didn't take her seriously. After all, she was a grown woman."

  "Go on," John prompted. There was absolutely nothing to dislike about this man, but his aversion was growing by the second. Maybe he was simply responding to Dashwood the same way he'd seen his ex-wife react when she encountered a woman she perceived as more beautiful or intelligent than she. That’s not important; concentrate. "What did she say?"

  ''She said she thought she saw one of our alleged ghosts. That it spoke to her."

  "And what did it say?" John tried to cover his skepticism.

  "It told her she was going to die. Her phrasing was cautious; she said she had probably imagined it, and she tried to laugh about it."

  "I would take it seriously," Cutter said, "if a patient told me that. Joking or not, it's important."

  "I would have, Doctor, except for the fact that she asked me to prescribe sleeping pills, or at least, the Valium or Xanax she'd requested earlier. I knew from her history that she had used these drugs for extended periods, and as I'm sure you're aware, they can be quite habit-forming. I believed that she probably concocted the ghost story in order to get the drugs I had previously denied. I thought it likely she had a substance abuse problem."

  "So you gave her nothing?" Cutter asked, in a much calmer tone.

  "In addition to the tea, I eventually gave her some over-the counter antihistamines. Completely safe, and they make most people sleepy."

  "How long ago did this ghost business begin?" John asked.

  ''She began to complain about her nerves about six months ago-only a few weeks after her arrival. The ghost stories began about two months ago."

  "I see," John said, thinking that drug abuse really was a definite possibility. "I'd like to see her medical files."

  "Dr. Dashwood," Cutter began. "Just out of curiosity, was it the ghost of a headless monk?"

  John wondered about that. too-the headless monk tale supposedly dated from the earliest days of the monastery.

  "No, our monk has only been reported in the chapel and in the cemetery behind it." Dashwood cleared his throat. “This ghost is one of our 'ladies in white.' " To show he was a nonbeliever, Dashwood forged a wry smile. "This building the living quarters-has only one, but it's said she wanders every floor. Sometimes sobbing is heard in conjunction with her visitations. There have even been a few reports of doors opening or closing by themselves; as with all good ghosts, she's often invisible. The main building, which contains the school, has two; one that haunts the janitor's storeroom, and another, commonly known as 'The Screamer.' "

  "Sounds delightful," Cutter said dryly.

  Dashwood sat back and folded his long-fingered hands. "I thought that Lenore Tynan was at most trying to obtain drugs, and at the least, merely a little anxious. The ghost stories have that effect on some of our students and even an occasional teacher, and as I said, she spoke of it jokingly. In retrospect, I realize that she must have been genuinely delusional, and that she was experiencing a nervous breakdown. I wish I'd realized it sooner, but she was a quiet girl who kept to herself. Her conversations with me were very stilted. Cautious, you might say."

  "I see," John said, after a brief but heavy silence. The queasiness was returning and the longer he looked into Dashwood's weird, dark eyes, the worse it became. He wanted to end the interview. Now. ''I appreciate your cooperation, Doctor. Rest assured I'll return your records as soon as possible."

  "Of course." Dashwood glanced up as someone rapped sharply on the door. "That will be the Mother Superior," he said, rising as the knob turned. "If there's nothing else, I'll fetch Miss Tynan's files for you."

  "Thanks, I'll be in touch." Lawson and Cutter stood and followed Dashwood to the door, which opened to reveal Mother Superior Lucy Bartholomew, whose expression implied she was wearing the tightest panties in town. She entered the room and the odor of mildewed cinnamon clinging to her made nausea worm more deeply through John's gut.

  Dashwood stepped forward and took Lucy's hand in both of his. Instantly the woman melted, her face relaxing into something resembling beauty. Color bloomed in her cheeks as she beamed at the man. ''Doctor, thank you for cooperating with the sheriff's investigation," she purred without a glance at John.

  "I'll see you later, Mother Lucy." Dashwood let go of her hand and glanced back. "Gentlemen."

  John nodded and Dashwood left them to Mother Lucy, whose expression hardened to cement as soon as the physician was gone. "Sheriff, Dr. Cutter, follow me, please. The sisters are waiting."

  "John," said Cutter, looking at his watch. "I have to get back. Baptist bellyaches," he added for Lucy's amusement, but she only scowled.

  "I'll run you back right now," John said quickly. "I'll be back soon, Mother Lucy. Actually," he added, relief flooding him, "I'll send two of my deputies, and they can complete the questioning in half the time."

  "Very well." Lucy clipped off the words. She pulled the door closed behind them, then escorted them briskly out of the dorm and off the property. When the gargoyled gate slammed shut behind them, John actually began to feel good for the first time that day.

  Eleven

  "I have a customer," Minerva Payne told Mark Lawson as the bells over the door of the Gingerbread House jingled. ''Let's go see who it is."

  Mark nodded, his mouth full with a chunk of freshly cut fudge, then followed the old lady out of the kitchen, only to stop dead in his tracks when he saw his father, in full uniform, approaching the counter.

  "Mrs. Payne," he began, then spotted his son. "Mark, what are you doing here?"

  "Nothing," he mumbled around the fudge.

  ''Mark was just helping me in the kitchen, so I gave him a piece of candy," Minerva said, smiling at the sheriff. ''I hope that's all right-it's not too near dinnertime, is it?''

  John Lawson looked taken aback, then shook his head and gave her a strained smile. "No, ah, that's fine. I just didn't expect to find him here." He looked at his son. ''You told me you and Corey Addams were going over to the Parkers' today."

  Mark looked a little sheepish. ''We did. I just stopped here on my way home."

  "Where's Corey?"

  "He didn't stop. He's afraid of Minerva."

  "Mark!" Lawson said. "Mind your manners."

  Minerva chuckled and rested her hands on the boy's shoulders. ''That's all right, Sheriff. Mark is refreshingly honest, and he really is one of the few Moonfall children who aren't afraid of me." She smiled and ruffled Mark's hair. "Some of the adults are afraid of me, too. Afraid I'll turn them into frogs, or some such nonsense." She paused. "You'd best run along now, Mark. Your father needs to speak with me."

  "Really?" Mark asked. "What about, Dad?"

  "Business. Look, go over to Gus's and help him do some chores."

  "Aw, Dad-"

  "He's cooking us dinner tonight, so give him a hand. I'll be there in an hour. Now, scoot."

&
nbsp; Minerva watched the father watch the son as he scuffed his way out of the store, noted the affection in John Lawson's eyes. It was a painful thing to see. "Sheriff? I thought you might pay me a visit today," she said briskly.

  ''What made you think that?" Anxiety laced his voice, and she knew he was trying hard to hide it.

  "Why, that poor young woman in the pond, of course."

  "Were you the one who phoned about her?"

  "No, Sheriff, but it's all over town. You can't keep something like that secret for long."

  "Who told you?"

  "I don't want to talk out of turn."

  "You won't. This shouldn't be common knowledge yet. I need to know."

  ''Very well. Deputy Griffin told me."

  "He already questioned you?"

  "No, of course not. Why would he ask an old woman like me about something like that? I gave him a potion that loosened his tongue."

  The sheriff's mouth worked, but nothing came out. Old ideas died hard.

  ''The potion was coffee and a Danish, Sheriff Lawson." There were two wicker chairs near the window, and Minerva walked over and sat in one, beckoning him to do the same. "Old bones. They pain me when I stand too long." She waited while John Lawson settled in the chair. He'd been a good looking boy, and he'd grown into a fine figure of a man with a strong face and thick hair, just like his father, and old Gus before him. As Mark would be one day. The Lawsons were of fine stock. And why shouldn't they be? She smiled to herself, then studied John. ''Would you like some coffee, and perhaps a tart? I just took them out of the oven-and they're not apple."

  He actually smiled at that and she saw some of his unease drain away. Moonfall humor dictated that no resident would be caught dead eating apples if other fruit was available. "No, but thanks for the offer."