The friendly voice on the line came to her rescue. “Friends of Miss Sullivan’s are most welcome. Will you be driving?”
“No. I’ll be taking the train from Grand Central Station.”
“Then when you arrive in Mount Kisco, just call and one of the sisters will pick you up.”
“No, no. Please. I don’t want to inconvenience anyone. I can get a cab.”
“And your name again.”
Rannie supplied it then hurriedly stammered, “Um . . . There is something else I wanted to ask. Afterward, is there any chance that I might be able to speak with Sister Dorothy Cusack?”
“I couldn’t say. That’s really up to Sister.”
How promising did that sound? Not very. “Of course. Well, thank you,” Rannie said and pressed End on her phone screen. Since seeing Ret Sullivan laid to rest was not the true purpose of schlepping to Mount Kisco, Rannie decided to stay put and copyedit the book about sicko CEOs. And, no, she wouldn’t deliver the manuscript in person; she intended to follow Tim’s advice and steer clear of Larry. Dusk could spring for messenger pickup.
“The guy has a history of preying on vulnerable women.” That’s how Tim had put it on the phone last night. It made Larry sound like a complete psycho. According to the personality profile in Cutthroat, a predatory nature was a hallmark of all psychopaths. They trained their sights on a target and—through manipulation, charm, quick-wittedness—not only persuaded the victim to do their bidding but also to consider doing so a singular stroke of good fortune. Witness Bernie Madoff, whose clients begged to fork over all their money to him. But Larry? Preying on women, coming on to an underage stepdaughter? Rannie didn’t buy it. Nevertheless, as for “vulnerable,” objectively, she and Ellen—Ret, too—all qualified as “vulnerable” at the time Larry Katz first shambled into their lives. According to Larry, however, he’d had to fend off Ret’s advances. As for Ellen’s involvement with Larry, Rannie’s hunch was that Ellen viewed him in much the same way Rannie had after her marriage combusted: Larry was an amusing, intelligent, unserious man whose attentions were flattering, pleasant diversions. If it even rated as romance, it was romance lite.
Rannie was unaware that her hand still held the phone until its jangled ringing startled her and she dropped it.
“This is Sister Dorothy Cusack. Am I speaking to Miranda Bookman?”
Holy guacamole! “Yes, Sister. Yes, it is.” Rannie didn’t know what was more surprising—talking to a former movie star or the fact that a convent had spy phones with caller ID.
“I called before because I knew Ret Sullivan. Not very well.” Rannie explained her function as copy editor. “But I liked Ret—in a weird kind of way.”
Those last words had popped out unbidden. However, Sister Dorothy seemed to understand. “Yes, Kathleen—or Ret as she came to call herself—didn’t always make it easy to like her—or love her. But I did.”
“I know. And I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
Rannie listened patiently to Sister Dorothy’s recital of all the masses, novenas, rosaries being said in Ret’s memory. “We’ve all been so upset!”
“Yes, Sister, I understand. Ret’s death has been very upsetting for me too. I was the person who found her.”
An audible intake of breath. “How awful! Oh, that must have been awful.”
“It was. And then two days later a close friend of mine was killed in Central Park.”
“The runner?”
“That’s right. The thing is, she knew Ret too. Much better than I did. She was Ret’s editor at Simon & Schuster. They’d worked together for years.”
“Ellen something?”
“Ellen Donahoe. Yes.”
“God have mercy! I read about a woman getting attacked in Central Park but didn’t make the connection.”
“You couldn’t have. The police have kept her name out of the papers.”
“Why? Don’t tell me they think the murders are related!”
“They may be. . . . I think they are. Ret has a new book coming out.”
“And you think that’s why Kathleen was killed? Because of something in it?” There was another audible intake of breath. “Lord! Not again.”
Rannie realized that by “not again” Sister Dorothy was referring to what Mike Bellettra had done to Ret. “Sister, if I may, I’d like to attend the funeral for Ret. But I’d also very much like the chance to speak to you afterward.”
“You think I might know something?”
“No, probably not, but you knew Ret better than anyone else.”
After a moment’s hesitation came a decisive reply. “Yes, come. Of course, come. Though I can’t imagine I’ll be able to shed light on why Kathleen came to such a vicious end.”
Within fifteen minutes Rannie showered, had the train schedule written down, and, since she was still waiting to be reunited with her navy suit, borrowed a black wool jacket of Alice’s as well as a pair of charcoal pants.
“Now,” she told her reflection in the mirror, “Get thee to a nunnery!”
Even on a blustery day with not a ray of sunshine, everything about the convent appeared silvery and serene—stone walls that enclosed a now-leafless apple orchard, a weathered barn and chicken coops and several rustic buildings clustered around a church so small it looked to Rannie more like a children’s playhouse than a house of prayer. Sister Dorothy Cusack was waiting for her at the double doors of the church. Under a mannish black overcoat, she wore a full habit and signature lace-up nun shoes, possibly the least attractive footwear known to humankind. She was extremely tall and thin with pale, goyishe blue eyes; and although she had to be roughly the same age as Harriet, her complexion still had a creaminess that Rannie was positive owed nothing to Estée Lauder. Who knew . . . maybe chastity was the secret to perfect skin.
As she led Rannie into the church, she almost seemed to be gliding under her ankle-length skirts like Miss Clavel in the Madeline books.
Rannie was thankful to have worn her duffle coat, which had a hood. It was bone-chillingly cold inside.
“The heat has been very cranky,” Sister Dorothy explained by way of apology. “We’ll have tea after the burial. The mass should be starting in just a few minutes.” After bestowing a sorrowful smile on Rannie, she turned and left.
Rannie huddled in a pew at the back and, even with wool gloves on, needed to keep blowing on her hands. The interior was stark. Plain windows, no stained glass, whitewashed walls adorned with nothing except plaster bas-reliefs of the Stations of the Cross. Rannie sat nearest the one with Jesus dragging his own cross up to Calvary.
Soon recorded organ music started up. A trolley wheeled in Ret’s coffin, a white cloth with an embroidered gold cross draped over it. A priest swinging a censer entered, followed by about twenty elderly nuns, among them Sister Dorothy.
For the next hour Rannie, the sole “civilian” here to mourn Ret, listened to murmured prayers and chanted recitations; she rose each time the nuns did, sat while they genuflected, and watched in fascination as each waited obediently in line to receive a Communion wafer from the priest. What did the wafer taste like? How long did it take for one to melt in your mouth? Faster than an M&M? And who baked the wafers? Did one company have a monopoly on the business?
This was a first for Rannie, a funeral mass. A high mass. Although the priest mentioned Ret by name a couple of times, how the soul of Christ’s servant Kathleen Margaret Sullivan was entering the kingdom of heaven, Ret’s role seemed incidental. No more than a cameo appearance. It was the rite that held significance, the person not so much.
Her father’s funeral had been so different. Amy’s husband had played piano, a medley of Irving Bookman’s favorite Sinatra songs, and after the rabbi’s eulogy, many people shared memories of her dad, including her uncle Morty, who suddenly choked up recounting a long-winded saga that involved buying halvah candy, of all things.
Rannie stood once again while the coffin was rolled down the center aisle and maneuvered o
utside. The cemetery was only a short distance away, beyond what looked like a dormitory—perhaps Ret had lived there as a young girl—and before the first rows of the apple trees.
Unlike the funeral mass, the graveside ceremony was brief, Ret interred with final words from the priest, “May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.” A few minutes later, Rannie was sitting in the parlor of the convent’s guest cottage, accepting a steaming mug of tea from Sister Dorothy as well as a Nilla Wafer (more wafers!) from a plate painted with holly berries around the rim.
“Kathleen often stayed overnight here in the guest cottage, especially after she was disfigured,” Sister Dorothy began. “She felt safe here. At ease.”
“You knew her practically her entire life.”
“She came to the orphanage when she was five. Poor little thing. So unloved. A father who abandoned her. A neglectful mother who up and died. Right from the start she tried very hard to be a good Catholic. Too hard, actually. I think she worried that if she didn’t obey every single rule of the church, God wouldn’t love her either.”
“She loved you and knew you loved her back.”
“Well, at first she was fascinated by me, nothing more. ‘Sister, what was Elvis like? Sister, did you go to the Oscars? Which stars were your friends?’ ” The nun shook her head and laughed. “I take it that you are aware of my former career?”
Rannie nodded. “I am.”
“At one point—this was years later after she’d moved to New York—Kathleen got it into her head to write a book about me. She had a romantic notion that I was some kind of latter-day Mary Magdalene, a glamorous Hollywood sinner who found Christ and then gave up her wicked ways. ‘It has bestseller written all over it,’ she kept saying.”
“Yes, that definitely sounds like the Ret I knew.”
“I told her, ‘First of all, there is no dirt. No scandal. I was a good little Catholic girl even back then.’ I also said, ‘And I won’t forgive you if you publicize my life.’ I probably would have forgiven her, but Kathleen couldn’t afford to take any chances.”
“Ret considered taking vows herself, didn’t she?”
“Yes. When she was about twelve or thirteen, she went through a stage, like some girls do, where that was all she talked about. But it would have been a mistake. I advised against it.”
“Do you mind saying why?”
“Well . . .” Sister Dorothy paused for a moment, fingering the long chain from which her crucifix dangled. Her fingers were painfully arthritic. “To put it plainly, I don’t think she loved God. Not truly. It wasn’t the glory of religion, the joy, that drew her; it was the suffering. All the other little girls would tape pretty pictures by their bed of the Virgin with the Christ Child. Not Kathleen. She kept pictures of martyred saints. It wasn’t healthy. I prayed a lot for Kathleen back then.”
Rannie blew on her mug. The tea was scalding. “Her new book is dedicated to you. It’ll be out shortly.”
“I knew she was finishing up another book, nothing more than that. She wouldn’t even say about who.”
No, no. “Whom.” About “whom.” But because she liked Sister Dorothy, Rannie granted her a grammatical dispensation. Then, deciding that divulging a secret to a nun didn’t count as blabbing, Rannie said, “The book is a biography of Charlotte Cummings, the socialite and philanthropist.” Then she added, “She just died a couple of days ago,” guessing a convent nun might not be a celebrity newshound.
“Oh, I know who Charlotte Cummings is . . . or was. I met her once when she and her husband came to visit. I’m not exaggerating when I say Silas Cummings saved this convent.”
Sister Dorothy seemed amused by the look of surprise on Rannie’s face. “This was—what?—probably forty years ago. The diocese had been forced to cut funding for us. Our buildings were falling into terrible disrepair; we had to let go of all the lay teachers. It got to a point where sometimes there was barely enough money to feed and clothe the girls.
“And then one day, Silas and Charlotte Cummings appeared in a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce. Kathleen and a bunch of girls were outside gawking. I remember her asking, ‘Sister, that car is funny looking. If they’re rich, why don’t they have a Cadillac?’ ” Sister Dorothy laughed. “Well, Kathleen changed her mind about Rolls-Royces, didn’t she?”
Rannie smiled, marveling more over the fact that there was an actual connection, however slim, between Ret Sullivan and Charlotte Cummings.
“Kathleen was dazzled by Mrs. Cummings, who must have looked like royalty to her. As soon as she emerged from the backseat of the car, Kathleen made a beeline over to her, curtsied very dramatically, and said, ‘Welcome to Sisters of Mercy.’ ”
Rannie laughed.
“Oh, yes! Kathleen was some little operator. Mrs. Cummings gave her a great big hug and asked to hear all about her life here. I’m sure Kathleen had visions of being adopted, like Little Orphan Annie. For weeks she kept asking when ‘the rich lady’ was coming back.”
“Had Mr. and Mrs. Cummings heard that the convent was in financial trouble? Did they want to make a charitable gift?”
“No. Silas Cummings wanted to buy a painting we owned. We kept it in the library and Kathleen would often go there and stare at it, just mesmerized.
“How he learned we owned the painting, I have no idea. But he knew who painted it, how old it was, and what he was willing to pay for it—two hundred thousand dollars! He said that was a very fair price and Mother Superior didn’t argue. Can you imagine! Within two weeks, the painting was his and this convent was saved. Does Kathleen mention this in her new book?”
“No, she doesn’t.” Nor was there a word about it in Tattletale.
“Well, I certainly hope she doesn’t say nasty things about Silas Cummings,” Sister Dorothy said protectively. “Every now and then I still say a rosary for him. I think of him as our guardian angel.”
Rannie thought about the passages on Silas’s intestinal troubles but said, “There’s nothing awful in the new book. Nothing scandalous. It’s quite different from Ret’s other books.”
“I’m happy to hear that, yet something was preying on her mind the last time she visited. I thought it might have something to do with her new book. Kathleen told me that she’d sinned, grievously sinned, and she said although she was ashamed of herself, she was glad.”
“She didn’t give you any idea what she’d done?”
“No. She said something to the effect that she was settling a score with a person who’d cheated her. She was getting even.” The plate of Nilla Wafers was proffered again and Rannie obliged.
“I told Kathleen, no matter what she’d done, she had to go to confession, make amends for her sin, and undo it if she could. I pray to God she listened to me.” The nun closed her eyes, and suddenly her face contorted, as if she was in pain. “I’m so worried she didn’t. And now she’s dead.”
It wasn’t until Rannie was back on Metro North, thinking over their conversation, that she grasped the full implication of Sister Dorothy’s words. Her anguish was not solely over what damage Ret might have done to somebody else, but over what damage Ret had done to herself, more specifically to her immortal soul.
Chapter 20
The shoppers had returned triumphant—a mountain of generic brown shopping bags were piled on the living room couch. Harriet was modeling one of the outfits she’d purchased, a dressy number with a cap-sleeved top covered in bugle beads and a chiffon skirt in the same rusty reddish color. She twirled around in it, revealing the marshmallow-white sneakers she’d set out in this morning, and spread her arms.
“Wow!” was Rannie’s noncommittal reaction. Floor-length dresses made her mother look even shorter, verging perilously close to “little people” status or whatever the currently correct euphemism was for midget. Then seeing Harriet was waiting for further comment, Rannie added, “The dress matches the color of your hair exactly. . . . It’ll be perfect for Captain’s Ni
ght on your next cruise.”
“It’s perfect for tonight,” Harriet replied.
Come again?
“Nate. Your mother’s home,” Harriet called in a loud voice.
“Fuck. I have no clue how you tie this,” Rannie heard her son grumbling a moment later as he entered the living room. “And the pants are a deal breaker.”
“You bought Nate a tuxedo!” Rannie exclaimed.
“It’s borrowed, my brother’s.” Olivia went over to Nate and with amazing dexterity, for a teenager, knotted a perfect bow tie. Then she took a step to the aside and made a voilà! gesture. “Does he look hunkalicious or what? I’m talkin’ total stud muffin!”
“Funny, O. Keep it up and I won’t go.”
“Go where?” Rannie asked mystified. “Where are you going?”
“To a black-tie affair at the museum. Tonight. We’re all going. You included,” Harriet informed Rannie. There was a familiar undertone, something besides excitement in her voice, a trace of “and no arguing.”
Olivia filled in the holes. She had four tickets to a party in the Temple of Dendur at the Metropolitan Museum, tickets that her parents weren’t using. “Once we found this dress for Mrs. B—”
They beamed at each other like BFFs.
“Well, what’s the point of buying a party dress,” Olivia continued, pausing to clear her throat, “unless you have a party to go to?”
“Rannie, last month I saw this same dress in Nordstrom. I won’t even tell you what it cost there. I paid less than a third. It’s a knockoff, of course.”
“Even the designer wouldn’t be able to tell,” Olivia assured Rannie’s mother and supplied more backstory for Rannie. By three they had finished shopping, so the Jag made a stop at Olivia’s house to get the tickets, something for Olivia to wear, and the tux for Nate, the pants of which, now that Rannie examined her son more closely, were too tight in the crotch and short in the legs, revealing the sneakers he was wearing . . . black high-tops that had seen far better days.
“So ditch the pants, dude. Wear jeans. That’ll look cool,” Olivia told him.
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