Lovely, Dark and Deep (The Madeline Mann Mysteries)

by Buckley, Julia

  I ran up the driveway to hear the end of my little brother's spiel. “So, you might want to give it a listen, then maybe you can talk it up among your friends,” Fritz was saying. He was holding out a cd that he and his band, The Grinning Bishops, had made a couple of months before. Fritz and his band had received some lucky publicity as a result of my run-in with a murderer, and a local businessman had sponsored them to create a cd. It had actually sold quite a few copies locally and was doing even better as an I-tunes download, but Fritz enjoyed marketing them personally—even, apparently, to seventy-five-year-old German men.

  “Fritz!” I yelled. “Mr. Altschul is busy! He doesn't need you harassing him with your—”

  “It's fine,” said Mr. Altschul, leaning the shovel against the house and taking the cd. “I like music. It's good, yah?” he asked Fritz, punching him jovially in the arm with his free hand.

  “Whoa,” said Fritz, rubbing the area. I'm pretty sure Mr. Altschul could take him.

  Fritz thanked my landlord in a dignified manner and turned toward the car with me. “That totally hurt,” he said under his breath.

  “We'll put some ice on it, honey,” I said, tightening his scarf at the throat.

  In ten minutes we were all seated at The Spaghetti Bowl, a popular Webley restaurant. The pain of Fritz's wound had worn off, and he explained that he was trying to market the cd to all age brackets in an attempt to increase word-of-mouth sales. “Your landlord is the oldest dude I know,” Fritz said, looking at his menu. “So I figured I'd leave one with him.”

  I shook my head. Hopefully Mr. Altschul hadn't experienced too much of a shock when he read the title: Holy Rollers.

  After we ordered, I told Fritz about running into Sister Moira. “She said she wants to talk to me about Sister Joanna,” I said mysteriously.

  “About who murdered her, you mean?” asked Fritz, munching a breadstick. He had grown a goatee to match his red mustache, and it gave him a slightly satanic appearance, somehow enhanced by the crumbs dangling from the lowest hairs.

  “What do you mean, who murdered her?” I asked.

  “How do you even remember?” Jack asked. “Weren't you about ten when it happened?”

  “I was in eighth grade,” my brother said defensively. “And we all thought it looked suspicious at the time. We even told Sister Albertus that things looked fishy, and she told us to hush, and made us kneel and say a prayer for forgiveness.” Fritz still looked indignant at the memory.

  “But why did you think she was murdered?” I asked, still curious.

  “Because kids are melodramatic,” Jack answered, perusing his menu.

  Fritz regarded us both, then began to pretend he was smoking his breadstick and blowing imaginary (and annoying) smoke rings at the ceiling. “Madman, Jack, I think you're both living in what we call a fool's paradise,” he said, contemplating his nonexistent smoke. “When you look at what happened to Sister Joanna—and yes, thanks to Sister Albertus I am still bitter enough to recall the facts—you see several signs that point to murderer rather than anonymous drunkard. First: the hit and run happened in a circular drive in front of the convent. How many drunk drivers would end up in a circular drive? Second: Sister Joanna was struck, in the dusk—I think it was dusk—even though she was to the side of the driveway. Third: Sister Joanna had connections to the mob.”

  He smirked at his own lame joke.

  “Shut up, Fritz,” I said. “And how do you know the first two things?”

  “Would you like me to shut up, or answer you?” Fritz asked. “Your contradictory demands are giving me a headache. Hey, that's a great idea for a song,” he said, grabbing a napkin and pulling a pen out of his jean jacket pocket.

  Sometimes I have to remind myself that Fritz is almost twenty-five years old. “What rhymes with demands, Madman? Hands, glands—oh yeah, this will be good.” Fritz began scribbling.

  The Madman thing, by the way, is a nickname Fritz and my other brother came up with when we were younger—partly because my name is Madeline Mann, and partly because of my sometimes unpredictable behavior.

  “He's right about one thing,” Jack said, seeing that my hands were curling into the strangle position. “There were a lot of questions at the time about how a drunk driver ended up in such a secluded spot—a spot that sober people might have trouble finding.”

  “Was there an investigation?” I asked.

  “I assume so. Doesn't there have to be? Plus it was under such public scrutiny, I'm sure they looked into it in great detail. But then it sort of disappeared, didn't it? I haven't heard her name since—what was it? 2001?”

  “Yeah, man. The year I graduated.” Fritz wiped at an imaginary tear. Most things with Fritz are imaginary, including his girlfriends and his success as a songwriter.

  I felt a little guilty that I didn't remember more about Sister Joanna's death. I'd been almost seventeen at the time; I'd been a student at the very school where she taught. Yet somehow I didn't remember much. Even when I tried.

  “So, you haven't asked about my news,” Fritz said, dismissing the potential murder as no longer worth his conversation.

  I wasn't biting, so Jack asked, “What is your news, Fritz?”

  Fritz grinned at us. Our pasta arrived on steaming plates and the waitress set our food before us. When she had arranged everything to her satisfaction, she left, and Fritz said, “I know about Gerhard's girl.”

  “Who is she?” I asked immediately. My brother Gerhard had been dating a mystery woman for more than three months, and even Fritz, who shared an apartment with Gerhard, hadn't been canny enough to get a glimpse of her. “Spill, Fritz.”

  “Get this: she's a mom,” he said.

  “What do you mean, a mom?”

  “I mean, she has a kid. I'm at the mall last night, dropping some cd's off at the music store, and I see Gerhard with this little tiny girl.”

  “How tiny?” I asked.

  “Like, I don't know. Two or something. Little enough for Gerhard the Weak to be holding her like a bag of groceries.”

  Jack snorted, but said nothing.

  Fritz continued, waving his hand to cool his spaghetti. He tired of this, apparently, and grabbed a dispenser of parmesan cheese, shaking the majority of the contents onto his noodles. “I'm about to go up to him to ask what the deal is when this woman walks up, and Gerhard kisses her. And they all walk off together. Which explains the mystery,” Fritz said, winding cheese-covered spaghetti onto his fork. “He's afraid of freaking out Mom.”

  “That's not true. Mom would—” I stopped. I wasn't sure how my mother would feel about Gerhard dating a woman who had a child. Gerhard was a grown man, after all. He was twenty-nine years old now, two years older than I, and certainly capable of making his own decisions. And yet we all cowered in certain situations that involved seeking my mother's approval. “I think you're underestimating Mom,” I finished.

  “That's right. Think how happy she would be to have a ready-made grandchild,” Jack put in, pouring himself some wine.

  “Right,” said Fritz, unconvinced.

  “Of course, a child complicates things. Adds in another family element, another father maybe,” I said thoughtfully. “But what does it matter? If Gerhard loves this girl, he should share her with us. It's not like we'd humiliate him.”

  Fritz was slurping a six inch string of noodles into his mouth as he nodded agreement. “Weeefffmmllhe,” he said. I knew the translation, since much of what Fritz says at mealtime is through a mouth full of food. We're family.

  After we dropped Fritz off so that he could get ready for his Saturday afternoon shift at Barnes and Noble, Jack and I headed home. Jack was quiet and thoughtful, not saying much as he steered into the parking lot of The Old School. It was the weekend, and Jack, a teacher, had made a point of doing his grading on Friday night so that we could have the day together. I had put my stories to bed on Thursday, had started researching the next week's work on Friday, and wasn't expected in the office
until Monday morning. We were free, and yet we were aimless. We hadn't made plans, hadn't bought theater tickets or invited friends over.

  Jack parked his car next to mine in the lot. I had a blue rehabbed Merkur Scorpio. I'd chosen it for the worst of reasons: because it bore my astrological sign. It looked rather lonely, there with its For Sale sign in the window. We had decided to be a one-car couple, and to use any money that we made from the sale of mine to supplement our honeymoon in Montana. Jack had family there, and he assured me I'd find it beautiful.

  Jack had visions of us hiking every day in the mountains, two adventurers starting a new life together. I had visions like that, too, but I preferred them as visions. In reality I liked the idea of a nice hotel, a big, cozy bed, a beautiful view out the window to assure me that nature still existed, and a phone, shining white on the bedside table, holding the promise of room service and all that might imply.

  “What should we do now?” I asked, scanning for Mr. Altschul. I didn't want to explain my brother to him, nor did I want him to ask us questions about our impending nuptials, which he did with annoying persistence. I think Mr. Altschul saw Jack and me as sort of a glamour couple, and he apparently found endless entertainment in our arguments and reconciliations, even our day-to-day routine. Sometimes when we returned from a grocery shopping trip, Mr. Altschul would come out to help us carry our purchases in. We couldn't refuse such a gallant offer, but I could swear that I'd seen him sticking his nose into more than one bag, studying the contents.

  “I don't know.” Jack had a thoughtful look on his face, staring out the front windshield. He had turned off the motor and we sat there in silence. “I'm a little worried,” he said.

  “About what?” I asked, turning to him, curling a strand of his hair behind his ear.

  “I know I told you I was glad that you were an investigative reporter, but a part of me figured there wouldn't be any murders in Webley, and that I didn't have too much to be concerned about.”

  I stiffened. Jack had told me he was proud of my profession, proud of my persistence in the case of Logan Lanford, proud even of those vibes that I can't seem to ignore in most situations. “All I'm doing is talking to a nun,” I said crisply.

  Jack turned to look at me. “But what will you find? You were just shot, Madeline, not three months ago. Your shoulder is still healing. I want you in one piece for our wedding, our honeymoon. I want you in one piece for our life together.” His expression was almost passionate, and might have melted the heart of a less stubborn woman.

  I looked back at the For Sale sign on my car, turning my back on Jack.

  “It's a part of my job to talk to people. If you quail at every potential menace, it will make my life very difficult,” I said carefully. “And you also seem to be suggesting that I have no common sense.”

  “I'm suggesting that I love you.”

  I tried to think up an argument to that, but failed. I turned back toward him. “I'll just talk to her. It's probably nothing, don't you think?”

  Jack didn't look convinced. “I hope you don't let this come between us,” he said.

  “I don't like the way you phrased that.” I was clutching some leftover noodles in a Styrofoam container, upon which I began to draw patterns with my fingernail. “It would take both of us to let it come between us, wouldn't it? And the only one currently turning it into a conflict is you. I mean, I confided in you about it. Isn't that what we want? If you keep telling me you disapprove, I might stop confiding.”

  Jack sighed. It was the sigh of a martyr, or at the very least a man saddled with a perpetually trying girlfriend. “Okay. Let's just assume it's nothing,” he said. “Shall we go in?”

  I nodded, sparing a glance again for my lonely Scorpio, which a part of me wanted to hop into and drive away. Instead, I rather dispiritedly followed Jack toward the door.

  Mr. Altschul took this moment to carry out his trash. I think he has a sixth sense which tells him when Jack and I are in conflict, and he wanted to get a closer look.

  Jack greeted him jovially, and I held up a hand, but continued to make my way toward the second floor.

  Back in our apartment, Jack sat down with his guitar and started strumming a Jimmy Buffet tune. This cheered me immeasurably. Jack's guitar has helped him out of many a tight spot, due to my love for the instrument. (Okay, and its player.) I began to hum along with "Son of a Son of a Sailor" as I slipped into the bedroom to comb my hair. When I looked in the mirror I was reminded of my new hair color.

  That's right, I thought to myself. I'm a minx. “And Jack will just have to deal with it,” I told my reflection. I went back to my troubadour, ready to demand a kiss.

  Chapter Two

  The convent of the Dominicans of the Holy Nativity was situated at the edge of Webley in an area that was once cornfield as far as the eye could see. It remained a rural area, though the inevitable construction had created a subdivision and a mini mall to the west of this religious retreat. The convent itself was shrouded by an unexpected cluster of pines and a line of weeping willows which had been planted when the builders broke ground in 1951.

  The trees gave the long driveway a sense of seclusion and serenity, and on this cold Monday afternoon they swayed, leafless, in a biting wind. Their naked branches struck me as sad and lent a somber air to my journey as I pulled into the circular turn-around in which Sister Joanna had been struck and killed.

  I parked my car at the edge of the circle, got out and wandered over to the Mary Fountain. At its center, of course, was a statue of the Virgin, her hands raised in benediction. Surrounding her was a cement basin of about ten feet in diameter. The water was frozen now, not currently housing the fish who darted here and there in summer, flashes of orange and yellow beneath peaceful lily pads. I wondered where they were kept in the cold months. I could see the rocks beneath the ice, one of which (as a nun named Sister Mary Iris had shown me last summer when I'd interviewed her about a math educator's award she'd won) was hollow, so that the fish could swim through. I'd looked where she pointed, and of course the fish swam around the large gray rock, just to prove her wrong. We'd shared a little chuckle about it.

  As a child I'd been sent here on my bicycle with lilies of the valley wrapped in a wet paper towel, then again in tin foil. “Bring this to the sisters,” my mother would instruct me, and I'd take my delicate cargo down side streets and one mile of rural road before I got to the long driveway. I would pretend I was Maria from The Sound of Music, on her way to the Von Trapp Mansion. I would actually sing: little me on a bicycle, with flowers in my basket, warbling as I wended my way toward the nuns.

  There was no bell at the entrance of the convent, but an elaborate wrought iron knocker functioned just as well, I found, as I pounded it against the door.

  Soon Sister Moira herself answered the door. “Madeline, thank you so much for coming,” she said with a warm smile, ushering me in.

  I confess that from childhood I've had a fascination with nuns and convents, and the life that to me, at seven and beyond, seemed both secret and inscrutable. I felt a rush of bald curiosity as I looked around me at a disappointingly plain foyer with a few padded benches, a lamp, a fake flower arrangement, the ugliness of which suggested it had been "donated" by someone who didn't like it, and a table with a few magazines on it, boringly predictable titles like The New World and Maryknoll.

  Moira rushed ahead of me, saying, “You're a bit early, and I was just helping to prepare dinner. It's my turn. Come on, it won't take a minute.” She led me down a hallway to a bright little kitchen, where an old nun, still in the full Dominican habit, sat layering the ingredients for lasagna in a giant pan.

  “Hello, Sister Francis,” I said, recognizing her. Even when I'd attended St. Roselle she'd been old, relegated to pushing AV carts down the long hallways, leaning heavily on them as she went. We students, cruelly, had called her "Fran the Man" behind her back, due to her unusually deep voice.

  “Hello. Who are you? Do I rem
ember you?” she intoned, squinting at me.

  “Probably not. You were the monitor of my study hall when I was a sophomore.”

  She sprinkled some shredded mozzarella into her pan, nodding. “I feed twenty sisters here,” she said proudly.

  “Wow,” I said.

  Sister Moira had been tossing a salad, which she now covered in plastic wrap. “We have busy afternoons, so we prepare dinner early,” she explained. “Several of our sisters are literacy volunteers, or work in soup kitchens. Retirement hasn't changed their work ethic. When they return, we have prayer, and by then we're all hungry!”

  “Even old women have appetites,” said Sister Francis in her deep voice, laying slippery noodles on top of the ricotta mixture. I noted that her white sleeves were rolled up for the task, and that she wore a bright blue apron over her habit. I tried to picture Sister Francis in a store, buying a blue apron. I failed.

  Sister Moira, again in motion, was beckoning me toward the door. I said goodbye to Sister Francis, and she nodded again, looking thoughtful as she dribbled red sauce into her pan.

  “It's mostly the retired sisters living here, right?” I asked Sister Moira as we moved down the hall.

  “Yes. It's funny, Madeline, but at forty-eight, I am one of the youngest sisters in our order. The median age right now is 70. The median.”

  “What about Sister Iris?” I asked, remembering my friend at the fish pond.

  “Oh, she's in Indianapolis now,” Moira said, as though this were quite a promotion.

  “Ah.”

  “So I've become the unofficial, er—”

  “Den mother?” I joked.