Lovely, Dark and Deep (The Madeline Mann Mysteries)

by Buckley, Julia

  “Yes. Did you get my message? I had told Sister—”

  “Madeline, something terrible has happened. Sister Francis is dead.”

  I stared at Veronica as I took in this news. She had jumped down from her chair. She was wearing lavender overalls over a pink turtleneck, and gym shoes with light-up dragonflies; the lights appeared every time her feet hit the ground. She left the room, flickering.

  “I don't understand,” I said.

  “She became ill at the high school. They called an ambulance. By the time they notified me to come to the hospital, she was gone.” Sister Moira started to cry.

  A strange feeling crept into my stomach and started moving up my esophagus. It felt like those flickering dragonflies from Veronica's shoes had flown right inside me. “She was fine when I left there. She was fine,” I said, feeling near tears myself.

  Moira controlled her weeping. “It was her nut allergy, Madeline. Apparently she ate some food with nuts in it, and she became severely ill almost immediately.”

  Now my stomach had started to hurt. “She wouldn't have eaten anything with nuts in it,” I said. “I simply don't believe that she would. She told me how careful she was. She also told me that she had remembered some things, that she wanted to talk to me—damn!” I yelled, then looked guiltily behind me to see Veronica feeding a relocated Sir Lion and watching me with wide eyes. “Sister Moira. Are the police looking into this?”

  “The police? Not that I—you don't think this was intentional?”

  “Don't you?” I asked her.

  The line was quiet.

  “I've been asking questions about Sister Joanna,” I persisted. “Sister Francis mentioned this to several people at the high school today. Mr. Taglieri said she shared it with the whole lunch table. I think we need to know what else she shared with them. She'd already eaten lunch, Sister, so there was no reason she would have eaten again before she left unless someone offered her food, don't you think? Who knew about her nut allergy?”

  “It's true she was very careful. If someone offered her food, she would have asked what was in it.”

  I thought about this. What an easy way to kill someone. Does this contain nuts? Oh no, not at all, Sister, you enjoy it. Make sure no one sees the exchange—how hard can that be? Go into her classroom after the students are gone. Blend into the hallway crowd; you were never there. She won't live long enough to name names.

  “Do you want me to come there?” I asked her.

  Sister Moira seemed distracted. “No, uh—I'm on my way back to the hospital. They needed some information, to contact her family. I'll ask, Madeline. I'll ask about the death report. The police must have at least asked some questions.”

  “Thank you, Sister. I'm sorry about this. I'll get in touch with you later.”

  I hung up the phone. I hadn't noticed that Jack had stopped playing; now he stood behind Veronica, and they both observed me closely. “You look sad,” Veronica said.

  “What's going on?” asked Jack.

  “We'll talk later,” I told him, motioning to the wee one. “It's about Sister Francis.”

  Jack nodded. He had already guessed the truth, and now he just needed details. He asked Veronica if she would like to dance again, and he retrieved his guitar so that he could play. Veronica, chocolate smeared and smiling, capered around the kitchen for her audience of three. (Sir King, of course.)

  I clapped along absently, a smile pasted on my face. Sister Francis had been alive three hours ago. Sister Francis was now dead. Sister Francis never made it out of the high school. This last idea had me leaping out of my seat. “I need to make a quick call,” I said.

  In the bedroom I picked up my cell phone and got John Taglieri's name from information. A woman picked up on the third ring, and I asked for John. It took a minute, but his voice finally said hello. “Mr. Taglieri, this is Madeline Mann. Have you heard about Sister Francis?”

  “God, yes, I was there when they wheeled her down the hall,” he said. He sounded upset.

  “Listen, I need to ask you something. You said she was talking to everyone at your lunch table. Can you please tell me who was present?”

  “Why?” he asked. He sounded surprised more than anything.

  “It's a long story. If you could remember—?”

  “Well, it was me, and an old friend of mine, Tommy Watson, who was subbing also, and Jenny Chambers from the English Department, and Father Tom. God, who else was there? Sherry, from the mail room, and another office girl—I think her name is Melea. And old Gunderson, the science teacher. You probably had him, he's been here since time began. He left early.”

  I wrote it all down.

  He seemed to feel defensive. “Listen, nothing weird was going on, I assure you. We're all friends with Francis, and it was quite a festive occasion. My wife had stopped by to bring treats for Jenny, it was her birthday, and we were all in a fine fettle. No tension in the air, no mysterious glances.” His tone suggested that I was hunting for a mystery, like Nancy Drew.

  “But she told you all, right? She told you all that she was remembering things from the past. Did she eat the food all of you were eating?”

  “Yes, yes. She was fine. They told us whatever she ate killed her almost instantly, which means it wasn't something she ate at the lunch table. This was much later in the afternoon that she—died.”

  “But she was telling people that she knew things?”

  He cleared his throat. “She was making some comments like that, yes, but it was loud and noisy. Probably most of the table didn't pay her any attention.”

  “She had a deep voice. It would carry,” I said. I felt the prick of a teardrop. My tears always come at odd times.

  “It's a terrible thing, it really is. We're all shook up about it. I doubt there was anything you could have done, Madeline. It was just an accident, like Rachel's death.”

  Rachel again, I thought, as I hung up the phone. Rachel Yardley, and now Francis McMann. A silent convent, and sisters who took secrets to their graves.

  Chapter Nine

  Little Veronica finally did fall asleep, but not before she threw me a tea party with my mother's handed-down Dresden cups; I trembled every time she lifted hers, but of course I never considered saying no. I gave her the toys from the rummage sale—a Barbie and a Country Camper, and we played with them for a bit. Then we played a spirited game of “Hide Sir King,” which involved a laughing Veronica tearing apart my home looking for the stuffed lion, who was, at intervals, in the hamper, below the sink, and in Jack's old guitar case. We had pizza for dinner. Jack had slipped out to practice with Juan, so after I grew exhausted with the solo babysitting I plugged in a video. I picked one I liked (Sandra had packed enough for a full weekend's viewing), and we both sat and ate more cookies while we watched Toy Story II.

  When Jesse the Cowgirl reminisced about her lost child, Veronica yawned and leaned against me. “Dis is sad,” she said. “Dis is sad cause nobody wanted dat cowboy girl.” Her normally resonant voice was drifting into whispers; after a moment of silence I looked down to see that she was asleep, and creating a sweaty head mark on my arm. I slipped forward and let her tumble sideways. I flipped off the bright light and observed her little face, which looked much younger in sleep. Now that she was not giving me orders, she looked heartbreakingly small and vulnerable. I reached out tentatively and brushed her dark hair from her face. It felt nice to touch her, to feel her silky hair and baby skin. For a fierce moment I wanted her to be mine.

  “I hope you will be my niece,” I whispered. I got a blanket from my room and placed it over her, then made a line of pillows on the floor in case she rolled off the couch. Finally, with a warm rag on her soft cheek, I erased the telltale chocolate marks that revealed my indulgent tendencies. I wouldn't want them to say I couldn't babysit again.

  After Gerhard and Sandra picked her up, whispering their thanks, I felt restless, depressed. Little baby faces can keep away the demons, but Veronica was gone now, and
I was left alone to contemplate the death of Sister Francis. It didn't make sense. I intended to chat with the Webley police the next day, something I was sure neither they nor I would enjoy. Especially not if I got to talk to my favorite friend on homicide, Kubik the surly.

  In the meantime, I felt there was something I should do. I was almost crazy with the feeling, pacing around my house.

  I finally checked on Jack, who had dozed off over a book in bed, then looked up Taglieri's address, grabbed my coat, and left the apartment. Needless to say, I wouldn't be mentioning this trip to any of my family members, who probably had my commitment papers ready to sign if I pulled another crazy stunt. Still, what was the harm in driving past someone's house? If it meant I could sleep better that night.

  The Taglieris lived near St. Roselle on Willow Drive. He was probably able to walk to work. They lived in a cute little brick affair with a lighted Christmas wreath still on the door. I parked my car on the dark snowy street, a few houses away. I got out, leaned on my car, and stood there. What did you expect, Madeline? I thought, feeling foolish. That he would come running out with a sign that said “Drugs for Sale" and pound it into the frozen earth? Or perhaps you'd find him weeping with remorse in his front yard, beating his breast and crying, “I killed them, I killed them, I killed the two nuns!”

  I really didn't know what I thought. I was merely following vibes. I started walking. I walked as far as the front of his house; then I ducked down the little sidewalk beside it, jogging quietly down the dark lane between two domiciles until I reached the snowy back yards, which were not separated by fences, nor did any fierce Dobermans come leaping out at me. It was a quiet, snowy night. I thought of the Frost poem, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” “My little horse must think it queer to stop without a farmhouse near; Between the woods and frozen lake, the coldest evening of the year.”

  Well, I thought, the "coldest evening" thing felt about right. Luckily I had no horse to roll his eyes at me. There was light coming from the back of the Taglieri's house—light, I realized as I crept closer, that came from their kitchen. I saw quite well through a small window in their back door, which was covered by mini blinds that were currently open. Tag stood staring at something. I inched toward the porch. Not a dead body or a murder weapon, but a television. He was watching football replays on a little tv in his kitchen. He glanced briefly to his left as a person entered the room, his wife, obviously, since she gave him a hug and I saw her red hair against his chest. He put his arms around her, but continued to watch tv over her head. Jerk, I thought, and edged just close enough to set off a motion detector light on their back porch. The sudden brightness had the effect of a laser beam.

  I was off like a rabbit before they could investigate, running on winged feet to my car. I was out of breath and giggling hysterically with embarrassment and fear of exposure. I got in and closed the door softly, started the car, and was about to drive away, not turning on my headlights until I'd reached the end of the street, but I paused. A car was pulling into his driveway. I saw him run out a moment later and talk to the driver through the car window. Why stand there and talk? I wondered. Why not go inside where it's warm? Why freeze to death, like I'm doing now?

  Taglieri must have thought the same thing, because he finally escorted the driver, whoever it was, up to the porch, and then into the house.

  Well, what have you accomplished? I asked myself sternly, watching the little clouds of condensation made by my breath in the freezing car. You know that Taglieri has a television, that he likes sports replays, and he favors them over kisses from his wife. I punched the steering wheel with gloved hands. Spying wasn't my cup of tea. I needed to do something constructive, something that could get me results. Tomorrow would be a busy day, but I was going to find time to talk to the police.

  I was silent as a ghost when I got home, tip-toeing past Mr. Altschul's door, creeping on socked feet into my own apartment, hanging my coat on the wall. When I got into my bedroom, I took off my clothes and tossed them on the floor, then crept to the bed where Jack slept to retrieve my pajamas from under my pillow. Jack woke, squinted at me, and said, “Hey. What kept you up so late? Why are your cheeks so rosy? Did you go outside, Maddy?”

  “Hmmm?” I asked, hoping he'd fall back asleep.

  “Hey. You don't have any clothes on.”

  “No, I'm just getting my—”

  Jack was suddenly more awake. Men are so predictable sometimes. “Aren't you cold? Come here, I'll warm you up.”

  Since I was cold, and he was undeniably warm, I complied with this idea, and soon Jack had me feeling much warmer; in fact, we threw off the covers entirely and did some energetic exercising on the bed. “Warmer now?” he asked against my ear.

  “Mmmm,” I agreed, my limbs twined comfortably around him. One of the many benefits of sex, I thought sleepily, is that it can distract an interrogator from those pesky questions that someone might not want to answer.

  The next morning I woke to find Jack sleeping with a cherubic expression, almost like Veronica's. I kissed him. It was Saturday, the day of the coffee house. Jack awakened and realized this with a start. “Show day,” he said, kissing me back. I might have encouraged him a bit more, as a sort of encore to the previous night's festivities, but Jack said, “Want to have breakfast together? Because after that it's a busy day. I've got to do some last minute school stuff, then I have to practice and do a sound check later on.”

  “Sure, breakfast it is,” I said. “Let's eat here, though. I don't have the energy to go out in the snow.” The day did look rather gray and unfriendly.

  “Okay, honey,” Jack said, ever jovial. “Who's cooking?”

  “Let's see,” I mused aloud. “Who made dinner last night, did most of the babysitting, and cleaned up the house afterwards?”

  Jack laughed. “Okay, I cook. Let me take a quick shower, and then I'm on it.”

  Once the water was running, I called Fritz, lying on my bed, lowering my voice so that Jack wouldn't hear me. “Fritz,” I said huskily.

  “Madman. Why so quiet?” His voice suddenly became annoyed. “Are you crying?” he asked disgustedly. “What are you watching—Shirley Valentine? ET? Terms of Endearment?”

  “No,” I huffed. Geez, you cry once at a movie and they never let you forget. “Just listen. Do you know any kids from St. Roselle who were druggies?”

  Fritz opted for hyperbole, as usual. “Who wasn't a druggie, Madman? The whole school was on drugs.”

  I sighed. “I need a name, Fritz, someone I can actually interview.”

  Silence.

  “Fritz?”

  “I'm thinking. I suppose you could talk to Smudgy.”

  “The kid always covered in ink and lead? Would he have the manual dexterity to do drugs?”

  “He had kind of a habit. Then he joined that club for stoners, called Don't Do Drugs, or something.”

  “Sasa?” I asked.

  “Sure. Anyway, Madman, I have to go. I have the 11:00 shift today, and I have to anoint myself.”

  “Don't tell me—Judy is working today.”

  “She might be. Anyway. Gotta go.” He rang off, telling me that Smudgy's name was in the book, under Wallingford.

  Judy was one of about a thousand girls that Fritz was in love with. She worked with him at Barnes and Noble. I'd shopped there before when she was behind the counter, and Fritz acted like a total fool to get her attention. Nothing had really changed in that respect since Fritz was about four and flinging himself down on the sidewalk to make our neighbor Jenny laugh.

  I laughed to myself; Fritz and women. Then I got more serious, thinking that in a year Gerhard would probably be a married man, with a daughter. How long would it be for Fritz? And me, of course. I was getting hitched in two short months, and I'd become a member of the married adult world.

  While I pondered my ascent into maturity, the phone rang. I wondered if Fritz was calling back with more information. “Hello?” I asked.


  “May I speak with Madeline Mann?” asked a sweet female voice.

  “This is she. May I ask who's calling?”

  “Madeline, this—” she lowered her voice. “My name is Cheryl Yardley. Jeremy Yardley is my husband. I saw this card that you gave him, and I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Really?” I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “What about?”

  “Madeline, I work at the high school. St. Roselle. I saw what happened with Sister Francis. I had lunch with her yesterday. When I saw her wheeled out, I got so crazy—”

  I lunged for my notebook, flipped it open. “You're—Sherry from the mailroom?” I asked, reading Taglieri's quote.

  “That's right. Madeline, I'm so upset about this. First I heard them talking at lunch about poor Rachel, and then this happens. Something weird is going on, and I want to talk to you. If my husband had the courage, he would do it. I'm going to give him a gift I should have given a long time ago, and help him get something off his chest.”

  She was talking fast, and she was agitated. Her words had me springing up and looking for clothes. “Where should I meet you?” I asked.

  “How about Selby's Diner?” she asked. “In about an hour? I'll get Jeremy to come with me.” The sweet voice, I realized, was reinforced with steel. She hung up before I could ask more.

  I was about to find out why Jeremy Yardley felt so guilty. He'd been suffering with guilt for years, his wife had implied, and now she wanted to end it. Did that mean he killed his sister? And if so, why not confess that to the police?

  Jack and I had a quick breakfast together, both of us pretending to be leisurely. I told him I had a lot of little errands to run today; he agreed this was a good plan, since he wouldn't be around much. Our minds were elsewhere as we munched Jack's scrambled eggs.

  I waved him off, finally, then darted to my Scorpio and drove to Selby's.

  I didn't know what Cheryl looked like, but I didn't see anyone young in the diner, so I sat down and ordered a coffee from an elderly waitress. And I waited. Now and then I glanced nervously out the window, hunting for an unfamiliar but anxious face.