Chapter 11
It was nearly noon by the time I made bail and signed for my possessions at the property window. Delaney had impounded Leon's truck so I caught a cab to a car rental location. From there, I drove to a motel and took a room. While I ate a delivered pizza, I dredged through the telephone directory for the Children of God Orphanage. It was listed. I dialed the number but received a recording that the line had been disconnected. When my belly was full, I got directions to the orphanage from the motel clerk, and then took the rental for a spin.
As places for children went, the Children of God Orphanage was not the most endearing. It stood behind a massive cast-iron fence on a ten-acre tract of desert land just outside of McAllen. The administrative building was a two-story brick affair with stained glass windows on the front, each adorned by iron bars. A big steel-girder Cross stood near the entrance. It had been white once, but most of the paint had flaked off exposing rust. Behind the main structure was a pair of three story dormitories, also brick with bars on the windows. There were no trees, bushes, grass or shrubs. I found a spot for the rental in the visitor's lot and then went inside.
The lobby was a cold barren place like an autopsy room. The walls were green tile, the floor was red terracotta and the ceiling was swirls of yellowing plaster. At the room's center was a cardboard thermometer, the kind that gets colored red during fundraisers. It touted the importance of expansion to keep pace with an ever-growing population of unwanted children. Most of the temperature line remained unpainted.
"What do you want?" a shrill voice called out.
I turned toward the sound. An elderly nun dressed in a black habit hobbled toward me like a lame terrier, chasing a rat.
"Outsiders are not allowed in here." Her wrinkled white face was fat and round, pushing forward from the oval pressure brought about by her habit's starched face binding. Her eyes were blue and as cold as artic ice. She must have had lips but I could not see them, her slit-like mouth merely another wrinkle in the bulge. "This is a private facility."
"So am I," I responded. "I'd like a word with Moira Huggins just the same. She runs the cleaning service."
The old nun looked me up and down as if I were a kidnapper, intent on stealing one of her charges. "You cannot walk around anywhere you please. There are rules! You have to see Mother Superior first"
"Don't let me stop you, Sister. Point and I'll go."
The old nun leaned forward and squinted up into my face like she was trying to read my dirty thoughts. "You'll follow me!"
She smelled of cleaning fluid and mothballs, like my fourth grade teacher, Sister Clara. Instinctively, I nodded and retreated from her reach.
She did an about face that any drill sergeant would have envied and stalked off without so much as a glance back, knowing the power she represented would cause me to follow, even to the bowels of hell.
I kept cadence, my eyes down turned in shame. It was fourth grade all over again, and mother superior was about to find out I had been looking up Mary Ellen Parker's dress.
I dogged the nun past an open cafeteria filled with chattering children, through a pair of green swinging doors, and down a dark hallway cluttered with discarded school desks. Some time later, we came to a terminus that doubled as a small dimly lit reception area paneled in black walnut.
"Should I start dropping breadcrumbs?" I said to the nun's back. "Or are we getting close?"
"Silence."
Her backward scathing glance sent chills down my spine. Thank God Mary Ellen Parker had been wearing underwear.
We stood beneath a fluttering fluorescent ceiling lamp in front of a wooden reception desk. Another nun, much younger than the one escorting me, was keying upon an old gray typewriter—the kind that were considered obsolete at the turn of the previous century. A door a few feet beyond her was marked, Mother Superior in tarnished gilt. A little girl dressed in the orphanage's blue and green plaid uniform sat on one of the low wooden benches lining the paneled walls. She was about eight years of age with big brown eyes and milky skin.
She managed a weak smile before returning her stare to the floor.
I knew exactly what she was doing there. I had been through the same drill a dozen times or more, during that memorable fourth grade. One was expected to sit with eyes lowered, whispering prayers, while awaiting Mother Superior's indulgence.
The old nun pointed to the nearest bench. "Sit. I will inform Mother Superior of your presence."
I settled myself on one end, trying not to bruise my chin with my knees. The old nun whispered to the one behind the reception desk, and with a light tap on the door proceeded into Mother Superior's office.
I was weighing the prospect of excommunication when the little girl whispered, "You in trouble, too, Mister?"
The young nun behind the typewriter clucked her tongue and the little girl's eyes fell back to the floor. I left the bench I was on and took a seat next to the kid.
"Things don't look good," I whispered. "What's your name?"
The little girl smoothed out her skirt, gave the nun at the typewriter a worried glance before whispering, "Rita."
"Why are you here to see Mother Superior?"
"I passed a note in class." Rita sighed dismally. "That's against the rules."
"I got caught doing that when I was your age," I told her sympathetically.
Rita's eyes grew big and she gave me a stunned look before blurting, "That must have been some note for Mother Superior to call you down here now."
The nun sitting at the reception desk stifled a laugh and then resumed typing.
"That's why it's best to follow the rules, Rita," I said, trying to keep a straight face. "The penguins never forget."
The old nun came out of Mother Superior's office, glared at me down the length of her stubby nose and then curling an index finger. It took me several tries to force my cramped leg muscles into motion. I finally got to my feet and hobbled forward like a condemned man.
Mother Superior was standing behind a large hand-carved mahogany desk gilded with gold. Matching straight-back chairs cowered in front of it. She was about my age, short and slightly plump with pink cheeks and a surprisingly warm smile. I was not sure if her white habit meant virtue or forgiveness. For Rita's sake, I was hoping for the latter.
"I'll be right outside your door, Mother Superior," the old nun announced in an authoritative tone. "If you need anything, cry out." With obvious reluctance, she shut the door after herself.
"Sister Madeline thinks you're a gangster," Mother Superior said. "She's certain she's seen your photo on a wanted poster at the post office. Are you?"
"Not since graduating from St. James Academy. But, while I was there, most would have agreed with the Sister Madeline."
She smiled. "I'm Sister Mary Ellen. Who might you be?"
I told her who I was and that I represented Leon Huggins.
She nodded sadly, told me to sit down and then settled in the swivel chair behind her desk.
"I was very sorry to hear about Mr. Huggins' arrest. He used to come here with Moira and talk to the children about his boxing career. The little boys in particular loved hearing those stories. We try to curb any exposure to violence, so Mr. Huggins' tales were not as exciting as I'm sure they could have been. Nevertheless, I had always thought him to be a very nice man. Has he seen a priest?"
"If you're concerned about his immortal soul, Sister, Leon didn't kill anybody. That's why I want to talk with Moira."
She gave me a surprised almost hopeful look. "But, I understood there was a confession."
I nodded. "Leon's protecting someone."
"Who?"
"I'm hoping Moira can help answer that."
The nun folded her milky hands and then leaned her forearms on the desktop, tilting her upper body slightly toward me. "It would have been more appropriate for you to discuss that situation with Moira somewhere else, Mr. Bishop. We try to protect the children from
such issues."
"She wasn't available, and there are issues I can't divulge which made this my only option. The last thing I want to do is create unrest among your charges. So, I'll make certain Moira and I discuss the situation out of earshot."
Mother Superior gave me an understanding nod and then closed her eyes as if she might be praying. After a moment she said, "Moira and her people are in one of the children's dormitories right now." Her eyes opened and once more, her face offered me encouragement. "I'm sure you understand why we don't allow anyone but authorized people there. Is Moira in danger?"
"I don't think so." I was not altogether convinced my statement was truthful, considering her apparent relationship with Delaney. Nevertheless, I was reasonably certain that trouble would not follow Moira to the orphanage. "Will she see you before leaving?"
Mother Superior nodded. "She has to return the keys to the dormitory doors. Were you there when Mr. Huggins was murdered?"
I shook my head. "Leon collected me from the airport and we discovered Eli's body together."
She smiled. "Then he could not have done that dreadful thing."
"You like Leon?"
"Very much. He was a gentle man around the children despite his former profession. I got the impression he had never wanted to be a prizefighter: that his brother had pushed him into it. Leon loves raising flowers. Did you know?"
I shook my head.
"He raises them at his brother's home," she continued. "Gladiolas were a favorite of his. Mine, too. Whenever he visited, he brought me a large bouquet. Their colors cast a wondrous glow across my office. I'm glad he has a friend like you, Mr. Bishop. He has so little to look forward to."
"Meaning Moira?"
Her eyes dipped but she said nothing.
"Did you know Eli, Leon's brother?" I asked.
She leaned back, her hands pressed together in prayer fashion. "I met him once at a fund raiser. He was polite and extremely generous. In fact I was hoping he might make another donation and then I heard about his demise."
"But you didn't like Eli?"
Her cheeks pinked slightly. "I'm usually quite good at interpreting what people are really like, despite their actions or, appearance."
"You think you've got my number?"
She laughed. "You may wait in the cafeteria for Moira, Mr. Bishop. Naturally, I cannot force her to speak with you. I will tell her you are there."
"You're raising funds for another dormitory? I saw the thermometer in the entrance."
"We have more children than we can house properly. If we cannot increase our bed-count, we must begin turning those in need away. It's a law and we must abide by it."
"I thought there'd be a long line of people waiting to adopt."
She shook her head. "Healthy, normal Babies, yes: adolescents or the infirm, no. So often, we hear of those who are willing to fight—perhaps die, for the unborn. Yet I rarely see an application from them seeking a child."
"The cause is the thing, Sister, not the outcome. I am curious about one thing. Why would someone prefer an infant over a kid who didn't produce dirty diapers on the hour?"
"Babies are like puppies, Mr. Bishop: small cute faces and no bad habits. People fall in love with what they see, not who the infant will become. Those willing to take responsibility for an adolescent are extremely rare. Do you have children?"
I wagged my head. "Marriage doesn't work for me. And my profession doesn't offer much in the way of a home life."
"I can't tell you how often I have heard those excuses."
My cheeks burned. "How much money are you hoping to raise?"
"We will need at least three hundred thousand: an immense sum. Nevertheless, I pray for a miracle every day. Are you a wealthy man, Mr. Bishop?"
"My car's paid for and I make enough to meet my bills—if I don't get too extravagant. But, I'll try to send something your way before I leave town. What's Moira's arrangement with you?"
"She donates her company's services. Why?"
"I've never met her so I'm trying to get a feel for her personality. Did she approach you about the work? Or, were you advertising for a cleaning service?"
"We were soliciting estimates."
"She was the low bidder?"
"From time to time business owners contact us to offer materials such as wood, bricks or equipment. In most cases these are items that have been fully depreciated, completely worn out and even when not, are of little value to us. We take nearly anything offered, of course, hoping to dispose of it. And in exchange we give a donation certification in whatever amount is requested. In Moira's case, she offered her services free of charge."
"Is there honor among tax deductions?"
"I am not one to judge, Mr. Bishop."
"I'm surprised Moira's services are free. Not only is her time and effort provided at no cost. But, by being here she's giving up time for work that could have been done elsewhere, work that would have earned her money. It's called benefit foregone in the finance world. It's unusual someone in her economic situation would do that. Does she store anything here? Cleaning equipment or supplies?"
Mother Superior shook her head. "We don't allow that. As for her contribution, it's no different than a physician providing free medical care for our children."
"Most physicians are in better financial shape than Moira."
"I get the feeling there is more to your interest in her than you've told me, Mr. Bishop. Do you suspect her of being involved in Mr. Huggins' murder?"
"No reason to," I said, and stood up. "How much longer before Moira will be finished?"
Mother Superior checked the watch clipped to her habit's bodice and then stood up. "Moira's probably on her way to my office, now. Sister Madeline will escort you to the cafeteria, Mr. Bishop. If your inquiries disclose that Moira is in trouble, or you have reason to believe our children may be in danger, I would appreciate knowing."
I walked over to the office door, stopped and then turned back. "There's a little girl waiting to see you. What's the rap for passing a note in class?"
"Rita? Why do you ask?"
"Misplaced paternal instinct. In my day such a stunt was akin to desecration and the penalty was nothing to joke about."
"Rita is a little girl who always bends the rules. It's her nature. She will be that way her entire life: nothing I do will change that. However, rules must be enforced. And by consistently applying this enforcement, all the children benefit. I hope you understand."
I nodded. "But that doesn't answer my question."
"We no longer flog children. Rita will have some prayers to say and must apologize to the class—that is all. Nevertheless, I am pleased you expressed concern for her. It confirms my assessment of you."
Sister Madeline poised by the door like a fat, hungry, hawk. Mother Superior told the older nun to escort me to the cafeteria where I would be meeting with Moira, and then signaled Rita to enter. Without remark, Sister Madeline motioned me to follow. I gave the kid a reassuring pat on the shoulder and then followed the hawk.
By the time we got to the cafeteria, the children I had seen earlier were gone. Sister Madeline pointed to one of the tables and told me to sit. Then she settled herself at another, some yards away. From there she kept a cold, calculating eye upon my every breath. I imagined her planning to lash me to a rack, naked and completely vulnerable to her whims. Yes, it was fourth grade all over again.
After nearly twenty minutes of Sister Madeline's staring a tall, slender blond woman entered the cafeteria. She was about forty, dressed in a red plaid shirt, blue denims, and men's workboots. As blondes went, she was a breath-taking beauty. Her hips swaying slightly as she approached. Clearly she was someone who understood the power of her sexuality and was willing to make the most of it.
When Moira reached me, Sister Madeline cleared her throat in warning, as if I might leap up with lustful intent. The warning was timely. After watching Moira's approach,
I was seriously considering it.
"I'm Moira Huggins," she said in a silky voice.
I stood and introduced myself.
Moira gave absolutely no reaction to my name. Her eyes were deadpan; she took no interest in my face, clothing or hair. I sensed she felt no joy at seeing me.
"Let's go outside," she murmured, nodding toward the nun. "I've got a business to run and I don't like sharing my dirt with the world."
"Are you sure you want to chance it? I'm single, horny and I don't think Sister Madeline's bagged her limit in men this season."
Moira turned and walked away, obviously not enjoying my off-color effort at humor. I cast Sister Madeline a wink and then followed a pair of swaying hips wherever they were headed.
A few yards away from the administrative building Moira stopped, and turned. She casually crossed her arms over her ample breasts. "Leon and I are separated. He lives out at Eli's palace and I live in the shack his brother gave us. I mind my business and Leon minds his. And, that's the way it's going to continue, understand?"
"That's between you and Leon. I came here with questions about Eli."
She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her jeans and stuffed one into her mouth. I took out my lighter and offered some flame. She inhaled deeply as it lit, letting her green eyes shut momentarily, as if someone with gifted hands was taking personal inventory of her most private assets. Then she backed up a step and gave me a questioning stare.
I said, "In case you haven't noticed, your husband's in jail on murder charges."
"Leon confessed to killing Eli. Why shouldn't he be?"
"You don't care he's going to die?"
She inhaled on the cigarette, again. "Why should I?" As she spoke the smoke flooded over her full lips and out her delicately flared nostrils.
"He confessed to protect someone."
"Leon hasn't the brains for it." That said, she twisted away and headed toward the parking lot.
I kept pace with Moira, talking to her back. "Leon doesn't have the brains for a lot of things. But he's still protecting someone. I think it's you."
"I hate his guts and he knows it. Why in hell would he protect me?"
"Leon's the devoted type. And you have a way of bringing that out in a man—the tight jeans, I think."
"He nearly beat his brother to death a few months back. This time he did the job right. Why don't you go home and leave me in peace, Mr. Bishop?"
"If not you, then Leon's protecting Betsy."
Moira stopped and looked back at me. "Betsy?"
"Your daughter. Blond, about eighteen, likes rich men."
Her cheeks reddened and she shouted, "Betsy had nothing to do with Eli Huggins."
"I know all about Eli and your daughter, Moira. I also know you didn't report him to the police when you should have: when something could have been done to stop it. What did Eli hold over you?"
"You'd better watch your mouth, mister," she growled. "There are laws against slander."
"Laws against murder, too. You put the bite on Eli but he turned the tables on you. How?"
One of her hands shot up, forming a small fist. She took a threatening step toward me.
I grinned, "Like to play rough?"
"Mind your own business."
"Right now, I'm minding Leon's. And I'm not about to stop until I get to the bottom of Eli's murder. You did a stretch for murder once. Husband wasn't it? You put a gun to his head intending instant divorce."
Her face went white. "I suppose you've been talking to Lydia."
"I've talked to a lot of people. The point is you should be the prime suspect in Eli's murder, not your husband."
"I did my time. Now back off."
"You're still on probation, Moira. And that means a trip back to the barn if you take a misstep. That includes possession of illicit drugs."
She cast me a worried sidelong glance. "I make a point of not doing that."
"Were you at Eli's the day he was killed?"
Her chin dipped and then her head gave a remorseful wag. "I wasn't there. And I'm sure my kid wasn't. Now just leave me alone."
"In a hurry to get home to Delaney?"
She tossed the cigarette butt to the ground. "What the hell do you want from me?"
"Let's start with a little pity for your husband."
"Look, I married Leon to get an easy life for me and my kid. He was living with Eli and I thought that palace would do just fine for Betsy, and me. But after I married the oaf, I ended up in somebody's castoff cracker box across the street from the gas station my husband ran for his rich brother. Every hour of every day, it was nothing but hand to mouth. To say the least, I was disappointed. Well, I'm still disappointed because I deserve better."
"Delaney's a big step down from Leon. What's he offering you, Moira? Money once the cocaine is sold? Or is he controlling you the same way Eli did?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." She stalked off.
I hurried after Moira, grabbed one of her arms, and jerked her to a stop. She batted free, cursing me.
"You killed your first husband exactly as Eli died. You've been intimate with Eli, ongoing. Your daughter's been sexually abused by him for years. And despite this, you aren't even a suspect in Eli's murder. Delaney must've put the fix in. I'm going to change that. By the time I'm finished you'll be back in your six by eight cell—unless I get some cooperation."
She let got a cold, uncaring laugh. "Do your worst, Mr. Bishop. Now, it's been a long day and I'm beat. So, if there's nothing else"
"I imagine Delaney gets impatient when you're late. But I guess he's got a right—considering he's footing the tab for you."
She took a swing at me screaming oaths.
I caught Moira's arms and jerked her close. "You're hooking your cart to the wrong horse, Moira. Delaney's about to take a fall and he'll bring you down with him."
"Stay away from me, you bastard."
"The cocaine's going to get you killed. Can't you see that?"
"Go to hell!"
"How 'bout I just point your probation officer to where you're storing it for Delaney?"
She quit struggling, her mouth gaping. "What?"
"Your boyfriend's up to his good ear in trouble. And when the Portellos finish with him, they'll come looking for you. I hate to think what a blow torch will do to your beautiful face."
I let go of her and watched Leon's dream hurry away. I could understand why he still adored her. A woman like Moira could hold the power of life and death over a man.
Dead On Page 11