Hit and Nun (17 page)

“What now?” Lucille was sweating under the heavy cloth of the habit. How did the nuns stand these things?

“Let’s go around front. It’s the only place we haven’t tried yet.”

They continued around the building, Flo’s heels leaving divots in the grass. They reached the front of the convent and could hear faint strands of music coming from inside. Flo nudged Lucille. “That’s the chapel. I’ll bet it’s open.”

They made their way up the broad stone steps to the ornate, double wooden doors. Lucille put out a finger and pushed but without much hope. The door moved an inch and then shut again. Lucille put the palm of her hand against it this time and it creaked open. Organ music drifted out from the chapel.

Lucille and Flo tiptoed inside. A priest was at the altar. He had his back to them and was readying the sacraments. A handful of women, their heads covered in lace mantillas or colorful scarves, were scattered among the pews.

“Looks like some women still cover their heads in church,” Lucille whispered to Flo. “Even though the Vatican says we don’t have to no more.”

One of the women turned around sharply, and Lucille pressed her lips together.

“We’d better slip into one of the pews,” Flo mouthed at Lucille, pointing to a vacant row.

Lucille followed behind her. Her shoe caught on the edge of her habit, and she catapulted forward, barely stifling the word
shit
as her head came in contact with the hard wooden back of the pew.

“Shhh,” Flo hissed.

“That really hurt.”

“Okay, but be quiet, would you? Everyone is starting to look at us.”

“Maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s your shoes they’re looking at,” Lucille hissed back.

This time even the priest turned around briefly. Both Flo and Lucille sank down into their seats.

Finally the service was over, and the few people who were in attendance began to file out. The priest and the altar boys disappeared through a door by the altar, and the chapel was finally empty.

“What do we do now?”

Flo started to get up. “Let’s try that door over there.”

“The one the priest went through?”

“Yeah.”

“But what if he’s changing?”

“This isn’t a gym, Lucille. I don’t think it’s a men’s locker room.”

Flo always thought she knew everything. Just their luck and they’d go through the door to find the priest in his Fruit of the Looms. But Flo was already on her feet, and Lucille had no choice but to follow.

Flo’s stilettos clattered against the stone floor as they made their way to the front of the chapel. A woman who had come in to straighten the hymnals gave them a strange look as they walked past.

“Hurry up,” Flo said, looking back at Lucille. “I think people are beginning to get suspicious.”

“Do you think it could possibly be on account of your shoes?” Lucille asked, trotting to keep up.

“Don’t be ridiculous. My shoes don’t have anything to do with it.”

By now they had reached the door off the chapel through which the priest and the altar boys had disappeared. Flo cracked it open and peered around the edge.

“What is it?” Lucille asked, crowding behind her.

“It’s a hallway.”

“Is it empty?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Flo and Lucille burst through the door and into the shadowy hall.

“How are we going to find this Sister Genevieve,” Flo whispered. “Do you have any idea what she looks like?”

“No, and it probably wouldn’t do any good. With these habits on, all the nuns look the same.” With the possible exception of Flo, Lucille thought. She was undoubtedly the only one in ankle-strapped high heels, with her hair cascading down her back and hanging out the sides of her veil. Not to mention her long nails and dragon red nail polish and lipstick.

There were a number of doors off the hallway, and they were all mercifully closed, although Lucille could hear the soft murmur of voices coming from behind some of them.

Suddenly one of the doors flew open and a nun glided out.

Flo and Lucille stood stock-still, as if by not moving they would go unnoticed.

The nun was older, with plump cheeks and round wire-rimmed glasses. Lucille thought she had a kindly face. At least she hoped so.

“Can I help you?” The sister gave a tentative smile.

Flo’s heels clacked against the floor as they approached and the nun looked down in surprise. Her eyebrows rose so high they all but disappeared under her cap and veil.

“Can I help you?” she said again, her voice quavering uncertainly. She took a step backward.

“We’re here to see Sister Genevieve.”

“Oh, I see. You’re visiting then?”

“Yes,” Lucille said. “From California. The Sisters of Our Lady of Perpetual . . . er . . . Motion.”

“Ah, I always suspected they did things differently out there.” She looked Flo and Lucille up and down. “Is Sister Genevieve expecting you?”

“Not exactly.”

“A surprise visit then?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“We generally like to have these things arranged in advance, but since you’ve come all the way from California . . .”

Lucille thought she detected a note of amusement in the nun’s voice. Well, it didn’t matter if she believed them or not—just so they got to talk to this Sister Genevieve. Lucille had a sudden panicky thought. What if the nun called the police on them? Claimed they were intruders? But she was already leading them down the hall so it was too late to bolt.

The sister opened a door and led them into a parlor. The room was small and plain with a sofa that sagged in the middle, a stiff-looking wing-back chair and a round table covered with a lace cloth.

“If you will have a seat, I will see if Sister Genevieve is free.” She glanced at a clock on the wall. “It is almost time for our collation, so I am afraid you will only have a few minutes. Who should I say is visiting?”

“I’m Sister Lucille and this here’s Sister Flo.” Lucille jerked a thumb in Flo’s direction.

“I’ll just be a minute.”

“Sure, sure, that’s fine.” Lucille sat down on the sofa, shifting her position to avoid a spring that was poking through.

“Thank you, Sister,” Flo said as the nun turned to leave.

Flo looked around as they waited. “I don’t know how them nuns can stand this place. It’s so quiet.”

“It’s peaceful,” Lucille said.

There was a time, back when she was in first grade, when she thought of becoming a nun. Pretty much every Catholic girl she knew had toyed with the idea at one time or another. Nuns were so mysterious with those long black habits, all living together in a convent. It was like a secret club—like the one Patsy Morris down the street had formed when they were in fourth grade. And they all wondered about their hair—did they have any under those caps or did they shave their heads when they took their vows? No one had ever had the nerve to ask, so they never did find out.

The ticking of the clock on the wall was getting on Lucille’s nerves. They had to get their costumes back to the store, and then Lucille had to go home and start Frankie’s dinner. They usually treated themselves to a steak on Saturday night, but it was too late to go to the butcher now. She’d have to think of something else.

They heard a rustling sound and Sister Genevieve glided into the room. She was very tiny with round, bright blue eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses. She stood with her hands folded in front of her. Lucille thought they looked like white doves against the black of her habit. She also thought there was no way this woman looked like a killer, but appearances could lie. She saw a movie like that once. She didn’t remember the name, but this baby-faced guy turned out to be the murderer when all along you thought it was going to be the sharp-nosed fellow in the black suit.

“Can I help you?” Her voice was soft and musical.

“I’m Lucille, I mean Sister Lucille, and this here’s Sister Flo.”

Sister Genevieve perched on the edge of the wing chair and fingered her rosary beads nervously. “Where did you say you were from?”

“California. We’re from California.”

“I don’t see how I can help you with anything.”

“It’s about that car accident you were in fifteen years ago.”

Suddenly Sister Genevieve’s fingers were still. “That was a long time ago. I’ve put it behind me.”

“I can imagine it was a terrible experience,” Lucille said, shifting again on the sofa. Flo gave her a dirty look and dug her in the side with her elbow.

Sister Genevieve nodded. “It was. I would rather not talk about it. If you will excuse me, it’s almost time for collation. That’s our dinner,” she explained.

“Do you know almost everyone who was in that accident is now dead?” Lucille said.

Sister Genevieve abruptly sat down again. “What do you mean?”

“Sal and Tiffany have been murdered.”

Sister Genevieve’s hands flew to her face.

“The only one left is Joey.”

“He just got out of jail a couple of months ago,” Flo added.

“Jail?”

“Didn’t you know?”

Sister Genevieve shook her head. “We don’t exactly keep up with the news in here. We devote our time to prayer and worship of Our Lord.” She fingered her rosary beads again. “I remember Joey as being a nice young man. What did he do?”

“You really don’t know?”

Sister Genevieve shook her head.

“It was on account of the accident,” Lucille said.

“But it wasn’t his fault.” Sister Genevieve looked agitated—she was clutching the fabric of her habit. “I know the boys weren’t supposed to be drag racing, but they’d done it dozens of times before. It wasn’t Joey’s fault,” she repeated.

“You want to tell us about it?” Lucille leaned forward with her elbows on her knees.

“We did it all the time. Saturday nights. What else was there to do? Sal, Joey and Dave were older. Everyone was impressed that we were going out with older men.” A ghost of a smile hovered around Sister Genevieve’s lips.

Lucille sent up a mental prayer thanking God that Bernadette was now safely married and she didn’t have to worry about stuff like this no more. Of course, it would eventually be little Lucy’s turn, but by then she might be dead and buried.

“Sal and Joey bought this car together and worked on it for weeks. They did something to the engine to make it go faster, and they would take turns speeding up and down the street.” She looked down at her shoes. “Dave had his own car, and they used to race. I thought it was a thrill to go along.”

Sister Genevieve was quiet for a moment. She seemed to have forgotten that she was going to be late for dinner.

“It was all my fault. I persuaded Nancy, my sister, to come along—I told her how much fun it would be. She was scared at first, but she finally agreed. And now she’s dead.” Sister Genevieve began to weep quietly, tears spilling out of her round blue eyes. She dug in the folds of her habit and pulled out a tissue.

“I couldn’t stand the guilt and wanted to put it all behind me, so shortly afterward I joined the convent and became a bride of Christ.” She shredded the tissue in her hand. “I still dream about it almost every night.”

Being married to Christ was probably a lot easier than being hitched to a real man, Lucille thought. No dinner to cook or laundry to do. Not that she would trade her Frankie for anything.

“So your sister Nancy was in the car with you?” Lucille’s stomach rumbled. The scent of food cooking was seeping into the parlor.

“No, she was riding with Sal and Joey. I was trying to fix her and Joey up. It was just me and Dave in our car.”

“And Dave was racing Joey, right? Dave and your sister were killed, and Joey went to jail.”

“I don’t understand.” Sister Genevieve looked puzzled. “Why did Joey go to jail?”

Lucille was about to open her mouth when a thought occurred to her. It was like playing the slot machines in Atlantic City—suddenly all the pictures lined up—three bunches of cherries in a row. Bingo.

Lucille turned to Flo. “Joey hit his head in the crash and got one of them brain injuries. He couldn’t remember anything about the accident. He had what they call anesthesia.” She turned back to Sister Genevieve. “So Dave was driving the one car, right? The one you were in.”

“Yes.”

“Was Joey driving the other car with Sal, Tiffany and your sister?”

Sister Genevieve was already shaking her head. “No.” The word exploded out of her, and she looked momentarily embarrassed at speaking so loud. “No, Joey wasn’t driving the other car. Sal was.”

“What?” Flo exclaimed.

Lucille had a moment of satisfaction. For once she was ahead of Flo. “You’re sure it was Sal driving the other car? Maybe Sal was going to drive, but then they changed their minds at the last minute?”

“No, that’s impossible. I was in the passenger seat. Dave pulled alongside of the other car—he was in the left lane—and began to pass it. I looked out my window, and I could clearly see Sal behind the wheel.”

“That doesn’t make no sense.” Flo turned sideways and looked at Lucille. “Why did Joey go to jail then? Why didn’t he say something? Tell them he was innocent?”

“Because he couldn’t remember. Sal must have told the cops that Joey had been driving. They were both thrown from the car in the accident. And since they shared the car like Sister here said, both their prints were on the steering wheel and driver’s-side door.”

“What a rotten little bastard. Joey must have been pissed when he found out.”

Lucille shot Flo a look. Some kind of nuns they were, using language like that.

“Sal was taking a chance, but the only people who knew he was the driver of the car that night were Tiffany and Denise . . . I mean Sister Genevieve. He married Tiffany to keep her quiet, and Sister Genevieve was locked up in this convent here. He must have figured his secret was safe.”

“If I had known, I would certainly have said something.” Sister Genevieve looked pained. “But as I told you, we don’t follow the news here.”

“But what about Tiffany? I could see Joey being pissed at Sal, but why kill Tiffany, too?”

Lucille shrugged. “I think Tiffany put Joey up to it. I think she’s the one who told Joey he hadn’t really been driving that night. She knew it would make him furious—fifteen years of his life down the drain in the slammer. It probably didn’t take much to push him over the edge.”