Lovely, Dark, and Deep (10 page)

I endured another of Adelaide's piercing screams, and Bill Thorpe, our editor, looked out of his office and glared at us. “Sorry,” I called. “True love revealed.” I felt a bit resentful, because in all my life I'd never felt as intensely happy as Adelaide apparently now felt. Nothing had ever made me scream with quite that caliber of joy.

“Oh my gosh, Madeline,” Adelaide said, whispering now. “I just can't believe that Juan O'Leary likes me!”

“Why not? You're pretty and nice. Why wouldn't he? Why wouldn't everyone?” I asked impatiently, trying to pass her now.

Adelaide blocked me again, flicking her hair this way and that, and batting her thick lashes. “Madeline, what should I wear? I mean, if you had a date, what would you wear?” she asked, as though this were an unlikely scenario, but I was the youngest she was going to find in this tomb of an office building.

“As a matter of fact, Addy, my boyfriend is playing there, too, and I haven't thought yet about what I'd wear, because I don't really care that much. I'll probably wear jeans. The last thing you want to do is overdress, or look too, uh—”

“Slutty?” she asked excitedly.

“Right. Now let me by, for gosh sakes, I have tons of work to do.”

Adelaide flew off on the wings of love, and I tried again to make it down the hall, but was waylaid by Bill.

“Madeline,” he called, and I turned right into the room that was his office.

Bill's office was painted a happy blue, and he had a lovely view of the side yard, where he'd placed a bird feeder, and where about twenty wrens were now fighting in the snowfall over whatever Bill was serving today. I tore my glance away from the feathery fracas and said, “Yes?”

“You got a call from Sister Moira today. They transferred her to me, and we spoke briefly. She'd like a call, when you get a chance.”

“Well, geez, if she wants miracles she should use
her
connections,” I groused, sitting in a chair. “I haven't even talked to all the relevant people yet.”

“Who have you talked to besides Astor?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes.

I filled him in on my discussion with Jeremy Yardley, and perhaps more significantly, about the slashed tires. His eyebrows went up and stayed there.

“Your thoughts?” he said tersely, when I was finished.

“Well, I haven't entirely collected my thoughts, but I'll admit to weird vibes. They don't necessarily mean murder, but something's not right. He seems worried. That's about all I can say right now. Rick Astor felt the same, but we could both be totally wrong. Aside from that, someone slashed my tires, and yesterday I got a call, a whispery call, telling me to stop investigating. It was funny, really.”

Bill started to look fathery. “Doesn't sound funny, Madeline. Do you want to pursue this?”

“Of course I do,” I said. “I'll just be more careful.”

Bill and I talked for a while more, and then he said, “I'd say go with it. Talk to some more people. I trusted your instincts once, and it paid off big time.” He gave me his boyish grin, the one that must have made his wife fall in love with him.

I grinned back. “You're the boss. I'll call Sister Moira.”

“I told her to give you another day. By the way, she said to tell you if you come by on Friday or Saturday, all the nuns will be at the church, working at their big rummage sale.” Bill smirked at this. A lot of people think nuns are funny, like cartoons. Therefore, nuns doing anything—riding bicycles, grocery shopping, driving a car, or working at a rummage sale—seems amusing. I don't have this caricaturish vision of them, but I suppose it's because I grew up with them and realized they were people. At least I realized it to a certain extent. I think for the world in general, though, nuns are seen as a kind of endangered species, to be gawked at from afar.

Of course, it was easy for Bill to scoff, since he was a confirmed doubter. He said his favorite prayer was one he'd heard agnostic soldiers had said in the trenches during one of the World Wars: “Oh God, if there is a God, save my soul, if I have a soul.”

“Will do,” I said, getting up. “I'll check in with her tomorrow. Meanwhile I have to go see the Yardleys, if I can reach them on the phone. They weren't available last night.” I escaped his office and finally made it into mine, where Sally sat typing and smiling.

“What are you so happy about?” I asked her, plunking into my chair and flipping through my notebook for the Yardley's number.

“I'm just happy to help, hon,” she said, still typing. I waited a moment, seeing she was on a roll, and she finished up her article with a flourish, then spun her chair around and reached into a canvas bag she had sitting on the floor. She grabbed a large book, a yearbook, I saw upon second glance.

“You know my ex-husband taught math at St. Roselle for two years, before he went into insurance?” she asked me. Sally had an ex-husband named Tommy, of whom she was very fond, and whom I suspected was still her lover.

“Really?” I asked, my nose back in my notebook.

“And I happened to mention Sister Joanna—not your story, hon, just that I thought it was a sad old incident—and he said he'd worked with her. At St. Roselle!” She opened the yearbook to a place she had marked, and held it out for me.

I jumped out of my chair and retrieved it. My mom still had this yearbook in her basement, I realized, with a bunch of other stuff I'd never bothered to claim. I hadn't even thought to look in it for Sister Joanna. The page she had open was a faculty page. MUSIC DEPARTMENT, it said at the top, with some eighth notes splashed around the margin. In the photo, a man and two nuns stood next to a piano, grinning toothily. The younger nun was identified as Sister Joanna Yardley, Music Appreciation, Concert Choir, Piano Instruction.

Joanna was pretty, in a fresh, simple way. Her almond eyes held a glint of mischief, and a burst of bangs underneath her veil suggested that she had thick, lovely hair. The color of eyes and hair I couldn't tell, since this was a black and white photo. Her lips were full, her teeth slightly crooked. I could picture her singing in front of her student chorus, her hands waving to indicate when alto should join soprano, when tenor should accompany bass. I remembered her more clearly now. I'd seen her around the halls at St. Roselle, but she was not one of my teachers, so she was relegated to the ranks of the ignored. I recalled hearing the news of her death. Unlike Fritz's experience, or Cindy's, though, it hadn't made a lasting impact on me, despite the controversies at the time. I remembered an announcement over the intercom, a prayer service in her name. There was something else about her that was familiar, but I couldn't recall it looking at the picture.

I noted, at the bottom, a candid of Sister Joanna, a bearded man, and some students seated in some comfy chairs in what looked like a rehearsal room, engaged in dialogue. The caption read, “Sister Joanna and Mr John Taglieri chat with members of SASA, the group they moderate.” SASA, I thought. I remembered making fun of that group with my friends Logan Lanford and Shelly West, mostly because of its silly acronym. It stood for Students Against Substance Abuse, and most of the members, as Logan, Shelly and I saw it, were the stoners of the school. I hadn't remembered that Joanna was the moderator. I hadn't known her, though, so I probably hadn't paid attention. Like Adelaide now, my interest in adults then had been minimal.

“Thanks, Sally. Thanks for reminding me. I should be looking through all my old yearbooks.” I sat there still holding the book.

“Why so thoughtful, hon?” she asked.

“Jeremy Yardley didn't talk about his sister as a teacher. Only mentioned that she came to their house once a week. And he didn't mention that she was the moderator of the anti-drug club. I suppose he didn't have time.”

“I suppose not.” Sally headed back to her computer.

“And your mysterious Tommy taught there, too, when I was there. I never realized that. What is his last name?”

Sally stared at me. “The same as mine, hon. We're divorced, but I kept the name. It's Watson. Tommy Watson.”

It didn't ring a bell. I looked him up in the yearbook. He was a dark-haired man, fairly handsome, standing in the front row of a department photo. “I never had him for math.”

“He taught upper level classes, hon, the hard stuff. Oh, sorry,” she said, realizing that she'd cast aspersions upon my analytical abilities.

“It's okay. I didn't take much math, it's true. Would it be okay with you if I met with Tommy?” I asked.

The keys stopped clicking.

“I know he's your mysterious little secret, but I'd really like to talk to some of her colleagues. And not just nuns.”

Sally turned to face me, her face slightly redder. “He's not my secret, babe, we're divorced. There's nothing going on that—”

She saw my expression of disbelief and we both burst out laughing. “You and your gosh darn vibes,” she said, wiping away a tear of mirth. “No wonder you can sniff out criminals.”

We laughed some more, until once again Bill's face appeared in the doorway. “Were you planning to work today, Madeline, or just rile up the employees?” He was only partly joking, so I hightailed it back to my desk.

Sally lifted her nose in dignified disdain. “I am more than an employee, Bill Thorpe, and I'd thank you to remember that. I am the glue that holds this place together.”

This was pretty much true, as Bill well knew. Sally worked ungodly hours without complaint, and was somehow always able to help things run smoothly when they should, by the laws of nature, have gone haywire. Bill bowed in apology, and said, “Well, glue, I need to see that story in about five minutes.”

He disappeared again. I think he felt a bit left out, if truth be told.

Sally and I snickered a bit more, quietly, and then she said, “I'll get you an audience with Tommy. He works a lot, though, like me. I'll get back to you.”

I thanked her and dialed the Yardleys. This time the phone was answered, and a woman told me she would be happy to answer some questions for me. “I don't really see the point, honey, after all this time, but I'll be happy to help if I can.” Her voice sounded like Aunt Bea, from the Andy Griffith Show. I told her I'd be there at about three, and rang off.

When I finally left the office for the Yardley's house, undetained by Sally, Bill, or the euphoric Adelaide, the snow no longer seemed dainty and fun. The sky had grown darker, the weather more grim. The snow slashed into my face as I darted to the car; I didn't need to eat snowflakes this time; they were being jammed down my throat. This was hazardous road material, and I was glad to know that all my burly lunchtime friends were out scattering salt and plowing streets.

I looked my car over carefully; the new tires were still intact, and no one was lurking in the back seat. I shook off the feeling of menace that hovered just under the dark sky and climbed into my Scorpio.

The Yardleys lived in Mosston, near the border of Webley. It should have been a fifteen minute drive, but it took me thirty-five. The house, as far as I could tell through the storm, was a nice brick Georgian, small and stately, on a corner lot. I dashed out of the car and up their walk, which had been shoveled once but was now filling in again.

A woman answered the bell and ushered me into a blessedly warm interior. The house smelled of fresh baking, but I also noted a hint of cat.

“Oh, you're wet, sweetheart! Isn't this weather just terrible?” she asked, as she helped me take off my coat.

“Yes. It's so nice of you to talk with me,” I told her, as she beckoned me to the end of a hall, where a bright kitchen with a clean wooden table and four scrubbed wooden chairs welcomed us. The lovely food aroma made me feel weak, and I realized that I hadn't eaten since breakfast. Unusual for me.

“Are you hungry, dear?” she asked, reading my mind.

I looked at Rebecca Yardley, her large earnest eyes, her short white hair, the homey apron she wore over her jeans and turtleneck, and felt that I was in the presence of a very nurturing woman. It was the height of rudeness, and my mother would faint if she heard it, but I told the truth. “Starving,” I said.

“Oh, I'm so glad,” she cried, beaming. “I put in some muffins, a big batch, and my husband never eats them all. I hate to throw food away.” She bustled over to her oven and checked the food inside. “Done!” she told me.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“No, no. We'll just put them here to cool, and you can tell me what you need to know.” I wondered, perhaps cruelly, if she had done all this to create a traditionally domestic scene. Then again, I decided, perhaps my cynicism was getting out of hand. She arranged the muffin tins on her counter, then joined me at the table.

My gaze lingered on the food as I dug for my notebook. “Well, I spoke with your son this morning—”

“How is Jeremy?” she asked, smiling. “I haven't talked to him in days.”

“Oh, he seems fine. He's a handsome boy.” I spoke as if Jeremy were fifteen, instead of my own age, but she didn't seem to notice the irony.

“He is; he always has been. Both my children were quite lovely. Tom and I have always felt blessed.” She picked up the end of her apron and twisted it absently. Her eyes wandered to the wall, and I noted a crucifix hanging there: not a bleeding Christ, but a risen Christ, with arms outstretched, attached to a wooden cross. I preferred this version. My mother once told me it suggested that I couldn't accept the reality of suffering.

“I saw a picture of your daughter in a St. Roselle yearbook. She was a pretty girl. It seemed like she had lots of thick hair under that veil,” I noted, easing into the conversation of Rachel/Joanna.

Her mother nodded, her eyes widening in agreement. “You wouldn't believe her hair. She had so much of it, and for half her childhood I felt I was just de-tangling. But she liked to wear it long. Of course she cut it, short and manageable, when she joined the order.”

“How old was she, when she became a nun?” I asked.

Her mother thought. “Twenty-two, I think. She was young.” She shook her head and smiled, as though someone had told a joke. “You know, Rachel had a wild streak. When she was a teen, she got in trouble sometimes—oh, nothing with police or anything, but her father and I had to speak to her on several occasions. We were getting worried about her, about the friends she chose. Then she went on a school retreat, for a whole weekend. When she came back, she was different.” There was a hint of a smile on her face as she remembered.