Lovely, Dark, and Deep (3 page)

“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 remember 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.

She laughed. “You always make me smile, Madeline,” she said, entering a little sitting room.

I followed her in. This room was nicer than the lobby, and small. It contained only a couch and two chairs, which matched, but looked a bit worn. Sister Moira read my mind. “We always say, if you want nice furniture and your own bath, become a priest.”

I laughed. “Can't you get in trouble for saying that?”

“Oh, we just say it in here. Although we've said as much to Father Fahey, and he agrees with us.”

I grinned. Father Fahey was the pastor at St. Catherine's. He also taught one religion class at St. Roselle. He was a good-natured man, fifty or so with white hair and a tall, lanky frame. I wondered if he and Sister Moira liked to joke around. I wondered, too, if there had ever been any attraction between them. They were both relatively young, handsome people. I had a tendency to look for romances where society said they should not exist. We had seen one priest leave our parish, when I was ten or so, to marry a sister from the convent. It was sort of a scandal at the time, but I think people were rooting for them, as well. Your average person can't relate to the vow of celibacy, and that includes Yours Truly. The notorious pair still come back sometimes, with their two daughters, to visit their friends in the parish. The funny thing is that everyone still calls them Father Tim and Sister Gretchen. They always will, I imagine. My mother used to tell me, when we saw them in town and stopped to chat, that you can't separate a person from his ministry, just because that person did something like fall in love. To her, he and she had both ministered to our people, and as such had attained a status that could not be taken away.

Moira was nodding at nothing in particular. She looked at me with a serious expression and said, “You should know that I told Father Fahey I had contacted you. I told him that I would be asking you to investigate.”

She was obviously going to do this at her own pace. I took a little notebook from my bag and watched Sister Moira fold her hands and sit, serene, regarding me.

“You said something about Sister Joanna,” I said, leading in.

Moira smiled. “Joanna.” She paused to wipe imaginary things off of her suit skirt, a pretty green plaid. “She chose the name because Joanna was one of the women who found the tomb empty, the morning Jesus rose from the dead. Our Joanna loved that moment more than any in the Bible: the moment of resurrection, the joy of the empty tomb.”

“Ahh,” I said. I sensed that Sister Moira was stalling. She wasn't the type to waste my time or hers, and I knew we were on the verge of something here. I wrote “Joanna was at the empty tomb,” in my notebook, for something to do. Then I looked back at Moira, expectantly.

“She was murdered,” said Sister Moira simply.

I had expected it, but her confidence was shocking.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I want you to investigate. To find her murderer. It will give her soul peace, I think, and peace to me as well.” Her hands were still folded, but her knuckles, I thought, were a bit whiter.