Lovely, Dark, and Deep (5 page)

“Do you know how many “accidental" deaths were probably murder?” she asked. “It boggles the imagination, when you think about it. All those murderers, walking free. People don't always know their loved ones, do they?” she asked with a theatrical expression. I tried to imagine Jack, confessing to me that he'd killed one of his students because they consistently refused to do their work. This made me giggle, and again Sally was hurt. “You mark my words, Madeline Mann. You'll find somethin', and then you're goin' to owe me ten dollars.”

I agreed to the bet, despite the fact that my vibes told me not to, and began my work. I heard Bill walking around in our little morgue, and I felt nervous as I waited for him to arrive. I decided to call my brother Gerhard. I finished the paragraph I was working on and dialed the phone, one eye on the doorway.

“Hello?” Gerhard answered almost urgently after two rings.

“Hello, big brother,” I said brightly.

“Oh, hi Madeline.” His disappointment was obvious. “What's new?”

“Not much. Listen, I want you to come over tonight. And I want you to bring your new girlfriend, and her daughter.”

There was silence in response to this. Finally Gerhard gave me his best attempt at subterfuge. “Girlfriend?” he asked.

“Yeah. You know, the one you admitted to seeing two months ago,” I said dryly.

“Oh, right. I guess I meant, 'daughter?'”

“Cut it out, Gerhard, I don't have the time. Bring your girlfriend and her little girl, and I'll make something nice. And Fritz and Jack will be there, too. And I should probably invite Mom and Dad, don't you think?”

A hissing sound, like a deflating basketball, came from the receiver. “You shouldn't play the investigative reporter with me, Madeline,” Gerhard said with wounded dignity.

“I didn't investigate. Fritz saw you at the mall. Now will you share them, or do we have to storm your place?” I spied Bill in the doorway, holding some printouts. We were in the process of putting our morgue on computer. Webley enters the modern age.

“Yeah, okay, I'll ask if she's available,” my brother said sulkily.

“Great. I'll call the others. Seven o'clock,” I said, blowing an audible kiss and ringing off before he could change his mind.

Bill came forward and pulled up a chair. “Here's what we have, Maddy. There was certainly no lack of coverage. Boy, if this ends up being something, it's going to turn the town on its—” he broke off to begin reading.

I looked at the very first story covered, by a reporter named Rick Astor. I jotted his name on a pad. He must have been the “young man" Sister Francis spoke of. If I could find him, I'd talk to him first. The date of the story was May 2; Joanna had died on May 1
st
. The story said that Sister Joanna had been struck and killed instantly, at dusk. The car, according to Sister Mary Francis, had not had its headlights on, and the driver had been difficult to see. Sister Francis had been in the doorway, calling something to Sister Joanna, when the incident occurred.
“I saw the car coming,” Sister Francis admitted, “but I thought it was a parishioner coming to drop off flowers for the Mary altar. In spring the parishioners donate pots of flowers, to offset the cost of the landscaping for our May display. We'd had several visitors that day.”

Sister Francis went on to testify that it had all happened so fast she hadn't been able to act quickly enough. She felt responsible, because she'd called to Sister Joanna, who had stepped away from the pond to hear her better, and was therefore easier for the car to strike as it squealed around the circular drive.

“She flew into the air,” Sister Francis said, “and her head hit the cement edge of the pond as she came back down.” Sister Francis rushed to call paramedics and Father Thomas Fahey, a close friend of Sister Mary Joanna.

I jotted down the name Father Fahey; obviously he was someone crucial to the investigation, and, if I could believe Sister Francis, its suppression? Astor's article was full of potential starting points. Finally, I read something I hadn't known:
Sister Joanna is survived by her parents, Abel and Rebecca Yardley, and one brother, Jeremy, 14, of Mosston.

Mosston was just west of Webley. So Joanna hadn't traveled very far when she'd joined her religious order. I had just finished making visits to Mosston for physical therapy on my wounded shoulder, at Assissi Hospital. Now it looked like I'd be going back to our little neighboring town for some interviewing. Her brother had been very young when she died, I reflected. He would have been a freshman to my junior. I'd never known him at Roselle, yet he'd been there. Another thing I vaguely remembered was all of us praying for our fellow student at the death of his sister. St. Roselle had 1200 students at the time; I hadn't known any freshmen. Jeremy Yardley would now be twenty-four or twenty-five years old. I wondered if he still lived in the area.

I turned to Bill. “I have lots of interviews I can line up,” I said. “How much time do you want to allow me? Or should I try to do these on days off?”

Bill rubbed his chin. “Go ahead and set them up for tomorrow. You can come in a little early, finish the deadline stories, get your stuff on the school board done, and then take a break.” He looked out the window across from us, thoughtful. “I'm curious, I have to say. You know, I remember when the story broke I wasn't very suspicious—no one was, except Rick. 'Course I was new, and low on the totem pole back then. But now that I read this, I wonder why no one made it an issue. Maybe because she was a nun, and nobody kills nuns, right?”

“Not if they want to go to heaven,” Sally said sternly from behind her grand oak desk. She didn't look up. Sally was already convinced it was murder.

When
I got home late that afternoon, driving my Scorpio with the For Sale sign, I called to Jack, who was, fortuitously, getting back from a run. “Help me with the groceries,” I called. Jack walked over, gave me a cold January embrace and a warm kiss, and grabbed some grocery bags. “You know,” I said conversationally, walking behind him, “I haven't had any callers about the car. And how would I get to work if we sold it?” A few snowflakes were falling, and I winked as one got in my eye.

“Remember, I said I'd take the bus,” Jack said over his shoulder. “It's no problem. The school is close.” Jack taught English at Webley High School.

“Right,” I said. I'd have to try that another time. “We have company coming,” I said. “I know it's Monday, but I asked Gerhard to bring over the mystery people. I said I'd cook something good, which means you're cooking. Is that okay? I got the ingredients for your famous Italian thing.”

Jack perked up. “Sure. Did you get lean meat?”

“Yes.”

“And the good mozzarella? Not that stuff in the bag that—”

“Yes, Jack. That's the one part of cooking I'm good at. Shopping.” We were trudging up the stairs to the second floor of The Old School, and I was appreciating the view of Jack from behind, which never stopped being enjoyable.

We put down our groceries, took off our winter gear, and came together for an after work kiss. Since our little spat on Saturday, Jack and I had been very thoughtful toward each other, and it had the effect of increasing our physical attraction.

I pulled away. “We should get this started. Meaning you should,” I said. “I invited my parents, and Fritz, of course.”

“So that's eight,” Jack said, pulling me back. Jack's kisses were always very warm and knee-weakening. “No problem,” he murmured against my lips. “Let's go in the bedroom.”

“But Jack—”

“We have to change for dinner, anyway,” he said. Jack was logical.

“We'll have to change quickly,” I said, peeking at my watch. I put my hands in his hair and began to pull his mouth back to mine.

“Hey—whatever happened with your interview?” he asked against my lips.

“What interview?” I asked, pulling away slightly. Jack's eyes widened, and I watched the pupils dilate in those blue-gray orbs: the gray of gathering storm clouds.

Jack looked suspicious. “You know what interview. The only one you had scheduled for today.” He touched the tip of my nose. “How did it go?”

“Oh—fine. It's pretty much what we suspected. She thinks Joanna was murdered. No real reason exactly, just a very strong hunch she has.” I was in too much of a romantic mood to discuss my experience at the convent at that moment. I figured I'd confide in Jack at a more appropriate time.

“Hmmm,” he said, resuming his exploration of my face with his lips. Jack would normally have pursued the question like a dog who had treed a squirrel, but we both had our priorities at the moment. We made our merry way down the hall, so attached to each other that we probably looked like some sort of mythical, many limbed creature. When we fell on the bed I was almost dizzy with desire.

“We have to be quick,” I insisted again.

Jack laughed into the fuzz of my sweater. “We've got time,” he mumbled. “How do you get this off?”

I sighed deliciously, giving in. He was cooking, after all. I had all the time in the world.

Later,
as we lay there smiling at the ceiling, Jack said softly, “There's something you're not telling me. Something's bothering you about this whole Joanna thing.”

I hesitated. Now wasn't really the time to go into it. Jack needed to start on dinner, and I didn't want to rehash the whole story while we worked. My hesitation put a little furrow of hurt into Jack's brow, which I saw immediately when I ventured a glance at his face. He reached for his pants.

“Jack,” I said. “It's just that I want to tell you when we have no distractions.”

Jack looked around the room dramatically. “I don't see any distractions, Madeline.” He began to pull on his clothes. "Maybe you just don't want to trust me with some of the things that you've stowed away in that little private box in your mind. I thought we were past this, but whatever. I need to start on dinner." He walked out of the room, and I heard him begin to work in the kitchen. He didn't slam things, as I might have done. I had to face it: Jack was just a more mature person than I was.

And worse yet, he was right.

Chapter Three

By seven o'clock
my family was all there, sans Gerhard: Fritz, in a fairly nice shirt and tie that he wore with jeans and a smug expression; my parents, clothed in their Sunday best and looking as excited as if they were about to be granted an audience with the queen; and Jack, my beloved, whose eyes somehow seemed still narrowed and whose voice was still cool, ever since our little non-discussion of Sister Moira. I had changed into a pair of black pants and a pale green mohair sweater Jack had given me for Christmas—he'd told me it matched my eyes. I wore an apron over this as I struggled to pull apart slices of frozen garlic bread and put them on a pan.

I'd made a lovely centerpiece out of some branches from Mr. Altschul's largest pine (he cut them for me himself) and a warm orange candle. I was looking at this, trying to absorb its serenity, when the doorbell rang. I felt like screaming, “Posts, everyone!” but my family took their positions without being told, standing in a formal greeting line and waiting to see who walked over the threshold.

It was Gerhard first, holding the hand of a petite brunette woman of about my age—twenty-seven or so. They walked in, rosy-cheeked, and Gerhard introduced her as Sandra, and my mother was just starting to say something about Sandra Dee when the couple moved aside to grant entrance to a tiny third visitor, who walked regally behind them in a pink T-shirt and matching tu-tu. She wore white hose and white shoes and sported a tiara on her dark curls. She looked very proud of herself, and seemed expectant of praise and attention, which was suddenly lavished upon her from all sides in the form of oohs and aaahs.

“This,” said Gerhard with an indulgent smile, “is Veronica.”

“Veronica,” said my mother with wonder as she knelt in front of the little girl. “Do you know, that was the name of my best friend, when I was a girl in school? And do you know, I thought it was the prettiest name in the world?”

“What do you think now?” asked Veronica, surprisingly eloquent for her teensy size.

“Why, now I think I like it even more,” my mother said. She looked ready to put Veronica on a bun and eat her.

“I danced in a show,” Veronica told her. “I was a flower.” She held up tiny fingers to emphasize her point, curling them into petal shapes. “I was a dulip.”

“A tulip,” Gerhard translated with a big dumb grin.

My mother, no longer able to control herself, scooped up little Veronica in her arms, and asked, “And will you do the dance for me? I love dancing.”

“Sure,” said the tiny creature with a friendly shrug. And then, in a moment that would set the course of our family history, she looked straight into my mother's smiling eyes and said, “You're pretty.”

My mother's face brightened even more, if that was possible, and she swooped out of the kitchen with her new prize, so that Veronica could dance for her. “Jack,” she commanded. “Come and play the guitar for her.”

Jack, who had been the last in line, smiled wryly and left the room.

My father put an arm on Sandra's shoulder and said, “You didn't need your little girl tonight, did you?”

Sandra laughed, apparently not at all overwhelmed by my mother's intensity, and said, “Gerhard will tell you that sometimes I would just love to have someone take her off my hands for a while. Veronica can be a handful.”

“She's beautiful,” I said.

Sandra's clear brown eyes met mine. “Thank you,” she said. “I think so, but I'm partial, of course.”

“She looks just like Sandra,” said Gerhard mushily, helping Sandra slip off her coat. I saw, suddenly, that this relationship was much more than it had been four months ago, when Fritz mentioned over breakfast that Gerhard was “dating.” Gerhard was obviously in love.

I stepped forward to take the coats, which included a tiny velvet one. Veronica had apparently disrobed in the hall, for the fullest effect. This made me smile, and the smile had turned to laughter by the time I reached my bed and tossed the coats on top. My mother, I thought, may finally have met her match.