Back in the Habit (22 page)

“Please stop swearing, Frank.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Listen. We need the layout of that place.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I said. Where's the church part in relation to the main driveway where I dropped you off?”

It was easier to answer his rapid questions than to predict where he was aiming with them. She could figure that out after the call. “You go in the main door, turn left when you reach the hall, right when you reach the stained-glass window hallway—”

“Not from the inside. Think! We need to get there from outside so we don't spook the quarry.”

“Quarry? You mean Fabian?”

“Who else? The guys picked up your alleyway thug and flipped him.”

“They did what? You mean like a house?”

“No. They offered him a deal. He couldn't agree fast enough to give evidence against the nun and the priest.”

“Oh.”
There's so much I don't know yet.

“That gave us probable cause and another warrant. So I'm hoping that Sister Fabian, being Head Nun, will have a private area all to herself. Us being men, I figured the best place for us to breach the walls will be the door the priest uses to enter so he doesn't disturb all the nuns at prayer. Where is it?”

“I see. Good Heavens. All right, when you're in the driveway facing the Motherhouse, the gardens are to your left. You'll see a flagstone path next to the building. Follow that around until you reach a set of brown-painted doors. They lead into the back hall. Turn right and the hall takes a slight curve around the chapel. The carpeted area at the end is where Sister Fabian's rooms begin.”

“Perfect. We're going to do this as quietly as possible. Everyone's going to be at this ten o'clock Mass, right?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. I'll call my brother Pat, get him to pinch-hit for your Mass. He's a Jesuit, but don't hold it against him. His first class at Carlow—he's an adjunct prof there—doesn't start till noon on Wednesdays. He'll get to your place in time.”

“But Father Ray'll be there too. That'll be an awkward scene.”

“No, he won't, because we're arresting your priest first, at his house, remember? We'll deposit him at the station before we head over to pick up Sister Fabian. If everything goes as planned, you'll never know we were there.”

Background voices on Frank's end interrupted him.

“Gotta go. I'll call you when it's all over.”

Three beeps and silence. Giulia closed and pocketed the phone. Only then did she realize she was stifling under the blanket and bedspread. She flung them backwards and sat for a long minute on the bed, staring at the imitation-wood headboard.

“She drove Bridget to suicide for money. She damaged Bart and Vivian, she caused them to sin, to redecorate her living room. Fabian, I will dance on your grave, you miserable b—” She stopped herself from swearing. “Fabian in jail. I wonder what the Vatican inspectors will have to say about that.”

Crash. Thud. Yelp.

Twenty-nine

Giulia jumped off the
bed and ran into the hall. A large, irregular lump of black double-knit lay half in and half out of the elevator. A four-pronged cane lay near the lump, one rubber foot caught on the long, frayed edge of the hall carpet. Giulia was halfway to the elevator when part of the lump resolved into a large rear end.

The elevator doors started to close. Giulia jumped into the cage and slammed the
Emergency Stop
button. She knelt next to the prone Sister and said over the rattling bell, “Is anything broken? Can you move?”

“Sister Regina? I'm so glad it's you. I'm all tangled up.” Sister Joan of the harmless wisecracks looked up at her with one eye. Her off-kilter veil covered the other.

“Let's get you up.” Giulia bent Joan's knees until her legs were free of the elevator, leaned in, and yanked the red button. The alarm stopped.

“Praise God.” Sister Joan fumbled her veil out of her face. “That noise would drive the Blessed Mother herself to violence.”

Giulia helped her roll onto her back, grinning. “What were you in such a hurry to get to?”

“My photo album. I have some embarrassing pictures of the upper echelon from the Pittsburgh Community back when they were Novices.” She inched her left arm out from under her back. “Did I lose a shoe in this debacle?”

“You did. Let me put it on for you and help you stand.” Giulia worked the nursing-style slip-on over Joan's hammertoe. “Your stockings have given up the ghost, I'm afraid.”

“So have yours. Stupid things. Overpriced and too fragile for a vow of poverty.” She raised herself on her elbows. “I hope Sister Fabian has a suggestion box. I'm going to place a strongly worded request to replace this rug.”

“I'll second it. Are you ready? Let's try sitting up first.”

Giulia took Joan by the armpits and pushed her upright. “How's that? Dizzy? Any shooting pains in your legs or your head?” She stared into Joan's eyes. “I wish I had a flashlight.”

Joan batted her away. “I landed on my knees, not my head. Speaking of heads, prepare yourself for a frightening sight.” She ripped off her veil, exposing dark gray hair with a rippling Bride of Frankenstein streak on the right-hand side.

Giulia gasped. “It's amazing. I know you didn't dye it, but it sure looks that way.”

Joan stuck both hands into her pasted-down hair and scratched her scalp. “When I was going through the entrance process way back in 1952, the Superior General asked me if the desire to cover my hair had an undue influence on my vocation.” She winked at Giulia. “It did, a little.”

Giulia pretended to scowl. “You are destroying my image of the saintly life Sisters led pre–Vatican II.”

Joan laughed like an asthmatic beagle. “Then I won't tell you about the time we short-sheeted the Postulant Mistress's bed.” She rubbed her knees. “You know that section of poured concrete under the clotheslines? We said Rosaries on it for a month, rain and sun and wind, in full view of every Sister in the place. My knees still have phantom pain.”

Giulia sat on her heels and laughed. “That beats ours. Three weeks into our Canonical year we escaped to McDonald's and bought french fries and chocolate shakes. That illicit celebration netted us a week of fasting.”

“I'll bet you learned what it really means to ‘offer it up.' ”

“Not on the night they served liver.” Giulia stood the walker next to Joan's right hand. “Ready to stand?”

“As I'll ever be. I'm a little bottom-heavy these days.”

“Only underwear models care about that. One—two—three.” She leveraged Joan onto her feet and steadied her for a moment.

“Thank you. It will take more than a frayed rug to tuck me into a casket.” She reached for the cane. “If you'll get my veil for me, I'll make myself presentable for the Big Celebration Mass. You might want to put yours on, too.”

Giulia clapped her hand to her head. “Oops.” She handed Joan her veil with a smile. “Someone's grand entrance interrupted me.”

Joan scrunched her nose at Giulia. “Always take responsibility for your own actions, Sister. That's what we teach our students.”

“I stand corrected. Would you like an extra arm till you get to your room?”

Joan gripped her cane. “I'm all right now, thank you. When you see me in the chapel, the Bride of Frankenstein will have transformed herself into the Bride of Christ again.”

“I'll go transform myself as soon as I fix the carpet.” Giulia knelt in front of the elevator and ripped out several new loose threads. “I can't take care of the rest without a pair of scissors.” She tucked the thicker frayed areas under the edge as best she could.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Giulia raised her voice. “Careful—the rug is loose.”

“Sister Regina? Thank God—you're just the person I need.” Sister Gretchen pushed a flailing violin string away from her face. “Where's your veil?”

“In my room. We had a fall up here.”

“Anyone hurt? No? We've got to find the money to replace this antiquated rug.” She pushed down the broken string again. “There's a minor crisis in the chapel. Sister Arnulf was giving the grand tour to her visitors, and one of them knocked over the table and vase on the steps near the vestry. My D string picked today of all days to break, and it's already nine o'clock. Can I beg you to help Sister Bartholomew fix it? The vase, that is, not my string.”

Giulia got to her feet. “Of course. Just let me get my veil.”

“You're a life saver. Thanks.” She took the next flight of stairs two at a time.

Giulia slapped at her tangled sheets. Maybe if Mary Stephen decided to snoop again, she'd fix the bed. She stood before the mirror to put on her veil, shoving stray brown curls under the headband around her ears and at the back of her neck. At the same time she railed against yet another obstacle to corralling Sisters Winifred and Arnulf.

The sounds of a trumpet and flute warming up with scales reached Giulia in the chapel hallway. No one wanted to listen to warm-ups. That guaranteed an empty chapel for her and Bart
.

She walked down the center aisle. Someone had put the table back in place and set the vase on it, but most of the flowers were askew on the banged-up floral foam. The palm leaves leaned every which way. At least three of the carnations were bent in half and something had decapitated one of the stargazer lilies. Mum petals sprinkled the floor like snow.

“Sweet cartwheeling Jes—”

Giulia pointed a finger to her right and behind her, and Sister Bart's voice cut off. They climbed the steps together. A wet patch littered with flakes of green foam spread in an irregular circle on the platform and down to the first step.

Bart groaned. “What a disaster. Sister Fabian's going to have a cow.”

“Let's make it a small cow. I'll get the floral wire. Could you bring the roll of paper towels?”

While Bart used most of the roll soaking up the water, Giulia spread the flowers out on several towels.

“This floral foam looks like someone played baseball with it.” She re-taped it to the sides of the vase. “I can save the palms … not this leaf. Not that one …” She wiggled the three palms so the missing leaves only showed if she looked at them from a thirty-degree left-hand angle. “That hole can be camouflaged with the mums.”

The trumpet began the voluntary, hit a flat note, and started again.

Giulia wound wire around two flopping carnations and turned one mum around so the bare spot faced the back.

Bart stood with her arms full of wet paper towels. “That's pretty good.”

“It's short one lily.” Giulia nodded at the broken pink-and-red mess on the table. “I probably should remove one from the other arrangement.”

“Oh, no—they're too pretty.”

“But they're no longer symmetrical.” She propped up an injured mum with the last bit of wire. “That'll have to do.”

“I'll be back with the vacuum in just a second.”

Giulia made a
blech
face at the floor. “I'll pick up what I can.”

She wiped the vase and table with two paper towels, then used her fingernails to collect mum petals and foam bits. A flute solo replaced the trumpet voluntary. The sound of squeaking vacuum wheels clashed with the flute as the vacuum approached her.

“I've got it.” Bart plugged it into the outlet near the BVM statue and drowned out the flute.

Giulia stayed on her knees, gathering the bits too heavy and wet for the vacuum's suction. Bart turned it off after a few minutes and inspected the floor with Giulia.

“Good enough?”

Bart pressed her hands onto the carpet. “Ugh. Still wet.”

Giulia imitated her. “Not that bad.” She looked at her watch. “Nine fifteen. It's got to be good enough.”

“Already? Yike. I have to check on Vivian and get to the choir loft. Would you mind?” She turned her Bambi eyes on the vacuum, then on Giulia.

“What's wrong with Vivian?'

“A hangover direct from Hell itself. Sister Gretchen was keeping an eye on her till she had to restring her violin.”

“Vivian deserves nothing less. Go ahead. I'll take care of the vacuum.”

“You're the best. Thank you.” Bart walked at a rapid pace off the sanctuary steps and down the center aisle.

The violin started to tune a capricious new D string to the organ. Giulia smiled at a very unladylike word from Sister Gretchen. When she pushed the vacuum through the vestry and into the back hall, its squeaking wheels echoed off the bare walls.

Her hand clung to the storage closet when she closed the door. She opened and closed her fingers, then sniffed them. “Ick. Mum and lily petals don't mix with wet foam.”

She reentered the vestry and washed her hands at the sink.
I wonder if they've arrested Father Ray yet? I wonder if Frank's brother is anything like Frank?

Something slammed into the small of her back, pinning her against the sink. An arm wrapped around her from right to left. A soaked cloth slapped over her face. She breathed in mint and harsh alcohol and something sweet. It stung her nose and eyes. She coughed, trying for a clear breath. The arm tightened around her, bending her backwards. She fought against the arm, against the mint-booze-sweet liquid filling her mouth and nose …

The world slowed. The arm didn't feel quite so tight. Her head filled with cotton candy.
I like that
…
reminds me of carnivals
…
my hip is buzzing
…
hello, Mr. Bee
…
want some cotton candy?

Two hands led her away from the sink and toward a wardrobe.
Just like Narnia
… The door opened and the hands pushed her inside, folded her legs in half, and closed the door in her face.

She took a deep breath of cleaner air, but the potent mint, like mediciney mouthwash, still filled her nose. She leaned her head against the back of the wardrobe, which remained solid.
Darn. I wanted to meet Aslan.

A rectangle of light outlined the door. She took another breath, this time smelling dry-cleaned fabric and incense. Her fingers, hands, arms felt like they should float up on their own. Her hip buzzed again.
How'd a bee get in my pocket?
She fumbled her uncooperative fingers between her hip and her compressed legs.
Can't get to it. Doesn't matter anyway. Bees can't talk 'cause I'm not in Narnia
…

She closed her eyes and let enormous fluffs of cotton candy envelop her.

_____

Ow
…
my head hurts. My back hurts. My knees hurt.
She pressed fingers against her temples and opened her eyes.

Pitch black.

No. A rectangle of light. What
…

She arched her (sore. Why was it sore?) neck. The back of her head clunked against something hard, with a hollow echo. Fabric brushed her arms. The thin rectangle of light resolved into the outline of a door.

I'm folded up like a pretzel and sitting in a closet?

She closed her eyes and the pounding in her head receded. A minty smell lingered in her nose. Her mouth tasted mint, too. Her ears rang.

Voices reached her through the door. Faint, but getting closer.

“You did what?” Father Ray's voice.

He shouldn't be here, I think
…
why do I think that?

“I dissolved half a pill in two shots of peppermint schnapps.”

Ugh. Sister Fabian.

“You can't mix them with alcohol, you stupid bitch. Did you make her drink it?”

“Of course not.” Sister Fabian's voice imitated a glacier. “My intelligence quotient is quite high enough to know that. I poured it onto a washcloth and used it on her like chloroform.”

“All right, I suppose … How did she react?”

“She stopped fighting within ten seconds, just like that reprehensible website said. Really, Raymond, did you think I wouldn't research the proper way to do this?”

Something scraped against the door and the rectangle widened. White light slapped Giulia's eyes. Father Ray loomed over her and stuffed a thick, woven cord between her teeth. Before her sluggish brain could tell her mouth to cry out or her arms to fight back, he pushed her head down onto her chest and yanked the cord tight around her veil. A moment later he released her and her head bounced back; a knot in the cord shielded it from banging on the back wall.

He dragged her out of the wardrobe, long hanging garments flapping against her face.
They're albs and chasubles. I'm in the vestry. That's right, I was washing my hands.

He sat her down hard in the bentwood chair usually kept next to the sanctuary doorway.

She had to get out of this, but her arms moved like she was swimming through molasses.