Authors: Janice Weber
His face broke into a leer. “Playing hide-and-seek today, Major?”
He obviously wasn’t going to come to her, so Emily took a few steps closer to the landing. “How’s it going?”
“Great. No one’s kicked the bucket here in over a week. And you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Really? You look like hell.”
“A friend of mine just died.”
“Another one? I’m impressed.” He pulled on his cigarette. “So what brings you back to the scene of the crime? Looking for
a letter of recommendation?”
“I was wondering if Leo’s turned up.”
“Nope. I’m running the kitchen. It’s going well. No tantrums, no prima donnas.”
Maybe everyone else had quit. “How’s Ward?”
“Something happened to her about a week ago. She suddenly snapped out of her funk. Quit the booze and started taking showers
again. I figure she must be getting laid.”
“That’s nice.” Enough small talk. “Has anyone named Charles Moody ever worked here?”
Klepp’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Why do you ask?”
Why lie? The truth was ridiculous enough. “He wrote a bizarre fan letter to my sister. Philippa asked me to look into it.
I found out that he used to live where Leo lives now.”
“Must have been some fan letter,” Klepp said. “Hope she doesn’t want to marry him.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s off limits, Major. You remember Brother Augustine, the mushroom man?”
“That’s Charles Moody?”
“Was, was. They change their names when they mend their ways.”
Emily remembered O’Keefe telling her that everyone who worked at Diavolina had spent time either in jail or in criminal court.
“Mend what ways?”
“Can’t help you there, sweetheart. Only Leo knows that. And the mushroom man himself, of course. Why don’t you ask him why
he’s writing fan letters to bimbos instead of illuminating manuscripts like a good boy?”
“My sister’s not a bimbo,” Emily snapped. “Hasn’t Augustine been a priest for a long time?”
“As long as I’ve known him. That would be about fifteen years.”
“Then how do you know his name was Charles Moody?”
“Aha. You do remember our poor dead dishwasher? Every time Augustine walked in here with a basket of mushrooms or fruitcakes
or whatever, Dubrinsky would start mumbling. In Russian, of course. I was the only one who understood what he was saying.
It was mostly gibberish about statues and jail and Leo and some kind of fight. I think that once upon a time our little Augie
beat someone to death.” Klepp tossed away his exhausted cigarette. “Since it was none of my business, and I was really eavesdropping
on the drunk s Russian, I never asked. Leo’s a good man.”
Emily watched Klepp’s cigarette smolder helplessly in the dirt. “The night my sister ate here, Slavomir hit his head.”
“Par for the course, Major. Besides dishes, his favorite thing to crack was his skull.”
“As you were taking him to my office to lie down, he looked into the dining room and shouted something. Do you remember what
that was?”
“Something like ‘She’s here. The devil’s here.’ Dubrinsky thought most women were devils.”
Emily scowled. “Why would he call my sister one?”
“I have no idea, Major. My mind was on other things. You might recall we were flat out thanks to that stupid faggot getting
everyone all steamed up about his special dinner.” Klepp stood up. “I’d better get back to work. Give those morons five minutes
alone and they’ll burn the place down.”
“Thanks, Klepp. Nice to see you again.”
“Yo.” He paused on the landing. “By the way, thanks for the job. I love being chef.” He went inside.
Emily stepped on Klepp’s cigarette, putting it out of its misery. She retreated to Tremont Street and began walking home,
looking constantly over her shoulder for a cab. None, of course; all hacks were down in the financial district. After passing
the little park where Ross learned that Ward had shot Guy Witten, Emily cut over toward Copley Square. It was that peaceful
time
of morning when the commuter rush was over but the stores were not yet open. No one was out but tourists and meter maids.
Emily finally found a cab to Beacon Hill. Five minutes later, she was backing her car onto Joy Street.
Twenty miles west of Boston, the trees were totally bare. Frost had withered the fields. After an hour, Emily got to Hale.
Two foxes darted into the brush as she bumped down the driveway to Augustine’s monastery. It had turned cloudy and quite raw;
as she stepped out of her car, bits of rain fell here and there, as if the heavens were taking careful aim at her and just
missing. In the distance, faintly, she heard barking from the kennels. Emily opened the massive front door of the main building,
rather surprised that it was unlocked, and entered the foyer. It felt even colder in here than outside; the silence was intimidating.
She felt like an intruder.
Emily tiptoed to the side room where Augustine had once served her coffee. Today no one had stoked the fireplaces. “Hello?”
she called at the back door. An old nun answered. “I’m looking for Brother Augustine. He’s not expecting me.” No? Maybe he
was. “I’ll wait out in the grape arbor.”
After a long time, Augustine appeared at the hedge. His robe fluttered at his heels as he walked toward her. “Hello, Emily,”
he said, taking her cold hands, scanning her face. “I’m happy to see you.”
“But not surprised.”
After a moment he said, “No. Come inside. You’re cold.”
This time they went to a tiny side office that, once upon a time, could have been a linen closet. The walls were lined with
books with gold lettering. They sat on a leather sofa that just about obliterated all walking space. Instead of coffee, Augustine
offered her sherry from a decanter on the shelf. “Have you had lunch?”
“This is fine, thank you.” Emily took a long sip, wondering where to begin. Augustine sat on the opposite end of the couch,
waiting. “Charles Moody,” she said finally.
He exhaled slowly, perhaps sighed. “Go on.”
“Box two seventy-four, South Station.” She finished her sherry. “Please tell me what’s going on.”
Augustine got up and refilled both their glasses. His hands were shaking a little. “How much do you know about your mother?”
He could have flung a bucket of ice water in her face with equal effect. “In what way,” Emily whispered.
“Did your uncle ever talk about the circumstances of your birth?”
“He said our mother died shortly after we were born.” She felt her heart thumping slowly, laboriously, pumping slag instead
of blood. “That’s all.”
“You were born in this room,” Augustine said. “I delivered you.”
Emily leaped off the couch. “I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to. It’s not really important in the big picture.”
“How did my mother get here?”
“Leo brought her.”
“Is he my father?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not? Don’t tell me that would violate the sanctity of the confessional.”
“Something like that, yes.”
Emily left the room and walked in large, noisy circles around the foyer. When she returned to the little room, Augustine was
still on his end of the couch. She sat down again. “Just tell me whatever you can. I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ve known Leo since we were five years old,” Augustine began. “We were rough boys growing up in a rough neighborhood, spending
more time at the police station than we did at home. Not surprisingly, we ended up in prison. That’s where we met Slavomir
Dubrinsky.”
“Statutory rape. I know.”
“He was an artist, she was a young model. Her parents didn’t approve and successfully pressed charges.” Augustine lapsed into
a brief silence. “Slavomir had already had quite an eventful life.
He was a fascinating, if somewhat unstable, man. Leo and I became very attached to him. He turned the two of us around. When
we got out of prison, I became a divinity student and Leo started working in a restaurant.”
“What happened to Slavomir?”
“He served another five years. During this time, he learned that his young lady had married someone else. When he came out,
he was a broken man.” Once again, Augustine fell into a melancholy reverie. “I went away to school. Leo stayed in Boston.
He fell in love with your mother.”
“Did you know her?”
“Only from what Leo told me. He kept her all to himself, or tried to. I think every man in town was after her. She was studying
to be an actress, as you know.”
“Only too well.” That’s where Philippa had gotten the idea for her lunatic career.
“After I became a novitiate at this monastery, Leo and I were out of touch for almost two years. One night in the middle of
winter, he turned up with your mother. She was in labor and not doing well at all. Leo was nearly dead himself. I thought
at first that they had been in a car crash.”
“Why didn’t they go to a hospital?”
“They didn’t want the police involved.” Augustine would not tell her more. “The rest you know. Your mother died the next day.
Leo was lucky to escape with the loss of an eye.”
The sherry was finally beginning to anesthetize her. Emily ran a hand along the sturdy brown couch: some delivery table. “Why
didn’t Leo adopt us?”
“A convicted felon? Not possible. Your uncle Jasper came for you and your sister.” Augustine poured himself another dose of
sherry. “Once you two left here, Leo did not pursue you.”
“And you never told him where we were?”
“To what end, Emily? So that he could torment himself? And the two of you? From what I understand, your uncle treated you
both well.”
Jasper had spoiled them rotten. But he had had help from a few thousand girlfriends who had hoped to win the bachelor’s
heart through his adoptive daughters. Philippa could not have had better, or worse, acting teachers. “Well, Leo’s looking
for me now. I presume he knew better than to ask you for directions.”
Going to the bookshelf, the monk pulled an envelope from the missal. “I got this a few weeks ago.”
“‘Charles,’” Emily read, “‘I must find the girls first. Leo.’ What does this mean?”
“I don’t know.” This time the monk was telling the truth. “When I first saw you at Diavolina, I thought that Leo had found
you and explained everything. But that was obviously not the case. You had ended up there totally by chance.”
“What does ‘first’ mean? Is someone else involved in this scavenger hunt?”
Augustine shook his head. “I can’t help you, Emily. It would be pure conjecture and probably mistaken at that. I can only
warn and pray.”
“How about point? Could you manage that?”
He smiled; she had sounded just like her mother. “I’d stay where you are. Leo’s bound to find you fairly soon.”
“What about Philippa? Is he going to find her before this maniac does? Someone’s been trying to kill her, you know.” Emily
briefly told the monk about the problem Philippa had had lately keeping her dinner dates alive. “You have no idea who’s doing
this?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Damn clerics, always outsmarting you with their exactly truthful words with opposite meanings. She shouldn’t be mad at him;
forty years ago poor Augustine had been minding his own business when two, then four, uninvited guests had popped in at the
monastery. Emily got up from her delivery table and put her empty glass on a bookshelf. “Thank you for taking care of my mother.”
“Thank Leo, not me.”
He walked Emily to her car. The rain wasn’t falling any faster, but the drops were bigger. One hit Emily on the cheek as she
said to Augustine, “If I hadn’t come here, would you ever have told me?”
“I try to keep my promises.”
The hell with them, and him. Emily drove back to the main road with one hand on the wheel, one hand on the mobile phone. She
screwed up Philippa’s number three times before finally getting a ring on the other end. The voice on the phone was so deep
and groggy that Emily thought she had misdialed. “Philippa? Is that you?”
“One moment,” said a man.
A lighter, although no less dopey, voice said, “Hello. Em? You’re calling so early.”
“Come on, it’s almost ten o’clock in the morning. You should have put five miles on your treadmill by now. I have some incredible
news.”
“Well, so do I. Franco and I are getting married. Did you hear that? Emily!”
“You just met the man two days ago, Phil. Remember? I introduced you.”
“What do you want, a thank-you note?”
“I wasn’t asking for thanks. I was referring to the brief number of hours you’ve actually known each other.”
“How long do you need? A four-year engagement, like you and Ross? And still look what happened!”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Nothing! Just a little joke! I’m hardly awake!” Philippa’s voice suddenly became fifty shades sweeter. “Darling, could you
squeeze me a little fresh grapefruit juice? Don’t worry, it’s just my sister. Thank you so much. I love you, too.” After a
long moment terminated with gluey smacking noises and a door slam, Philippa said, “So what’s on your mind, Em?”
“I just learned that we were born in a monastery in Hale, Massachusetts.”
This news engendered a long silence. “I thought you were working on death threats, not birth certificates,” Philippa replied
at last.
“Aren’t you excited? Doesn’t this fill in a hole or something?”
“Sure, sure.” According to Philippa’s résumé, she had been born in an exclusive hospital on the East Side of New York, not
in some medieval cloister in the middle of the woods. “I hope our father’s not a priest.”
“I think he’s a chef. His name is Leo.”
“For Christ’s sake, Emily,” Philippa finally exploded. “Keep this to yourself, will you?”
“I don’t believe this! You mean you don’t care who your father is?”
“Jasper’s my father! He was a great father! I don’t give a shit about someone called Leo!”
“Maybe you’d be interested in your mother, then. She and Leo turned up at the monastery in the middle of the night. A priest
delivered you on a couch. She died the next day.” Emily couldn’t go on: end of information. “I’ll know more once I find Leo,”
she faltered.