Lovely, Dark, and Deep (15 page)

I
was home by four o'clock. I quickly cleaned the apartment, trying to stow away objects that I didn't want investigated by three-year-old hands. I had a strange feeling in my stomach, something akin to nervousness, but also to excitement. I didn't know if I was looking forward to watching Veronica, or if I was simply feeling something about the whole Joanna investigation—

“Oh!” I yelled aloud. I'd forgotten to stop at the convent.

I quickly dialed the number, only to get an answering machine with Sister Moira's voice. I left a message, apologizing, saying that if I couldn't stop by tonight, I would do so tomorrow morning. I left my phone numbers, both for the home phone and the new and unused cell phone.

I continued my cleaning, and on a whim I sliced up a roll of frozen cookie dough (Donna Reed meets the new millennium) and put it in the oven. It would smell nice when they arrived, and the little tyke might enjoy a cookie with me.

When Gerhard and Sandra knocked at the door, I was ready. Jack had arrived just before them, but was strumming away in the bedroom. “Jack's practicing,” I told them. I offered to take their coats, but Gerhard said they were in a hurry. Little Veronica peered past them at my place.

“I remember it here,” she said. She was wearing her furry little coat, and clutching a stuffed lion and what appeared to be a kitchen towel.

I decided to emulate my mother. I scooped her up in my arms; her face was very cute at close range. It was soft and lineless, and she had a tiny mole in the center of her throat. “Yes, you visited me and we had spaghetti. And you danced, remember? Today I've made cookies for you. And the man who played the guitar, he's here, too.”

Veronica wasn't sure what she thought, I could tell. “What kind of cookies?” she asked.

“There is only one kind in my world. Chocolate chip.”

“I like that kind,” she said, smiling now.

“What's your lion's name?”

“Sir King.”

“Sir King the lion? How very royal.” I glanced at Gerhard, who was smiling with relief.

“Well, thanks, Madeline. Sandra and I—well, it'll be nice to do this. We're glad you could take her.”

“Well, she's going to be my niece,” I said without thinking. I really did.

Sandra blushed deeply, and Gerhard's Adam's Apple went up and down a couple of times. We all looked at each other, I with guilt and they with surprise, and Veronica said, “What's a neets?”

“You're cute, you know that?” I asked her. “How would you like to dance again? I have an Abba cd that you would just love!”

“I know abcd. It's called the effibet.” Veronica wiggled in my arms, and I put her down. She took off her little coat, flung it toward me, and began to arrange Sir King on his towel on a cushion of my couch.

“Anyway,” I told the two before me. “Have a good time, and have her home by midnight,” I said with mock sternness.

“Okay, Madman,” Gerhard said with an uncertain glance at me. “Thanks again.”

After Sandra gave me some instructions about dinner and playtime and videos and sleep (Veronica wouldn't last until their estimated arrival time, Sandra assured me), they disappeared down the hallway.

I turned back to the room. Veronica had left Sir King to his lion thoughts, and was nowhere to be seen. I found her in the kitchen, sitting at the little table and eating a cookie that she'd found on a plate.

“Would you like a cookie?” she asked. “I made them for you.”

This kid is quick, I thought, as the phone rang.

I picked up, taking the cookie Veronica handed me in queenly generosity, her fingers already smeared with chocolate.

“Hello?” I said. I heard Jack playing "Lyin' Eyes" in the background.

“Madeline?” It was Sister Moira. Her normally serene voice sounded strained.

“Yes. Did you get my message? I had told Sister—”

“Madeline, something terrible has happened. Sister Francis is dead.”

I stared at Veronica as I took in this news. She had jumped down from her chair. She was wearing lavender overalls over a pink turtleneck, and gym shoes with light-up dragonflies; the lights appeared every time her feet hit the ground. She left the room, flickering.

“I don't understand,” I said.

“She became ill at the high school. They called an ambulance. By the time they notified me to come to the hospital, she was gone.” Sister Moira started to cry.

A strange feeling crept into my stomach and started moving up my esophagus. It felt like those flickering dragonflies from Veronica's shoes had flown right inside me. “She was fine when I left there. She was
fine
,” I said, feeling near tears myself.

Moira controlled her weeping. “It was her nut allergy, Madeline. Apparently she ate some food with nuts in it, and she became severely ill almost immediately.”

Now my stomach had started to hurt. “She wouldn't have eaten anything with nuts in it,” I said. “I simply don't believe that she would. She told me how careful she was. She also told me that she had remembered some things, that she wanted to talk to me—damn!” I yelled, then looked guiltily behind me to see Veronica feeding a relocated Sir Lion and watching me with wide eyes. “Sister Moira. Are the police looking into this?”

“The police? Not that I—you don't think this was intentional?”

“Don't you?” I asked her.

The line was quiet.

“I've been asking questions about Sister Joanna,” I persisted. “Sister Francis mentioned this to several people at the high school today. Mr. Taglieri said she shared it with the whole lunch table. I think we need to know what else she shared with them. She'd already eaten lunch, Sister, so there was no reason she would have eaten again before she left unless someone offered her food, don't you think? Who knew about her nut allergy?”

“It's true she was very careful. If someone offered her food, she would have asked what was in it.”

I thought about this. What an easy way to kill someone.
Does this contain nuts? Oh no, not at all, Sister, you enjoy it
. Make sure no one sees the exchange—how hard can that be? Go into her classroom after the students are gone. Blend into the hallway crowd; you were never there. She won't live long enough to name names.

“Do you want me to come there?” I asked her.

Sister Moira seemed distracted. “No, uh—I'm on my way back to the hospital. They needed some information, to contact her family. I'll ask, Madeline. I'll ask about the death report. The police must have at least asked some questions.”

“Thank you, Sister. I'm sorry about this. I'll get in touch with you later.”

I hung up the phone. I hadn't noticed that Jack had stopped playing; now he stood behind Veronica, and they both observed me closely. “You look sad,” Veronica said.

“What's going on?” asked Jack.

“We'll talk later,” I told him, motioning to the wee one. “It's about Sister Francis.”

Jack nodded. He had already guessed the truth, and now he just needed details. He asked Veronica if she would like to dance again, and he retrieved his guitar so that he could play. Veronica, chocolate smeared and smiling, capered around the kitchen for her audience of three. (Sir King, of course.)

I clapped along absently, a smile pasted on my face. Sister Francis had been alive three hours ago. Sister Francis was now dead. Sister Francis never made it out of the high school. This last idea had me leaping out of my seat. “I need to make a quick call,” I said.

In the bedroom I picked up my cell phone and got John Taglieri's name from information. A woman picked up on the third ring, and I asked for John. It took a minute, but his voice finally said hello. “Mr. Taglieri, this is Madeline Mann. Have you heard about Sister Francis?”

“God, yes, I was there when they wheeled her down the hall,” he said. He sounded upset.

“Listen, I need to ask you something. You said she was talking to everyone at your lunch table. Can you please tell me who was present?”

“Why?” he asked. He sounded surprised more than anything.

“It's a long story. If you could remember—?”

“Well, it was me, and an old friend of mine, Tommy Watson, who was subbing also, and Jenny Chambers from the English Department, and Father Tom. God, who else was there? Sherry, from the mail room, and another office girl—I think her name is Melea. And old Gunderson, the science teacher. You probably had him, he's been here since time began. He left early.”

I wrote it all down.

He seemed to feel defensive. “Listen, nothing weird was going on, I assure you. We're all friends with Francis, and it was quite a festive occasion. My wife had stopped by to bring treats for Jenny, it was her birthday, and we were all in a fine fettle. No tension in the air, no mysterious glances.” His tone suggested that I was hunting for a mystery, like Nancy Drew.

“But she told you all, right? She told you all that she was remembering things from the past. Did she eat the food all of you were eating?”

“Yes, yes. She was fine. They told us whatever she ate killed her almost instantly, which means it wasn't something she ate at the lunch table. This was much later in the afternoon that she—died.”

“But she was telling people that she knew things?”

He cleared his throat. “She was making some comments like that, yes, but it was loud and noisy. Probably most of the table didn't pay her any attention.”

“She had a deep voice. It would carry,” I said. I felt the prick of a teardrop. My tears always come at odd times.

“It's a terrible thing, it really is. We're all shook up about it. I doubt there was anything you could have done, Madeline. It was just an accident, like Rachel's death.”

Rachel again, I thought, as I hung up the phone. Rachel Yardley, and now Francis McMann. A silent convent, and sisters who took secrets to their graves.

Chapter Nine

Little Veronica finally
did fall asleep, but not before she threw me a tea party with my mother's handed-down Dresden cups; I trembled every time she lifted hers, but of course I never considered saying no. I gave her the toys from the rummage sale—a Barbie and a Country Camper, and we played with them for a bit. Then we played a spirited game of “Hide Sir King,” which involved a laughing Veronica tearing apart my home looking for the stuffed lion, who was, at intervals, in the hamper, below the sink, and in Jack's old guitar case. We had pizza for dinner. Jack had slipped out to practice with Juan, so after I grew exhausted with the solo babysitting I plugged in a video. I picked one I liked (Sandra had packed enough for a full weekend's viewing), and we both sat and ate more cookies while we watched Toy Story II.

When Jesse the Cowgirl reminisced about her lost child, Veronica yawned and leaned against me. “Dis is sad,” she said. “Dis is sad cause nobody wanted dat cowboy girl.” Her normally resonant voice was drifting into whispers; after a moment of silence I looked down to see that she was asleep, and creating a sweaty head mark on my arm. I slipped forward and let her tumble sideways. I flipped off the bright light and observed her little face, which looked much younger in sleep. Now that she was not giving me orders, she looked heartbreakingly small and vulnerable. I reached out tentatively and brushed her dark hair from her face. It felt nice to touch her, to feel her silky hair and baby skin. For a fierce moment I wanted her to be mine.

“I hope you will be my niece,” I whispered. I got a blanket from my room and placed it over her, then made a line of pillows on the floor in case she rolled off the couch. Finally, with a warm rag on her soft cheek, I erased the telltale chocolate marks that revealed my indulgent tendencies. I wouldn't want them to say I couldn't babysit again.

After Gerhard and Sandra picked her up, whispering their thanks, I felt restless, depressed. Little baby faces can keep away the demons, but Veronica was gone now, and I was left alone to contemplate the death of Sister Francis. It didn't make sense. I intended to chat with the Webley police the next day, something I was sure neither they nor I would enjoy. Especially not if I got to talk to my favorite friend on homicide, Kubik the surly.

In the meantime, I felt there was something I should do. I was almost crazy with the feeling, pacing around my house.

I finally checked on Jack, who had dozed off over a book in bed, then looked up Taglieri's address, grabbed my coat, and left the apartment. Needless to say, I wouldn't be mentioning this trip to any of my family members, who probably had my commitment papers ready to sign if I pulled another crazy stunt. Still, what was the harm in driving past someone's house? If it meant I could sleep better that night.

The Taglieris lived near St. Roselle on Willow Drive. He was probably able to walk to work. They lived in a cute little brick affair with a lighted Christmas wreath still on the door. I parked my car on the dark snowy street, a few houses away. I got out, leaned on my car, and stood there. What did you expect, Madeline? I thought, feeling foolish. That he would come running out with a sign that said “Drugs for Sale" and pound it into the frozen earth? Or perhaps you'd find him weeping with remorse in his front yard, beating his breast and crying, “I killed them, I killed them, I killed the two nuns!”

I really didn't know what I thought. I was merely following vibes. I started walking. I walked as far as the front of his house; then I ducked down the little sidewalk beside it, jogging quietly down the dark lane between two domiciles until I reached the snowy back yards, which were not separated by fences, nor did any fierce Dobermans come leaping out at me. It was a quiet, snowy night. I thought of the Frost poem, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” “My little horse must think it queer to stop without a farmhouse near; Between the woods and frozen lake, the coldest evening of the year.”

Well, I thought, the "coldest evening" thing felt about right. Luckily I had no horse to roll his eyes at me. There was light coming from the back of the Taglieri's house—light, I realized as I crept closer, that came from their kitchen. I saw quite well through a small window in their back door, which was covered by mini blinds that were currently open. Tag stood staring at something. I inched toward the porch. Not a dead body or a murder weapon, but a television. He was watching football replays on a little tv in his kitchen. He glanced briefly to his left as a person entered the room, his wife, obviously, since she gave him a hug and I saw her red hair against his chest. He put his arms around her, but continued to watch tv over her head.
Jerk
, I thought, and edged just close enough to set off a motion detector light on their back porch. The sudden brightness had the effect of a laser beam.