Lovely, Dark, and Deep (19 page)

They had investigated all treats that had been brought in, such as the treats for Judy's birthday, the ones served at the lunch table. Those cupcakes and brownies, however, had been nutless, and Francis had sampled some at the time and not become ill. They were in the process of working with the school cafeteria in trying to determine who had purchased nut brownies at lunch that fateful day, but it was taking a long time, because instead of “brownie" on the school's register tape, it was simply rung as “bakery.” This could have included any number of items, and almost every student and faculty member who went through the line bought some kind of dessert. It's the American way.

Detectives were interviewing students who were with Francis in her classes that day, as well as teachers who had interacted with her; office staff had not seen who left the brownie.

I was ready to shut the folder when I saw my name: Madeline Mann. It was underlined in red, obviously by Kubik, who had that weird hatred of me. The note said, “Sister Francis was visited in her class by a woman the office identified as Madeline Mann, a local reporter for the Webley
Wire
. Mann has received some celebrity of late with her work in exposing corruption in the mayor's office, and in tracking down the killer of Webley resident Logan Lanford. Mann was shot in the process of trying to apprehend Pamela Fey, Lanford's murderer. Her stories about the subject filled the Webley
Wire
for more than a week, and were picked up by several news organizations. Her employer, Bill Thorpe, claims that readership of the
Wire
is up dramatically since Mann's story broke. Mann's reason for visiting Francis McMann was not clear; an office worker reported that Mann had been rather vague, and had mentioned being an alumna of the school.”

I heard footsteps and slapped the folder shut, diving into a chair on one side of the table. I was opening my notebook with what I hoped was a serene expression when Kubik marched in. He looked at the file, then at me, and glared. “You didn't look at that file, did you?”

I widened my eyes. “Does that have something to do with our meeting? Oh, gosh, I wish I had. But you'll tell me what's in it, won't you?”

“I'll tell you whatever it's appropriate to tell you. This is a death investigation, Miss Monn (I had once insisted that Kubik use the German pronunciation of my name, mainly for yuks) and it is still in process, and we are not yet ready to report any findings to journalists.”

“But I'm not really here as a journalist. I'm here as an investigator. I was hired by a certain party to look into the death of Sister Joanna Yardley, and since that investigation has begun, Sister Francis has died mysteriously and someone tried to run me down. Don't you think that's rather important?” I asked.

Kubik did me the service of looking surprised before glaring at me again. Really, this guy was just a softy at heart. “Did you report the incident? The—what—car that tried to run you down?”

“Yes, it was a car. I'm afraid I was too shocked to get the number, make or model. It just seemed rather a coincidental thing, to be almost hit by a speeding car on a quiet residential street—right outside my own home, in fact. And yes, I'm reporting it to you.”

“You'll have to file a report through the proper channels,” he said stubbornly. “After that, we can factor it into the overall investigation.”

“Won't that take longer? I mean, if someone is out there killing people, and trying to kill other people, wouldn't it be faster if I just told you, so that you could put it all in that file there? Maybe it would help you catch the perp,” I offered.

“You have told me. What else do you need to know?” asked Kubik.

Since I already knew of his vast charms, I didn't feel insulted by his lack of loving care upon hearing of my near death experience. Kubik was not warm and fuzzy. “Are the police considering turning this death investigation into a homicide investigation?” I asked.

Kubik shrugged. “If we alter the nature of the investigation, we'll make a statement to that effect. What else?”

Much of what I'd wanted to know had been in the file, but I didn't want Kubik to be suspicious. One thing had been bothering me. “Did Sister Francis suffer much? Before she died?”

Kubik flipped open the file, his face wooden. He skimmed for a while, rather slowly, I thought. I wondered if he needed bifocals. He seemed to be getting into that age bracket. “Death was almost instantaneous, report says. She was DOA at the hospital. Her extreme age worked against her, doctors suppose.”

“I see. Thank you. Did she say anything? Before losing consciousness?”

“That is not something that can be revealed to—” Kubik bit off the end. I assumed he wanted to say, 'the likes of you' or something of that ilk. “—to anyone other than the police at this time. This is not an open investigation.”

Kubik closed the file and sat back in his seat, stretching and giving me a nice glimpse of his substantial gut. “Now I have a question for you. What were you doing at the high school that day? You spoke with Sister Francis specifically.” His tone suggested great suspicion, and I wanted to say, 'Oh, nothing—just dropped off a few nut brownies and a bag of cashews.' However, I felt I'd grown since my last run-in with Kubik.

“I wanted to ask her some questions about Sister Joanna. We weren't able to talk much, since she was in class. We made an appointment to meet later. Unfortunately, that didn't happen.”

“No.” Again, the tone implied that it hadn't happened because I had viciously murdered Sister Francis. Or was it just me? The guy seemed like a very bad cop. I wondered, as I had once before, if he just suspected everyone who walked past, in hopes that one of his suspicions would turn out to have validity.

“Well,” I said breezily, looking at my watch. “Is there anything you can tell me, Detective Kubik, about the death of Sister Francis?”

He shrugged. “Nut allergy. Possibly an accident, possibly not. You probably know just as much as I do at this point,” he said.

Thanks to the handy file, I thought to myself. “Well, thank you for your time.” I stood up.

Kubik scowled at me in what, for him, was probably a fond goodbye. “We'll be in touch, Miss Monn.” He flipped open the file and began to read it with great ostentation. The message: I've already forgotten you.

At
six thirty I was dressed and ready; my coat lay waiting on the couch, and in its pockets were my camera and my notebook. The former was for Jack, the latter for the unexpected. I was looking once more at a letter Joanna had written to her mother two weeks before her death. It was the only one that had seemed strange to me, so I'd put it aside. It read,

Dear Mom,

Thank you so much for the cookies you made for my class. They wolfed them down in no time, but then of course they sang poorly, with all those crumbs in their throats. They love your thoughtful little gifts, though, and they look forward to them. So sweet of you, Mom.

I've been sort of blue this week, not really sure why. I've been a little disillusioned, something to do with school, but I've been dreaming again. You know the kind. They're sad, always sad, and they stay with me during the day. Or perhaps it's the music we've been singing. It's some rather mournful stuff that we've been practicing this week. But beautiful. Sometimes I think the sad music is the most beautiful of all, don't you?

Now listen to me and my depressing tone! As if our Lord wanted us to use the gift of life for moping!

You have a wonderful week, Mom, and I'll see you this weekend.

Love and Kisses,

Rachel

There was nothing specific about the letter that bothered me, other than the proximity of its creation to the time of her death, and the generally negative tone. Did Joanna already suspect the drug dealer at this point? Was that the disillusioning “something at school?” And what about those dreams? She seemed to suggest that her mother knew about them.

I consulted my watch. It wouldn't take long to get to the concert. I ran to my notebook, flipped to the phone number section, and dialed the Yardleys.

Rebecca answered. “Hello, Mrs. Yardley, it's Madeline. I have a quick question for you.”

“Of course, dear.”

“I was reading a letter Rachel wrote to you, two weeks before she died. She says that she feels sad, disillusioned, and she's been dreaming again. She says you know what she means by that.”

Rebecca gave a thoughtful sigh. “Oh, well, I did and I didn't. Rachel's dreams were often spiritual. She generally took great comfort from her dreams, as though they gave her wisdom. But sometimes, she said, they just reminded her of the inevitability of pain and suffering.”

“So—you're saying that her dreams were—”

“Well, I'm not entirely sure, dear. They were hard for her to explain to me, but they were very important to her, you see.”

“Why?”

“Well, I suppose because she felt they were from God.”

“So her dreams—they were real visions?”

“I don't know, dear. Her father and I encouraged her to keep a dream journal, and she said she did. But we never found it with her things.”

"And you received all of her things? None of them would be left at the convent, or . . . somewhere?"

“I believe so, hon. Some kind women, colleagues from school, or maybe ladies from the Women's Guild, I can't remember—came to help Francis sort through it, there wasn't much. I told them that they could give some of it to Goodwill, but I specified the things that I wanted. I don't suppose I mentioned a journal, because I wasn't thinking about it. I assumed they'd give me everything personal like that. We weren't ready, at the time, to go and look at her room. We never had to, as it happened.”

“I see.” But I didn't. And I wanted that dream journal, or something, that I could hold in my hand and look at, some evidence—"Ah!” I said.

“Yes, dear?” Rebecca said curiously.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I spilled something,” I lied. “Thank you so much for the information. I'll have the envelope back to you soon. Have a good evening.”

“You too, dear.” We hung up, and I ran to my bookshelf, scouring the titles.

“Come on, come on,” I said, fingering the paperbacks. “Why didn't I ever alphabetize you?”

I found it on the bottom shelf.
The Great Gatsby
. I ran to my coat, put the paperback in with my notebook, and left for the concert, and the longest evening of my life.

Chapter Thirteen

The Sneaky Moon
parking lot was almost full; I crunched into a spot that others had avoided because it wasn't fully plowed. I ran toward the entrance, getting snow into my high heels. I'd dressed up for the occasion, for Jack. I wanted him to be proud of me and to see that I was proud.

Inside it was cozy and warm. Little Italian lights dangled from the rafters and climbed trellised walls. Everything was made of cedarwood: the booths, the bars, the floors and stairways, and it gave the place a fragrant and refreshing aura. Right now the restaurant was packed with people, and Juan and Jack were warming up. The strumming sent a jolt of nervousness into my stomach, and I immediately sought my family. I saw my mother waving from an elevated booth near the stage; I made a beeline for it.

There was an open dance area in front of the stage, and many young people already sat there. A line of girls with long legs and impossibly high breasts walked giggling out of the bathroom and deposited themselves in the front row of the groundlings. Among them was Adelaide, and I wondered if all of these girls had crushes on Juan. Then I heard someone call, “Go, Mr. Shea!” and I realized that Juan wasn't the only sex symbol on the stage.

Slightly miffed, I joined my mother, father, Fritz, Gerhard, Sandra and Veronica. The booths were large and long, and we all fit together. I took off my coat, tucking it behind me. My mother took one look at my low-cut black sweater and said, “Madeline! Everyone can see your breasts.”

I grinned at her. “Not my breasts, Mom, just a hint of them.” I took her hand in mine and said, “I love you, Mom. And I love you, Dad.” My parents exchanged a glance that was half confusion, half gratitude; I turned to my brothers and told them I loved them, too. Only Gerhard actually said it back to me. Sandra smiled approvingly; Veronica was busy mutilating some saltines that she'd pulled out of the bread basket. The table in front of her was littered with crumbs.

“Are you excited about tonight, honey?” asked my father.

I looked at him with searching eyes. He looked handsome and healthy. His gray hair was combed back from his forehead. There was no sign of a receding hairline, which my brothers were always happy to note (though I'd told them I thought baldness came from the mother's side, and Shoe had been bald as a billiard ball). His face was pleasing and kind, and he wore, for him, a rather sporty ensemble of a polo shirt with a sweater vest and a pair of jeans.

“Yeah, I'm excited. Are you?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, your mother and I have been looking forward to this.” He put his arm around my mother and they kissed each other. My parents were rarely demonstrative but always affectionate. I felt a twinge of something like happiness, watching them. I got out my camera and took their picture, then one of Veronica, who mugged for the camera, and a couple of shots of Jack and Juan warming up.

I had been keeping an eye on the door, hoping to see Sally and Tommy. When I finally spotted Sally, I was surprised to see not only the man I assumed was Tommy Watson, but Tag Taglieri and a woman who was probably his wife. So, they had double dated, I thought grimly as I handed my Nikon to Fritz, excused myself and headed toward Sally.

I spared a glance at Jack, but for the moment he only had eyes for his instrument. Occasionally he would say something unintelligible to Juan, and then they would go back to their tuning, their ears to their guitars as though they were waiting for the strings to speak.