House Infernal by Edward Lee (16 page)

"Happens all the time," she echoed.

"I don't know what you're all riled up about," he
added. "You're a Christian."

Venetia gaped. "What's that got to do with it?"

"Lottie Jessel and Sister Patricia Stevenson are in God's
house now-of that you can rest assured."

Was he trying to make a joke of it? Venetia just shook
her head.

"I'm starving," the priest said when he finished the
next window. "Let's go eat."

Venetia smelled something familiar when they entered
the big, sterile kitchen where Mrs. Newlwyn and Betta
were busy. Suddenly she was hungry, even after all the
nonappetizing information. Father Driscoll's probably right.
I am overreacting. "Is there anything I can do to help, Mrs.
Newlwyn?"

The tall woman turned with a distinct frown. "Thank
you, but no, Venetia."

Was she mad?

Betta smiled, pouring milk into glasses set on the long
table.

Father Driscoll rubbed his hands together. "I'll bet you
didn't know that Mrs. Newlwyn is quite a cook. She's
won blue ribbons at the county fair and a lot of church
benefits."

In fact, the tall woman looked like a proverbial New
England housewife, the type to pride herself in her homecooking talents.

But why is she frowning? Venetia wondered.

"Father Driscoll has quite an amusing sense of humor,"
Mrs. Newlwyn said.

Venetia sat down next to the priest. "Sorry, but am I
missing something here?"

"Cooking is my pride and joy," the woman said, "and,
yes, I've won many awards for my recipes. My New
Hampshire Calm Casserole dish was even featured in
Gourmet magazine several years ago."

"'T'hat impressive, " Venetia said.

"But my skills in the kitchen will go unused as long as
Father Driscoll is responsible for filling the pantry."

From the oven, Mrs. Newlwyn and Betta withdrew TV
dinners and set them on the table.

TV dinners? Venetia was surprised.

"I'm always the bad guy," Driscoll said. "Sorry about
the boring food, folks, but the diocesan coffers are quite
tight. Every week I go to the grocery store in Wammsport
and buy whatever's on sale: TV dinners, pork and beans,
store brand soup, canned spaghetti."

Venetia chuckled. "Now I get it. And besides, anything
we eat is a gift from God. Even TV dinners."

"A true Christian attitude if I've ever heard one,"
"
Driscoll said. "So let's dig in."

Mrs. Newlwyn and her daughter took their seats at the
table. Venetia noticed six places set. "Isn't Dan joining us
for dinner?"

"Who knows?" Driscoll said. "He's probably out hunting more gossip to poison your mind with."

Venetia smirked. "And who's the sixth place set for?"

"John Dyall," the priest said. "Right out there." He
pointed out the window.

Venetia squinted to see a thin, dark-haired teenager
standing on a ladder pruning some trees.

"Another helper?"

"John's an orphan," Mrs. Newlwyn said. "A church
family took him in, and since he has such a green thumb
he asked to help out with the gardening and such."

"Should I call him in?" Venetia asked- Now she saw the
boy climb down and move the ladder. He appeared meek,
withdrawn, about eighteen, she guessed.

Driscoll answered, "We won't see much of John. He's
not really a people person."

"He has an anxiety disorder," Mrs. Newlwyn added.
"He's nervous around others. But he's a fine churchgoing
young man. Most nights he takes his meals alone."

"Oh." Venetia continued to squinted as the boy climbed
up the other side of the tree with his pruners. She also noticed Betta looking raptly out the window.

"I'll leave their dinners in the oven on warm. Even if
they dry out they won't be much less edible than they already are." Mrs. Newlwyn offered Driscoll another
scowl.

The priest smiled. "You're a real knee-slapper, Mrs.
Newlwyn. Now, who wants to say grace?"

Venetia elected to, reciting the dinner prayer she chose
most at the university. Her TV dinner of starchy fried
chicken and mashed potatoes was fine with her.

Mrs. Newlwyn eyed Venetia. "I'm curious about the father's remark regarding gossip, Venetia."

Venetia stalled with the pepper shaker. "It's not the best
topic for dinner conversation."

"This miserly gruel can hardly be called dinner, my
dear. And I suppose you must mean the murders that occurred here last spring."

"Yes, ma'am. It was something that Father Driscoll ...
didn't feel pertinent enough to tell me in advance. But
since I'm so young and inexperienced in the real world, I
guess I overreacted a little."

The tall woman nodded sternly, inspecting her food
with a wince. "Get used to it. The good father has a knack
for details left unsaid."

"I guess it's Gang Up On Father Driscoll Day," the
priest said, and sloppily devoured half a drumstick.

"But you did say that only half of the house staff was
murdered," Venetia said. "The other half ... left?"

"They fled, my dear," said Mrs. Newlwyn, "for their
lives. But we can hardly blame them. Two more fine
nuns-Sister Ann McGowen and Sister Diane Elsbeth."

"They did their part here for a long time," the priest said. It was dear he wanted to change the subject. "Now
it's our turn. So forget about them."

Venetia tried to read his face more deeply. "You're not
saying they quit the sisterhood?"

"I'm afraid they did," Mrs. Newlwyn verified. "The incident shook their faith to its roots."

"That's a bit melodramatic," Driscoll insisted.

His favorite word, Venetia thought. "What a shame ..

"They're just taking a break." The priest seemed frustrated now. "'They're doing volunteer work just like they
always have. Neither of them lost faith."

Betta looked at her mother, then dragged her glance
back to her food.

Betta obviously doesn't agree, Venetia thought. What is
with Driscoll anyway?

Mrs. Newlwyn pushed her half-eaten dinner away.
"But it wasn't just the murders that urged them to leave,
my dear."

"What else?"

Driscoll rolled his eyes. "Oh, please, Mrs. Newlwyn.
Give me a break."

The tall woman's lips formed the most fragile grin.
"Sisters Ann and Diane were absolutely convinced that
the prior house is haunted."

Driscoll threw his hands up. "When it rains, it pours.
On me."

Mrs. Newlwyn lowered her voice. "They both swore
that they saw the ghost a number of times, walking the
stair-hall and the atrium, and prowling the grounds at
night."

"Prowling," the priest mocked. "You sure it wasn't the
meter man, Mrs. Newlwyn? By the way, what happened
to those bottles of wine that used to be in the cupboard?"

Mrs. Newlwyn's grin widened, showing teeth. "The
good father is always quick to jest. But he's only been here
a few weeks. Diane and Ann worked at the prior house
for years."

Venetia had to ask. "You said the ghost, not a ghost.
Who's the ghost supposed to be?"

The tall woman's eyes slowly scanned the table. "No
one knows."

Venetia actually let herself entertain the notion. Armano
Tessorio, the defrocked Vatican architect? Didn't Father
Driscoll say he died of syphilis? But she knew it was all just a
fanciful story. It's starting to sound like Mrs. Newlwyn is the
one given to tall tales. "That's interesting, Mrs. Newlwyn,
but tell me-have you ever seen this ghost?"

The woman's face hardened. "Finish your miserly dinner, dear. Before it gets cold."

"That's right, Mom," she said into her cell phone. "Two
murders. Last spring."

"Good Heaven's, you're not serious."

"'Fraid so."

"Oh, honey, I don't know what to say!" Maxine Barlow
exclaimed. "Let me go tell your father, then we'll drive
down there and pick you up."

Venetia laughed. She's overreacting more than me....
"Mom, really, it's okay. It happened months ago. It was just
a random crime-it could happen anywhere. I'm going to
stay up here all summer, do my job, and get my extra credits. The whole business was just kind of a shock at first. I
was really mad at Father Driscoll for not telling me."

"And he should've told us, too," came her mother's
stem reply. "I really wish you'd come back home."

"I'm fine, Mom."

"So they caught the murderer?"

Venetia paused. "Come to think of it, I don't know. I
didn't ask."

"For goodness sake."

"But everything's fine, really. It's a big job, but the place
is kind of interesting. The prior house is loaded with
thousands of old books and a bunch of neat statues."

"How many other students are helping out?"

"Students? Just me."

"You're kidding! Does Father Driscoll want to work
you to death? That place is huge!"

"But there are some other people here, a seminarian, a groundskeeper, and this woman named Mrs. Newlwyn
and her daughter. Mom, this lady is old school New England. At the dinner table she was implying that the prior
house is haunted."

"Oh, for goodness' sake!"

"It was really funny."

"Well, at least I hope they're feeding you well down
there. What did you have for dinner, honey?"

'"I'V dinners."

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" her mother exclaimed again.

"And there's no air-conditioning and no fans-"

"Venetia! You can't spend the entire summer baking in
that stuffy old place!"

"It'll be fun, Mom. Don't worry."

"Did they give you your own bathroom?"

Another pause. "Well ..

"That's deplorable! You mean you have to share?"

"Mom, relax. No one ever said this place was a palace."

"Father Driscoll should have told us-"

"But it is God's work." Venetia tried to stem further objections. "I know that for all intents I'm a spoiled little rich
girl, what with Dad's money and all. But I'm perfectly
happy roughing it."

"Roughing it, indeed. I hope those other people with
you are clean."

Venetia shook her head and laughed.

"And what about your spell yesterday?" her norther
rushed on. "Are you feeling better now? Because if you
aren't, we're driving down there right now."

My spell. She'd actually forgotten about it. "That's all
passed, and I feel great now, Mom. I'm actually kind of
excited to be here. It's a good break from the classroom."

"Well ... you call me every night just the same."

"Mom, come on. I'm not a little kid."

"Well then every other night. But you call. Promise me."

"I promise," Venetia droned.

"I don't like this murder business and TV dinners-"

"Love you, Mom. Good night."

"Don't forget to call-"

"Tell Dad I said hi." Then she finally hung up. Probably
shouldn't have mentioned any of it, she thought.

A meager breeze gusted in through Venetia's window;
the smidgen of relief reminded her how hot it was inside
the prior house. I'll have to get into town to pick up a fan.
Along with the heat, she also felt exhausted, but in a gratifying way. It's been a long day and I got a lot of work
done.... And after sleeping so poorly last night, her fatigue ensured a good night's sleep.

She'd stripped down to her bra and panties before she
realized how bright the bedroom lights were. Close the
drapes, you numskull! When she did so she peeked out her
window at the vast property behind the building and noticed how much bigger it looked now that nighttime had
arrived. The sound of crickets outside seemed as steady as
electronic music. For a moment she thought she saw
someone at the forest's fringe but noticed after another
few seconds that it was just a pine tree branch bowing in
another gust of breeze.

Or at least she thought so.

Am I paranoid?

She knew she wasn't. How could anyone be outside at
this hour to peep up into her window?

When she was naked she caught her own eyes appraising her body in the mirror. I guess I'm not bad looking, she
complimented herself. Humidity and sweat from working earlier made her belly and high bosom seemed dusted
with a faint glitter.

But an unease began to itch at her right off. When part
of her mind began to contemplate the grim fact that a nun
had been murdered in this same room, she pulled on a
white terry robe and hurried out.

The second-story stair-hall, which circumscribed the
entire atrium below, was dimly lit now. Tulip-shaped
lamps were mounted next to every door but less than half
were actually lit. Bad bulbs or Father Driscoll's trying to
skimp on the power bill. What amused Venetia more than
Mrs. Newlwyn's ghostly implications were her more di rect implications that Father Driscoll was a cheapskate. I
think maybe tomorrow night we'll skip the budget-brand TV
dinners and I'll treat everyone to pizza, she thought.

In the dark hall the oil painting of Prior Whitewood
seemed to grimace at her. He didn't retire, she reflect. He
had a nervous breakdoum and abandoned his own priory after
the murders.

Venetia wondered where the elderly man was now.

Should've known, she thought when she padded into the
communal shower area. When she flicked on the overheads, only half of them came on. It left the long, tilewalled space diced by wedges of darkness.

Four showerheads branched out from the walls, like in
a school gym. There were even lockers. Everything
shined. Looks like Mrs. Newlwyn and Betta have already taken
care of the place. The tile floor was warm beneath her bare
feet when she entered. She arranged her soap and shampoo, then heard a muffled hiss. Someone's taking a shower
on the other side of this wall, she deduced. Must be the men's
side. Dan or Father Driscoll, or-

What's the young guy's name? John, she remembered, the
orphan. Not a people-person. Nervous around others. Did they
also mention an anxiety disorder? 1 doubt that he'll be anxious
around me.