The Christmas Night Murder (10 page)

It was a terrible morning. I kept the villa nuns in the Mother House so they would not have to see the body and the investigation around it. Father Kramer, who was certain the murder had not taken place in the chapel, thereby desecrating it, insisted that the police allow the community to attend mass there. To avoid seeing either the body or the tape marking the crime scene, we entered the chapel through a rear door.

I have never seen a group so torn apart, so filled with misery, as those nuns that Sunday morning. This was not a natural death, which would be equally mourned but could be accepted; it was an unnatural, unholy act committed against a holy community, upon a woman who had been kind and decent and given her life to the church.

There was also fear. St. Stephen's stood high on a hill on a large campus, separate from the surrounding towns and villages. We had always walked in peace there, believing we were safe. Although we locked building doors at night, we did not fear. Now we would. Now we had joined the other world that knew intruders as part of life.

Father Kramer did a masterful job that morning, speaking to both the grief and the fears. I watched the faces and could see the attentiveness. The nuns were listening, reaching out for comfort and reassurance.

Breakfast was a somber and tearful affair. The police waited until it was over to question the residents of the villa and anyone else who might know anything. Eventually, it was my turn. I sat with a detective in a corner of the community room minutes after I had had a chance to wash and change my clothes.

“I'm Detective Lake,” the policeman said, introducing
himself. He was a veteran officer with graying hair, a tall, heavily built man with huge hands that delivered a firm handshake. “I understand you were one of the last people to talk to Sister Mary Teresa last night.”

“I went over to the villa after I ate. I'm sorry I can't remember the time, but I was late for dinner and I ate alone. I washed my dishes and walked over there.”

“What did you talk to her about?”

“The Julia Farragut suicide.”

He made a face that indicated I was way off base. “That happened a long time ago in another town. What would she know about it?”

“She was friends with Julia, kind of a mentor. Julia confided in her. Sister Mary Teresa and Sister Clair Angela, who has passed on, were the only two nuns from St. Stephen's to attend Julia's funeral.”

“May I ask what your interest is at this point in Julia Farragut's suicide?”

“I think there's a connection between the Farraguts and the disappearance of Father Hudson McCormick.”

He made the face again. “It's likely that a common criminal killed Sister Mary Teresa last night.”

“It's possible.”

“But you don't think so.”

“No.”

“Did she say anything to connect the two events?”

“She didn't say much. I asked her if she knew that Julia had a brother and she said she didn't know. I mentioned the name Foster and she became agitated. She looked at her watch and said she had to go. That was about it. It wasn't a very long conversation.”

“Where did she go?”

“Out of the community room.”

“Out of the building?”

“Not that I saw.”

“But you think she went to meet someone?”

“I think it's possible.”

“Do you have any idea who this person would be that she might have met?”

“Frankly, no.”

“Was Sister Mary Teresa the kind of person who might just have taken a walk at night?”

“Yes, she was,” I admitted. “Earlier in the day we talked in the Mother House and she wouldn't let me walk her back to the villa. She said her mind failed her sometimes, but her legs never did.” I smiled, remembering the moment. “I had seen her in the chapel just before that. She'd gone there to pray for Father McCormick.”

“So last night she might have gone back to the chapel to pray for him again.”

“Yes, she might. And I should tell you, Detective Lake, when a nun can't sleep, and it happens, she's likely to go to the chapel at any time of the night.”

He handed me his card. Detective Barry Lake. “If you think of anything, I'd appreciate a call. The McCormick case isn't ours, you know. The car was found in Riverview. But we're in touch with their police department, and if he turns up, we'll know it. I think you ought to let us all do our jobs.”

“I never interfere with the police, Detective Lake.”

“Thank you for your time.”

I found a telephone and called Jack. When we got past the news, he said, “OK, I'll meet you at Walter Farragut's house. How's two this afternoon?”

“Fine.”

“And Chris, what the detective said to you, that it could be a common criminal who hit on a nun going to chapel, is a strong possibility. I think you ought to watch your rear and stay inside after dark. That goes for everyone.”

“I heard they're leaving a couple of cops on the grounds tonight. They're borrowing them from the state police because the village force is so small. We'll be safe.”

“I've heard that before. See you at two. I miss you.”

“Me, too.”

By the time I got to the chapel, the crime-scene people were finishing up. From the look of the area, the crime scene almost didn't exist anymore. The snow all around the chapel had been trampled, although I assumed it had been photographed from all angles before the trampling began. Whatever it had looked like when Sister Mary Teresa had
died, it looked nothing like that now. Jack had often lamented the fact that crime scenes were destroyed more by the police than by any other means, and it was true enough here. I got some polite hellos from the departing men as they tucked their gear in the station wagon. The body had been removed and thankfully the coroner's van was gone. I waited till the crime-scene wagon was on its way and then went into the chapel.

I remembered that yesterday, when I had sat here and seen Sister Mary Teresa suddenly rise from a pew, she had been down front. While it didn't necessarily follow that she would have sat in exactly the same place another time, I thought it was likely. When I enter a church to sit and think, which I do from time to time, I always take an empty spot near the rear and usually on the left-hand side. My vision is pretty good—I don't wear glasses—so from the back I can see the whole church, or chapel, quite clearly. But an elderly woman might choose to be close to the sanctuary so that she could see it and feel a part of it.

I walked down the aisle past the still-magnificent poinsettias and looked inside the row that I guessed was where I had seen her yesterday. Usually, when someone kneels, you can see her back or bent head. Mary Teresa had been totally invisible, meaning she had scrunched down very low, nearly making a ball of herself.

The row was empty, as were the one in front and the one behind. That didn't surprise me. The crime-scene unit would have checked out the whole chapel, taking anything they found, fingerprinting the wood. If she had sat here, there might well be prints on the back of the pew in front. She would certainly have needed the assistance of that pew to raise herself, considering her aches and pains.

I went back out and saw Joseph coming down the path.

“I was looking for you,” she said. “Would you like to walk?”

“Yes.”

We went downhill, away from the buildings of the convent and the college. In summer, this is the most beautiful place in the world and it's not bad in winter, either. I always find walking here exhilarating, renewing, and I was sure Joseph felt the same way. She had spent many more
years at St. Stephen's than I had and would doubtlessly remain for the rest of her life. The convent and the college were her sustenance; they kept her nourished both intellectually and spiritually. What had happened here early this morning was surely one of the great tragedies of her life.

“That's where the old orphanage stood,” she said, facing a high, flat, treeless area that was well-known to the nuns. “You wouldn't remember it.”

“No.”

“It burned down the first year I was here, an incredible fire. It was all wood, of course, so once the fire got started, it just took off. People from all the towns around saw it and the police phones rang off their hooks. The papers called it a spectacular fire. I always wondered about that word. A spectacular fire. There hadn't been any orphans in it for several years, of course. They'd been moved to a newer, safer, fireproof building downstate. But it was a beautiful old place with fine floors and the kind of construction you don't find nowadays. Mary Teresa used to tell me stories of the old days, when the orphanage was full and there were a hundred novices or more. She had a sense of history. She wanted people to know what had happened and when.” She turned away from the long-gone orphanage. “That's the building where the novices lived, through those trees there. We took that building down before it caught fire. It had a wonderful fireplace, almost like the one in the mother house. You could practically stand up in it. When her memory was still sharp, Mary Teresa wrote her recollections. She'd probably never heard of oral history, but she went around and interviewed the nuns in the villa so that all their recollections would be kept. You probably can't even picture the grounds with those two buildings.”

It was true. The raised plateau where the orphanage had stood had long been a place where students sat and studied, sometimes resting against the base of a statue of the Virgin Mary that had been placed there after the building burned down. And the novices' dormitory now had trees growing there, naturally, I had been told, seeds falling from the older trees, maples and oaks, trees that like cold weather. “I've tried to imagine it,” I said. “Not very successfully. I've always loved the grounds so much just the way they are.”

“I had to call her family,” Joseph said. “She had a grandniece who truly loved her.”

“Ann-Marie Jenkins.”

“Yes.”

“There was a letter from her in Mary Teresa's purse.”

“I'm too close to this, Chris. In the past, when you've come to me with questions, I've always been able to look at your conundrum with detachment, to ask salient questions, to see what is obscure to you. Today I feel deep in obscurity myself. Perhaps the police are right and some intruder walking across the campus spied someone outside the chapel. Maybe he thought there would be money in the box and she tried to prevent him from going in.”

“You don't believe that.”

“She often walked in the evening, especially in the summer. But even in the winter, she liked the fresh air.” She looked around at the snow and the sky. “What a nice day this would be if it were not so tragic.”

We had reached the first of several benches along the path. The snow had been brushed off, either by a diligent Harold or by a stroller who wanted a place to sit in the sun. We sat down. From the village the sound of churchbells came up the hill. It was Sunday.

“Tell me again what happened yesterday.”

“I met Walter Farragut's mother and talked to her, but I got very little from her. The one thing she said that made me take notice was that Julia had a brother named Foster. Angela told me that Julia had said her mother's mental illness began when she lost a son and was told she couldn't have any more children.”

“But Grandmother Farragut says there was a son.”

“
Is
a son,” I said with emphasis. “She said he's nearly thirty now. And that I wouldn't find him very easily. But Jack found him. He's in prison.”

“Which makes it equally unlikely that he had anything to do with Hudson's disappearance or Mary Teresa's death.”

“But Mary Teresa didn't know Julia had a brother and the name Foster left her confused. When I talked to her yesterday afternoon, her mind wasn't awfully clear.”

“That's been happening. But when she was all there, she was her old self.”

“She didn't want to talk about the rumors involving Julia and Hudson. She said Sister Clare Angela had said never to discuss it. But it was obvious she had loved Julia. When I saw her the second time in the evening, her mind was sharp. I asked her if she knew Julia had a brother and she said she'd never heard about a brother. When I said his name was Foster, she just seemed confused or agitated, Joseph. We spoke for a few minutes more, but I could see she was edgy. Finally she looked at her watch and said she had to go. That's the last I saw of her.”

“Tell me what you think.”

“What I think is that the events of yesterday are connected. I spoke to old Mrs. Farragut in the morning and talked about Foster. That night someone killed Mary Teresa.”

“Mrs. Farragut called someone to say you were asking questions. Is that what you're saying?”

“But whom?”

“I suppose Walter's the only one.”

“Joseph, I have a hard time believing that a man of Walter Farragut's age and position in the community would drive up to a convent, meet an elderly nun, a woman close to his mother's age, outside the chapel, and strangle her to death.”

“It is a difficult thing to grasp. And maybe he's not the one. But I believe you're right that there's a connection between your conversation with Mrs. Farragut and what happened here last night.”

“It means someone had to call her during the day to set up a meeting at the chapel. When she looked at her watch, she realized it was getting near the time, or that she had to go upstairs and get her coat, or something like that. She may have wanted to spend some time in the chapel before the person she was meeting was scheduled to come.”

“There's a chance Angela will remember a phone call. But it's possible the caller only asked for the villa, not for a particular person.”

“Then someone in the villa will know. I'll ask around later today. Now I want to get some dinner. I'm meeting Jack at two o'clock at Walter Farragut's house. I don't know if we'll find anything out from him, but I want to
look at him, get a sense of the kind of man he is. You've described him as very generous and yet I have the feeling that was a very unhappy family that lived on Hawthorne Street in Riverview. I spoke to the Farraguts' next-door neighbor last evening, a Mrs. Belvedere, and she said as much. If there was unhappiness, there was a cause.”