Try as I might I couldn’t get Sister Clarence to believe that putting Uncle Morty on speaker wasn’t a good idea. I also couldn’t get her to let me drop her off at a hospital or fire station. She knew that was where people dropped unwanted infants, but she didn’t make the connection.
What was I going to do? Clarence was sweet, unworldly, and utterly useless, unless I needed to teach someone to read or use the potty. I couldn’t subject her to my life. Uncle Morty wasn’t even the worst part. My own language wasn’t exactly pristine and I slept with Chuck on a regular basis, unmarried. Aunt Miriam knew, I assumed, but she chose not to acknowledge it. That was the only time in my life, other than Maggie, that she kept her trap shut. And how could I explain Fats, unwed and pregnant, with her questionable connections and undercurrents of violence? She’d probably scare the little nun into being cloistered.
“I can take it,” said Sister Clarence with confidence that she shouldn’t have had.
“You don’t understand. How can I make you understand?” I asked.
“I know that people use foul language.”
“But Uncle Morty uses all the foul language. Sometimes in one sentence.”
“I will get used to it,” she said, smiling. “And I’ll find a way to serve God while I’m helping you.”
“He uses the ‘C’ word, Sister Clarence,” I said, thinking that ought to do it.
“As long as he doesn’t use the ’N’ word, I’m fine.”
I turned off of Kingshighway into the Central West End as a storm rolled in. Traffic was backed up and I had to get a nun out of my car. The cathedral. Yes. I’d lure her in on some kind of pretext and make a run for it. Not something that Aunt Miriam would approve of, but I knew she didn’t want Sister Clarence with me. I wasn’t good enough for her. She’d made that abundantly clear before I went to New Orleans. Something about crushing her spirit. Well, this case wasn’t going to be good for anyone’s spirit. I had a feeling.
“Uncle Morty would never use that word,” I said.
“Then we’re good to go.”
“The ‘C’ word. Think about that. I don’t like hearing it.”
“You just used it,” Sister Clarence explained patiently.
“The other ‘C’ word.”
“There’s another one?”
Oh, my God.
“Yes, there’s another one,” I said.
“What is it?” She leaned over to me. “You should whisper it so I know what it is.”
Not going to happen.
“Let’s skip that for now.” I leaned to the side to see what the holdup was, but the problem was too far ahead. “I should’ve gone straight to St. Seb.”
“Why didn’t we?” asked Sister Clarence.
“I thought I’d pack a bag. I didn’t want to have to drive back and forth. This isn’t going to be quick.” Wait a minute. “Oh, Sister, I’ll have to take you back. I could be there for days.”
“That’s absolutely fine. We have a four-day weekend for training.”
“Don’t you have to, ya know, do the training,” I said, trying to keep the hope out of my voice and failing.
“I did my training after work.” She held up a Hello Kitty backpack. “And I packed a bag. I’m ready for anything.”
You really aren’t. ‘Cause I’m not and I’m me.
“Look, I’m going to give it to you straight,” I said. “This isn’t for you. It’s going to be bad. I have a sense about these things.”
“I heard,” she said solemnly. “I will deal with it.”
“No, really. Bad stuff. Really, really bad.”
Sister Clarence shifted in her seat and looked at me steadily. “The parents don’t understand me.”
I’m with them.
“Which parents?”
“All of them.” She dabbed at the corner of her eye with a handkerchief that had kittens and rainbows embroidered on it. I’m not kidding. She was my age. Kittens and rainbows. She was so not ready for autopsy photos. “They’ve raised concerns.”
“About what?” I asked.
“Me. They say that I can’t understand the challenges and concerns that normal people face. But I am a normal person.”
Well…
“What’s that got to do with anything?” I asked.
She blew her nose so daintily I doubt she made a mark on her adorable handkerchief. “I need experience. Real life experience.”
“This is murder we’re talking about. It’s not normal.”
“But you know normal people,” she said.
I thought about my people from Aaron to Grandad. Not normal. Nope.
“I wouldn’t say that. No.”
“But they’re real people doing what real people do. My principal says I have to get out there and experience life beyond the convent and classroom. I didn’t know how to do that. I was lost, but then I saw you going out there, fighting for justice, and I thought to myself, ‘Gosh darn it all, Clarence, go out and don’t be afraid. Nobody wants to hurt you.’ So here I am. Ready to experience life and do God’s work with you.”
“You know I get hurt all the time, right? People literally want to hurt me and they are surprisingly good at it.”
“I’ll help protect you,” she said happily.
“With prayer?”
“Yes.”
“Awesome,” I said. “We’re all set then.”
She put a soft hand on my arm. “You do pray, don’t you, Mercy?”
“I’m praying right now.” That you don’t get hurt.
“Wonderful. Now you should call your uncle and find out if he knows something,” said Sister Clarence.
I swallowed and told the Bluetooth to call Uncle Morty.
“Brace yourself, Sister.”
“Consider me braced.”
She wasn’t braced. Not even close. Uncle Morty opened with the F-bomb and it was all downhill from there. I think Sister Clarence stopped breathing in case the air was tainted. I think it was. I caught a hint of sulfur.
“Shut up!” I yelled. “For the love of something I’m not allowed to say in vain, shut up!”
Uncle Morty took a much needed breath and asked, “What’s your problem?”
“Sister Clarence is with me.”
“Who?”
“Aunt Miriam’s protégé. Sister Clarence,” I said.
“Son of a…sea biscuit,” said Uncle Morty.
“Hello, sir,” said Sister Clarence. “Glad to be on the team.”
“What the…something.”
“That’s right,” I said, cheerfully. “Sister Clarence has four days off from teaching kindergarten and she’s going to help us find the identity of a brutal murderer.”
“That is not a good idea,” he said.
“Don’t worry, sir. I’m ready,” she said. “What did you find out about Sister Maggie?”
“I…uh…”
“Go ahead,” I said. “We’re doing this.”
“Why?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but we are. What did you find out?”
“I got Maggie’s death certificate.”
Sister Clarence dabbed her eyes. “That’s so sad. Her poor family. Do you know her family? I should speak to them. We could pray together.”
Uncle Morty didn’t say anything. He was at a loss for words. It was kinda worth it just for that. “Great idea, Sister. Morty, what’s the cause of death?”
“Should I say it?” he asked. “For real?”
“Yes. Sister Clarence is on the team and she already knows anyway.”
“Strangulation. But that ain’t right.”
“Isn’t,” said Sister Clarence.
“Huh?” I asked.
“Not ain’t,” she said. “Isn’t.”
Uncle Morty seethed. He was silent, but I could sense the seething.
“Let’s leave the grammar alone for now,” I said.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“It’s fine. So, Uncle Morty, what’s not right?” I asked as I inched the car forward. I should’ve gone straight to St. Seb and bought what I needed at Walmart.
“The death certificate. It’s a duplicate. That don’t happen.”
“Doesn’t,” said Sister Clarence.
I looked at her.
“Sorry,” she said.
“What did she say?” asked Uncle Morty.
“Nothing,” I said. “What do you mean a duplicate? You can’t find the original?”
“There is no original. The dup is all there is. It’s the official death certificate and it’s got friggin’ ‘duplicate’ stamped on it.”
“What in the world?”
“I ain’t never seen that before,” said Uncle Morty and Sister Clarence twitched. The “ain’ts” were hurting her. You can take the kindergarten teacher out of kindergarten, but you can’t take the grammar out of the teacher.
I leaned to the side again and it looked like a three-car pileup. There was a break in traffic coming the other way and I did a quick u-turn, causing Sister Clarence to gasp. “Mercy, that was illegal.”
“You’ll get used to it,” I said. “Morty, what are you thinking? It is fake?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m looking at the ME’s signature and it’s…messed up. I think somebody pulled the original and put this one in.”
“Why? Anything else odd on it?”
“No. Standard issue. Says murder. Right date,” he said.
“What’s the date?”
“The day she disappeared.”
“I wonder how good they were with that back then,” I said.
“Pretty good. That hasn’t changed much,” said Uncle Morty. “Body temp, lividity, insects, tissue breakdown. It hasn’t changed.”
“We need the autopsy.”
“Hell, sorry, yeah, we do. What’d you find out from the other one? What’s her name?”
“Frances?”
“Yeah. Her.”
I told him everything that Sister Frances said, causing Sister Clarence to tear up again. And Fats thought I was a marshmallow Peep.
“Got it,” said Uncle Morty. “What’d you want from me?”
I asked him to find out about our drunk chief, if there were any other problems reported. Something in the St. Louis papers. Anything. And more importantly, what other crimes were going on in his jurisdiction. The so-called small time crimes that he alluded to.
“And if you can look into this duplicate thing,” I said. “I bet they changed her cause of death. It’s a duplicate because the coroner or whoever wouldn’t sign off.”
“Maybe,” said Uncle Morty.
“Why?” asked Sister Clarence. “We know she was strangled. That’s what Sister Miriam said.”
“She said that because that’s what she was told,” I said.
“You think she wasn’t strangled?”
This is going to be so bad.
“I think there’s more to it and that’s why the chief said that she didn’t suffer.”
“‘Cause she suffered more? What the…something,” said Uncle Morty.
“He was comforting himself or lying to himself, if you will. Give me a break. She suffered. The guy had to get drunk to search her room.”
“I’ll look into this guy,” said Uncle Morty. “The average cop don’t get hammered to investigate.”
Sister Clarence grimaced at the “don’t”, but she said, “Remember the stuff with the church.”
“What stuff?” asked Uncle Morty.
“Sister Frances suspects that the church’s reaction, specifically Bishop Fowler’s, was to do with sexual abuse. Something was happening that winter. See what you can find out. I know there’s a database of pedophile priests.”
He started scratching his scruffy beard. “I hate kid stuff. I hate it.”
“I know. Me, too. But there’s something there. The way the church treated Maggie and Dominic. I don’t know. Something was definitely up. Sister Frances said the nuns were kept out of it. Lots of secret meetings. Fowler retired pretty soon afterward.”
“If I knew I had a pedophile priest in the parish, I’d keep the ladies away,” Uncle Morty mused.
“Yeah, right. We’re delicate,” I said.
“Not that. What do you think your aunt would do if she found out there was a pedophile preying on her parish?”
“He might not get out alive.” Maybe he didn’t. “See if any other priests retired early or moved unexpectedly during that time. That’s what they did, right? Pass the trash.”
“Yes,” said Sister Clarence. “Shameful.”
The way she said it, you’d have thought it was her personal shame.
“I’ll look,” said Uncle Morty. “I’ll see if anyone else got scrubbed.”
I could tell from the tone of his voice that he was thinking what I was thinking. It wasn’t always the creepy old guys that preyed on children. Dominic was scrubbed by the church. Maybe the reason wasn’t Maggie after all.
I drove into the alley behind my building, expecting it to be quiet. I really had to stop expecting. The opposite always happened. The construction workers were back, not en masse, but the ones that were there were highly pissed and arguing with a foreman on the other side of our parking lot. I hoped I could pull in unnoticed and get away. Like most hopes, it went unfulfilled.
I zipped into the spot farthest from them and said, “You stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Sister Clarence unbuckled. “But it’s part of my education. How normal people live.”
“Trust me. You need to stay here.”
“But—”
“Please,” I begged. “It’s for your own good.”
She nodded reluctantly, but those few seconds was just long enough for a couple of turds to spot my car from the second floor. When I got out, abuse started raining down on me.
“Hey, bitch, you call daddy?”
“You smelly shitbag, this is our livelihood!”
I recognized the voices as I ran to the door and keyed myself in.
Please don’t notice Clarence. Please. Please. Please.
I dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, which is saying something for me. Sometimes I appear leggy in photos, but that’s all photoshop. You can’t be my size and be leggy. It’s not a thing.
“Mercy!”
Come on.
Mr. Cervantes called out to me from his door, his face red and in a grimace. That stopped me cold. He was the nicest and calmest person I knew, despite his inexplicable admiration for Aunt Miriam.
“What’s wrong? Are you feeling okay?” I asked.
“I am not,” he said in a rush. “I heard what those animals have been saying to you.”
“Oh, that. It’s okay.”
“It is not. You shouldn’t have to put up with that.”
“Yeah, well, ya know, it is what it is.”
“Did they hurt you? What are those marks?” he asked.
“Spider bites. They’re better.”
He pulled back. “Goodness. What have you been doing?”
“Looking into a case. Can you take care of Skanky for a couple of days? I have to go away.”
Mr. Cervantes sighed and his shoulders relaxed. “Good. Go away for a few days and we’ll have this straightened out.”
I was opening my door but stopped. “What do you mean?”
“We organized. The entire building is launching a protest.”
“Are they…protesting me?”
“Of course not. It’s not your fault. We’re calling and emailing the buildings department and that company. Mrs. Winkle has a recording from yesterday. Her daughter attached it to an email and she sent it off. I must tell you. I couldn’t listen to the whole thing. It was foul and I just heard them. They’re at it again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. We know it’s not your fault. You don’t smell. I’d lay odds that it was your Uncle Morty that smelled up that airplane.”
I blinked back tears. Just when I started questioning the goodness in humanity, it was Mr. Cervantes to the rescue.
“Don’t cry dear. We’ll figure it out.”
“Thank you,” I managed to choke out and ran inside.
Skanky was stretched out on the living room floor, gnawing on a piece of plastic. I snatched it out of his jaws and tossed it in my new cat-proof trashcan—that means expensive—because that was the only way I could keep him out of it. I don’t know where he got that wrapper. I’d taken to putting all my plastics straight into recycling, but still the little varmint found it somewhere.
He yowed complaints at me as I ran into the bedroom and started throwing stuff in a bag. Jeans, sweaters, panties. I grabbed the Timberlands that Fats gave me. She said she got a great deal on them and I’d decided to believe it wasn’t a five-finger discount and that there was a credit card involved and not some truck heist out East somewhere.
After that, I filled my toiletries bags to the brim and grabbed some woolly socks and my favorite poofball hat. I almost left it at that, but I stopped in front of my armoire and took a breath.
I might need it.
I found my Mauser under some sweaters in the back and I grabbed an extra clip just to be on the safe side. I didn’t like carrying a weapon and it did seem faintly ridiculous. Whoever killed Sister Maggie was probably long dead. If he wasn’t Dominic, that is, and alive, he’d be at least seventy-five but more likely eighty-five or ninety, if I went by the average age of serial killers. I’d like to think I could fend off a geriatric killer, but I put the Mauser in my bag anyway and ran out to the living room, jumping over a grumpy Skanky cat. He’d be happy enough in the near future. Mr. Cervantes had the unfortunate habit of making my cat gourmet food and I expected to find him significantly fatter when I got back.
When I got to the door, I glanced at Maggie’s box and considered leaving it. A cursory look said it wasn’t helpful, but something made me grab it on the way out.
Mr. Cervantes was still in his doorway on the phone. “Buildings inspector. I’m on hold.”
“Thanks!”
All those calls probably wouldn’t do any good, even the FBI couldn’t get the job done, but I appreciated the effort.
I jogged down the stairs and stood at the door for a second, holding Maggie’s box like a shield and telling myself that it would blow over. I’d wait it out or, if it stayed at that insane level, I could sue the company. Something civilized.
Then I opened the door and civilized went out the window. Now when I say out the window, I mean it went out headfirst and landed on its head. The workers had assembled in front of my car and were laughing.
“She brought a fucking nun.”
“That ain’t no nun. She’s a stripper. Show us your titties, your holiness.”
The rest of their hooting insults can’t be repeated. I’ve been catcalled since breasts happened, but nothing like that. They were surrounding her, pack-like and predatory. I shifted the box to my hip and stalked across the parking lot, putting my hand in my bag for my weapon. It slid into my hand so easily, but I didn’t do it. Dad’s training kicked in. Don’t flash a weapon unless you’re prepared to use it. I wasn’t prepared to shoot a trio of construction workers although they were sorely in need of a good scare. I grabbed my phone instead and pressed my instant-record button.
Those idiots were truly idiots. Their boss was yelling for them to stop, but did they stop? No. No, they did not. They ramped it up, as idiots will, and unleashed a barrage that shocked even me and I grew up with Uncle Morty. He couldn’t begin to compete with those three. They hated everyone, starting with women and Catholics and proceeding to calling me trailer trash. That’s right. Dudes with third-rate tattoos—at least one of which was misspelled—mullets, and tee shirts that said things like “Boobs are two of my favorite thangs” hated trailer trash. Irony was not their strong suit.
I got it all on video along with repeated hand gestures that don’t bear describing. I’m not going to lie. I started enjoying the absurdity after about thirty seconds and their boss? He was an idiot, too. Oh, yeah, he wanted to stop them now, but he’d seen what’d been going on since the airport story broke. He knew and let it go on. Only now did he care. I guess they’d finally gone too far or he’d heard about the complaints. Well, I’d make him really care. He’d care so hard he’d wish he’d never taken to construction.
When the hate trio paused for breath, I said, “Hey, morons. She is a nun. A real live Sister of Mercy.”
“Fuck you. She’s a whore, just like you!”
I didn’t wait for the barrage to get going. I dumped my stuff in the back, got in, and pulled out of my parking space so fast I almost hit a panicked guy in a cheap suit running toward the morons waving frantically. I hit the gas and we peeled out, barreling into the alley, narrowly avoiding Fats’ truck as she drove in from the opposite end. She hit the horn, but I passed her. I was getting away. I had to get away.
Fats did the fastest three-point turn in the history of turning behemoth trucks around and came after us. There was no hope. I couldn’t outrun Fats Licata and I knew from experience that there was nowhere I could go that she couldn’t find me.
I drove around to my parents’ house and screeched to a halt in the alley behind. Fats was on my door in a second. She whipped it open and said, “Where the hell have you been?”
“What?”
“I came to get you for your aunt’s appointment,” she said.
“Why?”
“I’m helping you on this case.”
Why is everyone always helping me?
“Aunt Miriam’s appointment has nothing to do with it,” I said.
“She knows about the case and has information. It behooves me to keep track of her and whatever she’s got going on.”
“You’re not going to do something to my aunt, are you?”
“Do I look like I would do something to a nun?”
Well…
“No. Of course, not,” I said. “Aunt Miriam got an earlier appointment. That’s done and we’re going to St. Seb.”
Fats leaned to the side and said, “You picked up another nun?”
“I did. This is Sister Clarence.” I looked back at the little nun and saw her for the first time since I left her in the parking lot. I don’t know why I didn’t look at her before. Maybe because I was driving or because she wasn’t making a sound. I took silence as a good thing. It wasn’t. Sister Clarence was sitting in Mom’s cushy front seat, pale as porcelain, with tears streaming down her face.
“Oh, crap, Clarence,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left you out there. I never thought that would happen.”
She sucked in a breath and whispered, “Mercy, I will pray for you.”
Good thing? I wasn’t sure.
“I’m going to fix it. I recorded them.”
“You…does that happen to all women?”
“No. It’s not normal. It’s me.”
Fats pushed in. “Hey, Sister. Fats Licata. Am I right in thinking you were just at Mercy’s apartment?”
Sister Clarence nodded.
“Was something…unpleasant said to Mercy?” asked Fats with a muscle twitching in her jaw.
She nodded again.
No. No. No.
“So,” I said quickly, “let’s go to St. Seb. Got to get a police report, autopsy results. Exciting stuff.”
“Sister?” asked Fats. “Did they say something to you?”
She nodded.
“Mercy, give me that recording.”
“I don’t want to. I have a plan.”
“What’s your plan? Calling the cops?”
“Actually, I was going to send it to the media. It’s been a slow week,” I said.
She held out an enormous hand and I sighed before handing it over. “My code is—”
“I know your code.” She jabbed the keypad and took a quick look. “Get in my truck. We’ll head out after I take care of this.”
“Please don’t. I can’t owe Calpurnia anything else. I’m up to my eyeballs in debt as it is.”
Fats waved me off. “This is about the church, not you.”
Sister Clarence put a gentle hand on my arm. “Your life isn’t what I expected.”
“I think that all the time.” I grabbed my bag and Maggie’s box off the backseat. “We’ll be taking Fats’ truck.”
“May I ask who she is?”
“A friend.”
“Are you sure?” asked Sister Clarence. “She seems rather threatening.”
I grinned at her. “Oh, she is. Definitely. But we won’t be getting yelled at anymore.”
“I bet nobody ever thinks she’s not worldly.”
“Probably not. No.”
She smiled and looked positively saintly. “I’m going to learn a lot this weekend.”
Yes, you are, and may God forgive me.