St. Patrick's Day Murder (10 page)

“I didn’t want to get you up last night,” he began. “There’s been an interesting development in the case of Mr. Joo’s gun.”

“You’re not going to tell me it was the murder weapon.”

“No, I’m not. I’m going to tell you it’s missing.”

“Stolen?”

“So he claims. Says his apartment was broken into on March eighteenth, conveniently one day after St. Patrick’s Day. He says he doesn’t carry it every day—and that Monday was a school day so he left it home. When he got back, it was gone, along with a couple of other things.”

“Did he report it missing?”

“Nope.”

“I assume they searched his apartment.”

“You bet. When he said he didn’t have it, they got a warrant.”

“None of this makes him guilty,” I said uneasily.

“You’re right. None of it does. But it is a violation of the rules under which he holds his gun permit. The theft should have been reported ASAP.”

“Is any of this taking the heat off Ray?”

“Probably not, but it’s raised some questions. I expect Ray’s lawyer can use it to his advantage.”

“How much trouble is Joo in?” I asked.

“Enough. They’ll be scrutinizing him and the grocery.”

I knew what I had to do, but it was too early. “Let me tell
you what happened last night.” I sketched my conversation with Jean.

“I tell you what,” Jack said when I finished. “I think you ought to get off the case. I shouldn’t’ve asked you in the first place, and it’s getting too hairy. This guy probably picked you up outside of Ray’s place. I don’t like someone following you, and I think the whole thing has gotten out of hand.”

“I have an idea,” I said, without agreeing or disagreeing. I told him that I thought it could be Joe Farina who made the call. “If he doesn’t agree to a daylight meeting, suppose we just go to Damrosch Park and see if he shows up.”

“Suppose I just keep my eye on Farina on Friday. See if he goes home, see if he stays there.”

“Suppose we do both.”

He made an
Mmm
sound. “I’ll get back to you. Meanwhile, stay home.”

I gave Arnold Gold plenty of time to get to his office, although he’s usually the first one in, and then called him. When he got on the line, I could hear his usual classical music playing softly in the background. Arnold is devoted to WQXR and turns it off only when he has to. I told him about Joo and the missing .44-caliber handgun. “Arnold, I know I cost you a lot of money, but I think this fellow needs a lawyer.”

“Does he speak English?”

“I’m not sure. One person there, Mr. Ma, does. But if Joo is going to school, he must know some English.”

“I can get an interpreter. I’ll look into it.”

“Thanks, Arnold.”

“And don’t apologize for costing me money. As long as I can afford it, that’s what I’m here for. I’ve got some answers for you on Harry Donner’s will. Terry tracked it down yesterday. The late Mr. Donner bequeathed his entire estate to the Catholic church.”

“God bless him,” I said. “Sounds like that’s a dead end. What did he do, leave it to his parish church?”

“He gave them a lump sum, yes. But the bulk of it, including his house, went to a hospital. Maybe that’s where his wife died.”

“That’s possible.” I picked up a pencil. “Can you tell me the name of the church and the hospital?”

“Hold on.” He rustled some papers and muttered some incoherent syllables. “St. John the Baptist.” He read off an address in Queens that sounded fairly close to the Donner house. “And Our Lady of Mercy Hospital, but that doesn’t seem to be in the city.” The address was somewhere upstate. “I don’t know why his wife would go to an out-of-town hospital when there’s a hospital on every street corner in New York.”

“Maybe she didn’t,” I said slowly, something finally clicking into place. “You’re a doll, Arnold. Thanks a million.”

What had occurred to me during our conversation was very simple. A Catholic hospital is likely to have an affiliation with a convent. A convent has nuns. If Harry Donner gave his estate to a Catholic hospital, it was a good bet that Aunt Benny was one of the sisters.

I decided to use my connection to St. Stephen’s to avoid being given a runaround. I called my friend and former spiritual director, Sister Joseph, the General Superior at the convent.

“Chris, how nice to hear your voice,” she greeted me. “Are you traveling this way soon?”

“Possibly. I’m looking into the murder of a police officer.”

“The one that happened on St. Patrick’s Day?”

“Yes. He was Jack’s friend.” I had told her about Jack not long ago.

“I thought I saw in the paper that they arrested the killer.”

“They may have the wrong man. Right now, I’m looking into connections between this killing and other unsolved police murders. And I think I need to talk to a nun.” I explained more fully, giving her some details.

“Yes, I know the hospital. It’s run by Dominican nuns and it’s about twenty miles from here. I’ll give them a call and get back to you.”

I have to admit that my heart sank when she said Dominicans. The only nuns I was ever afraid of as a child were the Dominican sisters at a church that used to compete with mine in athletics. They wore the traditional white habit with only a bit of black on the belt and veil, and one of those sisters
always looked ten feet tall to me and absolutely terrifying. Remembering those childhood fears, I assured myself that anyone who would let herself be called Aunt Benny couldn’t be very intimidating.

While waiting for Joseph to call back, I put my house in order. Now that Oakwood does a lot of recycling, I find I have bags and containers that need to be put at the curb according to a schedule much more complicated than my own. Having missed the paper day this week, my newspapers and magazines more than filled a grocery bag. And the container with bottles and jars was nearly full. I had just gotten everything neatly arranged when the phone rang.

“I think you may be on the right track,” Joseph said. “I talked to the superior, who says they have a thriving community, including a villa.” The villa is where older nuns live when they’ve retired from an active life. “One nun who’s over eighty is named Benedicta.”

“Yes,” I said eagerly. “May I visit?”

“I can’t see why not.”

“Thanks so much, Joseph.”

“Just don’t forget to visit us.”

“I’ll do that soon.”

I didn’t want to show up empty-handed. Harry Donner’s neighbor had said he visited her and took care of her. I got to the bank early and withdrew some money. Living without a credit card, I have to think in advance what I’m going to spend. My next stop was a bath shop in a nearby town where everything is always discounted; they happened to be running à sale. I bought two thick white bath towels and washcloths and a box of three large cakes of soap. I looked around the store to see if there was anything else. The owner kept referring to things as “decorative,” and I merely smiled and shook my head.

“I have a lovely little hand mirror that’s marked down to four ninety-five,” she suggested.

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be appropriate.” Sister Benedicta had probably not seen her reflection for sixty years. Finally I picked up a little bag to hold personal laundry.

There was no way to wrap things, but it didn’t matter. A
shopping bag was good enough and could be used over again. I paid my bill and left.

The drive took about an hour and a half, then another quarter of an hour to find Our Lady of Mercy Hospital. The convent was beside it. The Mother House was a big old red brick building that might once have housed a wealthy family. A young nun opened the door for me and welcomed me in.

“The villa is just behind us,” she said. “You can go out the back way and save some steps.”

I could hear the sound of pots and pans banging around in the kitchen. Lunch would be over by now. I had had a sandwich in the car a little while earlier.

The backyard had old snow covering the grass and high shrubbery around the perimeter for privacy, but the privacy was an illusion. The hospital was several stories high; patients looking out windows would have a clear view of the nuns sitting in the summer sun.

“Right over there,” the sister said, pointing.

“Thanks.” I went through a break in the hedge and came to a smaller building, also old red brick.

An old Dominican nun wearing very thick glasses and the fearsome white habit of my childhood opened the door. But when she smiled, she looked quite friendly.

“I’m looking for Sister Benedicta,” I said.

“Come with me. I think she’s just back from the hospital.”

“Is she ill?”

“Oh, no. She reads to patients. I can’t do that anymore. My eyesight’s nearly gone.”

More was gone than her eyesight. She leaned heavily on a cane and walked slowly.

“There she is.” We were at the door to the common room. “She’s probably asleep in her chair.”

“Your distance vision is pretty sharp,” I said.

“It’s not bad. It’s just small print I can’t read anymore, newspapers and books. I wish they made more in a size that first graders read.”

“I’ll send you a book if you tell me your name.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” She laughed “I’m Sister Domenica.”

“I’m Christine Bennett,” I said, and went over to the big chair with the sleeping nun.

I didn’t want to wake her. I sat on a sofa a few feet from her and set the shopping bag down carefully. I took my coat off and folded it so that the dark stain of Scotty’s blood didn’t show. As I laid it down, a voice said, “Can I help you?”

Sister Benedicta was wide awake and watching me.

“My name is Christine Bennett,” I said. “Sister Benedicta?”

“Yes.” She said it with a slight questioning sound, or a note of apprehension.

“Harry Donner was your nephew.”

“Harry was my nephew. He’s dead. Been dead almost three years.”

“Sister, another policeman has been killed. He was a friend of mine. I’m trying to find out if the two murders could be connected.”

“How would I know that?” She was sitting very straight now, and I could see she was a tall woman. If she stood, she might be taller than I, although that was unlikely in a woman of her age. Why was it my luck to have my childhood fears revisited?

“You’re Harry’s only living relative, the only one I could find. I know he visited you. Did he talk about his work?”

Her face was long and inflexible. “He was all I had,” she said. “My sister’s boy. I never thought I’d outlive my only nephew.”

I realized I had moved too fast. She wanted to dwell on her loss. Here she was in retirement and still giving to the patients in the hospital, and her only relative, her only comfort, had been taken from her.

“I’ve heard he was a very nice person, a man with a good heart.”

“He had a good heart.”

“He called you Aunt Benny, didn’t he?”

“How did you know that?” she asked sharply.

“I spoke to the woman who lived next door to him. He talked about you. She didn’t know you were a nun.”

“That would be Mrs. Keppel. The Keppels were good friends of Harry’s.”

I could imagine Harry Donner’s visits with his aunt. She would talk about her work and the nuns, and he would talk about his friends so that she would almost know them. And maybe he would talk about his work.

“I understand you read to patients.”

“it’s about all they’ll let me do,” she said, a trifle irritably. “I used to do bookkeeping, but they’ve got computers now. I’m sure I could have learned how to use a computer, but you get to be a certain age and they think you can’t do much.”

I was afraid to sound patronizing. She seemed as sharp and aware as the younger people I ran into in the bank, and probably a lot smarter. “I can see why Harry enjoyed visiting you,” I said.

“He did enjoy it. We always had a lot to talk about.” She looked at me as though sizing me up for something. “Stand up,” she ordered.

I stood.

“Turn around.”

I turned a slow circle. I was wearing a black skirt and white blouse with low-heeled black shoes. My face had only a faint touch of pink on the cheeks and one of those lipsticks that scarcely adds any color. When I completed my turn, I stood facing her, half expecting her to pin up my skirt.

“You were a sister at St. Stephen’s Convent, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was.”

“The superior called here this morning. I wouldn’t have guessed it otherwise. Your hair’s still short, but it’s grown in. When did you leave? Last year?”

“At the end of the spring semester.” I felt like a child called before the principal for having done something bad. I knew, of course, what the something bad was. I had defected. I had given up the life this woman cherished.

“I left my order once. Almost forty years ago. The war was over and the fifties had begun. Something happened, a situation I found intolerable, so I took a leave of absence. I thought I would never come back. I moved in with Harry’s
family. He was just a youngster then, in his early twenties. He hadn’t joined the police force yet.”

I sat down on the sofa. Her story had shocked me. Nuns of her vintage didn’t leave their orders, except perhaps if they were young and fell into a hopeless passion. She had been in her forties and gone to live with her family.

“That must have been very unusual,” I said.

“It was. It was indeed.” A trace of a smile touched her lips. “They say it takes nine months to make a baby. It took ten to make me a nun again. It was Harry more than anyone else who influenced me to go back. He honored my work. And through him, I came to honor it, too.”

“I think what you do now is honorable,” I said. “It’s better than that.”

“Twenty years later it was Harry who wanted to leave his job. My sister was gone by then, and my brother-in-law. His wife had never been happy that he was a police officer. But I was. Harry was a brave man and an honest one. Those are the people who should protect us.”

“I agree with you.”

“We talked and talked, and he stayed with the job. Do you
think
he was killed because of his work?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t know, either. I have tried very hard to forgive the man who killed him.”