Immaculate Reception (6 page)

T
he deadline panic of planning one of the most important civic events in the last decade pushed to the front of my thoughts. I had a million things to do. Even before I opened my eyes, I was making a “to do” list. The top priorities involved the final staff selection for the big event. With security sensitivity at an all-time high, we were to submit our employee list by this afternoon so that they might be screened and approved. But in between my plans and my organizing, my brain kept zinging back to Brother Frank del Valle. I was having a real hard time accepting that his death was something I would never understand. I had to tell myself the police would handle it, so I could focus on the work at hand.

I tried to keep my mind on the details to be worked out with the venue. The Otis Mayfield Pavilion, a large downtown theater that housed Broadway-size shows, was the site selected. Since the Mayfield has a fifty-foot ceiling, we suggested setting down a temporary floor on top of the theater seats, elevating the entire dining space to stage level. We selected a frosted Lucite for the flooring, which could then be illuminated by placing lights beneath it. I had to check with Wesley, since he had met with the Mayfield people last night, to see if they'd gotten approval from the fire marshal.

I showered quickly, drying off with a large white terrycloth sheet. My hair is so thick and curly, I spend half my
life waiting for it to dry. It hung down several inches below my shoulders in a clumping mat of copper corkscrews. My head was the acid test for creme rinse. If I could get my fat gap-tooth comb through the thick tangle, I was prepared to do the testimonial.

The comb-through did not result in too many pulled-out clumps, and after the strenuous workout, I shook my head, retriever-style, letting beads of water sprinkle where they might.

As I pulled on a fresh pair of jeans, I walked into my library. This was originally the middle bedroom but now has a dining table and an ingeniously rigged dumbwaiter, allowing me to prepare meals downstairs in the kitchen and then transport them easily upstairs. It also has a closet, befitting the bedroom's original use, in which I keep some of my extended wardrobe. I found a pale yellow v-neck sweater, which I pulled over my head. I was adjusting the white T-shirt underneath when I walked back into my bedroom and noticed the answering machine blinking the number “2.”

The first message was from Wesley at 7:40. He must have just missed me as I stepped into the shower.

He said he'd e-mailed me a list of potential servers and cooks and barpeople. I should look them over and we could get together later to pare down our final list.

The great thing about Wes was he could be counted on to be obsessing about the exact same thing as I was. Together, I'm afraid we form a compulsive, control-freakish, manic hive that neither of us can see as in the least bit unhinged. The results can be a mixed blessing: our parties tend to be extremely well planned, while we live the slightly anxious lives of the terminally analytical.

The second message was from Xavier. It came in at 8:11.

“Hello, Madeline. I hope you are all right after last night. I didn't really get a chance to talk with you and I'm concerned about how you may be feeling about…well, about the death of Brother Frank del Valle. I didn't know this
brother very long, just a few days, really, but still…My heart is heavy, you know? I'd really like to talk to you.”

Listening to Xavier's husky voice, I began to remember what it was like when we were together. We had both been notorious for leaving phone messages so long they used up all the tape in the machine. Forgotten memories fluttered over me. As he went on, he sounded somehow more like the man I remember loving, once. I even began to remember the old me.

“Anyway, I'm coming by your house to drop off the last of the parish guest lists which have been given security clearance. I was told by the FBI that this parish doesn't have a secure fax line, or whatever. I should be there by eight-thirty. Listen, if you're home, could I come in and talk? Oh, yeah, and there's something else kind of shocking I'd like to talk to you about. It's weird, but I've found out some new information about that old letter of confession you found. It doesn't make sense. Still…Well, see you soon, I hope.”

I looked at my watch just as the doorbell chimed from downstairs. Eight-thirty, and my hair was still wet.

“Hi,” I said, opening the door to see Xavier standing on my doorstep, holding a large envelope.

“Hi,” he said. “I'm glad you're here. Did you get my message?”

I nodded as I led him through the entry hall and into the living room. This is where we hold client conferences, when necessary, and do employee interviews. It still looks a lot like a living room and I motioned Xavier to the coffee-colored leather chair. Men usually liked that chair. Maybe it was the hobnails.

“So you know,” he continued, settling into the chair, “that I've got the final guest list. Can you believe the amount of work it takes just to send out an invitation to this event?” He handed the envelope to me.

I smiled at him, wondering if he was going to get to the more serious things we had to discuss.

“This is great,” I said, referring to the paperwork. “We're right on target with our schedule.”

Neither of us was ready to start speaking about what was troubling us most, the death of Brother Frank. Were we always so reticent about expressing our darker, most difficult feelings? Perhaps we were. I began to see things about our past relationship differently. Yes, avoiding the difficult topics was one of the things the two of us had in common.

“So, what did you find out about the confession?” I asked, still going with the avoidance dance that had been “our” pattern, like “our” song, or “our” wine.

“Well, I was doing research to see if the name Brother Ugo came up in any of the computerized directories for the Society of Jesus. You know, Internet stuff. I guess I didn't get much sleep last night,” he said, looking up at me with his shag of dark blond hair falling onto his forehead. Approach the subject slowly, I thought, and from an oblique angle. Good one.

“So I didn't do a really thorough search. Not all years are in the database. There's a fair amount of really old, historical stuff, and some modern lists, but there are whole blocks of years still missing. Even centuries.”

“But you found Brother Ugo?” I asked, wanting in on the mystery.

“Well, I found
a
Brother Ugo. He was a Jesuit brother in the sixteenth century, in France.”

“Hmph,” I said, thinking. That didn't scan.

“I know. It's not the Castel Gandalfo, which is near Rome, but then I really didn't think Brother Ugo's note was very likely from the pope's palace. It was a loose sheet of paper, so it must have gotten stuck in the wrong ledger somehow.”

“So who was this Brother Ugo? Did he murder someone?” I asked, my hope for a good ending to our mystery renewed.

“Sorry. No. Not that that was ever recorded, anyhow,” Xavier said, smiling at my disappointment that a good Jesuit brother had not committed murder.

“Who was he, did you find out?”

“Well, yes. He was a beekeeper in Avignon.”

“A beekeeper?” I asked, suddenly perking up at the thought of all that venom right at the clever brother's disposal. “But did he…?”

“Actually, Maddie, that's all I could find out over the net. But here's the thing. This morning, I just got a response to my inquiry about Brother Ugo from Monsignor Picca at St. Bede's the Venerable. That's a parish out near Pasadena. This monsignor is a church history buff, I've been told, and he says he may know of this Brother Ugo of ours.”

“Wow! Are you going to go see him?” I asked, feeling the excitement of the chase.

“I want to. I should. But with everything that happened last night, I've still got to keep up with my mission here. The plans for the visit of His Holiness cannot be disturbed in any way. It's two days and counting.”

“Don't remind me,” I said, smiling at how much we still had to do.

“Remember taking that class with Chef Claude and learning to deal with the panic before an event?” Xavier joked. “Well, I may need a refresher course.”

I almost snorted. Xavier was the only man you'd ever need if the world began burning. He didn't have any nerves. But I could tell he was aware of the heat.

“This Monsignor Picca,” I started. Xavier looked at me. “Well, I mean Pasadena's not that far, just over the hill. Maybe I could go out there this morning and find out more about our sixteenth-century cleric. I mean, I found his note. I feel like he was calling out to me, you know? Like I owe it to him.”

“Do you think you could? You must have your hands full with the big event…”

“I'm mostly preproduction, Xavier. And I'm on schedule.” I held up the envelope that Xav had come to deliver.

I walked him to the front door and we stopped there for a moment.

“The thing that happened last night,” Xav said, finally bringing up the horror neither of us could comprehend. “I have been to chapel, of course. And I prayed, Maddie. But I am unsure of what else I can do to be of service. Perhaps I will go visit Brother Frank's family.”

“You are so giving,” I said, admiring the way he had of putting others' needs always ahead of his own. Not my needs, of course, but everyone else's.

“There's nothing to be done about Brother Frank except wait and pray,” Xav said, but his voice was a lot less than confident. “If only this could be settled before the pope arrives. If he could be spared…Ah, enough of my complaining.”

“I'll call you later,” he said. And then standing there, he looked me directly in the eyes. We stood there like that for a while. “Thanks, Maddie.” And then he was gone down my steps.

I'd find out the secrets behind the Latin confession of old Brother Ugo. And maybe look into the death of Brother Frank del Valle, as well. I was feeling empowered, a dangerous state of being if ever there was one.

“I
am helping a friend look into a matter,” I explained to the young male voice on the other end of the phone. “Monsignor Picca knows of a Jesuit from long ago, a Brother Ugo, I believe.”

“How extraordinary,” the secretary replied, with enthusiasm. “We are most interested in the past. You know the monsignor is a respected historian, although unpublished as of yet, with a special interest in the history of our church. If you could make it to our offices before nine-thirty, I'm sure the monsignor would be happy to give you five minutes.”

It was almost nine now but if I rushed, I might make it. He gave me directions to a large Catholic church in an exclusive community northeast of the Hollywood Hills.

I was not dressed for church. Off came the comfortable casual clothes. I popped into my “living room,” the original master bedroom and the closet that contained what passed for my dress-up wardrobe. The only thing that was suitable was a sleeveless navy linen dress. Did I even own a pair of pantyhose? The trouble with dressing up in “nice” clothes once a millennium was accessories. I finally found a pair in my bedroom dresser and then I had to remind myself to slow down. It would be just my luck to rip them.

With no time to tame the beast known to normal women as hair, I pulled the lot back into a low ponytail, grabbed my purse, and ran.

I was still uncontrollably absorbed with thoughts of Brother Frank. I kept running over again and again the events, innocent in themselves, which had somehow led to death. At least this mission to unravel the mystery of Brother Ugo's bizarre confession might take my mind off that painful subject for a while.

I was driving against traffic, counter-rush-wise. While most of the cars in Los Angeles were pointing their headlights towards downtown and destinations west, I was breezing my way up the uncrowded side of the 2 Freeway. The air, a crisp sixty-two degrees, would warm up as the day wore on, rewarding the tail end of January with some of Southern California's best weather.

La Canada—Flintridge was one of the least publicized wealthy neighborhoods around L.A., like Brentwood used to be, once upon a time, before some of its neighbors brought in a bit too much publicity. Still, one couldn't beat the community of La Canada for keeping itself quiet. Most people in Southern California had barely heard of it, and those who had didn't have much of a clue as to where you'd find it.

La Canada is nestled in the foothills of the Angeles Crest Mountains, just on the other side of the Rose Bowl from Pasadena. I found St. Bede's on Foothill Boulevard without much trouble.

Unlike the great cathedrals and majestic Gothic churches that inspire even nonbelievers to give religion a shot, the buildings at St. Bede's were designed in that style of fifties architecture that made you wonder what in the world architects were up to back in the fifties. Blond cinderblock does not a believer make. The complex included a small Catholic day school, along with the sanctuary and rectory. I parked my old Grand Wagoneer in the lot near an office building and entered the lobby. The sign on the main floor directed me to Monsignor Picca's office. It appeared that he was the priest in charge of this parish. I found myself wondering at the modesty of the length of my dress. All right, I decided, if I didn't sit.

The young priest seated at a desk rose when I entered the small office.

“You must be…” he faltered, looking for some note on his desk.

“Madeline Bean. I hoped I might speak with Monsignor Picca.” I checked my watch. Nine-thirty-three. Not too bad.

“Just one moment, Miss Bean.” He sidestepped the narrow passage behind the desk and silently opened the panel door that connected to a larger office.

A few minutes later he reappeared and motioned me to come in.

“Monsignor Picca, this young lady has been sent by Brother Xavier to inquire about the matter of Brother Ugo. Her name is Madeline Bean.” Then the assistant slipped out the door, closing it behind himself.

“Come in, sit down,” called out the monsignor in a hearty, hoarse voice. “My dear young Marilyn, is it?” He sat behind a large blond wood desk with a highly polished surface. Not one object was placed upon the desktop.

“Madeline Bean,” I offered.

The monsignor wore glasses with thick lenses in round silver frames. They were unspeakably hip, although I was sure the style must have gone in and out of style, and back in again, with the monsignor none the wiser.

He looked to be at least eighty, with a thinning cloud of white hair circling his wide scalp. His nose, perhaps strong and commanding in his youth, could now only be truthfully described as huge. There was something to his voice, some accent I couldn't immediately place.

“I must go over to the school in a few minutes time, but I understand you wanted to see me.” He took a moment to look me up and down, adjusting his glasses to fit more properly. “I was expecting to speak with a young man, was I not? A Jesuit priest, I believe, or no, it was a good brother, wasn't it? At any rate, a member of the Society of Jesus had put out an inquiry into a most puzzling, a most baffling matter.”

“Brother Xavier Jones and I found an old note. It was
signed by a Brother Ugo. We were curious, you see. It seemed to be a confession but there was no date.”

“My, my.” I believe his thick lenses masked the startling shrewdness in his faded brown eyes. Those specs assuredly came in handy in his work.

“And your connection to this would be…?” he asked me kindly.

“Brother Xavier and I have been working together. We're involved with the plans for the visit of…His Holiness.” I hoped I was saying it right. Not being Catholic, I had planned on figuring out all the protocol issues before the event. “I am catering the large breakfast reception to welcome His…um…Holiness to Los Angeles.”

“How wonderful! Of course, you must be busy.”

“And Xavier is an old friend. I mean, Brother Xavier. Jones.” Sometimes I need to stop talking. I could see why people loved to talk to their priest. This man's eyes were so kind.

“You have come on a busy day, so I imagine the information you are gathering may be important to you. The story of the Jesuit brother baker, Ugo,” he said, smiling slightly. “You cannot guess at the memories that name brings back to me. When I received the archdiocese bulletin and saw the note about the search for a Brother Ugo posted among other business, I knew at once that it had to be my Brother Ugo.”

“Your Brother Ugo? But I understood that Brother Ugo was a French beekeeper from sixteenth-century France.”

“Oh, dear. How extraordinary. But you see, the Jesuit brother I knew was also called Ugo. And he was a master baker.”

The note we found was stuck in a book of recipes. Bread recipes.

“And where did you meet your Brother Ugo, Monsignor? Here in California?”

“Oh, my no! This is a subject that takes me back to another time, my dear, and another continent.

“Are you, by any chance, familiar with my work? It is
an interest of mine to study the turbulent history of our century. I am intent on clearly presenting the facts so that in the future, historians and scholars will be able to understand how our dear Roman Catholic Church has struggled and how she has prospered in the hearts of the world.”

“Why, no, I hadn't realized…”

“It has been my privilege to witness unique events. I believe God wants me to record them. And so I busy myself with my studies and with my journals. There is not too much time, you see.”

It must be hard to be filled with such purpose and strength of mind, but watch age make away with your physical abilities. I noticed the cane that rested against the side of his desk. And then I noticed a beautiful gray tiger-striped cat, coming from behind the desk to check me out.

“Stan,” the monsignor called, chiding his feline companion, “you know the rules, my friend. Leave the guests alone.”

“I don't mind,” I said and reached down to pet Stan.

“You have cats?” he asked, and his tone seemed to warm up.

“I'm afraid I travel too much to make a good home for a cat.”

“You'll settle down one day,” Monsignor Picca predicted.

“Does this historical research you do have something to do with Brother Ugo?”

“I was assigned to work in Rome during World War Two. There are not many of us left now who remember that time.”

It was almost fifty-five years since the war ended. Kids of twenty during WWII were grandpas of seventy-five at least. “Are you writing about that time?”

“Just gathering research,” he said, spreading his hands. Seeing an opening, Stan jumped up on Monsignor Picca's lap. “Sometimes a small group of us likes to gather and reminisce. Sometimes a cache of documents is discovered and we review them.”

“Who is involved?”

“Only a few, now. But we each have a special subject we research. One of my associates is a treasure buff. As you may know, there were rumors for years that the Nazis sold off art treasures in the west. Only recently have artworks been discovered residing right here in museums in America. Can you imagine?”

He told me about several Picassos that had been stolen by the Nazis and then sold off because Hitler considered Picasso a lesser artist. Many museums were now embarrassed, trying to explain how these stolen artworks now resided in their own collections.

I didn't see how this could have anything to do with Brother Ugo the baker, but it was hard to keep this sweet man on the subject without seeming rude.

“You see,” he went on, stroking Stan's neck, happy to talk all morning, “my friend is keeping a record of stolen and missing artwork. It's like a detective story. Do you ever read detective stories?”

“I love Agatha Christie,” I said.

“As do I,” he said. “I enjoy hearing about my old friend's latest discoveries and suspicions. He is retired, you see. He has the time. And he has a special fascination with the famous Treasure Room of Catherine the Great.”

“Monsignor, I know I cannot take up too much of your time.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, catching himself. “You are here to learn about Ugo.”

“If you have any information, we'd be grateful.”

He opened a drawer, and the shift in weight must have made his lap a less restful spot. Stan took his leave, dropping silently down behind the large desk.

“I have a file,” the monsignor was explaining, as he opened another drawer.

I noticed Stan peeking around from behind the desk, eyeing my lap.

As Monsignor Picca searched, he began talking again of lost Nazi treasure.

Up came Stan, light on his feet, but heavy when he landed. How it was that I found myself sitting in an office in a Catholic church in La Canada, listening to an elderly priest talk about Nazi mysteries with a gray-striped cat on my lap, I was finding it hard to say, but sometimes we are meant to take the meandering path.

The elderly priest brought a manila folder out of the bottom drawer. With a twinkle, he teased me. “Ah, but you want to know about a baker.” His shrewd eyes searched my face. “You said you found a note?”

“I brought a copy. It's in Latin.”

“May I see it?” the monsignor asked.

I handed the Xerox copy of the confession note across his large spotless desk. The room was silent as he slipped his glasses down almost to the tip of his nose to better catch the spidery script.

“We had no idea, of course, if this letter was real, or when it had been written. Brother Xavier thought…”

“Yes. Yes. Real, I have no doubt it is. But as for the crime…” The longer I listened to his voice, the more I noticed an almost undetectable musicality in his manner of speaking. Perhaps a trace of an accent. I found myself scratching Stan's neck where he liked it.

Then he smiled at me and asked, “Would you like to hear the story of this confession?”

“Of course. Can you tell it to me?”

“It goes back many years, my dear Madeline. So long ago that I was startled, I must tell you, when I heard the name of Brother Ugo the baker. How did you young people find his note?”

“It was stuck in an old book of recipes that dated back several hundred years,” I said.

“Really? But this story does not take us back that far. I am an old man, but not quite that old.” He let out several dry hacking coughs, which, combined with the grin, signified laughter.

“This story comes from a time that was very difficult for those of us who lived in Europe,” Monsignor Picca
went on. “In the very late thirties, our dear Rome was surrounded by the Nazis. You remember your history, of course. The Vatican had won the right to become its own sovereign nation only a few years earlier, in nineteen-twenty-nine. It was a glorious achievement, but one that was politically unstable back in those troubled times. With the terrible unrest in so many of the neighbor countries, the rising Nazi powers in Germany attempted to exert pressure everywhere, even on Rome.”

“Were you there, Monsignor?”

“Yes, yes. I was assigned to work in the Vatican as an underchancellor to one of Pope Pius XI's own advisors. It was an exciting time, yes. There was a lot for a young man to learn about the world. I was studious and I made friends. The opportunity to serve God and His Holiness, Pope Pius XI, was a great gift, you see? I was born quite near to Rome, of course, and my family was very proud of me, as is natural. And they liked me to be close by.”

“Not like today, I guess,” I said, thinking of the culture differences he must have encountered coming to Los Angeles and leaving the life of the Vatican behind. This must have seemed like the furthest corner of the universe to a young priest from Rome.

“True. But then my sister came to live near me in Los Angeles shortly after I was assigned to this area, and that was forty years ago. With my sister and her family and my loving parishioners, we have been happy here.” He smiled. “But the Brother Ugo you are researching is from that time I spent in Rome, or more accurately, just outside of Rome in the summer residence of our pope. Brother Ugo was a master baker there, and he served there until his death.”