L'Oro Verde (3 page)

“Your vocation is teaching, Sister
Angela, is it not?” he had said.

“If by vocation, you mean the work I do
here, yes. But my calling is my detective work, Father Sergio. I have
permission to do it here in Montriano.”

“The Church does not allow such work to
be done by nuns.”

“The Church doesn’t prohibit such work,
Father,” the nun said.

“That will be decided by the bishop’s
council. You will follow the council’s decision if you wish to retain your
veil.”

“Perhaps it might be more appropriate to
pray. I answer to my Savior, Father. We both do.”

“And we have our hands full with
Christ’s work, Sister. We do not need to take on any more. Let the police do
their own work. We help souls pass into the next world. We do not care how the body
got that way or ‘who dun it.’ You will just have to make a choice—the secular
world or the Church.”

“He has a point,” Mother Margherita
explained. “I find it appalling, however, that Father Sergio sees everything as
right and wrong. Sometimes he forgets which side he’s taken and what’s wrong
suddenly becomes right. I must say it gives me headaches.”

But Mother Margherita had criticized the
priest in front of Sister Angela only once, and Sister Angela was not about to
push too hard now—especially not since Mother Margherita usually saw both sides
of an issue.

“Well, God’s will is just as important,”
the mother superior contended. “Should we let a killer go free to kill again?
After all, the Church takes a position in war and in politics. Isn’t that just
as secular?”

Sister Angela did not have to hint. She
did not have to question the woman’s opinions. Mother Margherita would come to
the right conclusions on her own. The nun doubted

Father Sergio really gave the mother superior
headaches. She concluded that reverend mother could handle the priest since
she, too, knew how to cause headaches.

*

So Sister Angela trundled up the steep
hill to San Benedetto and paused for a moment in front of it now. The nun
always marveled at the church’s simple beauty and the round window that fit
above the door of the austere brown brick front. The inside, however, was
another matter.

The Madonna above the high altar was
beautiful. No doubt about that. And the nun was in awe of the marble statue of
St. Francis of Assisi. The statue’s simplicity and flawless white marble were
indescribable. It was her favorite part of the church. The diocese started
building the Romanesque church in 1275, but it remained unadorned until the fifteenth
century when well-known Tuscan artists embellished the walls with frescos
featuring the lives of martyrs. Sister Angela could not decide if they were
beautiful or hideous. Of course the lives of the saints and martyrs were important
to the Church, but the lengths to which the painters went to illustrate their suffering
made her wonder. In order to become a saint today, someone could have a
spiritual vision or help the poor, but how would artists depict that later?

Certainly not with arrows
or decapitations like those in the
frescoes
. She shook her head at the thought of automatic weapons in a
painting.
That would
be a bit much in a church
.

Sister Angela considered all this as she
slowly made her way up the hill. She would not think about murder or the body
on such a lovely day nor would she dwell on being back for her second class.
Happy she could contribute, Sister Angela thought only about how proud she was
that the Montriano police needed her. Sighing, she reminded herself to do
penance for the sin of pride.

Of course, the idea that the paintings
of martyrs on the walls of San Benedetto were unsuitable or too violent faded
from her mind when she walked through the door into the narthex. In fact, any
feelings about the loveliness of the day would quickly evaporate once she
arrived at the crime scene—and recognized the victim.

The nave was dark. Light streamed in
through the stained glass high above, but the rays did not reach the tile floor.
Instead, they illuminated the painting of the Madonna and child above the high
altar, and of course, the Crucifix. Suddenly envisioning Michelangelo’s
Last
Judgment
, Sister Angela let her gaze drop to the small group of onlookers, encircling
an object at the feet of St. Francis.

“Over here, Sister Angela,” DiMarco
said, waving her toward the group. “You know Dr. Piombo, the medical examiner
from Petraggio, don’t you?”

“Yes,
buongiorno
, Andreus. What
do we have here?” she asked.

“Young man, early to mid-twenties,” the
doctor said. “Homicide. Apparently occurred here. Someone attempted to mop up
the blood. There’s evidence it splattered all over the walls on this side of
the nave.”

Dr. Andreus Piombo was a man of few
words. Each one meant something. He would blurt them out in a staccato string and
stop talking just as quickly. Sister Angela liked him. The aging doctor was
efficient and accurate. He respected her too, though neither ever complimented
the other. There was a bond there—a silent bond. He never hesitated to give his
findings to the nun. She was a colleague and detective who could adeptly turn
facts from a crime into plain and simple solutions.

“Father Domenic says he closed the
church up at ten-thirty, and there was nothing amiss then,” he said. “That
makes the time of death between ten-thirty and maybe four this morning. I’ll
know more when we get the body to my lab.”

Sister Angela put her hand over her
mouth when she saw it; the body was curled in the fetal position. “Blessed Mary
and Joseph,” she said softly, crossing herself.

Blood encrusted the face, but the wound
still glistened. His russet-flecked green eyes were open, looking directly ahead.
In recognition? Sister Angela could not tell. But the chin was up, almost defiant.
There was no real smile. She doubted he even noticed the angels who escorted
him to heaven.

Surely death was instantaneous. He
didn’t have time to contemplate the changes,
she thought.
But then, this young man would have needed
more time than the average person.

The inspector stood quietly beside her.
His jaw twitched. Sister Angela knew he was upset too. He had children, three
of them already, and another on the way. The three were young, but the nun was
sure the inspector felt for the parents—even if he never showed the fears that
sometimes ate away at his insides. Luckily, murder was not common in Montriano.
The inspector spent most of his time keeping the peace among the young and
making the elderly feel safe.

DiMarco looked at her expectantly. “Did
you know him?”

“Yes, he was one of my students at the
scuola
media,”
she said. “I remember him because of his special needs. Poor Bernardo.
He was always so polite. I’m sure Father Domenic has told you he was an
altar boy here. Have you contacted the family?”

“How was he in school, Sister?”

“Such a nice boy—rather quiet but always
alert and interested. Having learning disabilities, he wasn’t strong in academics.
He tried hard but was always a step behind.”

“Was he retarded?” he asked.

“Just a little slow.” The nun felt for
the phone in her pocket—a nervous habit. “I heard he had a job in Petraggio,” she
continued, trying to recall how she had heard about it. Was it Sister Maria?
Bernardo was one of her students too. She told Sister Angela someone
recommended him for a job at a Petraggio olive oil factory. Sister Angela
thought it would be a wonderful job for the boy. Crushing olives and bottling them
were repetitive so he would be able to learn that type of job. “I wish I
remembered the name of the company.”

“We have to follow up on that,” DiMarco
said.

“Have you determined the murder weapon?”

“The processional cross is missing,”
DiMarco said. “Father Domenic noticed it right away.”

“The cross is awfully light,” she said.
“That would mean the murderer would have had to be a man, wouldn’t it? He would
have to have been a big man at that—able to bring it down hard enough to do
that much damage. Is it still missing?”

“Yes. Dr. Piombo will examine the wound
further to see if he can better describe the murder weapon,” the inspector said.

“Andreus, you must check to see if it
could come down with enough force on top of the head to leave such a wound,” she
said. “Have you checked for fingerprints on the other staffs, Inspector?”

“My colleagues are doing that now. The
body was stuffed over here,” DiMarco said.

“Stuffed?”

“Yes, in an attempt to delay discovery,
I guess.”

“But Father Domenic found it right
away?” she asked, trying to mask the confusion in her voice.

DiMarco must have caught her hesitation.
“Are you saying we should include Father Domenic as a suspect?” he asked.

“I should think everyone is a suspect at
this point. But that said, what made him think to look over here?”

“Maybe you should ask him.”

Father Domenic stood away from the group
but close enough to hear the discussions.

“Father Domenic, it’s good to see you.”

“And you, Sister Angela. I can’t say I
didn’t expect you to appear,” he said, his demeanor rather cool.

Sister Angela was reminded of their last
meeting.

“It’s unbecoming for a sister to be
involved in this line of work,” he once declared to Father Sergio. “It doesn’t,
or rather shouldn’t, involve the Church.”

Of course that was not the case in this
particular crime. But he had given the impression that the police work should be
left to the experts, and the mature nun should concentrate on her vocation. Sister
Angela knew how he felt, but that did not deter her. Father Domenic was young
and impressionable. He could still be convinced to view her gift as a benefit
to all.

She remembered when he first came to
Montriano a few years earlier. He was fresh out of seminary, his cheeks beaming
his innocence. With clear olive skin and dark eyes, he was tall and trim, a
perfect build for his clerical robes.

“I think that one is headed for
trouble,” Sister Clara once noted.

“What do you mean?” Sister Angela asked,
taken aback by her fellow teacher’s reaction.

“I’m surprised you don’t see it,” said
Sister Marcella. “You seem to think you know everything else going on in this
village.”

“That man is far too handsome to be a
priest,” Sister Clara said. “I probably wouldn’t have taken my vows if one like
him had shown any interest in me.”

“And I have heard he came to us with a
trail of rumors concerning his vows,” Sister Marcella said. “Maybe the bishop thinks
it’s okay for priests to break theirs, but I can assure you, it only brings
trouble to the rest of us.”

Sister Angela agreed there was something
about him, though not necessarily trouble. Her vow of chastity had never kept
her from admiring some of God’s other work whether the man wore a collar or
not. She looked at the young priest as if she were studying a painting. Was he
trouble?

The young women in the parish admired
him too, whispering among themselves, hushing each other when Sister Angela
passed. And she had heard her own students talk about him. Yes, he was
attractive and not much older than a boy.

Father Domenic did not appear to be
distracted by the attention he received, however—did not even seem to notice
it. With the retirement of Father Augustus and the reassignment of a number of
interim pastors that followed, Father Domenic’s confidence grew. The parish had
been between priests now for three months, and he was forced to fulfill the
pastor’s duties in addition to his own. He seemed to do it easily. But the
diocese probably would not promote him yet. Not only was he still too young,
but as Sister Marcella pointed out, there were rumors about his past that had
to be cleared up.

Rumors about attractive priests were
nothing new, of course. Scandals seemed to blossom in most of the dioceses worldwide.
Did Sister Angela think many of them were true? Probably. The vow of chastity
was contrary to human nature. It was difficult to imagine any of them sticking
to it. Was it impossible? Of course not. Sister Angela managed though she found
it easier as the years progressed. Did she believe Father Domenic had broken
his vow? If his sins did not emerge now, they would come out in the next world.
All Sister Angela could assure everyone was that sins committed against the
townspeople of Montriano would not be covered up for long.

When it came to rumors, Church policy
moved like a hundred-ton truck—it plodded, tremors radiating out, and everyone
felt the effects. Nonetheless, barring the release of more evidence, Sister
Angela recognized he would soon be ready whether or not his superiors were. His
face was more chiseled now, his forehead wrinkled in thought. But he still looked
like a prince, and every single female in the parish lingered, perhaps hoping
he would attempt to whisk her away.

“Father Domenic,” DiMarco said, “maybe
you could fill in Sister Angela on your movements and how you found the body
this morning.”

“As I always do, I walked into the
church at five-thirty this morning,” he began.

“Through the front door?” Sister Angela
asked, needing the picture right in her mind.

“No, no,” he said. “I entered by means
of the gate and then through the sacristy.”

“Was the gate locked this morning?”

“Yes. I had the key.”

“Was the sacristy locked too?”

“It’s never locked,” the priest said.
“There’s no lock, you see. The door was closed, though. There was no sign
anyone had entered there.”

“And was there anything amiss in the
sacristy?”

“I noticed nothing out of place.”

“When did you sense something was
wrong?”

“I already told this to the police,
Sister. Is it really necessary to ask me the same questions?” He certainly
appeared to be anxious. Sister Angela noticed perspiration sprouting on his
upper lip and his weight shifting from foot to foot.

“I understand this is difficult, Father,
but I’m afraid I’m more successful tracking down criminals when I talk to witnesses
directly. I do hope I’m not delaying you,” she said, knowing she had to watch
her step here. Keeping the clergy on her side was critical so this was no time
to make a bid for women’s rights.

The young priest glanced in the
direction of the group that had now thinned considerably. No one else seemed to
need him.

“I walked directly through the sacristy
into the nave. I didn’t look around because I had things on my mind. I needed
to pray.”

“Mmm,” Sister Angela said, deep in
thought. Was the killer standing right in front of her? Could he have a penchant
for other young men or boys? The nun made a mental note to check into his file
at the seminary. Maybe there was something to the rumors.

“When did you look around, then? Did you
hear anything?” she asked.

“No. Or maybe I did. Something made me
look to the side—to where we stack the processional cross and staffs,” he said,
his face strained in thought. “I’m not sure if I heard something but I felt a
sudden chill. That would only happen if someone opened the sacristy door to the
garden. I glanced over my shoulder to see who was coming and noticed the staffs
were strewn across the floor. The cross wasn’t among them.”

“Other than as a weapon, would there be
any reason for someone to take the cross? Was it worth money?”

“A small amount, Sister,” he said. “I’m
sure you are already aware that we don’t use any valuable or historic relics here.
Those are all stored at the museum off the piazza. Some are on display this
summer, I think. We wouldn’t use them because we have no safe place to store
them.” He seemed to have relaxed.

“After you discovered it was missing,
what did you do?”

“I started to search for it. Sometimes
the altar boys play games after mass and leave it elsewhere.”

“So you walked back to the sacristy…”
she said.

“No. I circled the church. I started on
the other side, eyeing the memorials to see if it was resting against them. I scanned
down the rows of pews. It wasn’t lying across a bench or on the floor.”

“I would think if an altar boy were
going to leave it somewhere, it would be where he put it down when he disrobed after
mass,” she said.

“But I didn’t see it in the sacristy
when I came through earlier.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “Go on.”

“When I got to the vault, I peeked over
the top and saw some cloth. There was a shoe sticking out the side. I immediately
went for help.”

“You didn’t try to pull the body out?”

“No.” The perspiration had started
again. A drop began to run down the side of his face.