The Mother's Day Murder (2 page)

BOOK: The Mother's Day Murder
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“I don’t know him very well,” I said. “What’s unpleasant about him?”

“He just seems to be mad at the world. I’ve said hello to him when I was walking or jogging past the house and he was working outside, and he’s practically turned his back on me. Maybe he’s had a tough life; I don’t know. But it sure looks like this tree is the last straw.”

We changed the conversation at that point and when I finally dragged Eddie down from the second floor and went outside, the angry crowd had completely disappeared. I walked the length of the Greiners’ property—they were Mel’s next-door neighbors—and stood near what appeared to be the property line and looked at the offending tree. It was very pretty, tall and slim, its silvery leaves a pleasure to watch in the breeze. Almost next to it, the driveway had heaved and I could sympathize with anyone who had to drive over it, especially in the winter.

“What’re you looking at?” an angry voice asked, and Eddie grabbed my leg and stood close to me.

“The tree and the driveway,” I said, trying to exhibit fairness.

“Well, there’s nothing to look at. Move on.”

I was standing in the street—our block has no sidewalks—and he had no right to ask me to get off town property, but I had no wish to agitate him. “Come on, Eddie,” I said, taking his hand. “It’s time to go home.”

“Is that man mad?” Eddie said.

“I think he’s having a bad day, sweetie. He’s not mad at us. He’s just upset about something.”

Eddie dropped my hand and picked up a little stone that lay on the road. He showed it to me with pride and I watched him carefully to make sure it didn’t make its way into his mouth. When we got home, he put it down and I got rid of it. Sometimes there are simple solutions to small problems.

Jack, my husband of almost four years, is a cop. When I met him, not long after I left St. Stephen’s Convent, he was a detective sergeant with NYPD and he was starting law school. Happily, he not only survived law school—no small feat; he was working full-time and going to school at night—but graduated about a year ago, at which time his career changed dramatically. He left the precinct in Brooklyn where he had worked for several years. For many months after graduating and while studying for the bar, he worked at One Police Plaza, the headquarters building in Manhattan, answering telephone questions from police officers in the field, giving them guidance according to the law when
they needed it. Since passing the bar a few months ago, an event that prompted a great celebration in our household, his job has changed yet again. He’s still with the Legal Bureau at One PP but now he reads reports concerning unusual police activity called UF 49s, for Uniformed Force, to determine whether the officers involved acted legally. Sometimes these involve shootings or other serious violence, while others are simply police-citizen interactions resulting in complaints of one kind or another.

I am very happy that he is getting this kind of experience. Neither of us knows where he will go from here, whether he will stay with NYPD or go into the practice of law, but everything he learns now will help him make the right decision and make him a better lawyer, wherever he works.

On that day of the tree incident, he was working the ten-to-six shift so I was expecting to eat dinner with him when he got home, probably after Eddie went to bed. I got Eddie’s dinner ready and sat with him while he ate. Afterward, I gave him a much needed bath and got him into his pajamas. We were walking back to his bedroom when I heard the doorbell ring.

It was an unusual time for someone to be coming to the door. We don’t get many door-to-door salesmen in Oakwood because there are rigorously enforced rules as to who may engage in such selling. And since this was the dinner hour, it would be odd for a neighbor to drop by without telephoning first. I called down the stairs and went down slowly with Eddie.

Before I got to the door, the bell rang again. I pulled the door open and was startled by the person standing in
front of me. I had never seen her face before but I recognized what she was wearing. It was the brown habit of a novice at St. Stephen’s. The face framed by the veil was young and pale and perhaps just a little frightened.

“Are you Chris?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m Tina. I’m a novice at St. Stephen’s. I need your help.”

There was a frantic edge to her voice that troubled me. “Come in,” I said. “This is my son, Eddie. Eddie, this is Tina.”

Eddie smiled. Tina looked at him and smiled, too. “He’s adorable,” she said. “Hi, Eddie.”

“Hi.”

“Eddie’s getting ready for bed now,” I said. “Could you give us about ten minutes?”

“Yes.”

“You can sit in the family room.” She dropped a stuffed duffel bag on the floor near the door and I led her there, walking through the kitchen to the back of the house. “You can watch TV or read. There are magazines and newspapers.”

“Thank you.” She sat at one end of the sofa, her spine very straight, and closed her eyes.

“I’ll be down soon.” I picked up Eddie and took him upstairs, wondering what on earth this was all about. There had been no car parked in front of my house and where we live, if you don’t come by car, you just don’t get here. I could not believe that this girl had walked from a bus or train station.

I read Eddie a story and put him in his crib. He was starting to get big for the crib but he still fit and I was happy to leave things as they were for a little
while longer. He turned over and I covered him with a light blanket. “Good night, sweetie pie,” I said.

He mumbled something that was probably good night and I left the room.

My guest was sitting on the sofa, staring straight ahead as though I had left her ten seconds ago instead of ten minutes. When I sat opposite her, she seemed to come to life.

“Can I get you anything?” I asked, trying to be a good hostess and putting off my questions.

“No, thank you. I have a problem and I don’t know who to turn to. I need your help.”

“I’ll do what I can. What’s the problem?”

She took a deep breath and her whole body quivered. “It’s Sister Joseph,” she said, speaking the name of the Superior at St. Stephen’s and my dearest friend. “I don’t know how to tell you this so I’ll just say it and you’ll see what the problem is. Sister Joseph is my mother.”

2

I could not exaggerate the shock I experienced at hearing her pronouncement. For a moment it left me short of breath and dizzy. I’m not sure whether there was a fleeting moment in which I thought that what she said might be true or whether I simply felt immediate disgust and anger that anyone would say something so untrue, so impossible to believe and so impossible to have happened—something that could devastate the life and career of a woman whom I believed to be a paragon of virtue.

“Tina,” I said, “I think you should reconsider what you just said. I’ve known Sister Joseph for most of my life. She is a devout Catholic, a devoted member of the convent, a great leader. She has never had a child.”

“Were you there twenty years ago?”

I did some simple subtraction. “No, I wasn’t. I came there a little after that.” I had been fifteen, orphaned, unable to remain with my aunt and uncle. Joseph had been my friend and my adviser, almost an older sister. I had survived those first terrible months because she had dedicated herself to my survival and to my happiness.

“I’m twenty,” the girl sitting on my sofa said. “I can tell you where I was born. I can tell you who adopted
me. You can talk to them. They’ll confirm that they’re my adoptive parents.”

“But you can’t show me any records with Sister Joseph’s name on them.”

“Not right now. But they exist. She gave birth to me twenty years ago and if you give me some time, I can prove it to you.”

“How did you get here, Tina?”

“I took the train and then got a taxi.”

I was starting to feel very uncomfortable. I knew she was going to ask me if she could stay overnight. Since the birth of my son two and a half years ago, I have become very careful and cautious. If this young woman was paranoid I didn’t want her staying in the same house as my child. But how could I throw her out on the street? “Where did you get the money for the train and the taxi?” I asked. I know how little money nuns and novices have access to. When I made my monthly trips to Oakwood, I needed special permission and money was taken out of my dowry to pay the expenses.

“My parents send me money. It’s mine. I didn’t steal it.” She had a pouty look as she spoke and there was defiance in her voice.

“Does Sister Joseph know you’re here?”

“No.
No!
Please don’t tell her.” She looked as if she might cry.

“I’m not telling her anything. But I think you have a lot of explaining to do. I need to know why you’re here, whether you got permission to leave St. Stephen’s, who you are, what the problem is, and what you expect from me.” I looked at my watch. “But there isn’t time now. My husband is coming home soon and I’ve got to get
dinner ready. Will you join us?” I tried to sound pleasant and inviting, neither of which I felt.

“Thank you, I’d like that. And I can help with dinner.”

“That’s all right. There isn’t much to do.” I felt myself somewhat disarmed by her offer. I told her she could stay where she was or use the bathroom. As soon as my husband arrived, we would eat.

“Thank you,” she said. “I need your help, Chris. I really do.”

Jack came home a little while later and I went outside to greet him and tell him about our visitor.

“I don’t like this,” he said. “You should call Sister Joseph and find out what’s going on.”

“I can’t do that yet. I’ve promised her I’ll listen to her story. As crazy as it may be.”

“That’s your call. She staying the night?”

“We haven’t discussed it but I don’t see I have much of a choice.”

“You always have a choice. If push comes to shove, you can call Father Hanrahan and ask if she can stay at the rectory.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Let’s have dinner and let me listen to whatever she wants to tell me. Then I’ll decide.”

He put his arm around me and we walked inside. Tina was sitting where I had left her but she jumped to her feet to say hello to Jack. He responded somewhat curtly and went upstairs to change. By the time he came down, I had the table set for three and the thermometer in my roast beef was within the acceptable range.

“Thank you both very much,” Tina said, sitting down at the table. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“That must be over twelve hours ago,” I said.

“It was.”

“Well, there’s plenty of meat so don’t be shy.”

We kept the conversation away from Tina, Jack talking about a new case he was reviewing, one that looked iffy for the police officers on the scene. He was afraid they hadn’t given the proper warnings and that they might not have used their weapons justifiably. As always, I could see how he was torn between what he knew to be legally correct and wanting to defend the officers, who had been in a very dangerous situation.

As he knew from personal experience, police officers are often required to make instant decisions involving the use of their weapons, which after review in a calmer, less dangerous setting appear to be overreaction or unnecessary, and sometimes can cross the line into actual criminal activity.

Tina contributed little to the conversation. If anything, she seemed confused. She ate heartily and helped me clear the table when we were finished.

After the dishes were done, I suggested she and I sit in the living room, a room we hardly use since adding a huge family room to the back of the house before Eddie was born. Jack retired there with a whispered “Don’t make any promises,” and Tina and I went to the front of the house and got comfortable.

I didn’t say anything, but I recalled a visit to St. Stephen’s about a year ago when I had had a long talk with Sister Joseph. At that time she told me how few novices had entered the convent and that she had her doubts about one of them. No names had been mentioned but I wondered whether this was the one she had referred to.

I was troubled and starting to regret allowing myself
to get into a situation where I was about to hear things I did not want to hear from a person whose credibility was shaky at best. Finally I looked up and saw Tina sitting like a statue on the sofa, as though waiting for permission to speak.

“Why are you here, Tina?” I asked, just to get her going.

“I need your help and I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“I’m afraid of her.”

“Tina, you are speaking of someone I have known, loved, and trusted for more than half my life. I can imagine fearing her anger if I had done something reprehensible, but otherwise, she is not a person who inspires fear. You’ll have to explain yourself or I will ask you to leave.” I tried to sound stern, as though I were talking to one of my students who had not delivered a paper, although something about Tina touched me.

“I’m afraid of her because I think she’s guessed who I am and she doesn’t want the truth to come out. She gave birth to me twenty years ago when she was in her twenties. She was living and working in Ohio at that time, and after I was born she went back to St. Stephen’s. She gave me up for adoption when I was just a few days old.”

“I would think the records would have been sealed,” I said.

“They were. But I was able to get a summer job at the hospital. I got into the records.”

“What did you find?”

“Sister Joseph’s real name and the address she gave when she checked into the hospital. And the name of the agency that gave me to my parents.”

I looked at her face, trying to see something of Joseph in it, but I could not. “There’s no resemblance between you,” I said.

“I have a father, too.”

“Do you know him?”

“No. I couldn’t find him.”

“I take it you haven’t spoken to Sister Joseph about this.”

“No. I’m very nervous. I want to get to the bottom of this but I need someone to help me.”

“Is that the reason you entered St. Stephen’s, Tina?”

“I want a religious life. I thought about several convents, but the reason I chose St. Stephen’s is probably because of her. I wanted to know her. I wanted to be near her. I wanted to know what kind of person she was.”

BOOK: The Mother's Day Murder
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