Partners In Crime (36 page)

It had been the very act of pulling out her
notebook as efficiently as an experienced stenographer that had
jogged her memory. Anne Marie. Anne Marie had gone to school at Our
Lady of Perpetual Help. T.S. had thought it so appropriate for a
secretary.

But would there be any connection? Could
there be any connection?

As if in answer to her thoughts or, perhaps,
her unspoken prayers, an elderly nun turned the corner near the
church and inched toward the building's stone steps. She moved
slowly with the air of one plagued by arthritis. An old-fashioned
marketing basket was slung over one arm and she was dressed in a
traditional black-and-white Roman Catholic habit.

An old nun. A very old nun. One who had
trouble walking. What had the aide at the mental hospital said?
That Patricia Kelly had very few visitors. A mysterious lady. A
priest now and then. And an old nun who could barely walk. And
where else would Patricia Kelly be buried than across from the only
place where she was still remembered?

Auntie Lil checked the coin return
automatically for quarters, scanned for traffic and crossed the
street. She would reach the front door at the same time as the
nun.

Behind her, Herbert Wong moved out slowly
from his hiding spot around the corner. He had not gone far. He
watched Auntie Lil cross the street and greet the elderly nun. His
face was puzzled and anxious. Only when he saw Auntie Lil enter the
massive oak doors of the church did he relax. He leaned against the
stone wall and waited.

Behind him, in the shadows of a nearby oak
tree, Sheila crossed her aims and waited, too.

T.S. dialed Abromowitz to tell him of Auntie
Lil's finds. Things had gotten nasty. It was time to turn the whole
thing over to professionals, like it or not.

"Who is this?" the Lieutenant barked rudely.
His version of "hello."

"T.S. Hubbert. I've got some new information
you may find…"

"I'm not interested. Butt out." He hung up
without comment, the bang of the receiver ringing in T.S.'s
ears.

Damn them all. They could kill each other
off for all he cared. But Auntie Lil's words reverberated in his
mind: "This is not a game, Theodore."

T.S. dialed Edgar Hale's number with
resignation, prepared to be hung up on yet again.

"Hale," the familiar disagreeable voice
boomed into the receiver.

"It's T.S., Edgar." He was met by an
underwhelming silence.

"What do you want?" the old man finally
barked. "Clever of you to wait until Mrs. Quincy is away from her
desk to call me."

T.S. spoke quickly, anxious to get it all in
before the old man could hang up. "Edgar, I know you think I'm
crazy, but Auntie Lil is absolutely convinced she's uncovered
evidence that's a matter of life and death."

"What rot," Edgar Hale said.

"Life and death for you," T.S. cried in
desperation. The anguish in his voice convinced Edgar Hale to
listen.

"I'm waiting," the Managing Partner finally
said, "but it better be good. I suffered through an extremely
humiliating lunch with Frederick Dorfen today, who talked of
nothing but the Patricia Kelly affair. It took us decades to bury
that mess and you go and dig it up."

"I apologize again, Edgar. I don't know
exactly what Auntie Lil has, but she's on her way in now and feels
that you may be in danger. Can you wait until she gets here?" He'd
let her have a try at convincing him that Patricia Kelly still
lived, at least in spirit. Not that Edgar Hale deserved a warning.
He had known all along what Magritte's meant and had chosen to
conceal it.

The old man snorted. "I can wait all night.
Haven't you heard? I'm the only one doing any work around here!
Preston Freeman is sitting in his lawyer's office not saying a
word, and it's taking days to go through his two apartments and
three houses in four different states. How many homes does one man
need? Meanwhile, I've just discovered that before Cheswick died, he
didn't just neglect accounts, he practically destroyed them." The
old man sighed and in the sudden silence that followed T.S. heard
the distinct echo of a distant crash.

"What the hell?" he heard Edgar Hale shout.
"What is it now?" The phone was dropped with a thud and T.S. heard
screaming and cries in the background.

"Stop that!" Edgar Hale's voice boomed out
from a distance. "Stop that. What's going on in here? Get out! Get
out, I tell you! Frederick—get some help!"

T.S. didn't wait to hear more. He was
already halfway out the door.

It was natural enough for Auntie Lil to
offer to help. The elderly nun was huffing and puffing too much to
protest when Auntie Lil took the market basket from her, gripped
her elbow and guided her inside the church.

The observers watched the scene with
interest. As Auntie Lil disappeared inside the church, Sheila
looked at her watch and bit her lip, then turned resolutely away
and walked briskly through the far exit of the cemetery. Herbert
Wong continued to lean against the low brick wall, staring at the
church doors.

While the nun fussed over her packages,
Auntie Lil stood in the darkness of the entrance room and wondered
where the old sister could possibly reside. The building looked the
same inside as it did outside—as if the brick apartments on either
side were squeezing the life from its stones. A narrow aisle ran
between short rows of pews but the altar made up in depth what it
lacked in width. The floor was green marble inlaid with stars of
white, but the pews were nicked and scarred. The windows were high
and skinny, their beauty vanquished by the apartment buildings that
blocked the light that used to stream through the stained glass. It
was a pity. The expressive faces of saints now lurked in darkness,
any hope they might have symbolized lost.

The old nun appeared not to notice or care
that the life was being squeezed from her home. She smiled her
thanks at Auntie Lil and headed briskly for a wooden door hidden in
the shadows of the altar, leaving Auntie Lil to her prayers.

Accordingly, Auntie Lil uttered a short one
and answered it herself. "Sister," she called out. "May I speak to
you?"

The nun stopped, one foot on the altar step,
and turned to stare at the stranger. Auntie Lil looked harmless
enough. She was elderly and clean. Nicely dressed with perhaps a
too-jaunty hat, but at least her head was covered. So few women
bothered these days. A step up, in fact, from the usual crowd. All
the same, it was best to be careful. Sister Bridget Mary had
learned that over the years. God resided everywhere, but was
sometimes elbowed aside in New York City.

"If something is bothering you," she told
Auntie Lil gently, "perhaps I should call Father Davies. He's much
better at this kind of thing than I am."

"No, it's not that." Auntie Lil moved
carefully closer, inching her way down the darkened aisle. "It's
you I want to speak to. About someone you may have known."

The nun stared at Auntie Lil without moving,
then placed her bundle down on the step and moved slowly forward.
Her former briskness gone, she put a hand out and grabbed the top
of each pew as she passed, moving her way back up the aisle toward
Auntie Lil. Her face settled into a grim mask, as if she knew what
Auntie Lil was going to ask and dreaded opening up the subject.

"About who?" she asked softly, slipping into
a pew by Auntie Lil. She slid along its polished surface and waited
patiently for Auntie Lil to speak.

Auntie Lil could not bring herself to tempt
fate so brazenly as to lie to a nun. Nor could she face the woman's
trusting features with anything less than the truth.

"It's about Patricia Kelly," she said
quietly. The empty air within the church stirred with her words and
soft echoes fluttered up the aisle. "She was a member of this
church, wasn't she?"

"She once was,'' the old nun admitted sadly,
her sign of the cross discreet and automatic. "She's in the hands
of God now."

"Yes. I know. I’ve just been to her grave.
It's a very sad story, isn't it?"

"It depends on how much of the story you
know." The nun had moved almost imperceptibly away from Auntie Lil
and her voice had grown more wary.

"I am not going to lie to you, Sister,"
Auntie Lil whispered urgently. "The truth is, I did not know her. I
was not even certain that she was a member of this church, but when
I saw the name it reminded me of someone else. Someone who I
suspect must have a connection to Patricia Kelly. I have come here
to find out if that is so."

"Who is this person?" The nun glanced toward
the altar and Auntie Lil wondered where the priest might be.

"Her name is Anne Marie Shaunessy," Auntie
Lil said. "I know that she went to school here."

"We have no school here," the nun said
emphatically.

"Not now. That's obvious. But perhaps, many
years ago, you did."

"Perhaps." The nun folded her hands as if in
prayer and stared down at the marble floor. "There was no Anne
Marie Shaunessy at the school," she said quietly.

"That is her married name. She would have
been known by another name back then.'' Auntie Lil stared at the
bowed head. She would break down the woman's defenses slowly, she
was not the type to keep up a lie for long. Sister Bridget Mary was
used to a kinder world than the one in which Auntie Lil moved. It
was a pity to intrude upon the sanctuary she had sought in the
Church, but Auntie Lil had no other recourse. "I think you know who
I'm talking about," she told the nun.

Her answering sigh was as faint as the
rustling of silk. "What do you want to know? Even if you are not a
Catholic, surely you believe in letting the dead rest in
peace?"

"I do believe in that. Most definitely. But
I don't think that Patricia Kelly is resting in peace. In fact,
that is the very reason I am here. To bring her peace."

"How did you know to speak to me?"

Auntie Lil shifted uncomfortably on the hard
wood. "I visited the hospital where she died. They told me that one
of her very few visitors had been a nun."

"An old nun, no doubt." The woman managed a
smile, which she hid with her hands as if God might somehow be
offended.

"Perhaps. I'm not one to throw stones,"
Auntie Lil pointed out. "She also had another visitor at times. A
woman. They could not give me a description."

"That would have been Anne Marie," the nun
answered quietly. "She loved Patricia very much. She was, I think,
the only one who could understand how much she had suffered. What
she had given up."

"How had she suffered?" Auntie Lil asked. "I
have no wish to disturb the dead or bring up sad memories that are
better left alone. But I am concerned with the living and many
people are being hurt. What you have to tell me may be
important."

"She has been back here quite often in
recent days." The old nun sighed again.

"Who?"

"Anne Marie. I think, perhaps, sad memories
are coming back on their own."

"How had Patricia Kelly suffered?" Auntie
Lil prompted gently.

The nun sat back against the pew, her habit
rustling. She tucked her hands beneath the bib and stared up at a
huge stained glass rendering of Jesus that dominated the wall
behind the altar. This window alone was lit from behind and golden
light poured through the halo that encircled his head. His face
drooped with a permanent sadness as hands helped him down from the
cross.

For the first time in many years, Auntie Lil
felt close to God and the small infusion of strength gave her the
courage to press on. "I don't know what else to tell you except
that I need to know," she said.

"I knew that nothing good could come of it,"
the old nun said sadly. "We see a lot of sadness here, you know.
People bring it to our door every day. Lay it out. Ask us to make
it better." She sighed again, deeply. "A long time ago, I thought
we had the power. Now..." Her voice trailed off and she shrugged,
then her shoulders straightened and her voice grew more confident.
A decision had been made.

"To tell the story of Patricia Kelly and
Anne Marie Gallagher, you'd have to go back many years. Many, many
years. It was before we sold the lot next door. When the school
still stood there and we had rooms for the sisters. There were more
than a dozen of us then. I'm the only one left, you know. I take
care of Father Davies. I don't think anyone else in the Church
really remembers we exist. We had to sell the land because we had
no money and the people of our parish have greater needs these days
than learning how to type." She grimaced and shook her head.

"Patricia and Anne Marie entered the school
together. They held hands their first day, I remember. We knew
their families well. Both lived only a few blocks over, within
doors of each other. It was a nicer neighborhood back then. Neither
Patricia or Anne Marie had any sisters. Both came from huge
families filled with boys." She looked at Auntie Lil keenly. "I
confess I have often thought that it would have been better if we
had all been born men in this world." Auntie Lil nodded in
understanding.

"Naturally, they gravitated toward one
another. Anne Marie was the tomboy back then. She was always as
brown as a little Indian. She could ride bicycles and sail and fish
better than any of her brothers. The Bay was still clean then. She
practically lived on the water. Used to bring us fish for our
Friday meals. Patricia was different. She was the shy one, followed
Anne Marie in all she did, but without Anne Marie's enthusiasm.
Patricia's mother had been very old when she was born. Old for
those days, at any rate. Anne Marie took the place of Patricia's
mother in many ways, I always thought.

"But their positions changed once they came
here for training. There had been no question about what they would
do. Nice young girls in those days came here for secretarial
training. Period. We doubled as a high school. I was the typing and
shorthand teacher." She held out her chubby palms and stared at
them. "Can you believe I was once quite good at it? I don't think
they even teach shorthand anymore. Why bother? Tape recorders.
Video cameras. Who needs it?