ON MOTHER’S DAY REMEMBER THE MOTHER OF GOD.
Reverend Mother General was not wearing such a pin. She wasn’t paying any attention to the posters, either. She was marching them both to the corridor’s end, God only knew what for.
What was at the corridor’s end were two small studies, each supplied with an overstuffed couch, an overstuffed chair, and a small coffee table. All the furniture had seen better days in the administration of Woodrow Wilson. Reverend Mother General picked the one on the right—she was right-handed; there was nothing to choose between them—and motioned Gregor inside.
“Please excuse us for all that fuss in the foyer,” she said. “We really hadn’t planned on anything of that sort. Maybe that sounds obvious. But maybe we should have anticipated it. It’s so very hard to know. Nancy Hare—that’s who that was, Nancy Hare, in case nobody upstairs told you—anyway, we’ve all known Nancy for a long time. She has a penchant for theatrics.”
“Is she someone important?” Gregor asked.
“Important?” Reverend Mother General looked stumped. “She was a student here in a parish school we run—not right here but in Radnor. And then she went to Sacred Heart. And then she came to this college. She’s married to Henry Hare. Does the name mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“He’d be disappointed. He’s the founder and CEO of VTZ. It’s a communications conglomerate, I think.”
“It’s a communications corporation,” Gregor said. “I think that in order to be a true conglomerate you have to be at least a national operation, and VTZ as far as I know is still local. Newspapers. Radio stations. A cable channel.”
“Also construction,” Reverend Mother General said. “I think it may all have started with construction, but don’t quote me, because it’s not the sort of thing I have an easy time keeping straight. At any rate, VTZ owns a number of companies that supply construction material and do construction work. Mr. Hare has donated a great many materials and services to the building of a new field house for St. Elizabeth’s College.”
“Ah,” Gregor said.
Reverend Mother General gave him a sharp look. “What’s that supposed to mean, Mr. Demarkian? Ah?”
“It’s supposed to mean that I was wondering why you put up with him. Or with her, either, alumna or no alumna. You don’t put up with much, Reverend Mother.”
“I wouldn’t put up with anything for an ordinary field house,” Reverend Mother General said. “No, it isn’t that I’m just finding it more and more difficult in my old age to be as categorically judgmental as I used to be. That is probably God’s grace.”
“If you say so.”
“There is also the problem of Mother Mary Bellarmine,” Reverend Mother General said. Then she seemed to think better of it. She sat down on the overstuffed chair and folded her hands in her lap. Notice all the things the older nuns do, Scholastica had told Gregor once, that don’t seem to make any sense, but would if they were wearing long old-fashioned habits instead of these new ones.
“Believe it or not,” Reverend Mother General said, “I called you out here to ask you a favor, in spite of the fact that you did us an enormous favor a little more than a year ago, and now you’re doing another one by giving this speech. It’s a very big favor, Mr. Demarkian. It’s going to take a lot of work. And of course we can’t pay you any money.”
“Of course you can’t,” Gregor said. Gregor didn’t take money for involving himself in extracurricular murders. It was too likely to land him in trouble with the Pennsylvania licensing agencies. Gregor didn’t have a private detective’s license and didn’t want to get one.
“Ever since the—problems—we had in Maryville last year,” Reverend Mother General went on, “those of us in positions of responsibility in this Order have been discussing—oh, what am I doing?” Reverend Mother shook her head. “Sister Scholastica has been badgering us, that’s what’s been happening, and I have to admit I think she’s right. I think we could have prevented that murder last year, Mr. Demarkian, if we had known what we were doing.”
Gregor shook his head. “You had two very determined people to deal with. Unless you’re asking for clairvoyance, I don’t think you would have been able to deter either one of them.”
“Maybe,” Reverend Mother said, looking stubborn, “but there was that hate mail. You knew the difference between that and the ordinary kind. We didn’t.”