He went through the doors at the back into the garden, pausing for a moment on the threshold to get his bearings. The crowd before him was thick and uneasy, but not heavily distressed. From what he could hear of the conversations going on around him, most of the Sisters still thought they had been presented with a case of unfortunate, untimely, but perfectly natural death. Gregor hoped they’d go on thinking that way. It would make them a lot more tractable in the short run, and in the long run it didn’t matter what they’d thought when. He peered through the clots and collections of chattering nuns in habit, to the statue of the Virgin in her rock garden grotto, festooned in blue ribbons. There was another statue of the Virgin, this time as Madonna with Child, at the back near the rear gate. That was festooned in blue ribbons, too. The nun standing just in front of him had one of those blue plastic pins on which seemed to be spelling out the tried-and-true sentiment: ON MOTHER’S DAY REMEMBER THE MOTHER OF GOD. It only seemed to be, to Gregor, because it was in German. Gregor gave the probably German Sister a small smile and pushed past her, into the center of the garden.
Actually, to call this enclosed space a garden was misleading. It was at least an acre worth of land, extending back far beyond the point where thick hedges marked the end of the rear yard of St. Cecelia’s Hall. Aside from the two statues of the Virgin in their miniature hand-made grottoes, there were three small gazebos and a half a dozen extra-long picnic tables with benches to match. The picnic tables were occupied, mostly by Sisters drinking coffee or picking at plates of food. Only the older nuns were eating well. Maybe they were more comfortable with the idea of dying because they were closer to it than the younger Sisters were. Maybe they’d just seen more of it.
Gregor drew close to the nearest gazebo and saw that it was occupied by a flurry of young nuns helping a middle-aged one with large trays of Chicken Cordon Bleu. This must be the French food Sister Mary Stephen and Sister Francesca had been talking about inside. Gregor moved along to the next gazebo, which turned out to be Spanish, and then to the third and last, so far across the lawn to the back he could see past the rear gate to the field beyond. The field was full of nuns, too. Fortunately, this gazebo was the one he had been hoping to find. He recognized Mother Andrew Loretta right away. She must have come out to give the news to her nuns. Her nuns were scurrying around a sushi bar, smiling graciously at the few people who spoke to them and tending to the food in their care as if it were alive.
Gregor went up to the side of the gazebo and leaned in. “Mother Andrew Loretta?” he asked. “Could I talk to you for a moment?”
Mother Andrew Loretta had been speaking to one of her novices in Japanese. Mother Andrew Loretta was Japanese, although with a name like that Gregor found it hard to remember unless he was looking straight at her. She said one last thing to the young Sisters and then stood up, walking over to where he stood as if she were gliding.
“Mr. Demarkian,” she said. “Have you come for food? With the tragedy people aren’t eating much.”
“Has the word got around already?”
“Oh yes.” Mother Andrew Loretta nodded. “It got around in ten seconds flat, if you ask me. Of course, nobody knows what to make of it. Neither do I. Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat?”
“Positive.” Actually, Gregor was starving. It just didn’t seem right to be chowing down at the start of a murder investigation. In fact, it was what his nieces would call “gross.” “Actually, I came over here because I thought I’d heard something—but I must have been wrong.”
“Heard what?” Mother Andrew Loretta said.
“Heard that somebody sent you a lot of fugu and a fugu chef all the way from Tokyo,” Gregor said.
Mother Andrew Loretta went white. “Do you think that’s what it was? Fugu poisoning? But it couldn’t have been, could it? Where would Joan Esther have gotten the fugu?”
“I don’t know where,” Gregor said, although he thought he did, “but it doesn’t matter if there isn’t any to be had. The symptoms of her death were consistent with fugu poisoning. Didn’t you notice?”
“I’ve never seen anyone die of fugu poisoning.” Mother Andrew Loretta shook her head. “But you’re wrong about there being none of it around, Mr. Demarkian. We have boxes of it down in the freezer. And we have that fugu chef you heard about. He’s supposed to be here right this minute.”
“Why isn’t he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have any idea where he might have gone to?”