Murder Superior(65)

“Oh, of course. The smart one.”

“Try him. His name is Collins. Sergeant Collins. You’ll still have to talk to Lieutenant Androcetti, but at least you’ll have given your story to one officer who will listen to you.”

“Listen to me,” Bennis said suddenly. “Here comes the fuss you were talking about.”

Gregor turned in the direction in which Bennis was pointing—toward the gate to the back garden, through the gate and into the lawn beyond—and saw a swirling mass of movement that looked like a black ocean in the middle of a storm. The black ocean resolved itself into nuns’ black veils and the storm into the white veil of a novice. Under the novice’s veil Gregor recognized Sister Mary Angelus.

“Let me through,” she was shouting, “let me through! I’ve got to find Mr. Demarkian.”

Gregor climbed up on the low stone wall where Bennis was still sitting. It made him more visible, although it also made him look ridiculous.

“I’m over here,” he called out to Sister Angelus. “Come this way.”

She must have heard him. She pushed two older nuns out of her way—Gregor could hear her “excuse me” ’s because they were loud in spite of being distracted—and barreled through the gate into the field. Once on open land, she stopped, looked around, and trained her sight on Gregor. Then she took off again at a full run. Her veil flapped in the breeze. Her calf-length black habit flapped up to expose her knees. Her long rosary slapped against her side. She got to Sister Mary Celestine out of breath and panting wildly.

“Oh, Mr. Demarkian,” she said. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Demarkian, you have to come quick. Reverend Mother General said to get you and tell you to come right away.”

“But why?” Gregor asked. “What’s happened?”

“What happened is that they’ve taken Sister Agnes Bernadette away in handcuffs.” Sister Angelus wheezed, still breathless. “And there are cameras out there from all three networks watching them do it.”

Sister Agnes Bernadette.

Cameras from all three networks.

Gregor Demarkian groaned.

How bad was all this going to get?





Chapter 3


1


THERE WAS A BOTTLE of Johnnie Walker Black behind the copy of Anna Karenina on Henry Hare’s bedroom bookshelf, and when Nancy Hare decided she wanted to go to bed that evening, she went right to it. Nancy didn’t sleep in Henry’s bedroom, and hadn’t for years, but she still treated it as her own turf. She borrowed his shirts to sleep in and his bathrobes to lie around the house in and his ties to try out various things she read about in The Joy of Sex. She never tried out anything from The Joy of Sex on Henry, because Henry didn’t think sex was a joy. He thought it was more of a responsibility. He thought it was like working at the office or paying his taxes, something he didn’t like to do much but was much too honorable to try to get out of. Of course, Nancy didn’t like to do it much, either, but there was something about Henry not wanting to do it that she found insulting. It was as if she lacked something fundamental that would make him behave like a normal human being.

Was it one of the ordinary duties of a wife, to make her husband behave like a normal human being?

The Scotch was in an unopened bottle. The bottle was unopened because Henry’s valet checked it every morning and replaced it if a drink had been taken out of it. A drink was taken out of it once or twice a month, when Henry wanted to make himself feel like James Bond. Nancy took one of the clean crystal drinking glasses out of Henry’s private bathroom—Henry had to have clean crystal drinking glasses to fill with water to clean his mouth out after he brushed his teeth, he also had to have brand new, never before used socks to wear every morning, because he’d heard that J. Paul Getty never wore a pair of socks twice—and filled it to the brim. She drank half of it down and topped it up again. Then she took a cigarette out of the gold box on Henry’s bureau and lit up with a gold Dunhill lighter. It was crazy. This bedroom was like some fantasy out of Penthouse magazine, except not so gross. The bed was the size of California and up on a platform. There was a switch in the bedside table that could make the ceiling panels turn until the ceiling had become a mirror. There were pillows the size of outboard motors tossed randomly on furniture and carpet the way the loaves of manna had been tossed from the Heavens. It was all calculated to seduce someone, but Nancy didn’t know who. Henry certainly wasn’t interested in seducing her.

She turned on the television and sat back to watch the eleven o’clock news. She didn’t expect to hear much more than what she had heard at six. It was all over town now, that a nun had died at St. Elizabeth’s. She’d even had phone calls about it. And Henry was furious. Henry was taking it personally. Henry thought it was all her fault, because she’d thrown those flowers on that nun.