“I always liked the story of Saint Michael’s sword. I remember when I was a girl, a demonstrative priest showed our communion class how Michael struck down a fiery dragon with his sword.”
Karen offered these words while staring at my burn scar, and then she suddenly turned away in embarrassment. Her face flared red, but I pretended not to notice, just as I had pretended not to see her stare. I began circulating around the gift shop, poking at this and that.
“You manage to pack a lot into a small space,” I said.
“The nuns make many of our products. They bake and knit and paint.”
I paused to look at some of the paintings on the walls; most were scenes from the monastery.
“All those paintings you’re looking at were drawn by the sisters,” she said.
“I guess that explains why there are no nudes.”
Karen laughed from behind a closed hand.
After finishing my deliberate inventory, I made my way back to where Karen was standing and suddenly asked her, “What was on the girl’s sweatshirt?”
The abruptness of my question produced an immediate answer: “A bird.”
Karen looked surprised but then started nodding definitively. “It was a bird.”
“What color was it?”
“Gold, I think, or brown.”
“Can you describe it?”
“I remember it being-feisty.”
I couldn’t think of any California teams with a bird, and wondered if the girl could have been a migratory NFL fan. “Could it have been an Arizona cardinal or a Seattle seahawk?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think it was a bird representing a professional team. I’m of a mind that it was a school mascot.”
“Do you think it was a high school mascot or college?”
Karen’s face scrunched up in concentration. “I’m fairly sure it wasn’t high school. I probably would have taken more notice of it if it was.”
She offered me a small explanation and history: “I was a high school teacher for many years before going into school administration.”
“So you think the bird was a college logo?”
Karen offered a tentative nod. The two most recognizable university mascots in the LA area are the UCLA Bruin and the USC Trojan, but there were plenty of other smaller universities in and around Los Angeles. Later, I would have to go mascot hunting.
“Can you tell me what this case is about?” she asked.
“I can only say that this woman might be a person of interest in a crime that occurred.”
Karen nodded. “I’ll probably close up by the time you finish your meeting with the reverend mother, so you better take your package now. Dottie wanted me to tell you that she put it together especially for you.”
“Bless her,” I said in tones not exactly ecclesiastical.
I pulled out my wallet, and Karen quoted a price that sounded high. “Did the price go up for pumpkin bread and chocolates?”
“No,” she said. “Most of the expense is for the medals that Dottie picked out for you. She chose two of Saint Jude, and one of Saint Michael.”
“Is there a patron saint for suckers?”
Karen looked innocent. “I am not aware of one.”
“I suppose I should be glad Dottie didn’t add gold, frankincense, and myrrh to my order.” I thumbed through my wallet. “It looks as if I’ve got just enough cash.”
“We can bend our cash-only rule for you. Your check is good with us, Detective.”
“Then you must know something my bank doesn’t.”
I finished paying, and then Karen escorted me over to a building not far from the gift shop. As far as I could determine, I was now officially in cloistered territory. There was no one in sight, and I wondered if all the sisters were praying.
The Catholic church makes no secret of the fact that over the last half century the ranks of nuns have been in serious decline. Some believe the sisters are becoming an endangered species. I wondered if anything was being done to reverse the trend. Most vocations recruit when they experience declining numbers. I probably wouldn’t have become a cop if not for a job fair I had attended at college. It was only after talking with LAPD recruiters that I began to entertain the idea of being a police officer. As I recalled, there had been no recruiting booth for sisters. Maybe it doesn’t work to advertise when the job description is chastity, poverty, and obedience.
The sound of footsteps approaching along the tiled floor made me hastily stand up. The reverend mother was slightly bent from age, but her stoop didn’t slow her down. She was wearing white robes and black open-toed sandals with white socks. A fringe of white hair could be seen underneath her black habit. The sister wore thick glasses, but the eyes behind them were clear and appraising.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I said. “I am Michael Gideon of the Los Angeles Police Department.”
With a slight rustle of robes she offered me a small hand. “I am Sister Frances.”
She took a seat at the table and looked at me expectantly. Most people are nervous around cops, but she wasn’t. Apparently the reverend mother had a clean conscience. Either that or she had nerves of steel.
“I believe a young woman visited the monastery last Friday,” I said. “I am trying to find this girl so that I can question her about a case I am working on. I think it’s possible that she approached someone inside the monastery and engaged her in conversation.”
“And why do you think that?”
The prioress’s voice was soft, but there was an amazing clarity to it, like one of those bells that aren’t overloud but ring in such a way that they can be heard over just about anything.
“I am only guessing, but I suspect this young woman had a guilty conscience. I think she came here looking for answers and maybe a way out of her situation. It’s possible she was hoping that she might escape her problems by becoming a nun at this monastery.”
I waited for the reverend mother to answer, but she didn’t seem to be in any hurry. One of the interview techniques every cop learns is to let the silence build. I was quickly learning that strategy doesn’t work with nuns. They are old friends with silence.
“I need to know if this woman talked to anyone here.”
The reverend mother’s serene face regarded me. For a woman of her apparent age, it was remarkable how unwrinkled she was. Her composed expression would have been at home at a poker table: it gave away nothing.
“And how would that help your case?” she asked.
“The nun with whom she talked might be able to give me information about this girl.”
Her nod showed that she understood, but it wasn’t a nod of agreement. “It is not uncommon for troubled girls to make vocational inquiries. We stress to them that ours is a calling from God and not an escape from the world.”
“Is there one nun in particular who talks to these girls?”
“Usually they are directed to me.”
She didn’t elaborate further. When silence stopped being golden, I decided to be more direct. “Did you talk to this girl?”
Instead of answering, the reverend mother said, “I refer all serious inquiries to the vocational director of our order. I am well aware that there is no one nun-size habit that fits all.”
I thought I saw a little smile on her lips.
“In fact some orders don’t even wear habits,” she said. “There are sisters that go out in the world and there are cloistered nuns. Is the candidate looking for a community of sisters that is evangelical, monastic, or apostolic? Many of the orders require a minimum of a high school education, as well as work experience. Young women are often surprised to learn that in many orders they have to be at least twenty years old before they can take their vows.”
“Did that rule out this candidate?” I asked.
Once again she chose to answer a question I didn’t ask. “It is one thing to be a potential postulant, but it is quite another to arise at four forty-five every morning. That is our daily routine here.”
“Did the thought of those long working hours discourage this girl?”