Breaking Point (22 page)

             
Shit. It had been right there in the desk when Wood and I had broken in. I hadn't even looked for anything like an answering machine tape. I let out the breath I'd been holding. Well," I said, "at least she did remember now, and that helps."

             
"I don't know how much help it will be," Omar said. "It wasn't exactly a threat but it was enough to worry Iris. She didn't know what Charlie could have been involved in. I guess that's when she called you to stop the investigation. When we got back from Sioux City and found her house had been burned down, well she was so upset about losing her home and all her things that she got really scared. That's when she told me about the tape. When she repeated what the caller had said, I insisted she tell you right away, just in case it's important." I heard him say something away from the phone, presumably to Iris, while he muffled the mouthpiece. "Listen, Rudy. I told Iris that it's more important than ever that you continue your investigation. She's still terrified but she understands that we have to let you do your job and get to the bottom of all this." I promised him that I would.

             
Before hanging up, Gary gave me his phone number. I assured him that telling me about the tape was the right thing to do and that I was still on top of the case. That wasn't quite true, of course. I felt like I was running about a half lap behind the clues as the case sprinted away from me. I wasn't really any closer to knowing what happened than I was a few days earlier. I knew that Frank Goodwin had knocked the wind out of me in my parking lot to scare me off the investigation. His main concern seemed to be the meth, though, and his drug operation. He'd seemed genuinely perplexed by my mention of the negative. To a man like Goodwin, Charlie Wilson probably didn't pose much of a threat. Frank sure didn't have any regard for Wilson's cleverness.

             
The tape had been destroyed in the fire, or maybe even removed by the arsonist before he set the blaze. The caller could very well have been talking about a meeting the night Charlie Wilson drowned at the dam. I'd like to have heard his voice, but there was no use beating that one into the ground. At least I had the gist of the message. Maybe it would be useful someplace down the road.

             
In the morning, I'd call the local Kiwanis guy, Ken Davidson, and get Wilder's phone number in L.A. After tying up the loose ends here in California, I'd fly back to Oak Grove and try to sort it all out. In the meantime, I had the directions to Saint Martin's, so that was my next stop.

Chapter 24

              The convent was situated on several acres of ground, dotted with plenty of flowering shrubs and mature trees. Around the perimeter stood an iron fence that would dissuade the most ardent escapee. The fencing was at least eight feet tall, with a long pointed spire every six inches or so along the top. At the entrance to the property was a double iron gate, rising above the rest of the enclosure. An oval placard hung on the right side of the gate, announcing that this was Saint Martin's Convent, the home of an Order of Dominican Sisters. The left gate was pulled back along the gravel driveway. I drove in. Up close, I could see that the gate was rusting and in need of repair.

             
Ahead of me was a three-story, red-brick building with a portico that towered above the driveway. Several other, smaller buildings extended off to the left of the main one and seemed to continue to the rear. No one was outside as I parked under the roofed portico and walked up the steps to the porch. Everything here seemed oversized, from the wrought iron fencing to the ten foot oak doors that were now before me. Kind of intimidating. I wondered how those little boys had felt when they'd lived here, in a building of such gargantuan proportion. I pressed the bell beside the right-hand door three times before I realized it wasn't working and rapped my knuckles against the thick oak instead.

             
The door opened and a tall woman in a white habit greeted me, stepping back and inviting me into a three-story entrance hall, which was partially illuminated by an immense chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Most of the bulbs seemed to be burned out. The furnishings were sparse but it all had the look of recent cleaning and polishing. There was a faint lemon scent lingering in the room.

             
"Sorry about the bell," she said with a smile. "We keep meaning to get it fixed but something always comes up." She folded her long thin hands and tilted her head expectantly in my direction. "How can I help you?"

             
"Is there a Sister Alex here, who used to work with the children's home?" I could almost hear my echo in the open hall.

             
"Yes, Sister Alex is here. I can call her if you'd like to have a seat. May I have your name, please?" I gave her one of my cards and saw her raise her eyebrows slightly as she turned to leave the hallway. She motioned me to come along and went through an arched doorway and down a short hall. The ancient sound of the swishing white garb echoed in the nearly empty space and reminded me of eight years of Saturday morning Catechism classes at St. Rose's. She led me into an office on the right side of the hall. It seemed small compared to the three-story entry, but was probably fifteen feet square.

             
She indicated with a wave that I should have a seat as she moved behind the desk, plucked the telephone off its base and pressed one button. She pushed the stiff headpiece an inch or so to the rear and managed to get the telephone's earpiece in place. Her side of the conversation was brief and to the point. "Sister, there's a gentleman here to see you. His name is Rudy Murdock and he's here from Iowa." There was a brief pause, then, "Yes." She returned the phone to its base and smiled at me.

             
"Sister will be right here. Would you like some coffee or a soft drink?" I thanked her and declined. What I wanted, besides information, was a hamburger, but I figured I'd get that as soon as I left here. I'd noticed several fast food places on the way over. While we waited, she introduced herself as Sister Sarah Baron. I asked what the sisters here did all day now that the children's home was closed. Apparently they did quite a lot.

             
"There are only three of us in full-time residence here at the convent," she explained. "Nine other sisters live and work in the community, both locally and in Los Angeles. We try to live in the area where we are needed and to minister to those in the greatest need."

             
I said I thought that might be a pretty big undertaking for anyone and Sister Sarah Baron agreed. She said they each had received a calling from God, which made the choice and the work much easier. She also said I could simply call her Sarah. Wondering how they supported themselves in the community, I asked and was surprised by the answer.

             
"Of the nine sisters, seven have full-time jobs, from cooking hamburgers to packaging cookies in a cookie factory," she said. "They work to pay the rent and utilities for the modest apartments where they live, and that enables the other two to be full-time volunteers at shelters and soup kitchens. Our sisters work and live with the poor in all parts of the world. It is our mission, you see, and each of us has followed God's beckoning and chosen to serve Him."

             
"What about this place," I asked, gesturing with my arm.

             
"We're here to be a shelter and a refuge for the sisters when they need a time to meditate and rest from the world for a few days. The three of us maintain the convent and support the sisters with our prayers. Of course," she added, " There are also those poor souls who stop by here for spiritual renewal or just for a warm meal from time to time. We do what we are able, with the Lord's help," she said simply.

             
Another woman stepped into the room and Sister Sarah excused herself and left. I assumed this was Sister Alex and was told I was correct. I guessed her age at the early sixties, sixty-three tops. I stood and she offered her hand.

             
"Mr. Murdock?" she said. Her dark hair was streaked with gray. It was cut in an attractive style, short and curving in toward her face. She was wearing dark blue slacks and a white blouse with a small pin on the collar. The outfit reminded me of the one Caroline had been wearing when I'd seen her the first time, at the mission. Apparently Sister Alex had opted for a less formal style of clothing than did Sister Sarah. I got right to the point and told her I was investigating Charlie Wilson's supposedly accidental death. When she'd expressed her regret at the news, I asked her about his time volunteering here.

             
"That was a long while ago," she said, "maybe twenty-five years. Charlie was fifteen that summer, I think.. He'd been in some trouble and had to do community service. His parents lived fairly close by so he was assigned here to help. He lived with us for over three months." She looked at me before continuing. "He wasn't a particularly trustworthy boy. I always had the impression that he was pulling the wool over our eyes, but we never actually caught him doing anything wrong." Suddenly, she smiled at me. "Do you remember the Leave it to Beaver television show?" she asked. "Well if anyone reminded me of Eddie Haskel, it was Charlie Wilson. I'm sure, to this day, that he made the smaller boys do the chores that he was assigned." She shook her head at the memory. "Would it surprise you if I said he was not a very likeable young man?"

             
I said it would not and handed her one of the eight-by-tens of the Kiwanis award ceremony. "I'm interested in the people in this photograph with Charlie," I began. Her face lit up as she examined the picture.

             
"Oh, my goodness," she said, beaming. "There's Stanley Dalton. Poor Stanley passed away a few months after this picture was taken. His parents weren't able to take care of him at home but they visited here with him almost daily. Such a sweet boy." Her eyes moved across the photograph. "David Watters," she said, tapping her fingernail against the glossy paper. "David Watters was here for many years. His parents moved north and took him along with them. I believe he's in a group residence now and living very near to his family."

             
"Do you remember the other two people who are in the photo?" I asked.

             
"The young man was Pat Donaldson. The Kiwanis representative wasn't from around here and I don't know his name." She tried to hand the photo back to me. I let it hang there in her hand for a moment. Sister Alex had expounded a bit about the other boys in the picture, all except for this Donaldson kid. I wondered why she'd skipped over the details of his time here at Saint Martin's, and I asked her about it.

             
Sister Alex dropped the photo onto her lap and folded her hands over it, looking down at her lap for a long time before she answered.

             
"Patrick Donaldson," she said softly, "was not the type of boy we usually took in here at Saint Martin's Boys' Home. This was more of a haven for disabled or disadvantaged youth than it was for boys with disciplinary problems. A priest in Los Angeles had known Sister Francis, who was in charge here at that time, for many years and telephoned her, asking if Saint Martin's would take young Patrick in after his parents died. From what we were told, they hadn't provided much of a home for the boy. There was a...drinking situation, I believe," she said carefully. The child was already sixteen years old and would need a place to live, just until he turned eighteen. Sister and I discussed it and we agreed we would allow him to come here." I could tell by her expression that this was a decision Sister Alex had come to regret.

             
"What happened?" I asked.

             
"Oh, many things happened over those two years, Mr. Murdock. Pat Donaldson stole from all the boys, he bullied the weaker ones and he disappeared whenever he wanted to. We could never keep track of that boy." I got the impression that his disappearances hadn't really been seen as any great loss. Maybe the nuns had secretly hoped he'd just keep on going. I noticed that she was rubbing her thumb and forefinger against each other, in rapid circular motions. Sister Alex was very uneasy with my inquiries. So far, I had heard nothing that seemed horrible enough to account for her discomfort.

             
I kept asking pointed questions, hoping she would get to whatever event had her so upset. Otherwise, it might be midnight before I bit into that burger. My stomach growled and I hoped she didn't hear it. Then again, maybe she'd have mercy on me and get to the point before I dropped dead from hunger on her clean floor.

             
"Was there one major event that took place before he moved out of Saint Martin's?" I asked.

             
Silence. Then..."There was a girl," Sister Alex said quickly. "She lived a very short distance from here. There's no need for you to know her name. Pat Donaldson was sneaking out of here to see her whenever he could. We didn't know it at the time, of course. We found out later, after it was all..., well...all over."

             
She was silent so I posed the obvious question. "The girl got pregnant?"

             
I saw the Sister's blouse rise and slowly fall again as she exhaled. "She was pregnant. She was pregnant and then she wasn't pregnant and then she was gone."

             
"And then she wasn't pregnant?" I repeated. "What does that mean? She had the baby?...gave it up for adoption?"

             
"No. Her parents didn't even know she was expecting until it was over. When they confronted her, she told them she'd had a miscarriage and had flushed it down the toilet. She insisted she'd been only a few months pregnant when she lost it."

             
"Insisted?"

             
"They knew she was lying. A friend of hers told them she was pregnant and when they thought back over the preceding months, they realized the morning sickness she'd passed off as a lingering bout of influenza had taken place over half a year earlier. She'd recently put on a good many pounds and was even attending Weight Watcher's classes, apparently playing the overweight teenager part to the hilt. She was very clever in concealing the real cause of her constant weight gain. When they figured it out, her parents knew she had to have been at least seven months pregnant, and maybe was full term."

             
Now I was really confused. None of Ira's detective manuals had prepared me for this. Maybe I should have been reading medical books, or maybe fantasy. What the heck were we talking about here? I tried again, hoping for a clear answer. I spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully.

             
"If she didn't have a miscarriage and she didn't have the baby," I said, "what happened to it?"

             
"No one knows, Mr. Murdock, except the girl and possibly Patrick Donaldson. She stuck to her story. Her parents, out of love for their daughter, never called in the authorities. They did speak with young Mr. Donaldson, here in our presence, but he claimed to have done nothing wrong."

             
"And you think he did?"

             
Sister Alex sat up very straight and looked me square in the eyes. It was a very uncomfortable gaze to return and I pitied the poor little kids who had tried to lie to this nun about raiding the cookie jar.

             
"What I think, Mr. Murdock, is that the baby was born while the girl's parents were out of town. It may have been a premature birth, I don't know. But I believe that Patrick Donaldson got rid of the baby. And," she added, "I don't think it would have bothered him."

             
"Was the baby stillborn?"