Read SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3) Online
Authors: Lawrence De Maria
SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3) (20 page)
It had been four years since leaving her teaching job in the Boston Diocese to become the youngest principal in the 89-year history of Ave Maria, 40 miles west of the big city. The glass ceiling for women in the Catholic Church was still bullet-proof thick, but her intelligence and drive were common knowledge and the Mother Superior of her religious order — the Sisters of St. Jerome — had little trouble convincing the bishop that her talents were better used elsewhere. It didn’t hurt that the poor man was overwhelmed by a sex-abuse scandal that threatened to bankrupt his diocese, and moving another salary, however minor, out of town didn’t hurt.
Sister Veronica immediately revamped the rather stodgy curriculum of Ave Maria to better reflect the changing ethnic makeup of the student body. What had once been a predominantly white school, heavily populated with Swedes, Italians, Irish, Poles and French Canadians, now had a sizable minority of Vietnamese, Ghanaian, Liberian and Congolese girls. In an effort to make those kids feel more welcome, and to show the entire student body the reach of the Catholic faith, she recruited Rev. Rudolphe Jolly from nearby St. Basil’s to be the school chaplain. Father Jolly, a boisterous and expansive man who lived up to his name and was beloved by everyone, came from Togo, one of the wave of African priests who were filling out the Church’s depleted parish ranks in the United States. Fluent in French, he was an immediate hit with the girls whose families hailed from Quebec and soon had half the other kids learning the language.
The move toward greater diversity initially met some resistance from a few parents and local townspeople. But the opposition quickly evaporated after Sister Veronica asked the head of the local Mafia and a high-ranking State Police officer, both of whom had daughters who loved Ave Maria, to make a few calls.
The peripatetic educator also instituted an early placement program with nearby institutions of higher learning. So innovative was her thinking that other school districts in New England began to emulate her initiatives. And as a fundraiser who, in the pithy words of the head of the local Chamber of Commerce “could charm the warts off a hog,” she had created an endowment that allowed Ave Maria to keep its annual tuition below $7,000. A rabid Boston Red Sox fan, she even managed to get the team to sponsor a four-year scholarship and provide two season tickets. She auctioned off most of the games, raising even more money, although she did keep a couple of days for herself and her staff when the Yankees played at Fenway. Her stewardship was credited with saving Ave Maria from the fate of other private Catholic academies, such as Assumption Preparatory School, which was rebuilt after the deadly 1953 tornado that killed 94 people only to succumb permanently to budget woes many years later.
Ave Maria’s finances were still in precarious shape, she knew. But she was hopeful that might soon change, if the lawyer she recently spoke with was right. The Lord certainly worked in mysterious ways. Often, a bit too slowly, for her taste. There were bills to be paid.
Sister Veronica looked at her watch. Carole MacQuaid was the last girl to stop by with a dress. The building was quiet, other than the normal creaks and groans common to ancient plumbing pipes and heating ducts. It was Friday, and the rest of the lay staff had hurried away for their weekend. The only other two nuns who taught at Ave Maria left to visit relatives in Boston. It was still light outside under a cloudy sky, and a bit chillier than normal for late spring.
The principal was tired. If I don’t do something to get my blood moving, she thought, I’ll fall asleep during N.C.I.S. It was her favorite show. She particularly liked Abby Sciuto, the quirky forensic scientist, a devout Roman Catholic who in her spare time went bowling with nuns. Abby, a free-spirited Goth with a heart of gold, was one of the reasons Sister Veronica looked the other way when one of her students got a tattoo, as long as it was small, not obscene and not visible in street clothes. As for Tony DiNozzo, the irrepressible N.C.I.S. bad boy, he reminded her of her first real boyfriend. Her first and only lover. I hope he didn’t hate me for what I did. Leaving him without a word.
She shook off the maudlin memories. She knew what she needed. She went up to her small apartment on the top floor of the old mansion, the one where the long-dead bootlegger probably kept his mistress in splendor, and changed into a sweat suit. Ten minutes later, she was jogging along a path adjacent to the Blackstone River near Quinsigamond Village. It had started to drizzle and she was glad her sweat suit was waterproofed and she was wearing her Red Sox cap. Because she maintained a good pace, she wasn’t cold. But she knew she would be when she stopped running. She decided to stop at the McDonalds in Quinsigamond on the way home for a large hot coffee. And, what the heck, since she was there, she might as well get a Big Mac, with fries. What better meal to watch N.C.I.S. She knew Tony would approve.
Almost an hour later, the Ave Maria principal was back where she had started her run, a small grass parking area down a short gravel cutoff that jutted off the highway. She felt good, and rationalized that she’d burned off enough calories to justify her planned fast-food splurge. Maybe she’d even get the little apple pies Mickey D’s sold, two for a dollar. She pulled off her ski cap and shook her head. Rivulets of rain water mixed with perspiration ran down her brow and cheeks. Strands of her hair were plastered to her face. I must be a sight, she thought.
There had been several cars parked in the lot when she arrived. She had passed — and been passed — by other joggers, many of whom she knew. She’d even run almost a mile alongside the slow-poke Rabbi Markowitz from Union Hill’s B'nai Avraham synagogue before apologizing and leaving him in the dust, or rather, mud. But it was dark now. As far as she could tell, she was the only one still running in the rain, which was now heavy.
The lot was almost deserted. There was only one car near her 2005 Hyundai Santa Fe. Some of the girls had teased her about her choice of vehicle. S.U.V.’s and nuns didn’t seem to go together. But it sure came in handy to haul equipment and kids to soccer practice and other sporting events. She again glanced at her watch. A half hour to N.C.I.S. She would be cutting it close, but at least the food would be hot when she turned on the TV.
Sister Veronica reached the Santa Fe and glanced at the car next to hers. The windows were fogged up and she couldn’t tell if anyone was in it. It crossed her mind that the spot would make a great lovers lane once the joggers and walkers left. She smiled. I suppose it qualifies as a form of exercise. She shrugged. Well, I still have my Tony DiNozzo.
As she opened the door to her S.U.V., she could see and hear cars and trucks on the main road. Then the other car’s door opened.
“Hello, Sister.”
It was a man’s voice, vaguely familiar. And the way he pronounced “Sister” was strangely discordant. She turned as the man approached. He was dressed all in black and had something in his hand that glinted as a beam of light from a truck on the main road shimmered through the trees and swept over them. It also briefly illuminated his face and, with a start, she understood why the voice had seemed familiar..
“You!”
The man smiled, and punched her in the chest. And held his fist against her left breast. There was a sharp pain, but only for a second. It was replaced by a strange hollow feeling.
Sister Veronica tried to say something, but couldn’t. She looked down as he withdrew the ice pick. She looked at his face again, which began blurring and shifting, so that his smile became lopsided, like that of the Joker in that
Batman
movie. Heath Ledger. The man also seemed to be getting taller, until she realized she was just sagging down toward the ground, the strength leaving her legs quickly.
All these years, she thought.
Sister Veronica wasn’t afraid. Even though she knew she was dying.
And why.
***
If you would like to read all of
SISTER
, here is a link:
And we hope you will also try Lawrence De Maria’s many other thrillers and mysteries available on
Amazon
:
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lawrence De Maria began his career as a general interest reporter (winning an Associated Press award for his crime reporting) and eventually became a Pulitzer-nominated senior editor and financial writer
The New York Times
, where he wrote hundreds of stories and features, often on Page 1. After he left the
Times
, De Maria became an Executive Director at
Forbes.
Following a stint in corporate America – during which he helped uncover the $7 billion Allen Stanford Ponzi scheme and was widely quoted in the national media – he returned to journalism as Managing Editor of the
Naples Sun Times
, a Florida weekly, until its sale to the Scripps chain in 2007. Since then, he has been a full-time fiction writer. De Maria is on the board of directors of the Washington Independent Review of Books, where he writes a regular blog column: