Tags:
Fiction,
Mystery,
amateur sleuth,
Murder,
private investigator,
soft-boiled,
murder mystery,
mystery novels,
amateur sleuth novel,
medium-boiled,
PI,
private eye,
Nuns
Vivianâs mouth covered. A circle of light bobbed ahead of them, illuminated the wall, and flickered over their faces. Giulia blocked her eyes with her free hand.
âSister Regina?â Sister Bartholomew whispered.
âOh, thank God. Can you help us, Sister?â
âWhat?â Sister Bartholomew came closer, keeping the light on the floor in front of her. âOh, no, is Vivian drunk? Never mind; I can smell it.â She hefted Vivianâs other shoulder. âSister Gretchenâs not up here yet, but I expect her any minute. Letâs put this one to bed before she shows.â
Sister Bart steered the shambling procession to the first bedroom after the chapel. Sister Vivian was all but out on her feet.
Sister Bartholomew yanked down the bedspread. âIdiot. What did she do, bust into your room bragging how she can hold her liquor?â
âMore or less.â
They heaved Vivian onto the blanket and took off her shoes.
ââSâat, you, Bart?â Vivianâs voice faded out on the last word.
Giulia un-Velcroed the veil and laid it on the dresser. âSo sheâs lost control like this before?â
âNot since the Feast of the Assumption. Wonder what set her off? Help me turn her over, would you?â
They rolled the now-unconscious Vivian onto her stomach. Sister Bartholomew unzipped the slightly-too-tight habit, muttering, âGotta channel it better, dummy. Gotta deal with it.â Between them, they tugged it off her in increments, finally working it out from under her legs. Giulia hung it on a hook behind the door and Sister Bartholomew flung the bedspread over Vivian just as she began to snore.
Blowing out a long breath, Giulia pulled two tissues from the box on the dresser and wiped her hands.
Sister Bart turned Vivianâs head to the side. âAt least if she pukes she wonât choke to death.â
She closed the door on the noise, and Giulia blinked to get used to the new darkness of the hall.
âHas she been that bad since she entered?â
âI donât think so, but I didnât meet her till after the merger. We were both Canonicals already.â
Steady footsteps became audible on the landing.
Sister Bartholomew hustled Giulia down the hall and through the unlocked back door. âThanks a ton for helping with Vivian, Sister. Sister Gretchen shouldnât find you up here this late. See you tomorrow morning.â
Giulia clutched the banister to stop herself going headlong down the steps. Sister Bartholomew vanished behind the double doors.
She slid off her shoes and walked downstairs on the balls of her feet. It has to be close to eleven-thirty. That alarm rings at six. And Iâm sneaking around the Motherhouse covered in sticky snot and tears and drool that stinks of sour altar wine. The third-floor bathroom door opened and she slipped into the corner parlor. I shouldâve smeared myself with honey and found that anthill before coming here. This place is like a Jerry Springer episode.
âDär är du. Följ med mig.â
Giuliaâs veil nearly flew off her head like hats did in comic strips. âSister Arnulf.â
The little nun took Giuliaâs hand and led her to one of the small tables. Giulia looked out at the dimly lit floor, but Sister Theresa the handler wasnât anywhere. She let Sister Arnulf sit her in one of the polished chairs.
âSister, you know I canât understand you, but Iâm working on the basics. Maybe tomorrow.â She sighed at her own futility. âWhy am I explaining this to you?â
Sister Arnulf drew a face on a piece of paper while Giulia muttered. Giulia couldnât tell if it was supposed to be male or female. It wore no veil, but had no hair either. When the face had rudimentary features, she added a dark circle on the right side of the forehead, pressing so hard the pencil lead snapped.
She pushed the paper in front of Giulia, pointed
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