productive use of your time?”
“Well, I found out not to mess with Worcester’s finest.”
“Have a nice day.”
I went back to the Hilton, showered and hit the breakfast buffet. Then I called the main Boston phone number for the Sisters of St. Jerome, the order to which Ronnie had belonged. I wanted to learn as much as I could about her recent life. I found out that Sister Veronica had for a time worked in the school that also housed what remained of the shrinking order. I made an appointment to see the Mother Superior, Sister Barbara, at 4 P.M. This made two cases in a row for me hunting a possible serial killer with religious motives. In fact, the last one ended with my name almost being added to a killer’s list. Maybe I was being punished for liking The DaVinci Code and Angels and Demons .
I spent the next several hours at the main branch of the Worcester library, reading every newspaper article I could find on Sister Veronica and Ave Maria. I had to get a temporary library card, good for two weeks, to use the system’s computer room, where I went on line to check for additional coverage. There was, of course, a rash of stories about the murder and subsequent investigation. None of them mentioned the possibility of a serial killer, but I knew that would soon change. There were several recent photos of Ronnie, at various local functions and, of course, school activities. I may have been seeing her through rose-colored glasses, but she still looked lovely to me, despite her conservative dress and hair style. Old memories stirred and I quickly pushed them back into the vault. I was now looking at a woman and a nun, after all.
I grabbed a burger at a Shake Shack and then went to my hotel and checked out.
CHAPTER 13 - MOTHER SUPERIOR
The Sisters of St. Jerome headquarters, if you could call it that, was located in a triple-decker house on Stellman Road, in the Forest Hills section of Roslindale, six miles southwest of downtown Boston. From Worcester it took me about an hour, mostly on I-90, the Mass Pike. There was a sign on the well-manicured front lawn that identified it as Casserleigh House. When I pulled up, a small group of kids, of every skin shade, speaking Spanish, were just heading up the stairs. I followed them in. They all peeled off noisily to a classroom, where I could see a woman cleaning a blackboard. She turned and said something to the kids, who immediately quieted. I was reminded of my own no-nonsense Catholic school upbringing. Not a bad thing, I now realized.
There was a sign pointing toward an administrative office, where a very pretty young woman wearing an expensive-looking blue and yellow jogging outfit was working on a computer. She looked up and gave me a dazzling smile. I tried to out-dazzle her while I told her who I was there to see. She picked up a phone, punched a number and said, “There is a Mr. Rhode here for you, Sister Barbara. He says he has an appointment” She listened for a moment, then hung up and looked at me. “She’ll be right over. Please have a seat.”
“Excuse me, but I have to ask. Are you a nun?”
I suppose I should have said ‘sister,’ but it would have sounded weird.
She laughed. It was a nice, throaty, laugh.
“I’m a volunteer here at Casserleigh. Two days a week. I’m a junior at Wellesley.”
“I believe Wellesley is known as one of the Seven Sisters. Maybe you qualify after all. I saw some kids go into a classroom. I know I’m a little rusty on modern Catholicism, but since when did the Church start Sunday School? Isn’t that taking ecumenism a bit far?””
“You are rusty, Mr. Rhode. The Catholic Church has long offered Sunday School classes, although not as widely as Protestant sects. But strictly speaking, what you saw is not Sunday School. We offer English-language classes after mass. Most of the children only hear their native language at home. Mrs. Herrera has the Hispanic kids. I get the French-speakers next
“Well, I found out not to mess with Worcester’s finest.”
“Have a nice day.”
I went back to the Hilton, showered and hit the breakfast buffet. Then I called the main Boston phone number for the Sisters of St. Jerome, the order to which Ronnie had belonged. I wanted to learn as much as I could about her recent life. I found out that Sister Veronica had for a time worked in the school that also housed what remained of the shrinking order. I made an appointment to see the Mother Superior, Sister Barbara, at 4 P.M. This made two cases in a row for me hunting a possible serial killer with religious motives. In fact, the last one ended with my name almost being added to a killer’s list. Maybe I was being punished for liking The DaVinci Code and Angels and Demons .
I spent the next several hours at the main branch of the Worcester library, reading every newspaper article I could find on Sister Veronica and Ave Maria. I had to get a temporary library card, good for two weeks, to use the system’s computer room, where I went on line to check for additional coverage. There was, of course, a rash of stories about the murder and subsequent investigation. None of them mentioned the possibility of a serial killer, but I knew that would soon change. There were several recent photos of Ronnie, at various local functions and, of course, school activities. I may have been seeing her through rose-colored glasses, but she still looked lovely to me, despite her conservative dress and hair style. Old memories stirred and I quickly pushed them back into the vault. I was now looking at a woman and a nun, after all.
I grabbed a burger at a Shake Shack and then went to my hotel and checked out.
CHAPTER 13 - MOTHER SUPERIOR
The Sisters of St. Jerome headquarters, if you could call it that, was located in a triple-decker house on Stellman Road, in the Forest Hills section of Roslindale, six miles southwest of downtown Boston. From Worcester it took me about an hour, mostly on I-90, the Mass Pike. There was a sign on the well-manicured front lawn that identified it as Casserleigh House. When I pulled up, a small group of kids, of every skin shade, speaking Spanish, were just heading up the stairs. I followed them in. They all peeled off noisily to a classroom, where I could see a woman cleaning a blackboard. She turned and said something to the kids, who immediately quieted. I was reminded of my own no-nonsense Catholic school upbringing. Not a bad thing, I now realized.
There was a sign pointing toward an administrative office, where a very pretty young woman wearing an expensive-looking blue and yellow jogging outfit was working on a computer. She looked up and gave me a dazzling smile. I tried to out-dazzle her while I told her who I was there to see. She picked up a phone, punched a number and said, “There is a Mr. Rhode here for you, Sister Barbara. He says he has an appointment” She listened for a moment, then hung up and looked at me. “She’ll be right over. Please have a seat.”
“Excuse me, but I have to ask. Are you a nun?”
I suppose I should have said ‘sister,’ but it would have sounded weird.
She laughed. It was a nice, throaty, laugh.
“I’m a volunteer here at Casserleigh. Two days a week. I’m a junior at Wellesley.”
“I believe Wellesley is known as one of the Seven Sisters. Maybe you qualify after all. I saw some kids go into a classroom. I know I’m a little rusty on modern Catholicism, but since when did the Church start Sunday School? Isn’t that taking ecumenism a bit far?””
“You are rusty, Mr. Rhode. The Catholic Church has long offered Sunday School classes, although not as widely as Protestant sects. But strictly speaking, what you saw is not Sunday School. We offer English-language classes after mass. Most of the children only hear their native language at home. Mrs. Herrera has the Hispanic kids. I get the French-speakers next
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