Perfect Grave

Chapter Thirty-Six

T he morning after Sister Anne’s funeral, Sister Denise was the first to rise in the town house.

Seattle’s skyline glowed in the predawn light as she padded to the front door for the morning paper, her heart still aching.

Anne had come to her in a dream, standing at the foot of her bed, resplendent in the light of grace and the fragrance of roses.

Oh Anne, why did your blood point me to your journal? What should I do?

Ease your worried heart, for you will know.

Was that a dream? Or an apparition? A message? Or was it grief? Denise wondered, for she’d asked the same questions during her private morning prayers.

But no answers came.

Maybe they would come during morning prayer with the others, she thought, setting the paper on the kitchen table and starting the kettle. Denise made tea, squeezing in a bit of lemon and a few drips of milk. She took solace in the quiet as the Seattle Mirror ’s front-page headlines blared at her.

Homeless Man Held in Nun’s Murder: Arrested at Funeral Sister Anne Braxton Remembered As the Saint of Seattle

The papers used that lovely picture of Anne laughing among the children, and there were photos of the crowds entering the shelter. There was also a photograph, an old one of John Cooper, looking much younger, clean-cut. Looked like his military service picture.

The story on Cooper said detectives had subjected him to a lie-detector test and collected forensic evidence. His lawyer said police were treating him as a “convenient suspect.”

Denise shook her head in disbelief. Not Cooper. No, they were wrong to think that he might have hurt her. Denise studied every word of every article about Sister Anne. Nothing about her past. Police don’t know about her journal and they should know.

What should I do?

Denise heard a gentle knock at the door. Through the front window, she saw the Seattle police car parked out front. The officer was talking to the driver of a taxi that had stopped.

Denise recognized Father Mercer at the door, and opened it. He was leaning on his cane and offered her a kind smile.

“Good morning Sister. My apologies for calling at this hour. I’m on my way to catch an early flight. I have to get back to Maine. Our bishop’s not doing too well, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I don’t imagine Sister Vivian is up?”

“No, Father.” Denise saw that he had a large envelope in his hand.

“Could you please ensure she receives this confidentially? Advise her it contains some information sent to me last night by fax, care of the Archdiocese.”

He passed the plain brown padded envelope to Denise.

“Is this Sister Anne’s material?”

His eyebrows rose.

“How did you know? This is a confidential matter for the Order.”

“I’m the one who discovered her journal, Father. While cleaning her-” Denise couldn’t speak the words. “While cleaning.”

He leaned on his cane and raised his chin slowly.

“Ahh. Then I trust it will remain confidential until Sister Vivian decides how best to proceed?”

“Of course.”

“You’ll give me your word that will hand-deliver this to her personally.”

“My word, Father.”

Satisfied, Father Mercer closed his eyes momentarily and smiled.

“God be with you, Sister.”

“And with you, Father. Have a safe trip.”

After watching Father Mercer’s cab disappear around the corner, Sister Denise went to the small office of the town house. Locking the door behind her, she put the envelope on the desk, thrust her face into her hands, and stared at it.

She listened for any noises of anyone stirring.

All remained silent.

The envelope was not sealed with a moistened or sticky adhesive. It had a flap with string tie and button closure. Denise knew exactly what she was going to do next, for she believed that morally she was part owner of this material.

God forgive me, but I feel in my heart this is what Anne wants.

Denise opened the envelope to the original journal. Affixed to it was a short note, handwritten with a fountain pen, from Father Mercer.

“Sister Marie Clermont was the nun who oversaw Sister Anne Braxton’s screening when she first approached the Order as a candidate in Europe. Although Sister Marie was thought to have passed away in Brazil, we have now confirmed that she is alive. The information is attached.”

The second page was a fax from St. Helen of Mercies Catholic Church in Cardston, Alberta, Canada.

Denise read the information, which was in response to Father Mercer’s request, which had been channeled through various levels of church bureaucracy.

“…We can confirm Sister Marie Clermont is living in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies near Pincher Creek in Southern Alberta. Only last month she reached her 92nd birthday. She is very alert and lucid. A parishioner in the oil industry donated a small cabin where she lives alone, passing her days gardening, painting, and communing with God. Directions are provided below.”

A hermit nun.

Denise had read of retired sisters who retreated into a spiritual life of solitude. But would Sister Marie recall anything of Sister Anne as a young candidate and postulant? Would she know what moved her to join the Order as a young woman traveling through Europe? Would she know about her past life?

Age 92. Alert and lucid.

Maybe.

Denise looked at the journal and the documents. Then she looked at the photocopier next to the desk. Reflecting on how everything had unfolded, she was convinced that she’d received the guidance she had sought. She pressed a button and the photocopier began humming. Once it was ready she began making a copy of everything.

Next to the machine, she’d noticed several copies of earlier editions of the Seattle Times and the Seattle Mirror. Her attention went to the reporter’s name, the one she saw most frequently. Jason Wade. The same reporter who’d come here, looking for information. He’d left his card.

At that moment, Denise heard the sounds of movement from the room directly above the office. It was Sister Anne’s room. Sister Vivian was coming.

Hurry, please hurry, Denise told the photocopier.