Perfect Grave

Chapter Forty-Nine

O ne million dollars.

Was it a factor in her murder?

As Jason’s plane began its descent for Seattle, he took a hit of coffee and scrolled through his story. He’d started working on it last night in his motel room after leaving Sister Marie’s cabin. He wrote until midnight before catching an early morning return flight, writing more as the Canadian Rockies glided under him.

At first he didn’t think the money could be linked to Sister Anne’s murder. It was so long ago. But as he started building his article, he reexamined key aspects.

Maybe it was all right here before his eyes.

First, there were Sister Anne’s own words in her journal. He reread what she’d written in the final days of her life. It was as though she were anticipating a conflict, an accounting, something: “Can I ever be forgiven for what I did, for the pain I caused?” then, “I deeply regret the mistakes I have made and will accept your judgment of me.”

These anguished entries appear to have been made after Sister Anne’s encounter with the stranger at the shelter, the one John Cooper had told him about. Jason put it into context, into a simple time line: A stranger at the shelter confronts her, upsets her about something, then she secretly begs God’s forgiveness for mistakes made in her life- then appears to embrace judgment.

And the murder weapon came from the shelter.

Mistakes from her past.

“…the pain I caused…”

She donates more than a million dollars to the order. From a Swiss bank.

To assuage the guilt of her parents’ deaths?

Or something else?

Jason heard the hydraulic groan of the landing gear locking and metropolitan Seattle wheeled below. He closed his laptop, raised his tray, then rushed through a mental checklist of what he had to do on the ground.

After landing, Jason took a cab directly to the Mirror.

On the way, he called the news desk to alert them to the exclusive story he’d be filing today. Then he called Kelly Swan, the news librarian.

“Kel, I need an all-out shotgun search now on two people.”

“You’re back in town already? Hang on, cowboy,”

Kelly was at her computer and began closing files. “Okay, fire away.”

“Their names are Sherman Braxton and Etta Braxton of Cleveland, Ohio.” He provided the spellings. “Sherman was a banker. They died together some thirty-odd years ago in a car accident in Switzerland, near Geneva. I need everything we can get on them. Obits, old clips.”

Kelly was jotting notes.

“What are you looking for?”

“Every word, utterance, record that concerns them, anything. Everything.”

“I’ve got a friend in the library at the Cleveland Plain Dealer and I’ll call Mavis, our genealogical contractor. We’ll comb the city directories, the public library, municipal records, voter lists, court records, wills, etcetera. A lot of stuff is on CD now, so we should be able to get data flowing pretty fast.”

“Good, I also need you to confirm and locate St. Ursula Savary College.” He spelled it. “It’s a private Swiss boarding school near Montreux, or Lausanne. If you find it, I know there’s a time-zone challenge, but get them to check records, albums, alumni clubs, anything to confirm the registration of an American student named Anne Braxton, of Cleveland, Ohio, for the same period, some thirty years back, give or take.”

“But we did a big search for Anne Braxton when she was murdered and found nothing about her.”

“I know, Kel, just search this new information, please.”

“How soon do you need this?”

“I need it now.”