The Museum of Desire

Chapter 33

The drive was ten minutes on Sunset under a black sky, then a right turn east of Mount Saint Mary’s college. I was figuring the convent would be part of that campus but it wasn’t and I had to travel another 3.3 miles, well past the point where the views turned panoramic.

The address led me to a two-story, white stucco Spanish Colonial mansion, the kind you glimpse in the more venerable areas of Santa Barbara and Montecito, mostly hidden behind walls and gates. This property was open to the street. I wasn’t expecting to see much in the dark, but generous outdoor lighting said I’d been needlessly pessimistic.

The house was perched atop a high mound of lawn dotted with old palms and orange trees and a three-trunk sycamore whose branches stretched over an Italianate cement bench. A fountain of similar style burbled in the center of the property. To the right was flat asphalt parking hosting two blue vans and two blue Kias.

No signage, no crucifix, no steeple; nothing to suggest the place was a religious institution. That same anonymity extended to the clothing of the woman leaving the building and walking toward the lot, something green and shiny tucked under her right arm.

Long-sleeved blouse, knee-length skirt, uncovered dark bob. She was on the short side with a solid build and a jaunty walk. When she reached one of the compacts, she unfolded the green thing.

Several plastic shopping bags rolled up like a jelly pastry. She dropped one, bent and retrieved it, saw me get out of the Seville, smiled and waved.

I waved back and began climbing. The woman descended and we met halfway.

Thirty-five to forty, smooth complexion, strong nose, cleft chin, twinkly pale eyes.

“Dr. McCarthy? Glad you caught me. Thanks so much for the generous donation.” Softly contoured southern accent. Her hand extended.

I gave it a brief shake. “Sorry, I’m not Dr. McCarthy.”

She pulled away. “A donor I’ve never met said he might be dropping off a check. I figured a nice vintage Caddy — my apologies.”

“I’m Dr. Delaware. I’m a psychologist who—”

“So is he! Dr. Jerry McCarthy. Do you know him?”

“Actually, I do.” One of the most respected neuropsychologists in town. I said so.

“Feel free to join him in psychological generosity, Doctor. Are you coming to visit? It’s after hours and I was about to leave but if what we do inspires you, I’m happy to show you around.”

I showed her my LAPD consultant’s badge. Out of date and essentially useless, except for making a first impression.

“Police? Oh, dear. We haven’t made any complaints.”

“I’m looking for Sister Emeline Beaumont.”

All traces of good cheer withered. “Why would the police be interested in me?”

“They’re not, Sister. It’s about Medina Okash and Contessa Walls.”

“How did you connect them to me?”

“Your funeral message to Ms. Walls.”

“Poor Connie — well, that was a while ago.”

“Do you have a sec?”

“Is it going to take long? I was about to go shopping for our residents. We’ve only got three, currently. Teenage girls about to be moms. We offer them support throughout the process. Voluntarily. I emphasize that because with all that’s going on, the church has gotten a pretty bad reputation. A lot of it unfortunately justified. So how much time do you think you’ll need?”

“Just a few minutes.”

“Then let’s have ourselves a nice sit outside under Gargantua — that big old monster. A botanist from the U. came and did dendrochronology. Gargantua was planted over three hundred years ago and has healthy roots.”

“Happy to make his acquaintance.”

Sister Emeline Beaumont laughed but the sound faded fast.

Once we’d settled beneath the sycamore, she placed her hands at her sides and her feet on the grass.

“So,” she said, “seeing as Connie’s departed, I’m assuming this is about Medina Okash.”

“As a matter of fact, it is. How did you—”

“We were all friends, once. What has Medina done?”

“That’s unclear.”

“It’s clear enough for the police to send a psychologist to track me down. Does it have to do with some sort of mental situation?”

“I’d answer that with a question but I don’t want to be a walking cliché.”

This time her laughter was durable. “You’re a high-spirited man, Dr. Delaware. For a psychologist — sorry, couldn’t resist. So is that it? Medina’s done something off?”

“Sister—”

“Emmy’s fine.”

“Emmy, I apologize but I can’t go into any details.”

“Fine, I get it, the secular confession booth,” she said. “But obviously something serious is going on. I mean, they’re not going to send a psychologist out on a jaywalker.”

“Medina committing a serious crime wouldn’t surprise you.”

“Wish it would,” said Emmy Beaumont. “You know what she did to Connie, right?”

“Knife attack.”

“Cut her open right here.” She drew a slashing diagonal line from the right-hand top of her face to her collarbone and beyond. “Just sliced open her face and kept cutting down her chest. Muscle and bone, so many stitches. Horrible. But... what I’m going to say might sound uncharitable — Connie had issues, as well. She’d hurt Medina. Not as seriously, punches and kicks, but several times when they got into it.”

“They had a volatile relationship.”

“To put it mildly. And I have to say mostly Connie was the instigator. Her mood swings could be terrifying.” Sighing. “Looking back she was probably bipolar. Drugs and alcohol couldn’t have helped. Not that I’m telling someone of your training anything.”

“How far back did the three of you go?”

“All the way back to our freshman year in high school,” said Emmy Beaumont. “Holy Cross Preparatory in Annapolis. Their nuns looked the part!”

Sudden smile but again, just as sudden decay.

I said, “Are you from Louisiana?”

“You can tell, huh? My dad was an admiral, I was born in New Orleans and lived there for a while when he was at the naval air base, then we moved when he began teaching at the academy. Medina came from up Seattle way, her mom was a hippie but her dad switched to born-again religious. Connie was a local girl, her folks put her in boarding school to squash her rebellious tendencies. We ended up as roommates and then we parted ways for college, then we met up again in New York after college and that’s where it happened.”

“You were there.”

Her eyes shut and opened. “Unfortunately I was. It took a long time to stop the nightmares.”

“Are you able to tell me about it?”

The fingers of both hands drummed the concrete bench. “They were rooming together downtown. I was going to Columbia and lived in Harlem so I wasn’t with them as often. The night it happened we had dinner in Chinatown. I wanted to go home but they insisted I come with them to a club, a place they’d been before. When I got there I knew it was a mistake. It was a lesbian bar.”

She turned and faced me. “I’m celibate now, but I wasn’t always. And I definitely wasn’t gay.”

“Medina and Connie were.”

“More like bi-curious. I guess I should’ve known. They were always together, sometimes they’d sleep in the same bed and giggle. But I never actually saw anything. Tell the truth I was pretty naive, assumed they had one of those girlie things. Later they roomed together but so what, they both worked downtown at art galleries. They’d studied art history in college and spent time overseas. In Switzerland.”

“Both of them were in Switzerland?”

“Briefly. They always had a tight bond. At Holy Cross, there’d been times I felt the odd woman out. Sometimes it bothered me. Later, when I began living by myself during grad school, it felt liberating. When the three of us were together they could get a little... in-jokey.”

“So the three of you went clubbing...”

Sad smile. “You really want me to turn back those pages... yes, we did, and yes we stayed far longer than we should have and drank far, far more than we should have and at some point something happened on the dance floor, I can’t really say what. But I can guess.”

I waited.

She said, “Someone probably flirted too much with Connie, that was always happening, she was the gorgeous one. Tall and slim like a model, long legs, a gorgeous mop of blond hair. I suppose Medina always had to cope with her jealousy. I wasn’t aware because I never really knew that they were... in any way together. They also went after guys. Aggressively... anyway, something happened on the dance floor, the two of them began arguing, then tussling — pushing and shoving. Then Connie slapped Medina across the face. Hard. Medina tried to do the same but Connie got hold of her wrist and twisted hard. I’m watching this, appalled. Shocked to begin with about being in a place like that, plus I’ve got a test later in the morning and my head’s swimming from Zombies — that’s what we were drinking, they insisted and I, being a total wimp, went along with it.”

She flicked the edge of her shopping bag roll. “So now Connie’s hurting Medina’s wrist and Medina’s trying to scratch at Connie’s eyes and Connie’s just laughing at her and calling her terrible names and the bouncers come and throw them out. I follow behind the bouncer and he tells them to behave, he’s going to call them a taxi. And they obey. Just like that, the two of them stop fighting and stand there like little kids called to the principal’s office. I’m standing a few feet away, can’t wait to get out of there, in fact I’ve called my own taxi. Then Medina tries to kiss Connie and Connie laughs at her again — a really demeaning laugh, you know — and calls her more names and Medina reaches into her purse and then she does what looks like taking a slap at Connie’s face and chest. Like you’d swipe a credit card. Which looked odd to me. Then I saw the look on Connie’s face. She’s clutching her chest and blood’s coming out of her cheek and her chest. She was wearing a thin, gauzy top. No bra. You could see the wound spreading. Growing darker. And she falls down and Medina stands over her and she laughs. Then she starts crying and bends over Connie and tells her not to die. Meanwhile, I’ve called 911. And that’s it.”

“Were you subpoenaed to testify at Medina’s trial?”

“I feared I would be,” said Sister Emeline Beaumont. “But there was no trial, Medina made some kind of plea and went to prison for a long time.”

“How did Connie react to that?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I went to see her several times in the hospital and she was pretty much out of it. One day I showed up and she’d been discharged. I phoned her a few times but never got an answer. At that point I figured I should wait for her to call me. She didn’t. I never saw her or spoke to her again. The same goes for Medina, though she did reach out from time to time. Not personally, once in a while a sort of art thing invitation. To tell the truth, I didn’t want to rekindle anything with Medina. The way she’d stood over Connie, smiling. Even though she cried right after. I got the feeling she was crying for herself — for her own loss.”

“No genuine empathy.”

“Maybe I’m judging her uncharitably. It was a bizarre night. We were all drunk.” She shook her head. “Now you’re going to think that’s why I joined an order but it wasn’t like that. I got my MSW, worked with disadvantaged kids in Bed-Stuy — Brooklyn. Another Saint Theresa place. One of the good ones, there was absolutely nothing untoward going on.”

She said, “Delaware. Is that French? Are you Catholic or Huguenot?”

“More like a mongrel.”

“Mixes are the strongest, right? Anyway I was impressed by the work the sisters were doing and I’d found relationships with men not to be satisfying, so I applied as a novitiate, liked it, and stayed. It’s a peaceful life.”

She eyed the convent. “We get to do our work without controversy. We have a nickname. The California sisters do. Among ourselves we’re the Saint Terri Girls. Anyway, that’s the story with Connie and Medina.”

“Connie ended up in prison herself.”

“I know. Attempted murder. My parents called to tell me. They said she’d died in prison, was serving time for attempted murder. Some conflict over a woman but I don’t know the details. Do you?”

“We’re just starting out.”

“With what?”

“Looking into Medina’s past,” I said. “Some sort of romantic conflict. Same story.”

“I suppose so. My father put it down to homosexuality. He was big on stories having morals, Dad was. Very religious behaviorally, never missed Mass or confession when he was ashore. One of his sisters was a nun so you’d think he’d approve of my choice. But I was an only child and that meant no grandkids so he convinced himself there was something irregular about my sexuality.”

She winked. “I couldn’t exactly tell him about my youth. Though it was pretty tame compared with Medina and Connie.”

“Could I run a few names by you? People Medina may have known?”

“If it’s a short list, I really would like to get my shopping done.”

No reaction to any of the victims. When I said, “Geoffrey Dugong,” she said, “That’s a real name.”

“He’s an artist Medina represents. Born Jeffrey Dowd.”

Silence.

“Emmy?”

“That’s Medina’s brother. Half brother. Like I said, her dad was a hippie, had a child with another woman when he was married to Medina’s mom. Jeff’s involved in whatever this is about? I guess that shouldn’t surprise me. He was always kind of tightly wound.”

“How so?”

“Irritable, easily distracted, jumpy. He’s in Medina’s life now?”

“That’s surprising?”

“They never really seemed to have much of a relationship, Doctor. At least the few times I saw them together.”

She leaned forward. “She used to refer to him as ‘Daddy’s little bastard.’ ”

“She resented him.”

“Maybe the affair was a factor in her parents’ divorce. I can’t say for sure, the one time I brought it up she got angry.”

I said, “Anger’s always been an issue for Medina.”

She stared at me. “Why do I feel I’m in therapy? Yes, she could go zero to sixty like this.” Snapping her fingers. “So she’s done something. What a shame, I was hoping the experience would change her. You must think I’m odd. Two friends who ended up incarcerated. But I had other friends, my academic cohorts.”

She laughed. “That sure came across defensive, didn’t it?” She stood. “I really have to get those groceries. Pregnant women work up a hunger.”

I walked her to the car. She tried to step ahead, failed, settled for ignoring me. Reluctant to offend. Maybe it had saved her life.

When we got to the top of the hill, I said, “Thanks for talking to me.”

“I’m not sure what you really got out of it. And truth is, I don’t want to know the details. What’s the point?”