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afraid. It is I.” Sister Moira looked almost near tears. “That's what she said to me. Don't be afraid, it's me. Those are really the only words I remember.”
    Looking at her face, it was impossible not to be moved. I reached out my hand to her, and she took it in her own. Moira was a warm person, and I suddenly felt that I must be cold. Why couldn't I make a leap of faith, put myself into her position, imagine it might be true? Why couldn't I consider the idea of a spirit coming from beyond to right an earthly injustice? Whatever Moira's experience, I knew her to be of sound mind, and of loving spirit. I owed it to her, did I not, to try to summon up the imagination, if not the faith, to follow her lead?
    My own belief was a day-to-day matter. There had been days when God was a certainty, not even debatable. There were other days when I felt I was a poor excuse for a believer. Right now I was floating somewhere in between.
    I felt a bit uncomfortable, squeezing Moira's hand and saying nothing. Some people are so good at this, sharing moist-eyed, meaningful expressions and comforting one another that way. I felt I should say something important, supportive, to Moira. I had to be honest, though, because there was no point in misleading her.
    I tucked my notebook, which had only one sentence written in it, into my purse. “I don't believe that you spoke with a ghost,” I said frankly. “But I do believe that you may have suspected she was murdered for some reason, and perhaps repressed your suspicion. Maybe now something has caused it to surface. Has anything out of the ordinary happened recently—maybe someone mentioned Joanna, or you heard something about the choir—something like that could have triggered your unconscious mind, don't you think?”
    "I don't know. I don't really think so. You must understand, Madeline. I was very upset by Joanna's death. We were friends. But I don't think I was traumatized by it, if you see my distinction. And I don't think I'm the type to repress feelings. I share them all with God." Moira smiled in a way that was almost forgiving. “Madeline, it doesn't really matter if you and I disagree about my experience; I'm not asking you to believe in ghosts, or angels. What I'm wondering is, will you look into it for me? Will you investigate Joanna's death?”
    I thought about this. Now I wanted to do it, of course. It was interesting, if nothing else, and I'd been thinking about Joanna all day, and the fact that I seemed blocked in my memories of her. But I had a full-time job, other stories to write and pursue. I didn't know if my boss would want to indulge me in one of my “crazy pursuits,” as my brothers called them. Bill signed my checks, so it was ultimately up to him. Not that I couldn't do some investigating in my off hours.
    “What do the other nuns think?” I asked. “Are any of them suspicious? Were any of them suspicious at the time?”
    Moira shrugged. “No one has spoken of it in so long—at the time, everyone was so upset, they were saying all sorts of things. And there'd been police asking questions, and then a reporter asking them, and it was all so confused. I know Sister Francis was very upset, of course, having seen it happen. Perhaps you'll want to talk—”
    “Yes. Maybe I can talk with her on my way out?” I stood up, smoothing my pantsuit. “I have to get back to work. I'll look into things for a day or two; maybe in that time I'll get a better sense of how difficult a task it's going to be.”
    Moira clapped her hands. “Thank you, dear. You are a sweet child, and I think God led me to you.”
    “Okay,” I said, uncomfortable. “Well, I'll call you, Sister. We'll chat about this in a couple days. Do you think Sister Francis is still in the kitchen?”
    She was. She was working on dessert, stirring what seemed to be cookie dough. Moving toward her, I made a stab at humor. “Chocolate chip with walnuts are my favorite, Sister, since you're