Lovely, Dark, and Deep Read Online Free PDF Page B

violence. It was a violent way to die. And of course I was watching her, to see where she'd fallen, not the car, I didn't care about the car; I assumed it would stop. By the time I cared it was long gone.”
    I nodded, putting my hand over hers. “I'm sorry if the memory is upsetting.”
    Francis shrugged. “I always tell myself, it's no more upsetting than the crucifixion of our Lord.”
    When I left the kitchen, Moira was waiting. Near her was a cluster of women; one of them held a clipboard. “These are our wonderful volunteers from the Altar and Rosary Club,” Moira said, introducing them as a group. I waved in their direction.
    “And this is Madeline Mann,” Moira said to them. “She's Webley's most famous investigative reporter.”
    I blushed at this, and the women made twittering sounds of appreciation. The one with the clipboard glanced at her watch. I moved toward the door, and Moira caught up with me. “Did it help, talking to her?” she asked me. “There are other sisters you could talk to, though I think only Francis and I lived here ten years ago. We tend to get moved around a lot,” she said ruefully.
    “This is enough to start with, Sister,” I said. I put my hand on the doorknob. The women behind us were eavesdropping without shame; I assumed they'd go get the scoop from Francis the moment I left. An important part of any church is its gossip.
    Moira escorted me out of the weirdest interview of my life and walked me all the way back to my car, past the bleak willows and the frozen pond. I wanted to ask more questions, but I somehow couldn't formulate them yet, and I was late for work. I was also a bit too overwhelmed to be sure how to proceed. “Be sure to send my greetings to your family,” she said, standing straight and serious against the gray landscape like a Thomas Hardy heroine.
    “Okay,” I said again. I started the engine, gave a last wave, and drove back down the long driveway, avoiding any glance at the foot of the fountain where Sister Mary Joanna had breathed her last.
    I went to the newspaper office. By the time I arrived at work, parked my car, and climbed the stairs, I was ready.
    “Hey, Woodward and Bernstein,” said Bill, meeting me at the door. “What have you got for me?” He was all joviality, obviously excited by the idea that I may have stumbled onto something as wonderful as the corruption of the mayor, a story we'd broken two months before.
    “Sister Moira MacShane. You know her? She thinks Sister Joanna was murdered. I can't really go into the reasons, confidentiality and all that, but I told her I'd look into it.” I walked past him, trying not to notice his gaping jaw.
    Bill recovered himself enough to say, “I'll pull the stories from the morgue.”
    “Okay,” I answered, surprised. Bill didn't normally do stuff like that himself; it was my first evidence of his excitement at the potential story. I walked to my little office, greeted my office mate, Sally Watson, who today sported a fuchsia sweater with a sequined poinsettia appliqué, and sat down to turn on my computer. I told Sally what I'd told Bill, but added, “Listen, this is just between us. It's something very personal to Sister Moira, and I don't want—”
    Sally acted hurt. “Who do you think you're talkin' to, Babe? I'm a regular Deep Throat.” Sally chuckled bawdily at this. Unlike Bill, she didn't seem at all surprised at what I'd been asked to investigate.
    “Do you know how many “accidental" deaths were probably murder?” she asked. “It boggles the imagination, when you think about it. All those murderers, walking free. People don't always know their loved ones, do they?” she asked with a theatrical expression. I tried to imagine Jack, confessing to me that he'd killed one of his students because they consistently refused to do their work. This made me giggle, and again Sally was hurt. “You mark my words, Madeline Mann. You'll find somethin', and then you're goin' to owe me ten