“I’ll wait, sister.”
Provided with lemonade and chocolate chip cookies in abundance, Zebulon settled down in the high-backed pink wing chair in the visitors’ parlor and wished the cardinal a speedy departure.
Mother Mary Dominic, the only woman except his mother who addressed the august cardinal archbishop of Boston as “Jim,” also silently wished him on his way. They were second cousins twice removed, a tenuous relationship at best, but the cardinal had grown up without siblings and considered Mary Dominic something of a younger sister in need of guidance. Although the Daughters of Elias were not under his jurisdiction, their convent was situated in the cardinal’s see and he felt a certain responsibility both for them and for the lay people attracted to their doors.
Often the cardinal wished that the Daughters of Elias had followed the trend to the suburbs during the years of “white flight” and had left the declining inner city to face God without their intercession, but he could hardly say so.
A magnificent figure with his proud bearing, fleece of white hair, and crimson robes, he seemed to have settled permanently in the carved Italianate armchair in the convent’s inner parlor, a room reserved solely for visiting clergy.
“Mimi, be sensible. It’s neither just nor charitable to knowingly expose your retreatants to danger. Even you must admit this area is far from safe.”
“The area is unsafe, but we are in no danger,” Mary Dominic countered, stretching a point. There was no danger from the immediate residents, who admired the nuns, largely due to Mary Dominic’s efforts to help all who asked. Transients from other areas couldn’t be spoken for.
This was an old topic between Mary Dominic and the cardinal, requiring lengthy reassurances on her part before he would grudgingly give in. Mary Dominic usually enjoyed the go-round, but Clare Francis had just slipped in to inform her that Zebulon Williams and Sister Angela were both waiting to speak to her.
It was approaching time for evening prayer. The gates to the parking lot couldn’t be locked for the night until the cardinal’s limo, now plainly visible from the street, drove away. For all his talk about the dangers of the neighborhood, the cardinal apparently had perfect trust in the security of the parking lot, or perhaps he had an especially vigilant guardian angel, for he’d let his driver take a quick tea break in the kitchen to sample the fine pastries produced by Sister Clare Francis.
Mary Dominic hoped no stranger succumbed to the temptation to divest the unattended car of its hubcaps, hood ornaments, or more vital parts while the cardinal sat and lectured her about safety.
“Indeed, your eminence, the people of the neighborhood are extremely protective of us. We do take the precautions dictated by prudence, of course, but we feel strongly that Our Lord has us in His hand, and this is where He wants us to be.” She spoke as decisively as possible while remaining within the necessary bounds of respect.
The cardinal, a handsome Irishman with a charming smile, rubbed the crook of his crosier against his chin. He asked with deceptive mildness, “Then why is the gold cross missing from the guest chapel? I hardly think one of the retreatants has taken it. Therefore, it must have been stolen by one of your neighbors.”
The plight of the neighbors was one of Mary Dominic’s major concerns, and she addressed the cardinal by title, hoping to inspire him to help them.
“The people here have very little, your eminence. Everyone, including the Church, has abandoned them. If one of them in his desperation steals a trifle from us, then I say it is to our shame for not responding to their obvious need. Whoever has taken the cross is welcome to it, as far as I’m concerned.”
“You miss my point, mother.” The cardinal in turn became frostily formal. “I was speaking of the community’s safety. And while the cross may not have great value for you, it was a gift from my late aunt, if you recall, and therefore has a certain sentimental value for me.”
Mary Dominic, aware that the sun was going down and the grounds were still open, said shortly, “It’s only brass, your eminence, not gold. We did not think it fitting that we, who are vowed to poverty, should accept a gift of gold, surrounded as we are by people who are truly poor.” Her eyes wandered to the cardinal’s gem-encrusted gold crosier. The excessively rich trappings of church officials irritated Mary Dominic, and the cardinal had heard her thoughts on the matter ad nauseam.
The cardinal rose, gathering his episcopal robes about him as dramatically as an actor. “Please keep me informed. We will speak of this again.”
“Indeed, if your eminence pleases.”
She kissed his ring, accepted his blessing, and thought how wise the Mother Foundress had been to establish the Daughters of Elias in obedience solely to their own Mother General, thus protecting them from the authoritative itch of local clergy.
Every nun in the convent would want a private word with the cardinal, who gave individual blessings to all who came forward during the course of his leisurely departure. To assure Sister Angela of some time with him, Mary Dominic spoke with her before hearing what Zebulon had to say.
“I was stripping the retreatants’ beds and found this in the room assigned to Father Garcia.” Angela put a small gold cross about six inches long on Mary Dominic’s desk. “It was wedged between the bed and the wall. At first I thought it was the cross missing from the chapel, but it’s not the same one.”
It was not unheard of for a priest to carry a cross among his possessions, but Father Garcia, a small, nervous man who jumped at shadows, hadn’t seemed especially devout. When asked if he’d care to con-celebrate mass or hear the nuns’ confessions, he had claimed his health wouldn’t stand the strain. He followed his refusal with a tasteless joke about fainting in the confessional and scaring the nuns into thinking their sins had been too much for him.
Mary Dominic knew most of the priests in the archdiocese personally and all of them by reputation, but Father Garcia had been a stranger to her. He had said that he was newly ordained and assigned to Gate of Heaven parish, but Mary Dominic found no mention of him in the Archdiocesan Directory. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Published once a year, the directory missed the infrequent assignments made after it had gone to press. Father Garcia would be included in the next edition.
Now, as she examined the cross Angela presented to her, the omission of Garcia’s name seemed vaguely ominous.
At first glance she too would have mistaken the cross Angela placed on her desk for the one missing from the chapel, but closer examination showed its ends had been capped. She twisted one carefully.
A little hill of white powder drifted onto her desktop.
“Sugar!” Sister Angela said. “Who’d put sugar in a cross? Perhaps Father Garcia is diabetic?”
Mary Dominic suppressed a smile. “I don’t believe this is sugar, sister.” Carefully she unscrewed the other three caps. They too harbored a supply of powder.
“I would appreciate your not mentioning this just yet, Sister Angela.” Mary Dominic pushed the cross to the back of her desk drawer and locked it. This was a matter for Sergeant Mike McGuire, not for the community. “Would you ask Zebulon to come in now, please?”
Zebulon’s tale of the kidnapped priest, bolstered by his solemn presentation of the cross that had been thrown from the car, strengthened Mary Dominic’s conviction that the convent had been used in a matter better suited to police investigation than community speculation.
“Thank you, Zebulon. We were wondering what had happened to this cross. If you call tomorrow afternoon, I’m sure Sister Clare Francis will have a special treat for you.”