“Marie, this place has become a haven for poor black women-many of them older women-who want an education. This may be hard for you to understand, but these women have declared Marygrove off-limits to hoodlums.”
“And that keeps them out?”
“For the most part, yes.”
“It works?”
“Seems to.”
Marie smiled. “I don’t know. This conference is all about murder, isn’t it?”
“Fiction, Marie, fiction.”
“Sometimes there’s only a thin line between fiction and fact.”
Janet laughed. “Stick to your field, Marie: fiction. Just think,” she added, with a smile of wonderment, “an author-a published author. When we were students here together, who would have thunk it?”
“Not I.”
“How’d you get into it?”
“By accident, mostly, I guess.” Marie sat on the room’s only chair. “I was thinking about all the things that have changed in our lives. Oh, not only the changes in the Church. More the changes in our order.”
Janet nodded. “Almost as day and night. In the beginning, we were teachers-almost all of us in parochial schools.”
“Exactly. If it hadn’t been for teaching nuns, there would never have been a parochial school system. All those parishes could never have afforded lay teachers. Parochial schools almost certainly would never have even been considered without our coolie labor. Some of the religious orders were founded to train nuns as nurses and hospital personnel. Some orders trained nurses and teachers. But, by and large, they mass-produced teachers.”
“That’s right,” Janet agreed. “And so we were. Except for the few who were cooks or domestics, or the few who served the order in management or health care, we were all teachers. And so it was into the fifties and early sixties, and-”
“And then,” Marie broke in, “the roof collapsed.”
“The candidate supply dried up. So many of the Sisters left us. And so many more decided to enter other educational fields-adult ed, continuing ed.”
“As in my case,” Marie said.
“In charge of continuing education for the entire Archdiocese of Miami.”
“Yes, the archbishop himself bestowed on me the freedom to draw up the entire program and set the budget.” Marie laughed. “Then he gave me the freedom to raise all the money for the budget.”
“I wasn’t aware your job was that big. I didn’t know they expected you to be a fundraiser too!”
“I didn’t know that either in the beginning. But then the archbishop said, ‘Welcome to the world, Sister.’”
Janet looked concerned. “How were you able to do it? I mean with all that responsibility, where did you find time to write? I mean, write a book!”
“It wasn’t easy. And I wouldn’t recommend it. But, as I was saying, I got to thinking of how our lives have changed so drastically over the years. And I thought: Why not? I’d always found a lot of fulfillment in writing.”
“Yes, I remember that. But, a book!”
“It was the best way I could think of to tell our story. To create a nun who had lived through all the things we’ve experienced. Life in the old convent, the tightly knit community. Life today, an entirely new ball game.”
“In a murder mystery?”
“Why not? Mystery is no stranger to the Church. You might even say the Church is built on mysteries. Besides, there’s something neat and finished about mystery stories. I’ve always liked how all the loose ends get tied up. I find it very satisfying.
“The biggest problem is finding time. A few evenings, a few early mornings; every once in a while a weekend. It’s a long process under the best of circumstances.”
“I’ll bet!” Janet moved about the room, touching pictures, draperies, fixtures, almost compulsively. “And now? Another one?”
“I don’t know about that. Not right away, that’s for sure. For one thing, the publisher’s got me doing a bit of promotion.”
Janet grew animated. “That sounds exciting. Do you travel much?”
“Not a lot. Some telephone interviews. A bit of radio and television. You know: ‘Why is a holy nun of God writing about murder?’ ‘What does a nun know about murder?’ ‘. . about the world?’ ‘. . about anything-other than how to say the rosary’”
Janet laughed. “Really! That bad?”
“That bad!”
“I’m embarrassed. I haven’t checked, and I should have: Is Behind the Veil on the New York Times best-seller list?”
It was Marie’s turn to laugh. “Heavens, no! I’m what’s called a midlist author. On a few best-seller lists, but not for any length of time. A soft-cover sale. A book-club offering. It did get reviewed in the Times, but it was sort of negative: ‘The characters in Sister Monahan’s first novel talk like nuns’. . that sort of thing.”
“That’s not fair. I read your book. The only thing missing was America’s favorite ‘F’ word. And not everyone in the country stoops to that.”
“I know. But that’s the way it goes. Actually, I think all the other authors in this writers’ workshop are in the same boat I’m in-mid-list authors.” Marie wandered to the open door in the rear of the room. “Nice bathroom. All for me?”
“All for you. Father Benbow and his wife have their own bathroom. Rabbi Winer’s wife didn’t come with him, so he’s sharing a bathroom with Father Augustine and Father Koesler. And Mr. Krieg has his own facility.”
“No one would wash from the same bowl as he, eh?”
Janet snickered. “Just the way it worked out.”
Marie glanced at her watch. “Just five o’clock. How long do we have before dinner?”
“About an hour.”
“How ’bout a walk? I’d like to see the place again. Besides, I’m a little keyed-up.”
“Sure.” Janet slipped into her topcoat. “Want to borrow one of my coats? It’s getting really chilly out there.”
Marie took a windbreaker from her suitcase. “I haven’t forgotten Michigan weather entirely. Particularly how it changes from hour to hour. Come on; maybe we can find some of those elusive security guards you’ve been bragging about.”
Janet showed her surprise. “Why this obsession with security?”
Marie’s laugh was tinged with nervousness. “Oh, I don’t know. You just never know when a gal’s going to need some security. Call it a premonition.”
“I don’t like to hear you say that. I remember your premonitions. What I remember mostly about them is their accuracy.”
“Forget it, Jan. Let’s just enjoy our walk.”
They struck out briskly across the campus. Neither spoke for some minutes.
It was Marie who broke the silence. “Who invited that guy anyway?”
The question startled Janet. “Guy? What guy?”
“Klaus Krieg.”
“Oh. My predecessor. The former director of development.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t get to know Jack Regan very well. He resigned to take a job at UCLA, and I was named director just before he left. We had only a few meetings. He handed me this conference as a fait accompli. And when I saw your name as one of the participants, I paid no attention to the rest. I was just so happy we would be able to get together again.” Janet paused a moment. “What’s the matter with the Reverend Krieg anyway?”
“Please don’t debase the title ‘Reverend’ by bestowing it on that creep!”
Janet giggled. “Creep? He is an evangelist, after all.”
“Come on, Jan; you know better.”
“All right, so he’s a creep. But Jack Regan seemed to think he’d draw a crowd. And-no offense intended-but wouldn’t you agree that Klaus Krieg is the major drawing card of this workshop? I don’t mean to take anything from you or the other writers,” she added hastily. “The students undoubtedly will learn a lot from all of you. But their prime objective is to get published. And Krieg is a publisher.”
Marie smiled fleetingly. “And he’s rich.”
“Very.”