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Part IV: Ghosts of the Past
"I can't think of anyone else who would," said Anne doubtfully, "But we can't just barge in on her in the middle of the night, not without some reason..."
"Well...we need to think of something."
"There..." Anne paused, "Might be something."
"Ooh, do tell," Tony crossed his legs.
"We must be delicate about it, though. Mrs. Murray, or...well, I'm not sure if she changed her name back, but at the very least it's Ms. Murray now...she knows me. She knows my fondness for her daughter."
She bit her lip, considering, her hands knotting and unknotting.
"You," she turned to Tony, "Are wanted by the police. It wouldn't be smart trotting you into somebody's house."
"If you're volunteering, consider this a gracious surrender."
"Jamie..." she cocked her head to the side, "I may be able to get myself into that house, but Ms. Murray has no reason to let you, and I'm not sure I could sell her on me bringing my sister over for a late night visit."
She walked a few steps away, "But...there is something I could use. For myself. It's to do with Rachel. I suppose I should've done it sooner, but..."
She turned back to them, "It didn't feel like the right thing to do."
"What is it?"
Anne looked at her out of the corner of her eye, "You let me worry about that."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Murray house towered like a marble palace on a street where every house looked like parliament.
Anne tucked her hair back into her bun (her habit had been much the worse for wear after the safe; she had discarded it) noting the lights on in the big bay windows on the first floor.
"How much do you know about Rachel Murray?" she asked her sister softly, cutting the engine.
"She...had mental issues. Her mother is a bigot, and she was as much a camera fiend as Audrey," Jamie said, sighing, "Audrey really loved her."
"Not quite mental issues," Anne sighed, "I mean...I'm sure her parents thought she did. I always thought she was just sad."
"I don't know what the Vatican's position on it, but depression is totes a mental illness."
Anne eyed her favorite backseat driver saltily, turning back to Jamie, "If you want to go in with me, you must follow my lead. Tony, you wait in the car."
"Naturally. I'll keep an eye out for any ravening cop cars."
"Yes, ma'am," Jamie said, getting out of the car.
"Jamie, I am older than you," Anne told her, fetching a tiny parcel from the glove compartment, "Not that old. Please, no ma'ams. I may have surrendered certain aspects of my womanhood when I joined the convent, but I still don't like being made to feel old."
She turned to her, "You're handling this very well, I must say."
"I...I just want answers. And I'm trying not to freak out."
"Well...you're doing admirably," tucking the parcel under her arm, Anne cleared her throat, raised her hand, and knocked on the door.
There was a considerable silence.
"I can't blame her if she bites our heads off. Can you imagine what Dad would've done if someone came calling at half past ten?"
In short order, there were footsteps clacking on tile, a voice calling out, "At this time of night, there had better be anger in the land..."
There was a noise of...several many locks being undone before the door opened and an elegant, sharp-featured blond woman looked out at them.
"Ms. Murray?" Anne prompted, "I don't know if you remember me..."
"You're that nun," Pamela Murray had a dispassionate manner, sharp blue eyes and thin lips puckered into an expression of perpetual disapproval on what would otherwise have been a very handsome face, "From St. Mary's."
"Anne Teague, yes," she managed a smile.
"I remember you," Pamela nodded slowly, "You told us Rachel would die if we went on as we had. Well...we went on. What does that say for us?"
Those eyes moved next to Jamie, "And who is this?"
"My sister," Anne volunteered, "Jamie."
"Hi." Jamie forced a smile, waving.
Pamela looked her up and down, grimacing, "You bring to mind some greasy guttersnipe Rachel brought to this doorstep once before," she paused, "You don't look much alike, I grant, but...there's something of the same there."
She turned back to Anne, "Come inside."
She breezed through the doorway. Anne turned to Jamie, bewildered.
Jamie said nothing as she followed her sister inside. This was weird...
Anne noted Pamela's peach dressing gown, cinched at the waist.
"Sorry to be calling so late..."
"A sensible woman calls first."
"Yes, we should have," Anne nodded, "But I'm afraid I lost your number."
Pamela turned to scrutinize her in the doorway to the living room.
"Lost?" in a barely audible voice.
"The...the school didn't keep the record after..." she faltered.
"And yet you remembered this address?"
It was unclear whether this was an observation or a challenge. Either way, Pamela pivoted on her heel, passing into the drawing room.
"A drink?" she asked, moving to the cabinet in the corner, "I don't make a habit of entertaining this late at night, but..." she unstoppered a crystal decanter, "...This is obviously a special occasion."
"No, thank you, ma'am," Jamie politely declined.
"Hmph," she harrumphed dismissively, turning to Anne, "What about you? I've never known a nun who'd turn down a drink."
Anne pressed her lips close together, "A gin rickey, then. If you're making one."
"A woman of discernment," Pamela almost smiled, "Gin is a true drink. Young people tend to shy away."
"They say the habit ages you."
"Most habits do," she held up a highball glass, delicately pouring the carbonated beverage in, "Lime?"
"Please."
There were a whole case of citrus, petrified in ice, beneath the liquor cabinet. Pamela returned to them, the gin in one hand, a cognac in the other.
"Now," she handed the glass to Anne, sinking into a chair, "Why have you come here?"
Anne lowered herself to the settee, nudging away a glass already on the table.
"I have something that I think belongs to you."
Jamie quietly sat down out of sight, to let the two women do their business. Anne hadn't told her what her plan was. Just follow her lead.
"This, I think, is yours," Anne reached into the pocket of her coat.
Pamela's eyes widened, "I had been wondering about that."
It was a delicate rosary, dark beads on a silver chain. Anne held it delicately from her fingers, "My father ended up with this some months ago."
"Did he?" Pamela prompted, "How, I wonder?"
Anne blinked, but Pamela spoke over her, "I expect the bulldyke had something to do with it. Pernicious little pug-faced bitch."
Jamie bit her tongue. How dare she...
"She broke into this house, you know," Pamela continued, sweeping to her feet, "Crept in through my daughter's window. Vile little bitch didn't think I'd have installed security cameras. I have no doubt she thought she was being very clever."
She accepted the rosary, "These beads have been in my family for four generations. They would've been Rachel's after me. But, the Jensen girl was determined to take her from me. And Rachel was eager for a new identity, so...why shouldn't she go along with it?"
She turned to Jamie, "You're awfully quiet, aren't you? Don't tell me you're under the little thug's spell too, hm?"
"I'm not under anyone's spell ma'am," Jamie forced a smile. Hopefully it didn't look too fake, "I've just never been one to talk a lot."
"No, but you're a pernicious little cretin, aren't you," said Pamela flatly, "I've known facile wenches like you my entire life. Too virtuous to break wind, so you smile your little smiles and say your sirs and ma'ams and hope that gets you by until you can go back to being an irreverent creature in the light of day."
Anne opened her mouth to say something, but Pamela cut them off, turning around.
"Thank you for this. I had given up hope of ever seeing it again," she closed her fingers around the rosary.
"Anything to bring some peace, Ms. Murray, to you and your..." she faltered, "Husband."
The word had been chosen deliberately. Pamela fixed her with a stare, "I have no husband, Sister. I can only hope the church forgives."
"The church tries its best," Anne said at last, "I'd forgotten your separation. I'm sorry."
"I'm not," Pamela said lightly, "It was high time we went our separate ways. Unfortunate that it took the child we made hanging from her ceiling fan to...bring us to that."
"I am sorry about your daughter, Ms. Murray," Jamie said, doing her best to keep her temper down.
"Everybody's sorry," Pamela leaned against the doorframe, "Spare me."
"We won't take up any more of your time, Ms. Murray," Anne swept to her feet, "Only...I wonder if you might tell us how we might contact your...um...your ex-husband?"
Pamela cocked an eyebrow, "...why should you want to?"
"Some of the sisters and I, we...we wanted to send a care package. You and Mr. Murray were so kind to the school..."
"I can't tell you where he is," she said lightly, "I don't know myself."
'He...he didn't leave a forwarding address, or..."
"You have never been married, Sister?"
"No..."
"Then you cannot understand," she took a sip, "When you have shared a life with a person for long enough, their presence either becomes panacea or parasite," she set the glass down, sharply, on the table with the other two, "He was my parasite."
Jamie looked to her sister for what they should do next, hoping she'd get the unasked question.
"What now?"
"I find faith is a comfort," Anne continued, "When things feel empty."
"For the young, maybe," she smiled thinly, "At a certain point in life, one ends up craving more physical comforts. The immaterial only gets one so far."
"Sometimes...both can be of help."
"Is that how you manage?" Pamela fixed Jamie with a sharp, hawkish eye, "One day you will learn loss, little pretty. I wonder how you'll manage then."
***
"Well..." Anne declared breezily, heading along the garden path from the house, "That was pleasant."
"So now what?" asked Jamie, keeping up with her sister, "That got us nowhere."