Rick Mofina - Perfect Grave

He got a clubhouse sandwich and while paying for it at the cash register, he got directions to Painted Horse Road from the cook, a large, kind, woman whose eyes vanished amid her rosy cheeks when she smiled.

“Sister Marie lives in the Jensen cabin on Whisper Creek Ranch. You go for maybe twenty minutes, turn toward the mountains. Look for the two huge white rocks near the road at the crest of a hill. Got WCR on the gate. You can’t miss it.”

It was late afternoon and black clouds churned in the sky as Jason’s rental ripped along the twists, turns, and dips of Painted Horse Road. Pebbles pinged against the undercarriage and dust plumes rose in the car’s wake, disrupting the tranquillity.

No other buildings or signs of civilization were evident.

The dash clock told Jason he’d been traveling some twenty minutes when the landmark rocks appeared. He slowed to turn and his car was swallowed by the dust he’d kicked up.

A long stretch of tired, weatherbeaten fencing led to the pine gate bearing WCR. It was open, inviting Jason to take a grassy path into solitude.

His rental car crept along through a stand of spruce until he glimpsed the red tin roof of a log cabin, sitting perfectly amid a clearing, overlooking a rugged creek and the mountains beyond.

He killed the engine. As it ticked down, the gurgle of creek, the chirp of darting birds, and the cheerful flit of monarch butterflies underscored the serenity. The glazed logs of the cabin gave it a sturdy, clean look; its window frames and edging had been painted a fresh buttery yellow. He came to the door.

His knock was received in silence.

“Hello, Sister Marie!”

Nothing.

He called again only louder and in all directions. The echo of his voice was still in his ears when he heard a faint response, stepped around the cabin, and saw a woman in the distance, farther along the small terraced hills. She was in a chair, working at an easel, beside a patch of garden, overlooking the creek.

She waved to Jason and he waved back.

As he neared her he saw that she’d used a cane to stand. She was dressed in jeans, a gingham shirt, and wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. She lifted her head, revealing thick glasses and a kind, ascetic face that met him with a healing smile. Her painting of flowers and trees was nearly completed. It looked good.

“Sister Marie Clermont?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Jason Wade, a reporter with the Seattle Mirror. ”

“Seattle. Oh my, you’re a long way from home, dear.”

He noticed she had an accent and guessed it was French.

“Yes,” Jason fished for his identification, to reassure her.

She nodded at it, then passed it back.

“Sister, I’m researching the biography of a nun who was with the Order, the Compassionate Heart of Mercy. I understand that before retiring, you were the senior council member who oversaw the screenings of many sisters.”

The old nun nodded. Behind her glasses, her eyes were alert.

“Sister, my trip here concerns, Sister Anne Braxton. I’m sorry to tell you that she was murdered in Seattle.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Yes. An old friend in Olympia saw it on the news and sent a fax to the church in Cardston. We held a Mass for her.”

“Well, I have something with me that belongs to her.”

The nun leaned on her cane, shifting her weight, listening.

“Her journal.”

“Her journal?”

“Yes, and if you’d allow me, I’d like to show it to you. Sister, I’ve come to ask you to help me understand Sister Anne’s life before she became a nun. I’d like to write about it for the Seattle Mirror. And I’m afraid I don’t have much time.”

Sister Marie considered Jason’s request for a long moment.

Her eyes took stock of the darkening sky.

“We’d better talk inside. Looks like a nasty storm is coming.”

T he air in Sister Marie’s cabin was sweet with the light fragrance of potpourri and soap.

A crucifix, adorned with a rosary, and a print of the Blessed Virgin hung on one of the walls. Jason noticed a tiny bathroom and small bedroom. He could see a narrow bed, crisply made, and thought it looked like one in a monk’s cell.

He saw no phone, computer, or TV. One wall of the living area had a floor-to-ceiling shelf crammed with books and papers. He saw a large reading chair with frayed fabric. Next to it were a worn Bible and a magnifying glass. The small kitchen area had a woodstove and a wooden table with two chairs with spindle legs that did not match those of the table. The mismatch and the austere style suggested everything was secondhand.

“This is a special place, Sister, I like it.” Jason set his files on the table after returning from the car.

Thunder rumbled outside as the old nun lit the stove to boil water for tea and coffee.

“This section of Whispering Creek Ranch was donated to the Order by an oil family whose matriarch died of cancer in a Calgary hospice the sisters administered.”

“And how do you handle it, being out here all alone?”

“God takes care of me, dear. Parishioners check on me every day and my neighbor, half a mile down and across the creek, drops by often. I’m never lonely finding God in the quiet.”

A cat emerged and nudged her leg as she prepared the tea and coffee.

“And I’ve got Sassy here, to protect me from mice.”

“You’re doing just fine.”

“I am.” She set Jason’s coffee down in a chipped mug. “I’ve thought much about Anne since I learned of her death. How can help you?”

“I’m trying to complete the story of her life. She was loved by Seattle and it’s my job to offer the city a full account of what it lost. We know nothing of her life before she joined the Order.”

“But does that matter, dear? She gave herself completely, unselfishly to God and to others. And she gave it without vanity, without seeking credit. I think that’s all that needs to be said.”

“That is virtuous, but there’s an overriding factor.”

“What could that be?”

“Sister, the person who murdered her remains at large and could easily harm others. There’s strong speculation that she knew her killer. Consequently many people feel that perhaps something in her past could help the police in their investigation.”

Sister Marie glanced at Sister Anne’s journal and the clippings, suggesting to Jason that the old nun knew something about Anne’s past.

“Tell me, Jason, how did you obtain a copy of her diary?”

“Sister,” he smiled, “you’re not trying to get me to reveal my sources?”

“Is that what you think?” she returned his smile.

“It came to me through channels by those concerned that the truth be known; that everything that can be done to help find Anne’s killer is done. Even if it means revealing her inner thoughts, even if it means revealing the mysterious parts of her past that seem to have tormented her.”

“And what do you ask of me?”

“Would you please read everything here? It’s not a lot, really. I’ve highlighted the important parts. Afterward, would you please allow me to interview you on your reflections on her journal and your memories of screening Sister Anne into the Order, for a feature I’m writing?”

Sister Marie considered the documents.

“And if I refuse, I suspect you will go ahead with your report based upon your acquiring her personal, private diary?”

“Most likely. Sister, my job is to publish news, not suppress it.”

She nodded.

“Give me a little time alone to look them over first, then I’ll decide.”

Jason nodded to the fire crackling in the woodstove.

“I’ve got plenty of copies of everything, Sister.” He smiled.