And Then There Were Nuns Read online

  Praise for the national bestselling League of Literary Ladies Mysteries

  “Logan has fun with this unusual story, intimate setting, and feisty characters, and readers will, too.”

  —Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “This is one of my favorite series. What could be more fun than a mystery series that is about a reluctant book club? I love how the mysteries run parallel to the book the League of Literary Ladies are reading. Bea and her friends always rally together to solve the mystery—especially if the accused is one of their own. This well-plotted mystery will be a delightful treat for cozy mystery readers. I found I could not put this book down—I had to find out whodunit.”

  —MyShelf.com

  “One of my favorite cozy mystery writers . . . What great characters Kylie Logan has created.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Kylie Logan has created a cast of characters with whom readers will feel invested, as their histories are played out throughout the series . . . The plot, a surprisingly complex one in this third of the series, never suffers from the focus on character development. Literature, the struggle of authors, and friendship among women make this an absorbing read—a spookily good book with an even greater mystery.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Kylie Logan

  Button Box Mysteries

  BUTTON HOLED

  HOT BUTTON

  PANIC BUTTON

  BUTTONED UP

  League of Literary Ladies Mysteries

  MAYHEM AT THE ORIENT EXPRESS

  A TALE OF TWO BIDDIES

  THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HARLOW

  AND THEN THERE WERE NUNS

  Chili Cook-off Mysteries

  CHILI CON CARNAGE

  DEATH BY DEVIL’S BREATH

  REVENGE OF THE CHILI QUEENS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  AND THEN THERE WERE NUNS

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2016 by Connie Laux.

  Excerpt from Irish Stewed by Kylie Logan copyright © 2016 by Connie Laux.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-40728-2

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / March 2016

  Cover illustration by Dan Craig.

  Cover design by George Long.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  To all the teachers,

  lay and religious,

  who taught me to love learning

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  After twelve years of Catholic schooling, it should have been easy for me to write about nuns. But when I started And Then There Were Nuns, I realized there was a whole lot I didn’t know about convent life. I hope I’ve reported it honestly.

  There are some familiar names in this book. Sister Liliosa was the principal of my elementary school, a formidable figure who struck terror into the heart of every child at Sacred Heart of Jesus. I’d like to think that there was another side of her and I wrote this Sister Liliosa to reflect that. Sister Francelle was my third-grade teacher, and I still remember her fondly. Sister Helene taught World History at my high school. She was an ancient woman with a brilliant intellect who not only awarded As, but A++s when she liked your work.

  The other nuns are drawn from my imagination, but Mary Jean and Margaret . . . you know who you are!

  As always, there are so many people to thank when a book is complete—my editor, Tom Colgan; his assistant, Amanda Ng; my agent, Gail Fortune. I have to include my family, of course, as well as my brainstorming buddies Shelley Costa, Serena Miller, and Emilie Richards. A shout-out, too, to Maureen Child, who listens to my ideas (and sometimes my rants and raves) via email every day and always offers sound advice.

  To those readers who have asked, yes, South Bass Island is a real place. It is full of friendly people, fun restaurants, and not nearly the number of dead bodies that appear on these pages!

  CONTENTS

  Praise for the national bestselling League of Literary Ladies Mysteries

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Kylie Logan

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Special Excerpt from Irish Stewed

  1

  “There’s a penguin on my front porch.”

  Truth be told, that statement doesn’t sound any less crazy to me now than it did that early spring morning when I muttered it through a fog of sleep.

  But then, it had been a long and interesting night, and since I’d just rolled out of bed, I couldn’t really be certain that I was thinking straight.

  I was pretty sure I wasn’t seeing straight.

  Just to confirm this to myself, I brushed my long, dark hair away from my face and rubbed my eyes. Nothing changed. From the doorway of my private first-floor suite at the B and B, I looked to my right and toward the foyer. There was a row of long, thin windows on either side of the front door, and the glass in them was as old as the house. Through those windows, the scene outside always looked as rippled as the waves that lapped against the Lake Erie shore beyond the tiny strip of rocks and grass just across the street.

  Between the antique glass and the glare of the early morning sunshine reflecting off the lake, it was impossible to see clearly, but I knew this much—I’d come out of my bedroom to make a pot of coffee and I saw what looked like a penguin on my front porch.

  Black head.

  Torpedo-shaped body.

  White at the front.

  Outlined with black.

  “Very large penguin,” I mumbled.

  “What did you say? There’s a big peregrine on the porch?”

  From back in my bedroom, Levi Kozlov sounded as sleepy and confused as I felt.

  Yeah, that’s right, Levi, the guy who I’d felt an instant attraction to the moment I met him. The one I swore I’d never get involved with because I’m convinced good relationships are all about honesty and for reasons I wasn’t ready to divulge to Levi or to anyone else, I couldn’t be hon
est.

  We’d been dancing around our feelings, me and Levi, for months, taking two steps back for every one we took forward, weaving and bobbing and dodging every hint of intimacy like old pros.

  That changed just hours before the penguin porch encounter.

  Blame it on what I made the mistake of calling my “world-famous Bolognese” when I was chatting with Levi earlier in the week. Blame it on him for daring me to prove how good my pasta sauce was and me for taking him up on the challenge. Blame it on the fact that I didn’t have any guests staying at the B and B and the soft glow of the candles on the dinner table and the dancing fire in the parlor fireplace. Heck, blame it on spring fever. Or just go ahead and blame it on plain ol’ stupidity. Whatever the reason—the alignment of the stars, the overwhelming power of passion, the weakness of human nature—we’d finally stopped sidestepping each other the night before and finished the dance.

  And yes, just for the record, Levi is as good of a dancer as I always imagined him to be.

  All of which was incredibly exhilarating to remember.

  None of which changed the fact that Levi and I had some serious talking to do.

  After I took care of the penguin.

  “Not a peregrine,” I told him. “It wouldn’t be weird to see a falcon on the island. This is a . . .” I had always prided myself on my good eyesight. In fact, I didn’t need the glasses I’d chosen to hide behind ever since coming to the island and I’d left them on the nightstand next to the bed. I leaned forward and squinted. “Penguin. Definitely a penguin.”

  When Levi came up behind me, the temperature shot up a dozen degrees and my heartbeat quickened along with it. He wrapped his arms around my waist, propped his chin on my shoulder, and looked where I was looking, his bare chest brushing my terry-cloth robe.

  “It’s a nun,” he said.

  A wave of memory washed over me like the slap of a cold Lake Erie wave and I groaned. “The nuns! The nuns are coming to the retreat center today. Elias told me . . .” I spun around and raced back into the bedroom, collecting the clothing we’d discarded in disarray hours earlier.

  “Not my socks, yours.” I’d already scooped them up off the floor and I tossed them to Levi and found my purple panties and bra, then pulled on jeans and a sweater in record time. My shoes were . . .

  When I didn’t see them, I settled for what I could find; I slipped my feet into the fuzzy bunny slippers next to the bed. “Elias Weatherly, the guy who runs the retreat center. He said the nuns were coming today.”

  “Right.” Levi had a blanket wrapped around his waist, and in the glow of the brilliant morning sun just peeking in my bedroom window, his chest looked as if it had been sculpted by an artist with a keen eye for both the gorgeous and the tempting. “You’re helping with the food.”

  I raced to my 1930s-vintage dressing table and dropped down on the bench in front of it, the better to see myself in the mirror when I combed my fingers through my hair. “Yeah, but what I didn’t tell you was that he called yesterday to tell me his mother-in-law was really sick over on the mainland, and I promised I’d help with anything else he needed. The nuns must have just arrived. They must need something.” I whirled away from the mirror. “How do I look?”

  A slow smile spread over Levi’s face. Have I mentioned tall, golden-haired, chiseled chin? Oh, what that smile did to me! Before my heartbeat raced out of control and took my common sense along with it—again—I popped off the dressing table bench. I had every intention of heading for the door. I would have done it, too, if my conscience didn’t prick.

  “Look . . .” Feeling suddenly as awkward as I definitely hadn’t been all night long, I scraped one bunny slipper against the carpet and stabbed my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the front porch. “I need to take care of this. Then I’ll make that pot of coffee and some breakfast. We need to talk.”

  He pursed his lips. “Talk. Sure. But not now.” Levi reached for his jeans. “Twelve years of Catholic school,” he said. “And I’m not about to let a nun know that we—”

  “What?” My shoulders had already shot back before I could remind myself that the stance was altogether too confrontational. “You’re having regrets?”

  His head came up. “That’s not what I said.”

  It wasn’t and I knew it. I could have kicked myself for letting my conscience get the best of what should have been a punch-drunk morning of simmering smiles and sizzling shared memories. Damn conscience!

  “No, it’s not what you said,” I admitted. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t think you’d be leaving so soon.”

  “I’ve got a delivery coming in for the bar this morning, so I really do need to get over there.” Levi sat on the bed to put his sneakers on. “But Bea . . .” He looked up at me through the honey-colored curl of hair that fell across his forehead. “You’re right. We do need to talk. There are a few things—”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Penguin at the door,” I said and heck, who cared if I was running away from whatever he was going to say or simply dodging what I knew I had to tell him, I spun around and raced out into the hallway.

  With any luck, by the time I took care of the nun at my door, Levi would be out the back door and gone.

  The thought stabbed at my heart and the memories of what had been a perfect night. Rather than dwell on it, I pasted on a smile, threw open the door, and came face-to-face with one of the most formidable-looking women I had ever seen.

  I had been right about the body type. Stout and tapered. Like a hoagie sandwich. I had been right about the penguin similarities, too. The nun who stood at my door wore an old-fashioned habit, a black wool robe that touched the floor and was covered by a panel of creamy white. She wore a very shiny silver crucifix over that. Her head was covered by a black veil, her face was framed with a stiff white contraption I knew was called a wimple and covered her forehead and her ears.

  She had dark eyes, thick lips, and the kind of eagle-eyed stare that my imagination told me had intimidated schoolchildren for decades.

  “Good morning. I hope we didn’t wake you.” Her smile was bright enough to rival the morning sunshine and, instantly, her forbidding face was transformed. If she was a teacher, I had no doubt she was a kind one. “I’m Sister Liliosa and this . . .” She waved a hand toward the stairway and for the first time, I realized there were two other nuns waiting there, both of them wearing much the same kind of old-fashioned habit as Sister Liliosa. “Sister Mary Jean,” she said, gesturing toward a lean-faced, ruddy-cheeked nun. “Sister Gabriel.” This nun was far younger than the other two. She didn’t look at me when she was introduced. “And this is Sister Margaret.” That particular nun had been standing off to the side at the base of the porch stairs checking out the daffodils just peeking their heads out of the front beds. Her dress was black, too, but shorter than the ones worn by the other Sisters. Her veil was a simple square of black fabric, pinned back on her head to reveal a glimmer of silvery hair. She took the stairs carefully and stepped up to Sister Liliosa’s side.

  “Elias Weatherly told us we could contact you if we needed help,” that Sister told me.

  “Of course!” I stepped back to allow the nuns into the B and B and, one by one, they came inside and clustered in the foyer, Sister Liliosa nearest to me and the others lined against the wall. I closed the door behind them just in time to catch a glimpse of Levi’s black Jeep backing out of the driveway.

  An inglorious finish to what had been a splendid night and maybe I wouldn’t have felt so disappointed if I reminded myself that it was bound to end this way.

  “The others who were with us on the ferry this morning have gone on to the retreat center,” Sister Liliosa informed me, shaking me out of my thoughts. “They rented golf carts down near the ferry dock. We thought . . .” The Sister slipped a quick sidelong glance toward Sister Margaret who, rheumy blue eyes wide,
studied the stained glass window in shades of peacock, teal, and purple above the front door. “They dropped us here because we thought it might be best if we didn’t ride all the way in an open golf cart.” Another furtive look in Margaret’s direction. “You know, with the morning air being a little brisk. We didn’t want to take a chance of getting sick. Not when we’ve got such an exciting week ahead of us.”

  I had no doubt “they” weren’t worried about anything at all except their elderly companion and I couldn’t blame them. Sister Margaret was short and so stick thin, I was sure a stiff southern breeze could have blown her clear across the lake to Canada.

  “You stopped here because you need a ride to the retreat center.”

  Sister Mary Jean grinned. “You’re reading our minds.”

  “Could we be so bold as to ask?” Sister Liliosa asked. “Mr. Weatherly said we should contact you for anything we needed.”

  “I have to go over there today anyway,” I told them, though I left out the part about how I’d been hoping it wouldn’t be until later, long after the time Levi and I might have done a little more of what we’d been doing the night before. “I can bring over the salads I made for your lunches and that will save me the drive over at noon. Elias asked me to help with the food,” I explained and headed into the kitchen for the salads that I’d already prepared and put in ten separate containers, one for each of the nuns who would be attending the week’s retreat. I loaded the salads into carry bags and added the extras I’d packaged, cheese and ham and turkey, pickled beets and chopped hard-boiled egg and bacon bits, along with a variety of dressings. When I got back to the foyer, I put the tote bags on the floor and grabbed my jacket from the nearby coat-tree. “Elias was called away. His mother-in-law is very sick. Over on the mainland. The house that’s being used as a retreat center—”

  “Old and fabulous, from what we’ve been told,” Sister Mary Jean said, and I caught the trace of a Southern drawl.

  Fabulous. That’s what I’d always heard, too. The lake-front home now officially known as Water’s Edge Center for Spirit and Renewal had once been the home of wealthy island recluse James Scott Findley. Findley died right before I came to South Bass Island—about a year earlier—and in his will, he left the house to a nonprofit with the requirement that it be used as a retreat facility. All were welcome and since its opening, the Center had already hosted a group of rabbis and a meeting of Buddhist monks.