Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

What had happened was none of his business. He didn’t know the priest who’d been taken. Maybe he’d been scooped up for something innocent — to hear a deathbed confession, for instance. Maybe he was friends with the men in the car, and they were just giving him a lift home.

Even Zebulon Williams, nine years old, couldn’t make that one wash. The little priest was in big trouble; the wrong people wanted to talk to him. The smartest thing Zeb could do was pretend he’d seen nothing. He should definitely keep his mouth shut. He should definitely not pick up whatever had been tossed into the gutter.

Zeb was many things, but coward wasn’t one of them. He dropped from the tree by his hands, wiped his nervous face with the end of his T-shirt, and ambled casually to the corner. He tried to look innocent as he reached down and swooped up the thing that had been tossed from the car.

It was a small brass cross, polished until it shone like gold. A legend was engraved on the back: Gift of Theresa Lynch.

The unfortunate priest had come from the Daughters of Elias, the province of Mother Mary Dominic and the unworldly community of nuns Zebulon considered his own special responsibility. Mary Dominic should be told what had happened.

Kindly Clare Francis, the convent cook, beamed when she saw Zeb at the door. “You might have to wait a while. Mother’s speaking with the cardinal,” Clare informed him.

Zeb considered the wisdom of reappearing on the street with his errand undone. If the men in the limo came back for the cross, Zeb didn’t want to be found with it.

“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.”