Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

“That they were lovers? I won’t deny that. But he claims he lived with her. That he devoted himself to her career at the expense of his own. His career! And then that stupid story about Jimmy Horan. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to be believed.”

“If he hoped to get money from her, why would he kill her?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Why do people write on phone-booth walls and do other dumb things? Perhaps he just convinced himself he had lived with Sylvia and someone replaced him.”

“Isn’t that true?”

For the first time her eyes slid away. “You can’t replace someone who never held a place.”

“Did you tell the police about Faustino?”

“Did I ever.”

“Is there any evidence at all that he did it?”

“Well, they certainly looked the place over.”

“Maud, she wasn’t wearing the habit when she was killed.” Maud studied Kim for half a minute. “They know that?”

Kim nodded. “Who is the new man?”

The eyes began to slide again, but she stopped them. “I don’t know. I really don’t. It’s the first big secret she kept from me since I started working for her.”

“But you have a guess?”

She laughed. “Several.”

“Then why aren’t there several possibilities of people who might have killed her?”

“I guess there are. I could have done it.”

“What motive?”

“Tons of reasons. She was a bitch in many ways. Working for her had its moments but by and large, well, why did I stay on? I don’t know. I felt like killing her at least once a day.” Her grin was contagious.

“You have to come visit us on Walton Street.”

“Would I have to wear a habit?”

“I don’t recommend it.”

But thoughts of Sylvia drove away the smiles. On the way back to Walton Street, Kim wondered if Maud Howe was really sad that her employer was dead. So far there seemed no genuine mourners for Sylvia Corrigan. People said things, things that sounded half rehearsed. But no one acted as if the death of Sylvia was cause for weeping.

The face of the man sitting in the chair opposite Sister Mary Teresa’s desk was both familiar and legendary, the face of someone Kim felt she had long known. It was Brian Casey, the singer, one of the men in Sylvia Corrigan’s life. He rose when Emtee Dempsey told him who Kim was, but his face was a tragic mask, mouth downturned, eyes sad.

“Mr. Casey informs me that the mystery is solved, Sister Kimberly.”

“Maud Howe thinks Nick Faustino did it.”

Casey plunged his face into his hands. “Oh, if only he had.”

“Mr. Casey has just confessed to me that he murdered Sylvia Corrigan.”

The famous face lifted from his hands and he looked woefully at Kim. Emtee Dempsey continued, “The question is, Sister, should he confess to the police?”

“But you were singing that night. Maud Howe went to see you.”

“Yes, I know. And she did. But I slipped away between sets. The club is only a block from the Elysian.”

“He walked,” Emtee Dempsey said, and it was clear to Kim that she did not believe the singer’s story.

“I came to Sister Mary Teresa because Sylvia and I were speaking of her just before the argument broke out. I had to tell someone.”

“Were you surprised to find Sylvia in a religious habit?” Kim asked.

“Part of the sordidness of this is that I found her more attractive as a nun. I don’t mean to shock you. And then we argued, I became furious, and...” He stopped for air. “It makes it so much worse, killing someone I love, killing someone in a religious habit.”

“Strangling her?”

He nodded, then again covered his face with his hands. Emtee Dempsey and Kim exchanged a look. “I think you should wait before going to the police,” the old nun said.

“What’s the difference, sooner or later?”

“Have you ever been°in jail?”

He looked up. “No.”

“Later is better. Anyone will tell you that.”

Kim assumed the old nun was trying to come up with a way of finding out why Brian Casey was telling this so easily disprovable story. It was clear that he knew only what had appeared in the newspapers. As the time for his evening performance neared, he grew more willing to postpone calling the police. Emtee Dempsey assured him he should go to the club and entertain, but the way she said it made it clear she could not fathom why adults would sit around in an ill-lit smoke-filled room listening to even so good a singer as Brian Casey croon outdated songs. Kim went with him to the door. On the porch he turned his sad face to her once more. “I feel like Pagliacci,” he said.

“ ‘Laughing on the outside’?”

“ ‘Crying on the inside’! I sing that.” And he went off into the night, crooning the golden oldie.

The next morning, on the way back from Mass, Emtee Dempsey told Kim to stop for a newspaper. Once more in the car, she was reluctant to give it to the old nun until she herself had read the story. Emtee Dempsey said, “If you read it aloud, we could all know what has happened.”

From the backseat, Joyce said, “You can’t stand people who read the newspaper at you.”

“I can when they won’t give it to me.”

Kim gave the paper over. Let Emtee Dempsey read aloud of the death of Brian Casey. Numbed, she started the car and continued to the house.

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