The drive was ten minutes on Sunset under a black sky, then a right turn east of Mount Saint Mary’s college. I was figuring the convent would be part of that campus but it wasn’t and I had to travel another 3.3 miles, well past the point where the views turned panoramic.
The address led me to a two-story, white stucco Spanish Colonial mansion, the kind you glimpse in the more venerable areas of Santa Barbara and Montecito, mostly hidden behind walls and gates. This property was open to the street. I wasn’t expecting to see much in the dark, but generous outdoor lighting said I’d been needlessly pessimistic.
The house was perched atop a high mound of lawn dotted with old palms and orange trees and a three-trunk sycamore whose branches stretched over an Italianate cement bench. A fountain of similar style burbled in the center of the property. To the right was flat asphalt parking hosting two blue vans and two blue Kias.
No signage, no crucifix, no steeple; nothing to suggest the place was a religious institution. That same anonymity extended to the clothing of the woman leaving the building and walking toward the lot, something green and shiny tucked under her right arm.
Long-sleeved blouse, knee-length skirt, uncovered dark bob. She was on the short side with a solid build and a jaunty walk. When she reached one of the compacts, she unfolded the green thing.
Several plastic shopping bags rolled up like a jelly pastry. She dropped one, bent and retrieved it, saw me get out of the Seville, smiled and waved.
I waved back and began climbing. The woman descended and we met halfway.
Thirty-five to forty, smooth complexion, strong nose, cleft chin, twinkly pale eyes.
“Dr. McCarthy? Glad you caught me. Thanks so much for the generous donation.” Softly contoured southern accent. Her hand extended.
I gave it a brief shake. “Sorry, I’m not Dr. McCarthy.”
She pulled away. “A donor I’ve never met said he might be dropping off a check. I figured a nice vintage Caddy—my apologies.”
“I’m Dr. Delaware. I’m a psychologist who—”
“So is he! Dr. Jerry McCarthy. Do you know him?”
“Actually, I do.” One of the most respected neuropsychologists in town. I said so.
“Feel free to join him in psychological generosity, Doctor. Are you coming to visit? It’s after hours and I was about to leave but if what we do inspires you, I’m happy to show you around.”
I showed her my LAPD consultant’s badge. Out of date and essentially useless, except for making a first impression.
“Police? Oh, dear. We haven’t made any complaints.”
“I’m looking for Sister Emeline Beaumont.”
All traces of good cheer withered. “Why would the police be interested in me?”
“They’re not, Sister. It’s about Medina Okash and Contessa Walls.”
“How did you connect them to me?”
“Your funeral message to Ms. Walls.”
“Poor Connie—well, that was a while ago.”
“Do you have a sec?”
“Is it going to take long? I was about to go shopping for our residents. We’ve only got three, currently. Teenage girls about to be moms. We offer them support throughout the process. Voluntarily. I emphasize that because with all that’s going on, the church has gotten a pretty bad reputation. A lot of it unfortunately justified. So how much time do you think you’ll need?”
“Just a few minutes.”
“Then let’s have ourselves a nice sit outside under Gargantua—that big old monster. A botanist from the U. came and did dendrochronology. Gargantua was planted over three hundred years ago and has healthy roots.”
“Happy to make his acquaintance.”
Sister Emeline Beaumont laughed but the sound faded fast.
—
