Free Immaculate Reception by Jerrilyn Farmer

weird, but I’ve found out some new information about that old letter of confession you found. It doesn’t make sense. Still…Well, see you soon, I hope.”
    I looked at my watch just as the doorbell chimed from downstairs. Eight-thirty, and my hair was still wet.
    â€œHi,” I said, opening the door to see Xavier standing on my doorstep, holding a large envelope.
    â€œHi,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here. Did you get my message?”
    I nodded as I led him through the entry hall and into the living room. This is where we hold client conferences, when necessary, and do employee interviews. It still looks a lot like a living room and I motioned Xavier to the coffee-colored leather chair. Men usually liked that chair. Maybe it was the hobnails.
    â€œSo you know,” he continued, settling into the chair, “that I’ve got the final guest list. Can you believe the amount of work it takes just to send out an invitation to this event?” He handed the envelope to me.
    I smiled at him, wondering if he was going to get to the more serious things we had to discuss.
    â€œThis is great,” I said, referring to the paperwork. “We’re right on target with our schedule.”
    Neither of us was ready to start speaking about what was troubling us most, the death of Brother Frank. Were we always so reticent about expressing our darker, most difficult feelings? Perhaps we were. I began to see things about our past relationship differently. Yes, avoiding the difficult topics was one of the things the two of us had in common.
    â€œSo, what did you find out about the confession?” I asked, still going with the avoidance dance that had been “our” pattern, like “our” song, or “our” wine.
    â€œWell, I was doing research to see if the name Brother Ugo came up in any of the computerized directories for the Society of Jesus. You know, Internet stuff. I guess I didn’t get much sleep last night,” he said, looking up at me with his shag of dark blond hair falling onto his forehead. Approach the subject slowly, I thought, and from an oblique angle. Good one.
    â€œSo I didn’t do a really thorough search. Not all years are in the database. There’s a fair amount of really old, historical stuff, and some modern lists, but there are whole blocks of years still missing. Even centuries.”
    â€œBut you found Brother Ugo?” I asked, wanting in on the mystery.
    â€œWell, I found a Brother Ugo. He was a Jesuit brother in the sixteenth century, in France.”
    â€œHmph,” I said, thinking. That didn’t scan.
    â€œI know. It’s not the Castel Gandalfo, which is near Rome, but then I really didn’t think Brother Ugo’s note was very likely from the pope’s palace. It was a loose sheet of paper, so it must have gotten stuck in the wrong ledger somehow.”
    â€œSo who was this Brother Ugo? Did he murder someone?” I asked, my hope for a good ending to our mystery renewed.
    â€œSorry. No. Not that that was ever recorded, anyhow,” Xavier said, smiling at my disappointment that a good Jesuit brother had not committed murder.
    â€œWho was he, did you find out?”
    â€œWell, yes. He was a beekeeper in Avignon.”
    â€œA beekeeper?” I asked, suddenly perking up at the thought of all that venom right at the clever brother’s disposal. “But did he…?”
    â€œActually, Maddie, that’s all I could find out over the net. But here’s the thing. This morning, I just got a response to my inquiry about Brother Ugo from Monsignor Picca at St. Bede’s the Venerable. That’s a parish out near Pasadena. This monsignor is a church history buff, I’ve been told, and he says he may know of this Brother Ugo of ours.”
    â€œWow! Are you going to go see him?” I asked, feeling the excitement of the chase.
    â€œI want to. I should. But with