Free Immaculate Reception by Jerrilyn Farmer Page B

somehow led to death. At least this mission to unravel the mystery of Brother Ugo’s bizarre confession might take my mind off that painful subject for a while.
    I was driving against traffic, counter-rush-wise. While most of the cars in Los Angeles were pointing their headlights towards downtown and destinations west, I was breezing my way up the uncrowded side of the 2 Freeway. The air, a crisp sixty-two degrees, would warm up as the day wore on, rewarding the tail end of January with some of Southern California’s best weather.
    La Canada—Flintridge was one of the least publicized wealthy neighborhoods around L.A., like Brentwood used to be, once upon a time, before some of its neighbors brought in a bit too much publicity. Still, one couldn’t beat the community of La Canada for keeping itself quiet. Most people in Southern California had barely heard of it, and those who had didn’t have much of a clue as to where you’d find it.
    La Canada is nestled in the foothills of the Angeles Crest Mountains, just on the other side of the Rose Bowl from Pasadena. I found St. Bede’s on Foothill Boulevard without much trouble.
    Unlike the great cathedrals and majestic Gothic churches that inspire even nonbelievers to give religion a shot, the buildings at St. Bede’s were designed in that style of fifties architecture that made you wonder what in the world architects were up to back in the fifties. Blond cinderblock does not a believer make. The complex included a small Catholic day school, along with the sanctuary and rectory. I parked my old Grand Wagoneer in the lot near an office building and entered the lobby. The sign on the main floor directed me to Monsignor Picca’s office. It appeared that he was the priest in charge of this parish. I found myself wondering at the modesty of the length of my dress. All right, I decided, if I didn’t sit.
    The young priest seated at a desk rose when I entered the small office.
    â€œYou must be…” he faltered, looking for some note on his desk.
    â€œMadeline Bean. I hoped I might speak with Monsignor Picca.” I checked my watch. Nine-thirty-three. Not too bad.
    â€œJust one moment, Miss Bean.” He sidestepped the narrow passage behind the desk and silently opened the panel door that connected to a larger office.
    A few minutes later he reappeared and motioned me to come in.
    â€œMonsignor Picca, this young lady has been sent by Brother Xavier to inquire about the matter of Brother Ugo. Her name is Madeline Bean.” Then the assistant slipped out the door, closing it behind himself.
    â€œCome in, sit down,” called out the monsignor in a hearty, hoarse voice. “My dear young Marilyn, is it?” He sat behind a large blond wood desk with a highly polished surface. Not one object was placed upon the desktop.
    â€œMadeline Bean,” I offered.
    The monsignor wore glasses with thick lenses in round silver frames. They were unspeakably hip, although I was sure the style must have gone in and out of style, and back in again, with the monsignor none the wiser.
    He looked to be at least eighty, with a thinning cloud of white hair circling his wide scalp. His nose, perhaps strong and commanding in his youth, could now only be truthfully described as huge. There was something to his voice, some accent I couldn’t immediately place.
    â€œI must go over to the school in a few minutes time, but I understand you wanted to see me.” He took a moment to look me up and down, adjusting his glasses to fit more properly. “I was expecting to speak with a young man, was I not? A Jesuit priest, I believe, or no, it was a good brother, wasn’t it? At any rate, a member of the Society of Jesus had put out an inquiry into a most puzzling, a most baffling matter.”
    â€œBrother Xavier Jones and I found an old note. It wassigned by a Brother Ugo. We were curious, you see. It seemed to be a confession but there