Free The Good Friday Murder by Lee Harris

thing naturally, which is certainly a plus. My face is fine. It’s got the usual number of eyes and nose, and put together, I’d say it’s not unpleasing. How’s that for modesty?
    You understand I have never had a relationship with a man. I’ve met men who were attractive to me and some who found me attractive. But let me set the record straight: I didn’t leave St. Stephen’s because I had formed a relationship with a man or because I wanted to. Nor did I leave because I had uncontrollable urges. I left because I felt I had accomplished all I could as a nun. I wanted to do more with my life, and I needed to be outside the convent to achieve anything new.
    From the time my leaving the convent started to look like a possibility, I thought about marrying and having children. I wasn’t sure how it would happen, but I felt that the smart thing would be to move slowly. I scarcely imagined that less than a month after I moved to Oakwood, I would meet an attractive man who would want to take me out. It was a littleunnerving. But it goes without saying it made me feel warm and happy and started certain formerly repressed emotions working.
    —
    The phone rang before nine on Saturday morning.
    “This is Virginia McAlpin. I hope it isn’t too early to telephone?”
    “Not at all.” I had already walked and breakfasted.
    “I’ve been in touch with Dr. Sanderson. He’s my contact at New Hope. Do you think you might be able to see him on Monday? I tried to call several times yesterday, but you weren’t home.”
    “I spent most of the day at a police station in Brooklyn.”
    “Good heavens.” She sounded shocked. “I hope nothing’s wrong.”
    “I was reading the file on the Talley murder, Mrs. McAlpin.”
    “Oh my, you really are humming along.”
    I didn’t feel like recounting what I’d done, especially because I had nothing substantive to report, so I ignored her leading comment. “I’d like very much to see Dr. Sanderson on Monday. Where exactly is New Hope located?”
    “Up near Albany, but not that far. You could go up to 287 and cut west to Route 9. That’s the scenic route. Or you could take—”
    I knew Route 9 like the back of my hand. It was the road to St. Stephen’s. “Fine,” I said. “I know the area. It shouldn’t take more than two hours.”
    “Less,” Mrs. McAlpin said. “Dr. Sanderson drives it himself frequently.”
    I wrote down his name, Elmont Sanderson, and directions to the hospital. Mrs. McAlpin said she would confirm our 11:00 A.M. appointment.
    Then I drove to Brooklyn to find the Church of the Infant of Prague.
    —
    It was large and old and stone, the way I like churches to be. I walked in through the great front doors to admire theinterior. Then I lit three candles, one each for my father, mother, and Aunt Meg. I can’t tell you I have any belief connected with that, but it’s the sort of thing they would want me to do, and I do it whenever I enter a church.
    I found the office and went inside. A middle-aged woman sat at the desk.
    I said, “Good morning,” and she looked up.
    She smiled as if she meant it. “How can I help you?”
    “I’m trying to find someone who was probably married in this church about thirty-five years ago. Maybe a little more.”
    “May I ask you why?”
    “Someone she knew was murdered in 1950. I need to talk to her about it. I think she would want to speak to me. She felt the people charged with the murder didn’t do it. I feel the same way.”
    “Just a moment.” She pushed herself away from the desk. “Let me see if Father is free.”
    I hoped he would be. Every Catholic church keeps records of the banns of matrimony, and it’s a simple thing to look up a name if you have some idea of the time frame. Girls usually marry in their parish church. If Magda had married, this was the place that would have the records.
    The secretary returned. “Father Olshansky will see you now,” she said formally.
    “Thank you.” I went through