Free Sanctuary by Ken Bruen Page A

turn to try another smile. It was making my jaw ache. I said, ‘I’ve come to the right place, then.’
    She spoke on the phone, then put it down and said, ‘Your lucky day – she’s free for the next hour. Home Ec was cancelled.’
    â€˜Home Ec?’
    She laughed as if I was just a fun guy. ‘Home Economics. The girls learn to cook and run a home.’
    I was going to add that the fast-food joints littering the town might be the reason for the absence of skills, but didn’t want to push my luck.
    The girl said, ‘She’ll be down in a moment. She’s just fixing her make-up.’
    Was she kidding?
    Nuns . . . make-up?
    She added, ‘You’ll love Sister Maeve. Everybody does.’
    I tried to contain my excitement.
    The girl was in the mood to chat and asked, ‘When is the fundraiser?’
    I was saved from yet another lie by the appearance of the nun.
    I don’t know what I was expecting – at the veryleast a habit, cowl, etc. Nope. She was dressed in a smart jumper and skirt and low-heeled patent shoes, and looked all of twenty. What is it with nuns? They never seem to age. Not a line on her face. She had one of those open Irish faces – no guile or subterfuge had inhabited it. She was almost pretty, if lively eyes and a mischievous smile count.
    She extended her hand and I saw the wedding band. I’d forgotten they’re married to God. She said, ‘I’m Maeve.’
    A little bewildered, I asked, ‘I don’t call you Sister?’
    Her eyes twinkled and she said, ‘Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
    I said, ‘I’m Jack Taylor.’
    Her grip was warm and strong as she asked, ‘You drink coffee, Mr Taylor?’
    Jesus, I nearly quipped,
Does a bear shit in the woods?
Said, ‘Yes, and please, it’s Jack.’
    She turned to the girl, said, ‘I’ll back in an hour. If anyone asks, I’m gone on a date.’
    The girl loved that.
    Outside, I thought for one awful moment she was going to link arms, but she just said, ‘Let’s go to Java, they have the best cappuccino – lots of chocolate sprinkle, and they give you a free biscuit too.’
    â€˜Works for me.’

    We got a table by the window and she said, ‘Oh, this is such a treat for me.’
    Christ, I felt bad. She was truly a nice person and here I was, about to ask her literally murderous questions.
    We ordered coffee and what the hell, I had the cappuccino, chocolate sprinkle and all.
    When it came she said, ‘I never know whether to go for the biscuit first or have the coffee.’
    Well, before the shit hit the fan I could at least be civil. I said, ‘You ever try dunking?’
    She hadn’t, but did, tasted it and exclaimed, ‘Oh that’s perfect. You do know your sweeties, Mr Taylor – I mean Jack.’
    I was sure glad no one who knew me could hear that last comment.
    She took another sip of coffee, relished it, then folded her fingers and said, ‘I’m all yours, Jack.’
    Was she flirting with me?
    Time to ’fess up.
    I said, ‘I lied to you.’
    â€˜About the dunking?’
    I wish.
    I was as close to squirming as I’ve ever come. I plunged on. ‘This is not about charity. I’m here about Josephine Lally – Sister Benedictus?’
    Her eyes lost their twinkle and causing that tooccur jolted my heart. She gave me a long look, then asked, ‘Are you a policeman?’
    Then before I could answer, she suddenly had a thought and her eyes lit up. Not, alas, with joy, but remembrance. She said, ‘Jack Taylor . . . Oh my Lord, Jo talked about you.’
    I was about to speak, but she help up her hand, the gold band on her finger catching a stray ray of sun through the window, almost like a shard of hope. I was interrupting her train of thought. Then she said, ‘Yes, her sister. Oh, poor tragic Siobhan