I nodded and he continued.

“She didn’t need an abortion. She wasn’t pregnant.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“Faye Zimmer was murdered. Someone put something sharp up her and killed her.”

“Jocasta,” I said, my brain making one of those dazed connections.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I mumbled.

“Jocasta?” he repeated.

“Oedipus Rex. Sophocles wrote the most well-known version. Oedipus unknowingly killed his father and married his mother. When he discovered what he’d done, he blinded himself. But his mother, Jocasta, commits suicide. In one version, a later Roman one, she kills herself by forcing a knife into her womb,” I finished disconcertedly, wondering what O’Connor thought of my jumbled thought patterns.

He grunted, then said, “I thought you might want to know.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“It’s like this, Miss Knight,” he told me. “I make piles. First pile is evidence, what’ll go in court. Next is what I’m sure of, but can’t prove yet. Last pile is what people tell me, she says, he says. Question marks. For a while you were a real big question mark. But you wouldn’t have pointed out that body if you were in it with her. That I’m sure of.”

“Cordelia didn’t kill anyone.”

“You’re so sure of that. Why?”

“She wouldn’t do it.”

“So you say.”

“Look, you’ve questioned her. She’s not stupid enough to dump a body a hundred yards from her back door while being the prime suspect of another murder.”

“Not stupid. Maybe arrogant.”

“No,” I said firmly.

“I don’t like fumble-fingered doctors who leave people dead, but anyone who would kill a fifteen-year-old girl that way makes me sick,” he said harshly.

“Then find the person who really did it,” I retorted.

“Look, this is what we know. All the victims have been patients at this clinic. Even Millie Donnalto and Elly Harrison had to admit that Dr. James treated some of these women. For Alice Tresoe, I have two witnesses that said she was six weeks pregnant and on her way here. And that was the last time anyone saw her alive. We got paperwork on all the rest proving they were here. Give me another suspect besides Dr. James.”

“Someone’s setting her up.”

“And who might that be?” he asked sarcastically.

“I don’t know. But as soon as I find out, you’ll be one of the first to know.”

“You do that. Just don’t be selective in what you find out.” He turned on his heel and headed back across the lawn.

“I won’t if you won’t,” I called after him.

He grunted in reply. I waited until he was out of sight, then I went back into the cool of the building.

Sister Ann beckoned to me as I stood indecisively in the main hallway. “I got another letter. I thought you might like to see it,” she said as I approached.

I nodded and she led the way back to her office.

“Coffee, or is it too warm?” she asked as she handed me the letter.

“Yes, please,” I replied. Caffeine might help. I looked at the letter. Same printing, same ugly speculations.

Sister Ann came back and put a mug of coffee in front of me, then sat down with her own cup.

“Who’s Beatrice Jackson?” I asked.

“Me. A long time ago. Before I entered the convent.”

I nodded, glancing again at the section of the letter that detailed Beatrice Jackson’s lascivious behavior.

“Who would know that?” I asked.

“Oh, dear, let me think…that name is a rather distant memory.”

“Who around here?”

“No one, I should think. Perhaps Sister Fatima. I guess the people who would know I used to be Beatrice Jackson would be the ones who knew Beatrice Jackson.”

“Did you show this to the police?” I asked.

“Yes. They’re rather busy these days.” Then there was a pause. Sister Ann continued, “I gather Dr. James is having a rough time of it.”

“Yes, she is,” I replied, wanting to say she didn’t do it, but beginning to feel like a broken record. “I hope they catch the real criminal sometime soon,” I had to add.

“Indeed,” Sister Ann offered noncommittally. Then out of the blue, “Is she your lover?”

“Who?” I asked inanely.

“Cordelia.”

“No, of course not,” I quickly replied. “Not my type.”

“Oh?”

“Too rich, too white for me,” I answered. “Bayou trash and high society don’t mix.”

Sister Ann looked oddly at me. Then replied, “That sounds like something your aunt might say.”

“Goddamn her,” I burst out. Then remembered where I was. “I’m sorry. I’m…profoundly embarrassed. I forgot you were a nun.”

“I hope I’ve gotten beyond the stage where I’m offended by mere words.”