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A moment later, Sister Tereza joins me on the small porch of the building. She’s wearing very sensible, rubber-soled dark brown boots and a blue-gray, knee-length coat, which she buttoned up snuggly against the cold. I know she’s a nun and all, but her outfit reminds me of an army officer's uniform and I can’t get the image out of my head once it pops into it. I think the stern, thin-lipped expression on her face has a lot to do with it too.
“What would you like to know?” she asks me point blank.
I introduce myself and tell her why I’ve come as a feeble way of asserting the upper hand in the conversation. Judging by the unchanged expression on her face, I’ve failed, but I power on.
“I understand Ana Kobe worked as a volunteer at the youth center,” I say. “Can you confirm that?”
She nods curtly. “Yes, I’ve known Ana for over ten years. She was a good and efficient worker, even if prone to bouts of deep depression. Poor, unfortunate woman. I have often prayed for her.”
She makes a sign of the cross over her chest.
“Did you know Tara Merc as well?” I ask and her face tightens even more. But she shakes her head.
“I don’t remember ever hearing that name before, and especially not at the youth center,” she says. “At least not recently. I could check the records.”
“What about David Farber or Veronika Doler?” I ask.
“There was a Veronica that used to come, but I don’t know if it’s the same one,” she says. “As for David Farber, he’s the son of the jeweler family, right? The one who was killed a few months ago?”
I nod.
“He never came to the youth center, I can tell you that,” she says.
“You and Father Ignatius teach bible classes around the country, right?” I ask.
“Not for a few years now, no,” she says. “The youth center and charity work keep us quite busy here.”
“But ten or twenty years ago you were quite active doing that?”
She nods again. “Yes, I joined the monastery twenty years ago last November, and I believed my calling to be spreading the word of God far and wide.”
“Do you remember a woman named Tina Ceh?” I ask and for the first time the mask of composure drops off her face. For a split second. Then it’s back again as she nods.
“Her death hit me very hard,” she says. “Her family attended this church for a time. Tina had strayed from the path, but to die the way she did… she did not deserve that.”
“Are you still in touch with the family?” I ask. “As I understand it, you taught her niece and nephew at Sunday school?”
“That is correct, and I am still in touch with them,” she says. “I’m glad that the children are growing up into responsible young people and I like to look in on them when I get the chance.”
I am having a very hard time aligning this stern woman with someone who could inspire a young girl to join a monastery, as Tina’s sister told us. But then again, I don’t really understand why anyone would do that in this day and age. Probably for the same reasons they always did: peace, community and structure.
“Would you mind showing me the youth center records so I can check them against the victim’s names?”
She shakes a little, but nods curtly. “I would mind. But Father Ignatius told me to give you anything you need, including those records. I have them at the office, and I can’t give them to you now. Come back tomorrow morning at ten.”
I’ve just about had it with her unhelpfulness. Eva could probably thaw her out better than I can, but I’ll have to try.
“It’ll only take a couple of minutes,” I say kindly and smile at her. “Having those records would really help us out a lot.”
Her eyes grow unfocused, probably because she’s trying to come up with an excuse. She seems to be a shrewd woman, so she must’ve figured out why I want them—to incriminate the priest, or possibly her. She’s about to refuse on those grounds, I’m sure.
“I am still recovering from the flu,” she finally says. “I should not be out in this weather.”
“I can come back with the car and drive us there, if you’d prefer,” I say kindly.
She sighs sharply and shakes her head. “No, we can walk there and then you can drive me back.”
Then she marches past me and down the stairs, the gummed soles of her boots squeaking and squelching in the slush. I have to jog a little to catch up to her, spraying my pants and socks even worse with the gray melted snow.
