“I don’t either, but I seem to recall that it concludes by saying that time and chance happen to us all.”
“That’s what every investigation counts upon,” I said, “time and chance.”
The door opened, and Dr. John Chen and a clerk emerged. The clerk was carrying a clipboard and a small plastic bundle, and after Lisbet signed several forms he somberly passed over the package. The plastic masked but did not conceal the small, naked figure within.
“Hello, Rose,” Lisbet said, her tone gentle and caring.
Even though I expected Lisbet to respond as she did, I still felt uncomfortable. Most people don’t deal with the dead in the way that she does, and I was relieved when she excused herself to go outside to carry on her one- way conversation with Rose. I knew that Lisbet always spent an hour or two at the coroner’s office giving the babies that were released to her the kind of welcome to the world they never received in life. Through a window I watched as she took a seat on a nearby bench and cradled Rose in her arms. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought that a mother had stopped to nurse her baby. I tried not to stare but couldn’t seem to avert my eyes. As I watched, I felt myself growing more and more conflicted. Lisbet was too young and vital to be spending all her attention on the dead. There was a part of me that wished I was the one nestled at her chest instead of a baby that would never respond to her.
I turned my eyes to Dr. Chen and saw he was also caught up in the viewing. I had always considered Chen as hard as nails, but I could see that behind his glasses his eyes were misting. Everyone at the coroner’s knows Lisbet; she has won over the entire building. On one occasion when Lisbet gathered one of her dead charges, a dozen workers had come out and sang “Amazing Grace.”
Chen abruptly turned away from Lisbet and looked down to the paperwork he was holding. He did his best to assume a cut-and-dried voice and said, “Cause of death appears to be positional asphyxiation.”
“Which means what exactly?”
“It means that respiratory compromise occurred and the baby suffocated.”
“Was it accidental or was she smothered?”
Coroners aren’t different from anyone else-they like to hedge their bets-but Chen didn’t see the need this time. “All signs point to it being accidental. Usually we see positional asphyxiation when a baby gets wedged in a space, most often between a mattress and a wall, but it can also happen when a baby gets entangled in bedding, which is what appears to have occurred.”
“Was the baby alive when she was abandoned?”
Chen nodded. “We found no evidence of trauma. The baby’s respiration was compromised because of the soft bedding she was placed in. With the box angled like it was, she was not strong enough to fight gravity and was smothered in the blanket wrapped around her.”
Gravity, I thought. “Would we were talking about an apple.”
Chen chose not to comment.
The late afternoon traffic was the usual stop and go, and with the time getting short I started nervously drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. After my burning dream I’d awakened to the aroma of pumpkin bread, and had decided my subconscious was telling me how to proceed. This particular gift shop was supposed to stay open until five, which left me twenty minutes to travel about a mile. In LA that’s no sure bet. As I continued to tap away at the steering wheel, Sirius got up and started pacing around.
I stopped my rapping. “All right, I’ll cease and desist with the drum rolls.”
My partner seemed glad to hear my voice. I had been silent since taking leave of the coroner’s office.
“When clues dry up, some detectives grasp at straws,” I said, “but not me. I grasp at crumbs and follow their trail.”
Judging by the thump-thump of his tail, Sirius seemed to think that was a pretty good thing.
“I suppose you think you’re going to extort some treats out of this visit. Think again, flea head. If you don’t watch out, people will start thinking you’re a doughnut-shop cop.”
Earlier, I had googled “pumpkin bread in Los Angeles,” and it had led me to an unlikely source: the Monastery of the Angels. There were a number of articles and websites that glowingly described the pumpkin bread made by the order of cloistered Dominican nuns just two blocks off of Hollywood Boulevard. The bread was made fresh every day and was sold out of the monastery’s gift shop.
I knew of the monastery’s existence but had only driven by it. The nuns had picked about as worldly a spot as there was to lead their cloistered lives. The monastery is only a stone’s throw from the 101 freeway; the traffic noise has to be a constant reminder of the world outside their walls. Many locals don’t even know about the monastery in the midst of the city. Its appearance is no giveaway: to the casual eye, its stucco walls and steel gates look more industrial than ecclesiastical.
Nearing the monastery, I found myself staring at a familiar sign propped up in the Beachwood Canyon foothills: HOLLYWOOD. The white lettering stood out in the growing dusk. I wondered if the nuns ever took notice of that same sign. I looked at my watch again. Like Cinderella, I had a pumpkin deadline.
It was five of five by the time I parked. I left Sirius behind and jogged through the parking lot, cutting over to the pathway that took me past the public chapel to the front reception area. There was an OPEN sign on the entrance door, which gave me hope, but that same door was closed and the reception area had a deserted look that appeared to contradict the invitation to come inside. I tried the door, found it locked, and then knocked. A muffled voice called out from somewhere inside the building, and then I heard footfalls. From inside the door a woman with a Jersey accent asked, “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m Detective Michael Gideon.”
A curtain opened and I held up my wallet shield.
“Are you here to buy something?”
“I am here to ask some questions.”
“Just a sec.”
Clicking locks turned and the door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman with big hair and lots of makeup who was wearing a sequined sweater that shimmered with various cat designs. It was a good thing Sirius was in the car.
“I was just closing up,” she said, doing a lot of talking with hands that also gestured for me to enter.
“If you don’t mind, I need to take a quick look inside the shop.”
My request surprised the woman, but she shrugged and then did another operatic sweep of her arms. The space I entered was barely boutique-size, and my eyeball inventory didn’t take long. Most of the wares had a religious bent, but not all. There were several boxes of chocolates on display, as well as two loaves of pumpkin bread, but what most captured my attention was a shelf of knitted goods. I went for a closer look and pushed aside the hats and mittens in favor of a pair of pink bootees. The image of Rose in her bootees came to mind, even though I wished it hadn’t.
The cat woman offered up some history regarding the bootees I was holding. “Sister Mary Ruth does most of the knitting. She’s almost ninety, but she’s a terror with her knitting needles.”
“I’ll try not to get on her bad side then,” I said, returning the bootees and looking at the speaker. “Do you work here?”
“Dottie Antonelli,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m a volunteer, but I’m here two or three days a week.”
“Is there a gift shop manager?”
Dottie shook her head. “There’s a committee of volunteers that helps the nuns. Somehow everything works.”
I handed Dottie my card; her eyelids, heavy with makeup, managed to widen some. “I guess you’re not here about parking tickets.”
“Guilty conscience?”
“Always,” she said, wagging a good-natured finger at me.
“I’m hoping I can talk with whoever might have waited on a woman that I believe was shopping here one day last week.”
“You’re talking about seven or eight volunteers that might have been working,” Dottie said, “and that doesn’t include the nuns.”
“Nuns work in the gift shop?”
