“We could go to Benscombe,” she offered.
“Benscombe?” Akiko asked.
“A country house in the south of England,” Mary Alice told her. “It was our training ground. And probably not a great idea since it has a connection with the Museum,” she pointed out.
“Kind of a frying pan, fire situation,” Natalie agreed.
“But it doesn’t have a connection to the Museum, not anymore,” Helen said. “The organization never owned it. It was always the property of the Hallidays. When Constance died, it was inherited by a distant cousin who sold it. It changed hands several times.”
“Then how are we going to get in?” I asked.
“Well, because I own it,” Helen said. We stared at her in amazement as she hurried to explain. “Kenneth and I did a tour of England for our thirtieth wedding anniversary, and I thought it might be fun to show him. So we drove down, and as soon as we got there, I saw the noticeboard. It was for sale. I didn’t know it at the time, but Kenneth wrote down the agent’s details and made inquiries when we got back to the States. He cashed in his retirement and bought it as a surprise for me. Apparently he got quite a deal because nobody ever cleared it out. I think it’s been left as it was when Constance died.”
“You think?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I haven’t been inside. Things kept coming up and by the time we were ready to go and see about fixing it up, Kenneth got sick and there was no money. But the bottom line is that there is a property in England sitting empty.”
“We can’t use it if it’s in your name,” Mary Alice said.
Helen shook her head. “Kenneth bought the property in the name of a holding company for tax purposes. My name isn’t anywhere on it, and neither is his. It would take a good deal of research and a great deal of luck for anyone to find us.”
I looked around the group. “Then we’re off to England. Minka, Akiko needs a passport, and you’d better see about paperwork for Kevin as well. I’ll make the flight arrangements. Get your bags together, ladies. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
As we went our separate ways to pack up, I noticed Natalie slipping out the front gate, looking furtive. I decided to follow, heading out into the Quarter, walking with a baseball cap pulled low on my head and a scarf wrapped up to my chin. I was moving fast, catching up to Nat just as she crossed the street and disappeared through the entry gate into the Ursulines convent museum. I waited a minute and then followed, paying for my ticket and passing through the line of shrubbery in the courtyard and into the convent itself. It smelled of wood polish with a faint trace of incense. To the right were the tiny rooms that had been turned into a museum and to the left was the passageway leading to the chapel. It was anybody’s guess where she’d gone, but I mentally flipped a coin and headed left. Sure enough, she was sitting in the buff and blue chapel with its pretty rococo saints. The incense smell was stronger in here, mingling with the odor of the beeswax votives lit by the faithful. I slid into the pew next to her.
We didn’t say anything for a long minute, just stared up at the starry blue ceiling. Next to us was a statue of a woman dressed in white and purple, her dark hair crowned with roses. She carried a skull resting on a book and seemed to be making a beckoning gesture with her hand.
“What are you doing here, Nat?”
“I’m communing with my girl Mary,” she said, nodding towards the statue. “Two nice Jewish girls hanging out together. I like her skull.”
“Sure. I can see that,” I said. “Except that’s St. Rosalia of Palermo. Pretty sure she was Catholic.”
“Well, shit.” Natalie slumped in the pew. “I can’t even get that right.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
She seemed to be having some sort of argument with herself about whether to confide. She decided to trust me, I suppose, because she tucked her hands in between her thighs and took a deep breath. “I wanted to be with my people. Only the nearest synagogue is like an hour walk, so I came here. Catholics understand community, you know? And they get guilt too.”
“You’re sixty and you’re finally feeling guilty over something?” I asked. I was only half joking.
“I’m sixty and I never stopped,” she told me. “I’m a woman. Guilt is our birthright. Guilt if we want to be mothers, guilt if we take the Pill instead or choose to abort. Guilt if we stay home with our kids or guilt if we work. Guilt if we sleep with a man, guilt if we say no. Guilt if we’re lucky enough to survive for no good reason. I’m so damned sick of it. I’ve never been so tired of anything in my life. I just . . . I just want to go to sleep forever.”