The Pinch of Death – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

Chapter 25. Dinner with Mom

Jacquetta slipped Mother Xavier’s rosary in her pocket, threw the printed tract in her back seat and waited until she was halfway down the drive before she began to shriek and curse out loud. She was out of breath and out of words by the time the Datsun climbed the highway ramp but she was not out of anger.

Just who was she so mad at? Jesus? St. John of the Cross? Mother Xavier and Sister Thekla? The latter two, definitely. Bad cop and good cop! Of course she was angriest at herself for unconsciously revealing the ugly truth; that she just didn’t want to toil the rest of her life at some exhausting job! But she ALSO didn’t want to spend her days wearing ugly clothes! These humiliating truths had never really occurred to her, but now that they had, she saw herself as no different, really, than a star-struck eleven year old who dreams of becoming a Bride of God in a haze of chiffon and orange blossoms.

Damn, damn, damn. The one person she was not angry at was the one person she should absolutely loathe: the murderer. But she didn’t feel that way at all. She was scared, but she was intrigued. It felt more like awe, really. Awe-inspiringly concrete was the force of her own determination: you are not getting away with this. Jacquetta Strike will see to that. It was a challenge and a dare and she was excited by those.

Damn Sister Thekla and that pathetic lump of “Dunkin Donuts” sugar! Could it have been deliberate on their part, rubbing her nose in a future of bad food and awful art?

I don’t have to decide, Jacquetta promised herself. Not yet. But I do have to catch that murderer. It’s more important than ever now.

Once she had driven all the way to the monastery there was no hope of getting out of dinner with Mom. Jacquetta’s heart sank when she saw the fare her mother had provided: candied ham and sweet potatoes. Hypoglycemic, her mother got a big thrill out of watching others eat the foods she was forbidden. Jacquetta would have far preferred the salad her mother was toying with, but she hadn’t been consulted. Oh well. At least it meant there would be gooey, homemade brownies for dessert.

“So how did it go?” her mother asked anxiously.

Jacquetta always assumed a false heartiness around her Mom, a confidence she couldn’t actually feel. She loathed the Kabuki-style roles they somehow were forced into but there never seemed to be any escape.

“They’re giving me a little more time,” she said. “This is delicious!”

Her mother’s anxiety wasn’t in the least quieted.

“What I don’t understand is why you care about these people,” she wailed. “A suicidal woman? A murderer? These are godless humans!”

“I feel like the old lady put some trust in me,” her daughter asserted as calmly as she could manage. “She gave me a duty to discharge.” She didn’t dare mention the problem of the dead detective Benson. Her mother would have a panic attack right here.

“But you’re supposed to be under guidance,” the older woman protested. “You’re just like your father, always telling the experts he knew best!”

“It’s just a week or so,” Jacquetta argued, fiercely peppering a sweet potato to give it some kick.

“This is exactly what happened with your father,” Marguerite prophesied, “He became a spoiled priest!”

“Mom, if he’d stayed at the seminary, you wouldn’t have had a husband and I wouldn’t have been born!” Jacquetta responded without thinking. Because possibly her mother would have preferred that state of affairs.