The Secret on the Island

By Dorcas Mladenka

As a research assistant for a Texas detective agency, Maggie Haslo has a knack for connecting the dots. She can see that the facts dont add up in the suspicious death of her friend Mando. A history professor at the local university, Mando was killed in what the police are calling a drive-by shootingbut Maggies not buying it.

Before his death, Mando had invited Maggie to the diving site of a sunken Spanish galleon off the Gulf coast; when her friend, Sister Clare, asks her to come investigate suspicious circumstances at her convent on nearby Mustang Island, Maggie decides to combine trips. A few days later, a nun is murdered, and Maggie makes a shocking discovery: the deaths of Mando and the nun are related.

As she drives back and forth between the city and the island with her faithful German shepherd, Zoe, Maggie must put aside her sadness for the friends she has lost in order to be strong for friends that are still living. In the process, she meets more trouble than she could have imagined, but also a blue-eyed detectivewho turns out to be trouble of different kind.

Maggies detective skills are about to be put to the ultimate test. Can she crack the case before another dead body shows up?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491700587

Dorcas Mladenka

Dorcas Mladenka is a retired professor who taught business research to college-age students and working adults in San Antonio, Texas. Her post graduate work includes an MBA from Notre Dame University. She now lives in the beautiful hill country north of San Antonio where she hikes with her Belgian Shepherd, Snowy.

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Copyright © 2013 Dorcas Mladenka.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-0057-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0059-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0058-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013913167

iUniverse rev. date: 07/31/2013

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1.   Clare’s Call

Chapter 2.   My Job

Chapter 3.   Zoe To Kate’s

Chapter 4.   D0wn To The Coast

Chapter 5.   The Monastery—Doll #1

Chapter 6.   Port Mansfield

Chapter 7.   The Dive

Chapter 8.   Darryl; Doll #2

Chapter 9.   Clyde

Chapter 10.   June; San Jose

Chapter 11.   Jerome

Chapter 12.   The Morgue; The Prowler

Chapter 13.   Maggie Loses It; Doll #3

Chapter 14.   Maggie With Peters; Two Boys

Chapter 15.   Jerome’s Funeral

Chapter 16.   Mando’s Car

Chapter 17.   Dolores

Chapter 18.   Falling Snow

Chapter 19.   The Story and The Players

Chapter 20.   Back To The Island

Chapter 21.   A Golden Jesus?

Chapter 22.   Closely Held Hand

Chapter 23.   Four White Ladies

Chapter 24.   The Doll Deliverer

Chapter 25.   Kisses and Kisses

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

References

About the Author

Dedicated

To my brother Phil, who had many stories

but just ran out of time

To

Leslie, Marilyn, and Christine—knowing you has been

a privilege, a joy, and a Godsend.

And to my Dad,

who was a better writer than

any of us

Prologue

Mando’s funeral was turning into quite a production. The old cemetery was packed with people in spite of the burning hot sun. My nylons were burning a pattern into my skin, and my dark glasses were no match for the sun glinting off the white, granite tombstones all around me. Nylons? Well—yeah—I had been a good friend of Mando’s, and I knew his family would be dressed to the hilt for his funeral. I glanced down at my friend Kate’s legs and saw no nylons, but then Kate would be excused anything since she had been Mando’s beloved, his Corazon, his carina, and his family adored her; she would be forgiven anything. They wanted her to come sit with them under the canopy, but she stayed resolutely by my side. I heard her sniffling next to me and saw with a pang her balled up Kleenexes and her attempt to wipe tears streaming down her face. It was mid June and already the temperature here in south central Texas was in the 90s. I tried to maneuver about a bit so as to get at least a square inch of canopy shade across my eyes, but we were packed body to body like Vienna sausages. Apparently every aunt, uncle, cousin and friend had come to see Mando off, not to speak of his many university friends and students.

The mariachis had followed us from the church to the cemetery, and now the horn burst forth at the very moment the priest said the last Amen. I saw the crowd across from me squeezing out a little walkway, and here came ten or so tiny angels in white satiny dresses, white ribbons in their beautiful dark hair, and carrying little baskets. They surrounded the grave, then shyly but with a sense of purpose began throwing flower petals over the casket. Geeze, I thought, this is sooo choreographed. Knowing Mando, and how he loved rituals and ceremonies of every kind, it was no stretch to conclude that he had probably authored his funeral in the unlikely event of his death. Certainly unlikely. Mando was 35ish, I guess, the picture of health, and a living metaphor for le joie vivre.

I had witnessed Mando’s love of ritual on several occasions—especially the religious ones. For example on one feast of la virgen de Guadalupe he invited me to join in a procession on campus ending in the mall where her statue was installed. He organized these occasions during the lunch hour so he could include the blue collar workers, mostly Hispanic, to join students in music and festivities.

The mariachis were now playing a slow, melancholy piece that I recognized as one of Mando’s favorite lloranes. In Mexican restaurants, on the river, in El Mercado, he always requested it, and now I realized it was rather fitting for a funeral. I reached into my bag and handed Kate a fistful of tissues, put my arm around her shoulders and squeezed them tightly. The sad notes wrapped around us, his family and his friends and held us tightly together so that we forgot the heat, forgot our busy schedules, our worries, our struggles with life things, and thought only of Mando: of how we had loved him; of how we would miss him.

It was over and most of the crowd began to disperse. Some huddled in small clusters under the few scrawny trees in the old cemetery. Kate was talking to Mando’s family, and I stood under a corner of the canopy looking out at a sea of weather-beaten angels and crosses. San Fernando Cemetery was for a hundred years or so the only Catholic cemetery in San Antonio. As the city grew, designations like the north side, the east side, the west side, and the south side (South San) soon came to indicate areas that separated economic class and culture. But here in the quiet, sprawling confines of San Fernando, all San Antonians, if they were Catholic, the rich and the poor, the black, white, and brown, all rested in one common area for a hundred years. And ironically, that area was deep in the west side, one of the poorest sections of town. Mando probably had some relatives here and the family would continue to come to San Fernando to bury their dead.

My reverie was broken as Kate came up and took my arm. My car was baking hot inside although I had cracked the windows, but we both got in right away as though in a hurry to get away from the sorrow. We drove in silence as the AC gradually cooled the car. Our route away from San Fernando took us past Lake University but we didn’t break the silence. I pulled over to the far end of a Stop and Go parking lot and pulled off my panty hose, but Kate just sat quietly without moving. You alright, sweetie? I asked, directing a vent toward her chest. Her face was red, but I didn’t know whether from heat or from crying. You want something to drink, or stop somewhere to eat?

No. Just take me home.

So I took her home. She was beyond needing to talk, which we had done for five days. She was exhausted and lonely, a loneliness that I knew I could do nothing about. We had one more short cry together and I left her. Sometimes that’s all we can do—just let someone know that we know.

As I drove away, I pictured his handsome dark face and a surge of anger filled every cell in my body. Dear God, how could he be gone? Who did this… . ? I wanted to scream out. A drive-by shooting, the police said, but I had a hard time buying it. San Antonio, like other large cities, certainly had its share of drive-by shooting (think gang shootings). But it had been five days, and usually within a couple of days the police had some kind of lead. At least some kind of proof that it had indeed been a senseless gang shooting. Often within a couple of days they even had a suspect or had identified a suspect gang. But with Mando, nothing. Absolutely nothing. They hadn’t found a single witness although it apparently happened around 8pm on a fairly busy route as Mando was leaving the University. Even in sleepy San Antonio the streets aren’t rolled up at 8 pm. And yet, what else could it be? Mando, a well-adjusted, well-liked history professor—how could he have had enemies that wanted him dead?

CHAPTER 1

Clare’s Call

Zoe and I both jumped when the phone rang. Zoe is my hundred-pound German Shepherd. She was stretched out at my feet, and I was draped within the folds of my Lazy Boy. It was almost 8 o’clock and we were waiting for the Jon Stewart show, but the fact of the matter was that Zoe and I were both dozing away. It had been a hot, steamy day, and now there was a gentle rain falling, a bit strange for June but music to South Texas ears.

Trying to suppress a yawn, I reached for the phone.

Maggie? It sounded like my friend Clare. Maggie? Am I interrupting your supper… ?

Clare? I don’t believe this. Is that really you? I muted the TV and we exchanged some genuine greetings for a while. Finally Clare said, Listen Mag, I really need to talk to you. I think I need your help. I thought I heard an undertone of concern in her voice.

Clare was Dr. Clare Lewis, professor of Social Psychology. She is a nun, actually, whom I met while I was in graduate school at a local university.

"What’s up, Clare? What do you mean you need my help."

Well, we’ve been having some things happening here at the convent, and I’ve been trying to sort them out, and, well, I just need someone—someone to bounce things off of. I need to see whether I’m getting paranoid.

Things? What kind of things?

Well, little things at first, but they seem to be accumulating. Stuff being moved around, like the patio furniture, and equipment—like someone is coming on our property. I know it sounds crazy… She paused. We decided not to tell anyone outside the convent at this point. People are so prone to get histrionic about nuns. We don’t want rumors starting about ‘bizarre things going on at the convent.’

Clare, are you-all okay? I mean, is this serious? Has anyone been hurt?

No. No one’s been hurt, but the nuns are getting spooked—especially the older ones. You see, it’s like someone is trying to scare us or something. At times I wonder whether we’re scaring ourselves, I mean, maybe these are all unrelated coincidences. But then I think of things like the doll in one of our cars…

A doll in one of your cars?

"Yes. Some kind of doll, Indian looking, a Kachina I guess, sitting in the driver’s seat. She paused, then said, Why would anyone do that? And how? Our cars are always locked."

I wondered too.

Listen Maggie, I wish you’d come down to visit. It would be so nice to see you, and I could fill you in. You do research—maybe you could see what this doll is all about…

Down meant down to the Gulf Coast. Clare and her nuns lived in an old Spanish monastery in Port Aransas, a coastal town east of Corpus Christi.

I bet you haven’t had a vacation for a while, and I know you love the coast, Clare continued. Beach time. Free lodging and food.

She knew me. Though I’ve been to Clare’s only once, I’ve often been down to Port Aransas and various parts of Padre Island. I love it down there so her coaxing wasn’t lost on me.

Mag, are you there? Look, if it’s too inconvenient, I’ll understand perfectly. I just thought in case you had some time off—well, it would be nice to see you anyway.

Maybe—maybe I could come. My mind was flipping through my calendar as I registered the fact that Clare wouldn’t call me unless she was genuinely worried. She probably should be going to the police, but I did understand her concern about rumors. What the hell was going on down there?

Listen, Clare, I said, let me check a few things out. As it happens, I’m scheduled to go to Port Mansfield, off Padre Island, in a week or so. Maybe I can work it out to leave here a few days early and spend some time at your place on the way down.

Oh Mag, that would be so great. I really… I really would appreciate that so much.

I thought I heard a catch in her voice and decided I really would try to go.

After I hung up, I sat and thought about Clare and how we met. I had been trying to finish a master’s degree in library science at the University of Texas at San Antonio, and I was totally stuck. I had opted to do a thesis instead of six extra hours of coursework, an option I soon learned was wrong, wrong, wrong. I’m not a writer to begin with, and I had picked a topic that took me into some theories I really knew nothing about. It was too late to change, and I was in a pickle.

Studying the graduate catalog one day, I saw a course in the social psychology section that looked like it might touch on my topic. It was being offered by Clare Lewis, Phd. Maybe if I went to talk to Professor Lewis, she could tell me what to read—help me get out of the morass I was in.

And she did. After I explained to her my topic, and my predicament, she agreed to give me some guidance, an hour or so a week, if I was willing to help her locate sources for her own research. We worked together that way for an entire semester, and the fact that I finished my thesis at all was due solely to Clare, as I came to call her. She’s a dignified, quiet, person, but kind and witty, and very personable, once I got to know her. I came to like her a lot and we’ve been friends ever since.

I rummaged around in my fridge for something to eat. Futile. The freezer part yielded something wrapped in foil and stuck inside a zip lock bag. No label. As I fingered the frozen shape and felt the sharp edge of a bone, I decided it must be a pork chop.

Half my mind focused on getting together a meal. Baked potato? Easy. Open a can