Murder Mayhem and the Motherhouse

By Larnette Phillips

First in a series and revised from previous publishing. Sister Mary Agnes was on the run, hiding from the hideous truth she had uncovered, terrified he would find her once he knew. The problem was he was famous, in some circles reviled, in others revered. The other "hidden truth" that she didn't know and neither did he was the unmasking of "the serpent". His rampage was deadly and he had a zero error margin until the night he made one fatal mistake. It was the one who saw his face for the first time--"the butterfly man". Game on!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larnette Phillips
• Release date: Jul 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223797227

Larnette Phillips

I am an author who writes socially conscious fiction, ridiculously funny fiction and down home southern fiction.  I care about the sacred trust of the "writer's pen" and use it to be the voice for those who cannot speak and to tell the stories of those who cannot tell them.

Book preview

A Note from the Author—

Thank you for being so faithful and loyal to my work.  As any author knows, the audience who cares enough to buy the books are the only reason we, as authors, are successful. You carry us through those long nights of sixteen-hour days trying to finish a manuscript and get it ready to go to press. 

Murder Mayhem and the Motherhouse is the first in a trilogy.  The next installment in the series, entitled The Playing Field will be released in 2021. 

I welcome comments from my audience and am happy to notify anyone who cares to write of forthcoming releases both in this series and my other work.  Another murder mystery entitled The Haunting of Alyssa is set for release in late summer 2020. I am also the author of Charity Junction (a series) already available in print,  and I am the author of Seasons (romance) and Sully and Me (literary) both set for release by fall 2020.

Supporters of my work can reach me at [e-mail]

And as any author knows, all mistakes are mine.

With blessings and gratitude—Larnette

Prologue

She was on the run.  Very few people knew the truth and it was better that way—safer, really.  She was smart enough to realize that one day very soon she was sure to be the hunted.

It was a long way from a life of luxury, wealth and privilege to the cloistered life of a monastery.  To the people here, she was Sister Mary Agnes, the nun who had arrived on the doorsteps of The Sisters of Loretto Motherhouse in Nerinx, Kentucky little more than a year ago.  It had almost taken an act of God to get her here—to foolproof papers and documentation so as not to raise suspicion.

In her real life, as she often referred to it, she was someone else, living another life by another name.

Hiding had been inevitable—at least to her, anyway.  She had to protect everything and everyone she loved—and herself.

What do you do, she wondered, when you walk headlong into a nightmare?  You pick up the pieces and run, she thought to herself.  Only the truth was—how long could she stay on the run, even in a convent house?

She was surprised to discover a peace here—found in the silence often associated with a convent house as one walked the hallways, reciting the rosary and doing penance, as well as being of service by helping those in need.

This was her station in life, as she liked to call it, at least for the moment. Who knew what tomorrow would bring?

She was about to learn that you really can’t run from the truth because it was often like a game of hide and seek. Sooner or later, someone would find you if you played the game long enough.

Truthfully—and there was that word again—she hated running but sometimes it was the best option.

Sometimes it was the only option.

Little could Sister Mary Agnes have known that her whole world was about to shatter into a thousand pieces because regardless of where one lives, the past often catches up with you when you least expect it.  Sometimes the past could be deadly and evil did not mind trespassing on God’s most holy ground.

1

Somewhere in the good book, it was written an eye for an eye—a tooth for a tooth—and in the beginning of the good book it was also written about the deception of the serpent.  Even the serpent could enter God’s house if the door was left open.  This was the night of the serpent’s arrival and with the serpent always comes death.

June 25, 2010

Tuesday

Just before midnight

Sisters of Loretto

The Motherhouse

Nerinx,  Kentucky

The old woman’s eyes clouded over as she lay in her bed—the bed of iniquity as she called it. She had been here too long already, languishing upon this bed, waiting and wondering when death would call her home so she could meet her Lord.  At the age of eighty-six, her health wasn’t all that bad, really but she knew her time was running out, all the same.  It had to be.  She’d lived a long life—most of it for her Lord, doing God’s work, being the foot washer of the poor, helping those who were least in the world’s eyes, but the greatest in God’s eyes.

She would still like to believe there was more work to do—and she prayed it would be so, but again, one never knew.  At times, the environment at The Motherhouse could be depressing as one was constantly surrounded by the sick and the dying.

Her crippled hands grasped her rosary beads from the nightstand by her bed and she began, as she had been doing for more years than she could count, to pray the rosary.  It was her daily and nightly ritual, to pray for those who needed to know the God and the peace she had found.  I believe in God the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth and in Jesus Christ, His only Son our Lord—She stopped as she heard the sounds of her door opening before she turned her dimming eyes toward the presence of the intruder who had now entered her room.

Her eyes, though dim, thought she recognized the person who was now near her bedside.  She smiled and extended her hand as she said, So nice to see you.

The intruder knelt by her bedside, placed a hand upon her cheek so quickly that she didn’t see the knife in his hand as he plunged it into her fifth rib and jerked upwards.

Her rosary beads at once fell limp by her side.  The intruder turned and knelt before the Crucifix, made the Sign of the Cross, and spoke, In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

It had begun.

2

Just after Midnight

June 26, 2010

She was running, always running—anywhere that would carry her away from the continual nightmares.  They never stopped.  The blood was pouring over her hands.  She was always screaming in the nightmare—that never changed. She screamed for justice, for vindication and her screams were for the blood on her hands.  Her hands had his blood on them.  She always believed that.  Until the day of her death, she would always feel responsible for him.  And no matter how many times she woke up, he was still dead. He wasn’t supposed to die but the irony was that sometimes people die before their time anyway.

Sister Mary Agnes awoke drenched in sweat like she had almost every night for the last year.  The nightmare was always the same.  The same face—the same hands—the same blood on her hands.

This nightmare was by far the worst.  She saw his face in this one—sometimes she didn’t, but tonight she had seen his face again.  She wanted to forget but how could she?  She prayed to God she would forget but she never did.

Was this her sin—her punishment?  Could she make atonement?  More importantly, would she ever forgive herself?  That one day—a day like no other—it had changed her life forever because that’s the day she met hell face-to-face.

Was this nightmare an omen of things to come?

Later that morning—

The Sisters of Loretto Motherhouse was sequestered in the small town of Nerinx, Kentucky—not all that far from Bardstown and Louisville.  It was a place where many elderly nuns lived out the remainder of their years—some of them sick while others took care of the dying.

At this hour of the morning, most of the nuns were already up and beginning their day of service unto the Lord.  Some were busy visiting the sick and dying, while others were praying the Rosary, offering penance and doing other kinds of work for the Lord.  However, this day would not turn out the way it began.  There was a dark cloud hovering over them even though they were yet to know it.

Sister Mary Agnes looked at the clock, a troubling, almost vexing spirit falling upon her.  It was 6:57 a.m. and something was amiss—she just didn’t know what.  For one thing, Mother Superior was late for breakfast, something that never happened.  Even at the age of eighty-six, she still insisted on doing everything for herself and Mother sternly admonished anyone who disturbed her.  She still dressed herself and she made sure she was at the breakfast table in the dining hall promptly at six-thirty.  She was never late.

Sister Mary Agnes’ heart began to race, pounding, not so much out of fear as it was a sense of foreboding.  This was highly unusual and she didn’t like the way it felt in her spirit.

In the dining hall, she began pacing back and forth, as the other nuns watched and waited, their anxiety heightened by the noted absence of the Mother Superior.  It was like no one really knew what to do.  On more than one occasion Mother had bristled when anyone dared to disturb her, giving sometimes harsh reprimands to those who bothered to change her rules.  But this was different.  It was seven-thirty and there was still no sign or sound of Mother.

Sister Mary Agnes walked over to Sister Margaret’s table, one of the nuns with more seniority.  Sister Margaret had been a nun for more than nineteen years and she looked like a linebacker in a habit with her six foot three frame and stout build.  In comparison to Sister Mary Agnes’ petite frame at five feet two and one hundred pounds, they dwarfed each other when standing side by side. Do you think I should check on her? she asked, twisting her hands and then clutching her rosary beads, pressing them to her breast.  She could feel the sweat beginning to pour down her legs inside the habit.  Already perspiration beads were forming on her forehead.

By all means, Sister Margaret replied, a look of concern upon her own face.  This is not right.  If you like, I can come with you.

Sister Mary Agnes hated the thought of going alone to Mother’s room and was grateful for the offer of support.  Would you?

Yes, of course.  Sister Margaret excused herself from the table where she sat with a group of other nuns as each of them began preparations for the day after their morning routine which consisted of breakfast, chapel and other chores.

When she pulled herself up to her full height, Sister Margaret could intimidate anyone but she was a kind soul with dancing eyes and a heart full of compassion.  Let’s go, she said, her habit swishing closely behind Sister Mary Agnes as they headed out the double doors of the dining hall and towards Mother’s room which was in a separate building  across the property from the main Motherhouse.

Mother’s room was located in the historic building where she, along with several other nuns who had been at the Motherhouse many years, shared their quarters.  Each room had a private bath and there was a common living room as well as a common kitchen.  There was also a common area situated at the entrance to the building where guests of the nuns could congregate and enjoy one another’s company.  Next to the main building were several guest cottages, suited for those who chose to visit for any length of time.

Sister Mary Agnes crossed quickly across the property and through the front entrance, surprised at the eerie silence that greeted them.  Part of that should not have come as a surprise, since the other nuns were already at breakfast in the dining room they had just left.

Sister Margaret rode shotgun behind Sister Mary Agnes as they approached Mother’s door and then knocked softly, not once, but three times.  Now a look of alarm crossed both their faces.  As if in answer to Sister Mary Agnes’ silent question, Sister Margaret nodded a grim look upon her face as she did so.

Sister Mary Agnes turned the knob and opened the door.  What she saw made her jump back with a start and give a blood curdling scream before crossing herself, and dropping to her knees to pray the rosary.  She saw it before Sister Margaret who had, out of respect, waited just beyond the door.

At the sound of Sister Mary Agnes’ most horrific scream, Sister Margaret rushed the room like a quarterback, only to join Sister Mary Agnes’ on her knees.

Mother was dangling from the bed, dried blood around her mouth and blood splattered on her habit, her empty eyes agape, her rosary beads and Bible on the floor, a look of agony on her now silent face.

In a moment of sheer fortitude, Sister Margaret was up off her knees, headed back out the front door.  I’ll call the sheriff but I must warn the sisters.  With that, she left Sister Mary Agnes in the room, on her knees with the dead Mother, fear rising up inside of her such as she had never known before.  The hairs on her arms and her neck were raised, a prickly feeling overcoming her.

Mother was dead and hell had just arrived at the Motherhouse.  His name was evil and something much worse, so much more sinister, had taken up residence in this holy place.

3

The sound of sirens came bursting through the air within a few minutes after Sister Margaret’s frantic and hurried call to 911 as she rushed to warn the sisters.  She had called Father Isaac quickly and he was waiting in the dining hall as she gave the dire news.

There was an eerie silence in the hall when Sister Margaret informed them—and Father Isaac—that Mother was dead.  Tears began to flow as Hail Mary’s were uttered up towards God and heaven for the death of a saint.

Sister Mary Agnes was still with the body, hesitant to leave Mother until she was absolutely forced to do so.

It was a flurry of chaos as first Sheriff Newt Parker and his deputies then the forensic team and coroner arrived on the grounds.  Sister Margaret led them to Mother’s room.  Upon their arrival, they found Sister Mary Agnes praying the rosary over Mother’s still frame, tears streaming down her face.

In another part of the property, he ran just as fast as he could, once he heard the sirens, jumping over potholes and running down the hill away from the Motherhouse, sweat pouring down his face.  But then he realized he couldn’t really leave the Motherhouse.  That would only make things worse—much worse.  Oh, he was in trouble!  He just knew it! He wasn’t the one who did it, but he was the one who saw it even though he couldn’t see the man’s face.  No one would believe him and he didn’t want to be accused of a murder he didn’t commit.  Dear—dear Jeeeessus, he prayed, He—hel—help me.  He was out of breath when he reached the bottom of the hill and then he turned around and headed into the woods—and back towards the stench of death—and the face of evil that had come for all of them.  The bad men were loose and one of them might come for him.

Sister Margaret walked up behind Sister Mary Agnes and gently tapped her shoulder.  Sister Mary Agnes, the sheriff and his people are here. C’mon.  We must let them do what they know to do, she said sadly.

But I don’t want to leave, wailed Sister Mary Agnes, tears streaming down her face as her rosary beads trembled in her hands.  Who would kill a woman of God?  She never hurt anyone.  All she ever did was spend her entire life helping the poor and those who couldn’t help themselves.

I don’t know who would commit this atrocity against her and God, said Sister Margaret somberly, but we have to get out of their way.

Finally, Sister Mary Agnes agreed and both of them left the sheriff, his deputies, forensics and the coroner to their duties after explaining, for the moment, how they discovered Mother’s body.

For the next several hours, the sheriff, his deputies, forensics and the coroner did the gritty work that came with handling a murder.  It was never easy for Sheriff Newt Parker to cover a crime scene, but it was especially bothersome to have this holy place desecrated by murder.  A murderer’s blood had brought evil into this place and he knew enough about that kind of evil to know this would not be the last of the murders.  He had been doing this long enough to know that when there was one murder of this type, others usually followed.  His deputies and the forensic people combed the grounds, looking for any sign of the murderer.  Samples were taken from everything in Mother’s room while the dogs they used were busy doing what they did best—looking for clues, the scent of the killer, or the scent of blood.  All those hours later, and they still came up empty-handed. Once an autopsy was performed, samples and any analysis and the coroner’s ruling would take weeks.

Newt despised the media and he was sure the media in Louisville would get wind of this if he and his people couldn’t keep it under wraps.  These nuns never bothered anybody and all they needed on top of Mother’s death was the press nosing around, asking questions.  He had a feeling the answers on this one would be a long time coming.

After an exhaustive search and hours of questioning Father Isaac and the other nuns, as well as the regular employees of the convent house, a bone weary sheriff and his deputies found Sisters Mary Agnes and Margaret in the chapel doing the only thing they knew to do—pray.  Father Isaac was doing his best to console the nuns and those who worked at the convent house.

Newt knew the nuns here did a wonderful and holy job of caring for the poor, the sick and the dying.  Their work was a sacred trust.  In all his twenty-four years as Sheriff, it made him sick to his stomach to know a nun had been murdered.  He cleared his throat to announce his presence and as he did so, they stood and turned to him.

Sisters, he said, when he could finally speak.  I am so sorry.  Pardon my language, but the bastard stabbed her in the fifth rib and plunged the knife all the way in.  She didn’t have a chance.  At this point, even after all these hours, we cannot find the weapon, which we are sure is a knife with a serrated edge based on the wound itself.  The dogs are still covering the property as are a few of my other men, but we cannot find anything left behind by the killer.  He cleared his throat again before continuing, Hmm, uh, you know the coroner has to take her body and because she was murdered, I’m sure you understand an autopsy has to be performed.  I know how sacred life is to you but there is no choice.

They gasped at his words, even though they expected it.  Sister Mary Agnes and Sister Margaret clutched each other as if holding onto one another would make it not so.  Oh, death, where is thy sting?  The familiar and heretofore, comforting words from the Bible came back to haunt them at this hour of sorrow and mourning.

We’ll tell Father, Sister Mary Agnes said quietly when she finally spoke.

And I’m sorry—real sorry, Newt continued, wringing his hat in his hands.  It’s times like this I hate being a sheriff.  You’ll have to come to the precinct so we can formally take your statements.  Be sure and come down tomorrow morning.  The sooner we can put the pieces together, the safer it will be for everyone here.  I don’t know if this is a one-time killing or if the son-of-a-bitch, sorry, ladies, has a vendetta against the Motherhouse and the nuns here.  As much as I hate to say it, my gut tells me this will not be the last killing.  We can’t let the trail grow cold—that’s the worst thing we can do.

We’ll come, Sister Mary Agnes and Sister we Margaret said in almost the same breath.

Oh, and one more thing, Newt said before he turned to go, do not be surprised if the news hounds over in Louisville pick this up.  If they do, every newspaper and television reporter within a hundred mile radius will be on your doorstep.  You can count on it.

Sister Mary Agnes’ blood ran cold at his words.  The news media was the last thing she needed.  They couldn’t come here.  But something told her they would.  And if they did, everything would unravel.

Later, Sister Mary Agnes was back in her room, pacing the floor, praying the rosary, trying to understand what had just happened, shivers running up and down her spine.

Mother’s death surely had something to do with her—it had to!  Tears streamed down her face as she prayed the rosary.  Mother was the only one here who knew her true identity.  Sister Mary Agnes remembered the day she arrived here.  Mother greeted her with open arms and ushered her inside her room, embracing her with love and acceptance.  What she said to her that day was something Sister Mary Agnes would never forget.  Sometimes, she said, When trouble comes, we don’t know where to turn.  It’s as if we’re lost, without a friend in the world.  Always remember that God knows exactly where you are, dear, and He knows the trouble you face.  He will not ever leave you.  Even when it seems you cannot hear his voice, just listen.  He is speaking.  When you need help, you don’t have to get all flowery with Him, just say, ‘Help me, Lord’ and I promise you, He’ll hear that prayer and He will answer you.  Learn to forgive yourself for the past because the past is dead and it cannot ever be resurrected.  And remember that your life must always be an example of God, no matter what, and your life must be about what you give away—not about what you keep.

She owed Mother something she would probably never, in her life, ever be able to repay.  How do you thank someone who takes you in, regardless of the truth, and loves you anyway?  She didn’t know.

Now, trouble was on every side—or so it seemed. No one from her past knew where she was.  Did they?  She wondered.  She picked up the phone and called a very old and dear friend.  They had not spoken since before her arrival here.

He answered on the first ring.  It is good to hear from you, my friend, he said very calmly when he recognized her voice on the other end of the phone.

How are you? she asked, trembling and shaking at all that had happened.

I am well—and you?  You are in trouble—are you not?

He would know—he always knew.

Let’s just say trouble has come here and I am very, very frightened.  More frightened than I have been in a very long time.  She quickly explained last night’s events and then she summarized the possibility of the news media.

That will not bode well for you if they come.  I do not think it is safe for you, he said in that calm, soothing voice that he always used when there was trouble on the horizon. Watch your back.  If you need me, I will come.

She knew he would—he had always watched her back and helped her in trouble.  Now would be no different.

Call me tomorrow evening at five o’clock, she said. If I do not answer, then board a plane and come here.  It will mean something is amiss.

My call will come.  Be well, my friend.  He hung up the phone, hoping to God no one had bothered to trace it.  The less time spent on the phone the better.

Sister Mary Agnes felt a great sense of unease, not just because of Mother’s murder but because of so many things that so few people knew anything about.  She broke out in a cold sweat.  It was all beginning to catch up with her.

Dear Jesus, come and help me in this my hour of trouble, she said, making the Sign of the Cross.

If she had to, she would run again. She was accustomed to having swift feet—she’d run too much in this last year.  And she never thought the evil would find her in this most holy place.

Later, Sister Mary Agnes joined Father Isaac, Sister Margaret and the other nuns for chapel and then she retired to her bedroom where she began her nightly ritual of praying the rosary for the sick, the dying and the dearly departed.

It was stifling hot in her room and even the window air conditioning units did nothing to cool the heat to a reasonable temperature.  Sister Mary Agnes opened the window near her bed, something she had done many times before as she prepared for bed.

It was a costly mistake.

The intruder crept stealthily through her open window and placed the chloroform over her mouth.  Sister Mary Agnes awakened just as he did so and she began to struggle but the chloroform was stronger.  She was out before she could strike back.  He carried her over his shoulders as he edged both of them out through the window, down on the grounds.  The convent house was sequestered among magnificent oak and magnolia trees.  The nuns took great care of the gardens of which there were many.  The gardens consisted of azalea bushes, hydrangeas, and crepe myrtle trees.  Fruit trees were strategically planted in many areas of the property as well.  There were vegetable and herb gardens planted in various parts of the acreage since the nuns grew as much of their food as possible.  In sections there was a thick overgrowth of brush and a wide variety of plants—some medicinal and some not.  The stranger carried Sister Mary Agnes across the property, trudging through the overgrowth and smashing some plants in the process as he headed to the place where his vehicle was hidden.

She was petite and he prided himself on being fit.  However, he also found himself struggling for breath as he carried her through the acreage towards his car.  The bitch couldn’t run now, he said to