“And you and the rest of the sisters, you didn’t really believe that story?” Lizzie said.
“We might have been nuns, dear, but we weren’t dummies,” Sister said tartly. “We did wonder what Father Ryan did to deserve such a splendid gift.”
“What do you think he did?” Brooke asked.
“It was just speculation, you know. We all assumed one of his parishioners, who worked for one of those very wealthy families, was asked to be the go-between between the baby’s mother and Father Ryan—and that Father Ryan was handsomely rewarded in return for his discretion,” Sister said.
It was Brooke’s turn now. “Wow,” she whispered.
“Sister? Did you ever know a woman named Josephine Bettendorf Warrick?” Lizzie asked.
The nun smiled. “I never did have the pleasure of meeting that great lady, but of course, we were all very gratified when she donated the money for the new nursery wing at the children’s home. Such a lovely gesture, especially considering she wasn’t even of our faith.”
“She paid for a wing at the children’s home, yet she didn’t have children and she wasn’t Catholic?” Lizzie asked.
“Oh no. I believe her family attended St. John’s Episcopal. As for the children part, I don’t believe she was married at that point. The new wing was named the Bettendorf Nursery.”
Brooke spoke up, choosing her words carefully. “Was there, well … was there any speculation, at the time, about the baby Father Ryan claimed he ‘found’ in his church? Were there any rumors that the baby could have been Josephine Bettendorf’s own baby? Maybe a child she had out of wedlock? Could Josephine have been the anonymous donor of the Packard? And could that be the reason she donated the money for the nursery at the home?”
“You think baby Charlie was Josephine Bettendorf’s?” The idea seemed to intrigue the elderly nun.
“We’ve heard a story to that effect, but we don’t have any real proof,” Lizzie said. “That’s why we came to you.”
“I don’t think any of us, at the time, thought anything like that,” Sister Theresa said. “We all just assumed Josephine was a wealthy young lady from a good family who’d been raised to perform good works. Although, now that I think about it, I remember one of the sisters was always puzzled about why Miss Bettendorf made such a point of visiting the home and spending time with the children, especially at Christmas, when she was so very clearly uncomfortable around little ones.”
“Good question,” Felicia said.
Sister nodded. “Is there anything else I can help you with? I’ve really enjoyed our visit, but I’ll confess, I’m anxious to get back to my ball game. I try never to miss a Braves game. Can one of you tell me the score?”
Brooke stepped closer to the television. “Looks like it’s the top of the ninth, and it’s all tied up, and the Braves are at bat.”
Sister clapped her hands gleefully. “Who’s on deck?”
“Um, I can’t pronounce that name,” Brooke said. “Lots of consonants.”
“Never mind. That must be Vlad. He’s my favorite.” She put down the rosary beads and picked up the remote, turning the volume on high.
“Goodbye, Sister Theresa,” Lizzie said, leaning down to give the old woman a peck on the cheek. “We’ve enjoyed talking to you, and really appreciate the information.”
“Entirely my pleasure, I assure you. Come again, anytime. I always enjoy talking about the old days.”
“We’ll do that,” Brooke said, heading for the door.
“One more thing, girls!” Sister called out. “Something I just thought of. You said the nuns named Charlie after St. Anthony because he was their favorite saint. I’m afraid that’s wrong. I’m quite sure he was named that because Anthony of Padua is the patron saint of the lost. And that poor baby was definitely lost.”
“Excuse me?” Felicia said.
“Obviously you’re not Catholic.” Sister chuckled. “My late mother, God rest her soul, whenever she misplaced her pocketbook or house key, she would always make us children get down on our knees and pray to St. Anthony for assistance. I can still remember the prayer. ‘Tony, Tony, turn around. Something’s lost and must be found.’ Probably highly sacrilegious, but I still pray to St. Anthony when I can’t find my doggone remote.”
50
The women sat in the parked Volvo in the parking lot at the rebranded Good Shepherd Academy.
Felicia gestured toward the manicured grounds dotted with moss-hung towering oaks, head-high azaleas, and redbrick buildings. “This place doesn’t look at all like a children’s home. I’ve been on college campuses that don’t look this impressive. Hell, I’ve worked at campuses that weren’t this nice.”
The bronze plaque over the door told them they were looking at the administration building and visitor’s center.
“Remind me what we’re doing here?” Felicia asked.
“We’re trying to dig up the truth about C. D.’s origin story,” Brooke said. “That orphanage he was taken to as an infant is long gone, and this was his next stop. He says he lived here from the time he was six until he was sixteen. To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure what we’re looking for.”
“After what Sister Theresa said, I think we might be on the right track,” Felicia said. “That sweet old lady wouldn’t lie, would she?”
“I believed her. And now I’m thinking maybe there really is something to C. D.’s story. It’s just weird enough to be true,” Lizzie agreed.
“I don’t know,” Brooke said. “Josephine was so intent on making amends with her oldest friends, and by extension, us. Right up until the night she died. But if she wanted to make things right, why wouldn’t she mention the fact that she’d given a child up for adoption? Why wouldn’t she try to find him?”
“Not just given him up. Abandoned him,” Felicia said. “And bought off a priest in the process to keep her secret.”
“Of course, we don’t have any proof of that,” Lizzie reminded them. “Just an elderly blind nun’s suspicions.”
“You know what I’ve been wondering?” Felicia said. “What’s C. D. been using to prove his identity all these years? Does he have a birth certificate? Social security card? How’d he get those things if he was supposedly the equivalent of a Catholic Cabbage Patch Kid?”
“Good question,” Lizzie said. “Maybe I can look it up online.”
“Except you can’t,” Brooke said. “Privacy issues again. Only the holder of the birth certificate, or a first-degree relative, or a duly authorized representative of the party in question, like a guardian or attorney, has access to those records in Georgia.”
“So what’s our approach when we get in there?” Felicia asked. “Is Lizzie still our liar in chief?”
“Same general pretext,” Lizzie said. “I’m probably just going to wing it. So nod and agree with whatever I say. I think the aim is to see if we can get a gander at C. D.’s records.”
Brooke had been staring at the administration building, trying to recall some obscure detail that had been nagging at her since she’d driven through the Good Shepherd entrance arch. Something C. D. had said.
She got out of the car and walked toward a nearby building, a brick one-story affair. A brass plaque proclaimed it the Halberg Cottage. She turned and got back in the car.
“What was that all about?” Lizzie asked.
“Just remembering something C. D. said. It was the morning Josephine died when he came to tell us he was Josephine’s son. He said he’d come to a reunion here at Good Shepherd and bumped into a man he’d known all those years ago. Somebody who’d been at St. Joseph’s and then transferred here to Good Shepherd, the same way C. D. had, when he turned six. He was the one who told C. D. he could look up the old records at the archdiocesan offices.”
“Did he mention a name?” Felicia asked.
“I don’t think so,” Brooke said. “If he did, I don’t remember it. Maybe this man could corroborate C. D.’s story.” She pulled out her cell phone and found Louette’s number in her contact list.