Eileen smiled. “You simply cannot be somebody’s pinochle partner, old dear, without knowing when they’re bluffing. I asked, what do you think?”
Mary Helen hesitated. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear this,” she said, “but people don’t just wander in from the street and up to the second floor of a building to kill a perfect stranger. I think whoever killed the man is someone he knew. Someone had a reason. Possibly, someone we all know.” She stopped, astounded. She sounded, for all the world, like something right out of Nero Wolfe.
“Deep down, I’m afraid you’re correct,” Sister Eileen said finally. “But I can hardly bear the thought of someone we know being a murderer.”
“Eileen,” Mary Helen said bluntly, “every murderer is someone somebody knows.”
The afternoon fog rolled in early. Like soft, white fingers, it grabbed Twin Peaks and quietly squeezed out the sun.
Mary Helen was restless. At the nuns’ lunch table, Cecilia had presided, tight-lipped and composed. Her face was the color of her close-cropped, gray hair. Murder had been the main topic of conversation. It wasn’t surprising.
“Practically under our very noses,” Therese had commented before launching into an impassioned speech on the merits of double-locking doors.
Somehow, Mary Helen felt responsible, as though she should be doing something about the professor’s death. “Nonsense, old dear,” Eileen had said when she mentioned it. “All you did was call the police to report the poor man’s death. It’s up to the police to uncover the killer. Surely, they would prefer to do that without your help.”
Mary Helen knew she was right, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling of responsibility. She grabbed the paperback from the nightstand. Why not spend the afternoon on that lovely little bench reading? The minute she opened the front door of the Sisters’ Residence, however, she could taste the fog. Much too cold for bench-sitting, Mary Helen decided.
For a moment, she was at sixes and sevens. Then she spotted a light in the window of the library. It was perfect library weather. She’d drop in on Eileen, check out the stacks, especially the mystery section. Perhaps she’d even do a little groundwork on her research project. That would make her feel better. Almost as if she were honoring the dead.
Cautiously, almost reverently, Sister Mary Helen opened the beveled glass door of the Hanna Memorial Library. Edward Hanna had been the Archbishop of San Francisco when the college was founded. Looking around, Mary Helen felt sure nothing had been changed since.
Bulletlike lights, elaborately decorated with brass, hung from the high-arched ceiling. Dark, walnut shelves, filled with rare books, lined the walls. Brass reading lamps sat on long narrow tables. Black leather-backed chairs were fastened with brass studs. The young women studying in designer jeans and T-shirts looked like anachronisms.
At the far end of the main reading room, a large portrait of Archbishop Hanna dominated the scene. At the other end, short, round Sister Eileen worked feverishly at the circulation desk. Trying to get the murder off her mind, Mary Helen thought. She could always tell Eileen’s mood from the way she worked. Why not? They had been friends for fifty years.
Could it possibly be fifty years since they’d been in the novitiate together? Eileen, fresh from Dublin; she, newly graduated from the University of Arizona. They had met at the Motherhouse and liked one another instantly. “Water seeks its own level,” Eileen had said; her brogue had been thick, then. Maybe so, but for fifty years the two had been fast friends and, whenever possible, pinochle partners. Over the years, they had managed to meet at summer sessions, retreats, vacations.
Mary Helen watched Eileen smiling and stamping out books. Good old, plump, pleasant Eileen. Mary Helen had always thought of her that way, although Eileen was actually four or five years younger and not many pounds heavier than herself. Several times over the past few days, Mary Helen had thanked God that her friend was at the college. In Gaelic, the name Eileen meant “light.” She certainly considered Eileen one of the brighter lights in her dim view of coming “home” to Mount St. Francis College for Women.
Waving toward the circulation desk, Mary Helen headed for the tall, walnut card catalogs. She began to thumb through the Im section. Im, Imm, Immigration.
“See Emigration and Immigration,” the card read.
Under Emigration, she found Emigration—Atlantic Migration; Emigration—Europe on the move; Emigration—Greek-American; Emigration—Life story of an immigrant.
Finally, she hit Emigration—Portuguese; Portuguese in California; and Problems of Portuguese Immigrants. The catalog card read: “Problems of Portuguese Immigrants, Alves, Joanna.” The call number was MA 25.
A master’s thesis! Mary Helen could hardly believe anyone had already written a thesis on the subject. And Joanna Alves, one of the few names she could match with a face! What a coincidence! But then, why not? Anne had said she was a graduate student. The girl would have firsthand experience, and, after seeing her with Tony last week, Mary Helen had no doubt she had close personal contact with other immigrants. Mary Helen’s face flushed at her own pun. Too bad Eileen wasn’t closer so she could share it. But, then, she hadn’t told Eileen about seeing Tony and Joanna, nor had she mentioned her own idea for a research project. Eileen could have saved her a lot of time by telling her the subject had already been covered. Or had it? No harm in just checking to see exactly what Joanna’s conclusions were.
Slowly the old nun climbed the stairs to the stacks. Squatting down she ran her finger along the shelf. MA 22, MA 23, MA 24, MA 26. MA 25 was out.
Nobody ever reads a master’s thesis, let alone takes one out, she thought. She remembered her own, which, she presumed, was still gathering dust in Tucson. MA 25 must be misfiled. She rechecked. No MA 25!
Straightening up, she headed down the stairs and over to Eileen, who was still stamping books.
“Eileen, I need some help. I can’t find a master’s thesis, MA 25.”
“Come on in here,” Eileen whispered, ushering her into the Head Librarian’s office. Quietly, she shut the half-glass door.
“You can’t find what?”
“A master’s thesis. MA 25, by Joanna Alves.”
“Joanna? How strange. This is the second time her name has come up in less than an hour. Anne just dropped by. She is really upset. You remember how Marina insisted on going home last night, as unnerved as she was. Well, Anne just talked to her, and Marina is frantic. Joanna did not come home last night. She seems to have disappeared.”
“She couldn’t have,” Mary Helen said. “No one just disappears. Did Marina notify the police?”
“It’s too soon for Joanna to be a missing person. Poor Marina! First finding the professor, now her sister missing.” Eileen was near tears. “And you know, Mary Helen, ever since Anne dropped by, I’ve had the most dreadful feeling. No matter how I try, I can’t seem to shake it.”
“A dreadful feeling? About what?”
“About Joanna. You know the old saying, ‘Death always comes in threes’?”
The low moan of a foghorn echoed off the Gate. Its wail shattered the quiet of the Hanna Memorial Library. Mary Helen felt suddenly chilled. Eileen was right. Deaths did seem to come in threes. What if her premonition was correct? Mary Helen squared her shoulders. No matter what the case, a lovely young girl was out there somewhere—maybe hurt, or maybe in danger. And something should be done about it. She’d march right up to the professor’s office. The Inspector or Kate Murphy might still be around.
Mary Helen edged her way through a crush of students changing classes. Despite Cecilia’s P.A. announcement to pray rather than gossip, the words “murder” and “professor” seemed to ring from each noisy group she passed. Trying hard to block out the conversations, she mounted the stairs to the second-floor office. Like returning to the scene of the crime, she thought. No time for melodrama, she reminded herself, nearing the top step. Joanna might be in trouble. Somebody had to do something about it.
&nbs
p; A crack of light shone from under the door of room 203. Good! The police must still be there. Tapping lightly on the oak door, she noticed a small slip of paper attached to it. Half was pasted to the door jamb, half on the door itself—like a giant Band-Aid applied to conceal some gaping wound.
“Warning,” it read. “This is the coroner’s seal. Any person breaking or mutilating it is guilty of . . .”
She stopped. A razor-thin slit ran down the middle of the paper between the words felony and penitentiary. That’s enough for me. Whoever is inside shouldn’t be! As she turned to leave, the door opened a crack. Cautiously, Marina peeked out.
Her thick, black hair fell uncombed around her pale face. Tortoiseshell glasses accentuated the blue-black shadows under her eyes. Even those beautiful eyes seemed to have lost some of their turquoise hue, Mary Helen thought, shocked at the girl’s haggard appearance. Well, no wonder! She’s had quite a night.
“I just heard about your sister,” Mary Helen said. “I’m so sorry. If there is anything I can do . . .”
Marina’s large eyes filled with tears. She opened the door just wide enough for a person to squeeze through. “Come in, Sister,” she whispered.
Reluctantly, Sister Mary Helen ducked into the room, feeling like a spy coming in from the cold—wherever that was! At your age, you should have better sense, old girl, she thought, trying hard to block the words felony and penitentiary from her mind.
Quietly, Marina shut the door and leaned against it.
“Are you all right, dear?” the old nun asked. “I don’t want to bother you. I just thought the police might still be . . .”
“I was just looking for my contact lens,” Marina interrupted. Her voice had a hollow ring. “I thought maybe I dropped it here last night when I found . . .” The rest of her sentence dwindled into an awkward silence.
Well, I’ll be switched, Mary Helen thought, shaking her head. Contact lenses! No wonder her eyes were such a lovely turquoise blue. Let that be a lesson to you, old girl. Nothing is ever what it seems!
“That’s a shame!” Mary Helen said aloud, glancing around the outer office. Several file drawers were pulled open. Loose papers were spread on the floor. Manila folders were scattered across the desk top. The entire office had almost a ransacked look about it. The police must have done it. If Marina were searching for anything more than a contact lens, she’d know exactly where to look. After all, she was the professor’s secretary.
“It’s such a small thing . . .” Marina’s voice jerked her back.
“I hope you can find it in this mess,” Mary Helen said sympathetically. “May I help?”
Before Marina could answer, Leonel emerged from the professor’s inner office. His tall, muscular body blocked the entire doorway. “Hi, Sister,” he said, his face twitching with a nervous grin.
“Hello, Leonel.” Mary Helen tried to conceal her surprise at seeing him. “Helping Marina?” she asked.
“Yeah, Sister. She needs-a help.” Quietly, Marina crossed the room and slipped her thin hand into his.
Feeling a little like the proverbial third wheel, Mary Helen looked beyond the couple into the professor’s office. A chalk outline of the man’s body had been drawn on the rust-colored carpet. She saw the circle of blood, blackened and crusty now, fanning out from behind the spot where she had seen the bronze statue. She steadied herself against Marina’s desk. Just like all those detective programs on television, she told herself, trying to calm her stomach. This time it was real, however.
“Sit down, Sister, you no look so good.” Dropping Marina’s hand, Leonel grabbed Mary Helen under the elbows and led her to the bench.
“Poor devil.” Mary Helen shook her head.
Leonel sat down beside her. “Poor? No. Diabo? Ah, yes!” Clenching his teeth, he spat out the words. His sudden vehemence startled Mary Helen. “God let us be rid of the filthy animal.” He banged the bench. “And do you know what else this God did? He let the animal be killed by Dom Sebastiao.” Leonel laughed. To Mary Helen, the laugh had an almost hysterical pitch.
“By whom?” she asked, hoping her voice sounded normal.
“Dom Sebastiao. The statue.” He pointed to the thick X on the floor. “Now that is a good joke, huh? The savior of the Portuguese. Just like the professor. A savior of his people. That is what you all think, yeah? Savior? But you ask Marina.” He pointed toward the corner.
Mary Helen had almost forgotten about Marina. Turning, she faced the young woman. Marina, her face a white mask, crouched between the filing cabinet and the wall. She said nothing. Her eyes, wide with terror, pleaded with Leonel to stop. Mary Helen could almost smell her fear. Not so much of what Leonel would do, but of what he might say. What in the world was she so afraid of? What was going on?
“Jesus!” Leonel cursed softly. “Look at what time it is. I got to go to the kitchen.” Picking up his kitchen apron, he threw the bib over his head and tied the strings.
With an infectious grin, he gallantly extended his arm toward the nun. “Sister.” He bowed deeply. “May I show you to your coffee break?”
“But Marina’s contact lens. Shouldn’t I stay and help her look?”
“No, Sister,” he said, “she will look. I will come back later to help her.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure.”
Reluctantly, Mary Helen slid her arm through his. As they moved toward the threshold of room 203, she had the unmistakable feeling that she had stumbled into the middle of something, but hadn’t the foggiest idea what it could be. At a time like this, however, both she and Shakespeare had to agree that discretion was definitely the better part of valor. Silently, she left Leonel lead her from the professor’s office.
As he closed the door behind them, Mary Helen caught one last glimpse of Marina. The young woman moved slowly out of the corner. Wearily, she slumped into the high-backed chair behind the paper-spattered desk. Hunching forward, she covered her drawn face with her hands. Mary Helen could not remember the last time she had seen such a look of agony on anyone’s face.
Chatting amiably, as if the whole scene in the professor’s office had been part of a dream, Leonel escorted the old nun down the stairs and through the dim foyer.
The two stopped momentarily at the bottom of the front steps. Several students, heads down, coats clutched tightly, hurried past into the shelter of the warm building. Leonel took a long, deep breath of fog. Tiny droplets of moisture formed on the ends of his tight curls.
“Fog, like home,” he said.
“You lived by the ocean?” Mary Helen stuffed her freezing hands into her jacket sleeves.
“Yeah, my home was near Azurara, a small fishing village in the north.” Smiling down at her, Leonel put his hand under her elbow. Gently, he steered her along the edge of the main college building onto the access road leading to the kitchen service entrance.
“Many came to this country from around my village.”
“Oh?” She studied the rugged face.
“Yeah, Sister. Many. Marina, Joanna. Tony and Luis. Carlo and his brother Jose. The two Manuels.” He counted them off on his broad blunt fingers.
“Did you know Marina at home? Or have you just become . . . er”—Mary Helen stumbled for the right word—“friendly since you arrived here?” She hoped she didn’t sound too snoopy.
“It is a small village I come from. I know them all since we are children. I know Marina. She and Joanna. Not here, but in our village they are rich. I am not. They are educated. I am not. I could not marry her there. Here, I can. This is the land of—how you say?—opportunity.” Leonel beamed.
Mary Helen beamed back. She knew she was a hopeless romantic, but she loved the Cinderella story, even backwards.
A sudden gust of wind pushed against Mary Helen and twisted her skirt. At times like this I miss my long habit, she thought, goose bumps running up her legs. She was glad when they finally reached the door of the warm kitchen. Leonel held it open for her. Inside, the kit
chen crew banged heavy pots against the stainless steel tables. Sister Therese’s high-pitched monologue dominated the din.
“I heard that Professor Villanueva helped them all to come to America,” Mary Helen said, hoping that Leonel would fill her in on some more of the background.
“Yeah, he help us!” Leonel’s eyes narrowed, and he spat viciously into the hard ground beside the kitchen stoop. “For a price, Sister. For a price.”
“A price? Money?”
“Money, yeah. And maybe more.”
“What do you mean ‘maybe more’?”
“I’m not sure. But now four are gone.”
“Gone? I don’t understand.”
“Poof!” He snapped his fingers, then turned the palm of his hand up, empty. “Gone. Without even ‘Adeus’! When I ask the professor, he says they went to L.A. to look for work. But why don’t we hear from them? And now, Joanna. Poor Joanna.”
“Perhaps she’s just visiting someone,” Mary Helen offered.
“We tried every place. No, she is gone, too.” He shook his head, a grim note in his voice. “Poor, nosy Joanna.”
Mary Helen was just about to ask “Why nosy?” when a Plymouth rounded the corner of the service road and screeched to a stop.
Headlights cut through the dense fog. The harsh squawk of the police radio drowned out the kitchen noises. Mary Helen and Leonel watched, dumbfounded, as both car doors swung open.
Inspector Gallagher grunted from behind the wheel. Kate Murphy jumped from the passenger side and walked toward them.
Protectively, Mary Helen stepped in front of Leonel. “What is it?” she asked, hardly recognizing Kate as the same smiling young woman from the night before. Everything about her now said “business.”
“Well, Sister,” Kate began in her official police voice, “I’m afraid we are going to have to ask Mr. da Silva to come downtown with us to answer a few questions.”
Kate looked over the nun’s head at Leonel. Fear had drained all the color from his face. He was as gray as the blistery fog.
A Novena for Murder Page 4
