She struggled to rid her mind of that awful image. What do I need to know? she asked herself. What I need to know is who had the opportunity and the motive.
Opportunity? Obviously, Luis the janitor and Marina both had that. Poor Luis. She remembered how ghostly pale and shaken he had been. Was it the earthquake that had frightened him, or had he seen something else? And what about Marina? The young woman had been near hysteria. But, who wouldn’t be—finding a dead body in a halo of blood? What had Marina been doing in the office so late at night? In fact, what had she and Leonel been doing in that office yesterday? Were they really looking for a contact lens? As much as the old nun wanted to believe it, that was a bit hard to swallow. Then, what were they doing there? Mary Helen would have to find out.
Suddenly, the damp cold of the stone bench began to seep through her navy polyester skirt. She was chilled. Too bad the sun was losing its battle. A thick, gray wall of fog had begun to roll back in from the Gate. She had better get up and walk. Walking would warm her up, and maybe even help her unclutter her mind.
Leaving the small clearing, Mary Helen clutched her paperback and started down the winding dirt path through the trees. Around her, the eucalyptus made a soft swish as the wind ruffled the narrow, pointed leaves. Their gentle whisper was soothing, like a consoling presence. Which reminded her—what about that other presence, the one she had sensed in the darkened hallway? Had it just been her imagination, or had it been real? And if real, who had it been?
Then there was motive. Who had a motive? Leonel hated the professor. She had already decided that Leonel wasn’t the murderer. Therefore, someone else must have a motive, too.
Someone out there. Mary Helen paused and surveyed the side of the hill. But who? Everything appeared so peaceful, so unsullied, so “lovely, dark, and deep.” “But I”—she gazed at Tony’s freshly rooted ice plant and recited Frost aloud—“I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.” Well, at least she had several hundred yards to go. And so many questions! She must not forget this Dom Sebastiao business, whoever he was. One thing she did know for an absolute fact was that the professor had not killed himself!
From the Bay, a foghorn sounded a mournful groan. Without warning, a cloud covered the sun. Mary Helen shivered. She folded her arms even more tightly, trying to fight off the damp chill.
Behind her on the path, she heard the twigs crackling. Someone was walking. She turned, ready to greet whomever it was. No one. Silence. She walked a few yards more, and listened. Below her, off the path, she heard the rustle of dried pine needles. Maybe a small animal was scurrying for shelter. She searched the wooded hillside. A long shadow fell from behind a tree. Was it the form of a man, or just a low-slung branch from a pine? Mary Helen adjusted her glasses for a better look. Nothing. Must be just a sudden gust of wind moving the trees.
Suddenly, coming toward her, she heard the crunching of gravel. She waited, stone still, expecting to see someone. No one. Again, silence.
“Hello,” she called loudly. Her palms felt damp with fear. No answer. Just the faint echo of her own voice mingled with the low groan of the foghorns from the Bay.
Impulsively, Mary Helen turned and ran up the dirt path. Her feet slipped on the small stones. Prickly junipers snagged her nylons. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. When she finally reached the clearing, she sat on the stone bench.
Calm down, old girl, calm down. She tried to soothe her nerves. Breathe deeply. She rubbed her knees. Not only did she have “rubbery knees"; right now they felt as if they were plain water. This is nonsense, she reminded herself, taking another deep breath. You have allowed this murder business to get the best of you. Now, what on earth are you afraid of? And who on earth would be out to harm you?
She decided, however, with a sudden surge of largesse, that tonight she’d throw in an extra prayer or two to St. Dismas. No harm at all in giving Sister Therese a hand.
Mary Helen was relieved to hear the loud, friendly gong of the college bell calling everyone to supper. This time, she’d be happy that the dining room was not deserted.
Fourth Day
Mary Helen overslept. She never overslept. She was surprised and, frankly, annoyed. When she awoke, the alarm clock said 10:10, yet her bedroom was still dark. One peek out the narrow window told her why. A thick cushion of fog blunted the peaks of the hills. Slowly, the fog was rolling down, blotting out the entire neighborhood. Only the tip of Sutro Tower pierced the denseness.
“Drooping fog as black as . . . whatever,” the old nun grumbled, unable to recall Shakespeare’s simile. But the “drooping” and “black” part was applicable enough. The chill in the room forced her to dress quickly. Pushing aside her polyester jackets, she pulled out the bulky, Aran knit sweater Eileen had brought her from Ireland on her last visit home. Today was definitely Aran Isles weather. The sweater would be perfect.
Slamming the heavy convent door shut behind her, she hurried across the campus toward the kitchen. The fog had changed to a light rain. Small groups of wind-blown students dashed past. Shivering, Mary Helen pulled the collar of the sweater around her ears.
“Hi! I missed you this morning. Are you feeling okay?” a cheerful voice asked. Anne! Blast! Mary Helen hadn’t heard her coming up from behind.
“I’m fine. I just overslept. This fog is downright depressing.”
“Last weekend when it was so hot, we were all wishing for it.”
“That was last weekend,” Mary Helen said, pulling her wool sweater even tighter around her.
Anne laughed. “You’re beginning to sound like a real native.”
That thought was even more depressing.
“Did you have breakfast?” Mercifully, Anne changed the subject.
“I’m on my way to get a cup of coffee now.”
“I wish I could join you. I talked with Marina at dinner last night, and there are some things I want to share.”
Share? Why don’t we just tell any more? Mary Helen wondered.
“But I have appointments all day long,” Anne said, checking her Mickey Mouse watch. “Can you stop by my office late this afternoon?”
“Did you find out more about Joanna?” Mary Helen couldn’t wait.
“Not really. That is, not what she was nosing into, but more about who she was nosing into it with!”
Untangling that sentence before her first cup of coffee was too much for Mary Helen, so she let it pass. “Atta girl,” she said simply. Anne winked, and took the short cut through a side door of the main college building to her office.
Sweater collar up, head down, Mary Helen swung the kitchen door open. With a short, shrill gasp, Sister Therese scooted back.
“I’m so sorry,” Mary Helen apologized, relieved she hadn’t struck the slight nun with the wooden door—she was counting on Therese’s novena. “How’s your novena going?”
“I finished today’s prayers,” Therese said, obviously thrilled that someone was interested. “Very early this morning.”
Did she really emphasize the very and early, Mary Helen wondered, glaring at the sparrowlike figure vanishing around the corner, or was it just my imagination? She poured herself a cup of strong black coffee.
Sister Mary Helen spent the better part of the day in the stacks of Hanna Memorial Library. Armed with a pencil and scratch pad, she commandeered a vacant carrel in the 914 section.
“What on God’s green earth are you doing back here?” Eileen whispered when she finally noticed her friend. Mary Helen was surrounded by three stacks of books, two tall and one short.
“Looking up Dom Sebastiao,” she said, scanning the index of one large, dusty volume.
“Who?”
“Dom Sebastiao. Remember? The fellow Leonel mentioned, the one whose statue killed the professor? I’ve never heard of him, and I’m curious.”
“Are you having any luck?” Eileen asked, picking up a thin volume from the shortest pile. Flipping to the index, she ran her stubby finger down the page.<
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“Not too much.” Mary Helen patted the two tall stacks of books. “I’ve been through both these piles,” she said. “I’ve just these left.” She pointed to the shortest stack.
“Not a mention here.” Eileen added her book to the “been-through” pile.
“Although I don’t know much, I know more than I knew,” Mary Helen said.
“Now, what is it you know?” Eileen leaned against the carrel.
Mary Helen ran down the scribbled notes on her pad. “I know Dom Sebastiao was a twenty-four-year-old king who sailed out of Portugal in 1578 to conquer Morocco from Mulei Abde Almelique. He took twenty-three thousand men with him. Seems the old counselors thought it was a crazy idea. Almelique didn’t look so kindly on it, either.”
“You can never tell these kids anything,” Eileen said.
“After one terrible battle in North Africa, it was all over. Only fifty soldiers escaped. Over eight thousand lay dead. The rest were taken captive.”
“What happened to Dom Sebastiao?”
“Last seen, he was fighting, sword in hand. His body was never recovered. For years people hoped he was alive and would return.”
“Interesting,” Eileen said.
“This is the interesting part.” Mary Helen read directly from her notes. “Sebastianismo became a cult in Portugal, one that still lingers on. It embodies not only all the yearning summed up in the word saudade, but also a leaning toward insane exploits based on the fantastic hope that by some miracle they might succeed.”
Clearing her throat, she continued, “Sebastianismo also involves a kind of messianic belief that one day there will appear a liberator from oppression.” Mary Helen put down her note pad. “Yesterday, Leonel told us it would be an honor to kill the professor with the statue. I guess he considered the professor the oppressor.”
“It seems he did.” Eileen examined the half-empty shelf next to the carrel. “Look at all that dust between 914.69 and 914.70!” she said. “Amazing, isn’t it? As long as you have all those books out, I think I’ll run and get my dust rag.”
Mary Helen’s eyebrows arched. “I’m talking murder; you’re talking dust?”
“I’ve murder up to here.” Eileen touched the top of her head, turned on her heel, and rushed to her desk for the rag and the Endust.
Good old Tidy-paws! Mary Helen remembered that cleaning, like walking, was one of Eileen’s panaceas. These days she must have the cleanest library in Christendom.
Mary Helen went back to skimming indexes. For an hour, she pored over everything in the 914.69 section, the 946.90 history section, the reference section, and even the encyclopedia. Finally, yawning, she stretched and left the stacks. From the main door, she waved good-bye to Eileen, who was dusting something at the circulation desk.
Slowly, Sister Mary Helen moved down the dark, high-arched corridor that ran between the library and the chapel. Her mind and muscles were cramped.
What she needed was some fresh air. But first she’d make a quick visit to the chapel—give Sister Therese a hand. Then she’d get her mystery book and, cold or no cold, sit outside and read.
The old nun pulled open the bronze chapel door. Immediately, she caught the comfortable aroma of incense mingled with wax. The sudden contrast between the lighted corridor and the dim chapel blinded her. Only the lone, red flicker of the sanctuary lamp shone in the semidarkness.
Genuflecting, Mary Helen slipped into a back pew. The chapel was warm and quiet. The late afternoon sun illuminated the majestic stained glass windows lining the west wall. For several moments she sat, breathing deeply, drawing in all the peace and serenity of the gothic eminence. When her eyes had finally adjusted to the light, Mary Helen noticed she was not alone.
In one of the front pews, before the main altar, a young woman knelt. She was hunched over, her forehead resting on the bench in front, her ebony hair fanned out.
Must have come in before I did, Mary Helen thought. Squinting in the dim light, she studied the woman. Probably a student. But the figure remained so still, so rigid, Mary Helen began to worry. That is a strange position to pray in, she thought, and must be terribly uncomfortable. Kneeling, she hunched over and pressed her own forehead against the bench in front. It took only a minute of testing the position for her to be convinced something was definitely wrong.
Rising from her pew, she hurried up the center aisle. She cleared her throat several times, hoping not to startle the young woman. The figure did not move. Very gently, she touched the thin shoulder.
With a thud, the woman’s head slid off the bench, and her body fell. It wedged between the bench and the padded kneeler. Both arms stuck straight up in the air. Mary Helen had read enough crime novels to know rigor mortis when she saw it. Yet the legs dangled loosely. Whoever had stuffed the stiffened body into the pew must have broken the rigor in her knees. Mary Helen retched.
Sightlessly, the young woman stared up at her. The right side of her skull had been smashed, and a sickening clot of dried blood was splashed across her delicate face. Mary Helen recognized the face—it was Joanna.
Those two thin legs hung as loosely as a rag doll. Joanna had died the death of a rag doll. Mary Helen closed her eyes, hoping to blot out the sight. Instead, an image of the professor lying in a bloody halo flashed before her.
Mary Helen didn’t remember screaming. Yet she must have. Her mouth was open, her throat dry and sore. An agonizing shriek reverberated through the nave and resounded in her ears.
She lurched down the middle aisle. Her footsteps hit hard against the waxed parquet squares, their echo ringing through the empty chapel.
She leaned against the heavy, bronze door. Calm down, old girl, she cautioned herself, trying to catch her breath. Think sensibly. First things first. Phone. Yes, phone. Where was the nearest phone? It took her a moment to remember. In Eileen’s library, of course.
Throwing open the chapel door, Mary Helen turned left and headed down the deserted corridor. Thank God most of the girls were gone. No sense in alarming everyone. This might be a dream. All this might be part of a long, cruel dream. By the time she reached the door of the library, she was panting.
“What happened?” Eileen asked as soon as she saw Mary Helen’s face.
“Let’s go into your office,” Mary Helen whispered, trying hard to keep calm. Several stragglers were studying at the long, oak table. “I don’t want to be overheard. I’ve found a body in our chapel.”
Eileen followed her into the small room. Closing the door, she sank into a chair. Her gray eyes were wide.
Mary Helen headed straight for the phone on the desk. Robotlike, she picked up the receiver and dialed O. “I found a body. I think it’s Joanna.” She stopped. Eileen blessed herself. “Yes, Operator.” Mary Helen’s voice was steady. “Please, may I have the police? Homicide, please. Yes, it is an emergency.”
Mary Helen hung up. Walking to the water cooler, she filled two Dixie cups. “I wish this was something stronger,” she said, offering one to her friend. Only then did she notice that her hand was trembling.
“Come, sit down.” Eileen patted the chair across from her.
Silently, the two nuns sat facing one another. Each sipped water from her paper cup. Both strained to hear the high-pitched screech of the police siren coming up Turk Street.
“You aren’t going to believe this, Denny.” Kate Murphy hung up the phone and quickly replaced her right earring.
“Try me.” Gallagher looked up from the stack of papers on his desk.
“That was Sister Mary Helen.”
“What’s up with her?”
“She found another body. A young woman in the college chapel.” Kate grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair.
“What the hell is this world coming to?” Gallagher sputtered, leading the way out of the Homicide Detail. “Is there no place sacred any more?” he asked to no one in particular. Following him, Kate smiled. Bizarre homicides always threw Gallagher into a barrage of clichés.
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With sirens screaming from their vehicle, the two inspectors maneuvered their way through rush-hour traffic toward Mount St. Francis College for Women. “Wait till the papers get hold of this,” Gallagher said.
“Papers, nothing! Wait till the Chief hears. His daughter is an alumna, and the Mayor’s sister-in-law is on the Board of Directors!”
For a long time, the two nuns sat in heavy silence, waiting for the police to arrive. A sudden gust of wind howled against the metal weather stripping. Its mournful wail filled the small library office.
Quick tears welled up in Eileen’s eyes. They ran down her pudgy cheeks. “That’s the second death,” she said.
Mary Helen fumbled for a Kleenex. “Almost new.” She handed her friend two crumpled pieces of tissue. Eileen bent over and began to sob. Clapping her hands over her ears, Mary Helen let her weep.
Several minutes later, a car slammed to a stop in front of the building, and two doors banged shut. The hollow, metallic sound floated up to the silent office. Mary Helen peered out.
“They’re here.” And, thank God, she thought, they didn’t use the siren on the hill.
“Do you think we should go out to meet them?” Eileen asked.
“Better wait right here. They know where we are.”
“Have all the students left the library?” Eileen asked, dabbing her red-rimmed eyes. “I’d hate to meet any of them.”
From the half-glass office door, Mary Helen surveyed the reading room. “The place is”—she swallowed the urge to say dead as a doornail—“deserted.”
The main door of the library swung open, and Kate Murphy clipped across the long room toward the office. Gallagher stopped long enough to stuff his cigar stub into the metal cannister. Then he followed Kate. Mary Helen was relieved to see them both. Quickly she threw open the door. “Here we are,” she whispered. Her voice filled the vacant room.
“Sister, are you all right?” Kate asked as soon as she was close enough to get a good look at the old nun’s face. “You look as white as a ghost.”
A Novena for Murder Page 8
