“Yes, I’m sure there is some connection. He also asked me if I thought Tony might have done it.”
Eileen looked shocked. “Tony kill Joanna? Why, that seems impossible. Tony’s a gardener! He spends so much time making things grow and flourish, I just can’t imagine him killing anything, much less anybody. Besides, wasn’t he a bit sweet on Joanna?” Without waiting for an answer, Eileen continued. “No,” she said, shaking her head for emphasis. “I just can’t believe it. Love and a garden—that should add up to something good, not evil.” She stopped, a sudden look of realization in her wide, gray eyes. “Although I must admit it didn’t work out quite so well in the Garden of Eden, now did it?”
Mary Helen knew a rhetorical question when she heard one. “Who loves a garden, still his Eden keeps,” she quoted, hoping to ease Eileen’s mind a bit.
Her friend kicked a loose pebble in the pathway. “What do you think?”
“Tony’s on my list to call.”
“Not about Tony—about the whole business.”
“I don’t know what to think until I mull it over for a while,” Mary Helen answered. The two walked a few more feet. “You know, I’ve done an awful lot of mulling about these murders,” she said.
“And just who hasn’t, old dear?”
“I really can’t figure out yet how the professor and Leonel and Marina and Joanna and now Tony, plus a missing thesis, figure into this puzzle, but I’m sure they do. One thought that has struck me is that whoever our murderer is, he or she always makes very sure poor Leonel is around so he can be implicated.”
“Unless poor Leonel is our murderer,” Eileen reminded her softly.
Mary Helen continued as though she hadn’t heard the remark. “Now it is our job to figure out just who could possibly know all of Leonel’s movements.” She stopped and faced Eileen.
“Why, several people could, I’m sure.”
“Who comes to your mind first?”
“Marina, of course, but . . .” Her gray eyes opened wide, then blinked. “But you couldn’t possibly think . . .”
“He was so defensive about her at the Hall of Justice. Remember?”
“Certainly I remember. But you can’t possibly believe for one moment that sweet, young Marina killed the professor and then her own sister.”
“Why can’t I possibly believe it?”
“Let’s turn back.” Eileen checked her watch. “If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss lunch completely,” she said, walking quickly toward the driveway. Obviously, Eileen didn’t want to discuss the subject any further.
“I said, why can’t I possibly believe it?” Mary Helen pushed the point.
“You can’t believe it because it’s . . . it’s so unnatural,” Eileen stammered. “Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“Really, it’s nothing so new,” Mary Helen said, following close behind her friend. “You just mentioned the Garden of Eden. And you know as well as I do, that if you keep on reading the Genesis story, the next thing you run right into is the story of Cain and Abel.
Turning quickly on her heel, Eileen shot her old friend what she later denied was a dirty look.
“Damn!” Kate Murphy slammed down the phone receiver. The creeping charlie in her desk planter quivered.
Across from her, Gallagher looked up. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked in a mild, controlled voice.
“For God’s sake, Denny, don’t use that tone of voice on me. It makes me feel like a—an hysterical woman.” Replacing her earring, she stared out the window of the Hall of Justice at the heavy freeway traffic.
“Well?” Gallagher returned to the large stack of papers piled on his desk.
“Just what did that ‘Well’ mean?”
“It could mean ‘Well, what the hell is wrong with you?’ or it could mean ‘Well, you are a—an’ ”—he mimicked her fumble for the correct article—“ ‘an hysterical woman’!”
Kate knew that much.
“You wanted to be the detective, Murphy; you figure it out,” he said, going back to his paper work.
Kate felt the color rise in her face. She flopped into her swivel chair and began to twist a few strands of hair around her index finger. “Sorry, Denny,” she said. “I’m just frustrated, that’s all. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“Let’s start again. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“It’s that damn nun!” Kate slammed her fist on her desk.
“Hey, Murphy, no police brutality,” one of the officers hollered from the coffee urn. Chauvinistic smart-asses, she thought, I’ll show them when I catch the Holy Hill killer!
“The problem?” Gallagher asked.
“The names of the people the professor helped—the ones I got from Marina. I couldn’t get hold of a single one of them. I called Marina at home and got the names of any of their relatives that she knew. I’ve been calling them. Most every call ends the same way. ‘The Seester, she ask already,’ they say. When I mention I’m from the police, they hang up. What I can’t figure out is where ‘Seester’ got the list, and why in the hell she’s calling these people.”
“Why do you want to make her stop?” Gallagher asked.
“Well, for starters, it is police business. And, for finishers, if she does happen to run into a serious lead, we could have another murder on our hands.”
“Then tell her.” Gallagher made it sound so simple.
“What do I do? Go up to the college, flash my badge, and tell the old lady, ‘Bug off, Sister’?”
“Back at St. Anne’s, one old gal, Sister Felicia, used to drive the pastor, Father Hennessey, bananas. He could control the police and the politicians in the City, but he couldn’t begin to be a match for Felicia. Well, one day they must have had an awful Donny-brook. Old Hennessey said to me, ‘Denny, nuns are like bees. Leave ’em alone and they make honey. Interfere, and you’ll always get stung.’ I was just a kid, but I never forgot it.”
“The point, Denny—what is the point?”
Gallagher leaned back in his swivel chair. He studied her with what Kate was sure could be classified as a supercilious grin. “Well,” he said, “as the old saying goes, Katie girl, if you can’t lick ’em, join ’em.”
It took no longer than twenty minutes for Kate Murphy to arrive at the Sisters’ Residence. And it didn’t take her more than another ten minutes to outline, politely but very definitely, that criminal investigation was her domain; hers, and the SFPD’s. She also enumerated the many dangers inherent in amateurs meddling in murder cases, not the least of which was being murdered themselves.
She’s not a redhead for nothing, Mary Helen thought, watching Kate sitting on the edge of the parlor chair. She waited, silently, until she felt sure Kate had finished her well-prepared speech. The old nun tried to look concerned and contrite.
“Aren’t you curious about where we got the list?” she asked meekly.
“At the moment, I’m more curious about why you feel you should get involved in a police investigation,” Kate said.
Sister Mary Helen outlined as succinctly as she could the deep anger and resentment she felt about a murderer being allowed to terrorize the college. She thought about using “damn mad” for emphasis, but then decided she’d save that until she knew Kate a little better. The young woman remained silent. Mary Helen hurried on to her positive intuition about Leonel’s being not only innocent, but victimized. Kate opened her mouth, but, thankfully, closed it again. Mary Helen was sure that line from Shakespeare, “I have no other but a woman’s reason: I think him so, because I think him so,” would not fit into Kate’s idea of a well-orchestrated homicide investigation. She felt she knew the young woman that well.
“Now, are you curious about the list?” Mary Helen asked when she finally finished what she later described to Eileen as her Apologia pro culpa Helenae.
Exhausted, Kate lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and sank back into the chair. “Frankly, yes,” she said.
“I discovered
Joanna had written a thesis on the Portuguese immigrants,” she said, “which disappeared from Sister Eileen’s library at just about the same time that Joanna did. Now, I call that too much of a coincidence. Don’t you?”
“I guess I might have, if I had known it!” Mary Helen thought Kate still sounded a little annoyed. She hurried on.
“I just thought to myself—Portuguese-thesis-professor-Joanna. There has to be some connection. But the thesis was missing, and the professor’s office was sealed.” She hurried over that. “So we couldn’t get in for a duplicate copy. Anyway, we . . .”
“Who’s we?” Kate asked, too quietly.
“Sister Eileen, Sister Anne, and I,” the old nun answered.
Kate groaned. “That’s how you got to all those people so quickly. “ ‘Seester called.’ There were three ‘seesters’ calling.”
Mary Helen ignored the interruption. “Anyway, we got the list from Marina of the people Joanna had interviewed for her thesis. It was a very long one, but Eileen found dots by some of the names.”
“Dots?” Kate took a final drag of her cigarette and stubbed it out.
“Right. We figured those dots must have some significance, so we divided it into three. Plus, Joanna had a boyfriend, Kevin Doherty, whom I talked to this morning.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, among other things, that she got funny after she talked to Mrs. Rubiero.”
“Who?”
“Rubiero. She has relatives Professor Villanueva helped. She’s on the list. In fact, I’ve an appointment with her tomorrow, if you’d like to go along.”
“If I’m not intruding.” Kate sounded a bit sarcastic to Sister Mary Helen, who wasn’t sure if being sarcastic was better or worse than being annoyed.
“What did the boyfriend mean by ‘funny’?” Kate lit another cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled.
The old nun opened the long, narrow, parlor window, hoping the smell of smoke wouldn’t cling to her clothes.
“He said she became obsessed with her research. Something she needed to solve. Lost interest in him.”
“Maybe it was another boy. That Tony you mentioned?”
“I suggested that, but Kevin said she hated him. He got very upset about Tony. You don’t suppose Tony might have something to do with the murders?”
“Not a chance. I checked his alibi for the night Villanueva was murdered. He was in a bar in Santa Clara. Dozens of witnesses. Even the bartender remembers him.”
Mary Helen felt slightly disappointed. If Tony had had no alibi, then he might be guilty, and this whole awful mess would be solved. Suddenly, she felt her face flush. Poor Tony. Why, that wasn’t even cricket. The poor devil was probably every bit as innocent as Leonel—or almost.
And the people you called, what did you ask them?” Kate continued. Apparently, she hadn’t noticed Mary Helen’s flush.
“We asked about Joanna. How well they knew her. When they saw her last. Anything they could remember about the questions she’d asked them. Did they know the professor, too? All the usual questions.”
“What do you mean ‘usual questions’?” Kate asked, a faint smile playing on the corners of her wide mouth.
Mary Helen could feel her face redden again. She squirmed. For a moment she felt a little like Mrs. Pollifax. It was not a pleasant feeling, since she had always considered Mrs. Pollifax a bit of an eccentric. “You know, the ones all detectives ask,” she said, as nonchalantly as she could.
“And the answers?”
“Although they were all very polite, for the most part we drew blanks,” she said. “But I have some suspicions.”
“Oh?”
Kate glanced at her watch. “Sister, it’s nearly six o’clock. How about gathering up your suspicions and joining me for dinner?”
Mary Helen studied the young woman. Should she, or shouldn’t she? She hesitated, but only for a minute.
“Hurry up, hon,” Jack called from the bedroom. Kate could hear the wire springs on the old bed creak.
“I’m still doing my face,” she called back, vacantly staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. Kate was never quite sure what she was doing to her face. But every night, faithfully, she smeared it with a creamy cleanser, dabbed it with astringent, and rubbed it with moisturizer.
“Your face looks fine to me,” he called back, “and besides, that’s not what I’m interested in. Come on!”
“What is it you are interested in?” Kate asked, massaging her neck in sweeping strokes, as the directions on her beauty preparations dictated.
“Right now, I can’t decide whether I’m interested in wringing your neck for bringing that nun home for dinner or in just forgetting the whole thing and making mad, passionate love.”
Kate giggled. Gingerly, she crawled into her side of the big double bed. The old, brass monstrosity had been her parents’.
“And which interest seems to be winning out?” she asked, turning toward him. She propped herself up on one elbow and with the other hand began to slowly twist a strand of thick, red hair.
“You know damn well, but it won’t get off the ground with you curling that piece of hair,” Jack said. “What’s on your mind, Kate?”
“Tonight, of course,” she said. “Tell me, Jack, what did you think about Sister Mary Helen’s suspicions?”
“I think if you stick with her, you’ll crack the case,” Jack said. “Now let’s . . .”
“No, seriously,” Kate interrupted. “Let me talk this out with you, please.”
“Murder at the dinner table is one thing, but bringing a murder to bed?”
“Please?”
Kate felt a warm glow as she watched Jack reach over and grab the cigarettes on the night stand. He offered her one and took one himself. I’m lucky to have him, she thought. What other man would put up with me? “Shoot,” Jack said.
“What do you think?” she asked again.
“It’s your case.” Jack inhaled. “What’s important is, what do you think?” Kate noted that he had switched to his Vice-Detail voice.
“I think her suspicions are well-founded. A thesis missing from the department chairman’s office could be significant.”
“Are you sure it’s missing?” Jack handed her an ashtray.
“We didn’t come across one when we searched his office. I would have recognized the name Alves, as his secretary’s. There is, moreover, the little matter of the slit in the coroner’s seal. Maybe someone wanted it more than we did.”
“Go on.”
“Then, when the nuns called the people who had been interviewed, the older folks sounded nervous about the professor’s influence on the young. Mary Helen suspects there are some things they don’t want to say. Then, there is this Dom Sebastiao statue business.”
“What about it?” Jack asked, running his hand along her firm thigh.
Good God, the man was patient! “I love you, Jack Bassetti,” Kate said. Leaning over, she kissed his forehead.
“If you love me, for God’s sake, hurry up.” He groaned and turned over. “Some women have headaches,” he said, running his free hand over her hip. “You have murder cases. Hurry!”
“Dom Sebastiao—the legend, or cult, if you want to call it that. Could the professor have thought he was Dom Sebastiao reincarnated? It sounds silly to us, but it could be real to someone who believes it. Our murders could be just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Speaking of icebergs.” Jack gentled her body closer to his. The wire springs creaked.
“One common denominator in this case is Professor Villanueva. The murdered girl, all the young people he helped came from the same part of Portugal.” Kate’s eyes twinkled. “And they all landed at the college.”
“Which proves?”
“Nothing.” Abruptly, Kate sat up. Jack groaned.
“How many kids did he sponsor?” he asked, running the tips of his fingers up her rigid spine.
Kate shivered with pleasure. “Nine,” she sai
d. “Marina, Joanna, Tony—the gardener at the college—Luis, the janitor, and, of course, Leonel, who does the cooking. The two fellows no one seems to be able to reach on the phone, plus Mrs. Rubiero’s two nephews.”
Kate began to trace circles on the comforter. “Now Rubiero’s nephews seem to have disappeared also. Lead or coincidence? Who knows?”
“You and Sister Mary Helen will find that out soon enough.” Jack lifted the bed covers, inviting her to slide down under. “Aren’t you two going to see Mrs. Rubiero tomorrow?”
Kate nodded. “Wait till Gallagher hears that!”
“That Mary Helen’s quite a gal.” Jack pulled the sheet over his bare shoulder. “She said she’s been in the convent over fifty years. I’ve been thinking about that. That’s some commitment. Do you think we could ever stick to anything for that long?”
Ignoring the question, Kate snuggled down in the soft bed close to his strong body. He felt warm. “You know, Jack, it’s the motive that really bothers me,” she said.
“Shit!” Jack exploded. Kate looked at him. Poor guy, she thought, drawing her slim finger up and down the back of his neck. She could feel him begin to relax.
Tenderly, he moved his broad hand under her granny gown. “Damn these things,” he said, pushing the flannel aside. “I don’t know how grandpas managed to be so productive if grannies really wore all this.”
Kate giggled. “Grannies,” she said, edging closer, “were very cooperative.”
Seventh Day
Fourteen forty-eight. This is it.” Sister Mary Helen pointed toward the third small bungalow from the corner. Kate pulled up in front and parked. The wooden-framed house, set back on two small, manicured patches of lawn, was painted a bright, clean white with dark green shutters. Several large pots of cadmium-red geraniums decorated the deep porch. The house had a well-cared-for look, as if somebody loved it.
Senhora Rubiero opened the front door before they rang the bell. “Good morning, Sister.” She nodded deferentially toward Mary Helen. “Please to come in.”
“Good morning, Senhora Rubiero.” Sister Mary Helen followed the short, rotund woman into the house. “This is Officer Murphy from the San Francisco Police Department.” She motioned toward Kate, who flashed her badge. Mary Helen noticed a flash of fear in the woman’s sharp, black eyes.
A Novena for Murder Page 12
