A Novena for Murder

by Carol Anne O'Marie

  The Angelus bell began to toll twelve noon. Its low rhythmic notes rang out from the college bell tower and reverberated through the dripping fog.

  Gallagher was all business after nodding to Mary Helen. “I’ve located two of the boys. Luis is supposed to be working on the second floor, main building. Leonel in the kitchen. They tell me Tony is somewhere on the grounds. We can look him up later. You want to requestion these guys—using the cult angle?”

  “Right!” Slamming the car door behind her, Kate followed Gallagher up the stairs of the entrance to the main college building.

  Probably going to talk to Luis first, Mary Helen concluded, feeling a bit left out. She was tempted to ask if she could go along when her stomach rumbled. She decided to follow its lead. Skirting the main building, she ducked into the sisters’ dining room where Eileen and Anne waited, as eager to hear about her visit to Senhora Rubiero as she was to tell.

  The two inspectors found Luis guiding a heavy floor polisher back and forth across the already highly polished second-floor hall. The machine formed a glossy wave across the parquet as the young man maneuvered it from side to side. His movements were punctuated with a dull thud against either baseboard. Luis stopped abruptly when he saw them, his hand still clutching the vibrating polisher. The color drained from his sallow face.

  “We’d like to ask you a few more questions,” Kate called over the hum of the polisher.

  Turning off the machine, Luis limped toward them. He was a small, slight man with wide, frightened eyes.

  “Okay.” He shoved his hands into his overall pockets. He looked to Kate like someone who was used to being bullied.

  “Is there some place we can talk?” Gallagher asked.

  Nodding, Luis led the way down the hall. After fumbling with a heavy set of keys, he let them into a narrow storage room.

  “I know no more about murder. I told-a you everything I know,” he began as soon as they entered the room. The color had begun to return to his face.

  “I’m sure you did.” Kate perched herself on the edge of a nicked table. “What we want to ask you about is something else. What do you know about Dom Sebastiao?”

  The young man blanched. Kate could almost smell fear. “Nada,” he said, too quickly.

  “Nothing? Are you sure?” Gallagher moved in closer.

  “Only a little.” Luis shifted uncomfortably. Obviously, he was not used to lying.

  “Tell us,” Kate urged. “It would help us find this murderer.”

  “Only I know that the professor, he talks of it. Helps us to come to this country. To marry. To make the money. Some day, he say, we will return to Portugal rich men.”

  He looked so hopeful that Kate was sure he had forgotten for the moment that the professor and his promises were dead.

  “Where did you meet the professor?” she asked.

  “I read about in the newspaper at home. He offers to bring young people over.”

  “For free?”

  Luis stared at her with disbelief. “Polica-lady,” he said, shaking his head sadly, “nothing is for free.”

  “How much did you pay him?” Gallagher asked.

  Luis calculated silently for a few moments. “Ten thousand dollars, your money.”

  “And he brought over nine young people from your area?”

  Luis nodded. Kate didn’t need to calculate ninety thousand dollars. Behind her, she heard Gallagher curse softly. She knew without even looking at him that he was enraged.

  “Not bad for social work, if you can get it,” she heard him mutter.

  “Were Carlos and Jose Gomes among the nine?” Kate asked.

  Luis nodded.

  “Their aunt is very worried about them. They both seem to have vanished. Do you have any idea where they may have gone?”

  Luis shook his head. Kate thought she saw fear in his eyes.

  “Senhora Rubiero told us that the Gomes boys talked to you often on the phone. Are you sure you don’t have any idea what happened to them?”

  “No.” Small white saliva bubbles began to form at the corner of Luis’s mouth. Nervously, he checked the luminous dial on his watch. “The floor. I gotta finish. They no like if I take too long. Okay I go?”

  “Okay.” Kate watched the slender young man dart from the storage room.

  “He knows something he’s afraid to tell,” Gallagher said as he and Kate cut a crooked path through the small groups of students bunched on the staircase. “He’s not our murderer, though.”

  “What makes you say that?” Kate followed him out of the building and down the side path toward the kitchen and Leonel.

  “Too scared to kill. Did you see that guy, Kate? Everything about him looks like a frightened animal.”

  “Yeah, but let’s not forget, Denny, what frightened animals do when they are backed into a corner.”

  Gallagher shrugged, but said nothing. Kate knew he was right.

  Leonel was easy to spot. His tightly curled head stuck out among the stainless steel pots. He stared belligerently at the two inspectors walking across the kitchen toward him.

  Kate’s eyes met his. “Leonel, we’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “What more you want with me?” He wiped his damp hands on his butcher apron and squared his shoulders. “I told you everything I know in your jail!”

  “Everything you knew about the professor’s murder. But we’d like to ask you about something else. What do you know about this Dom Sebastiao business?”

  Leonel’s hollow, mocking laugh rocked through the kitchen. Startled, several members of the kitchen crew turned to stare.

  “Come.” Leonel motioned to the two officers and led them out the back door to the kitchen stoop.

  “Tell us what you know about it, son.” Gallagher struck a match against the stone wall and relit his cigar. The small puff of smoke blended into the fog.

  “I know that it is good—how you say? fitting?—that the professor was killed with the statue. An act of God!” His voice was venomous.

  “Why do you say that?” Kate prodded him.

  “Because he tricks us . . . makes fools of us . . . At home we are poor. He lends us money to come here. Now, we must pay back and pay back.”

  He slammed a clenched fist against the door jamb. “We think at first he is like Dom Sebastiao. A savior . . . for the good of all. He will save Portugal . . . make it a powerful country once more. We will become rich here. Go home . . . marry. Become famous in our country. But no. He fools us, and we are the fools. He does not keep his promises. He controls our lives . . . keeps us poor. And then Carlos, Manuel, Jose . . . they disappear . . . Where are they? When I ask where, he shrugs.” His muscular body trembled with rage. “Bloodsucker! Whoever killed him was a santo!” Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the kitchen door. Small beads of perspiration stood out on his ashen face.

  “Did you kill him?” Kate asked in a firm, quiet voice.

  “No.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  Leonel did not answer. Kate studied the young man. “I asked if you know who did?” For a moment, she thought she caught a shadow of terror in his dark eyes. Then slowly, deliberately, he shook his head.

  Without hesitating, Kate switched her questions. “What about Joanna?” she pressed. “Why would anybody want to kill her?”

  Leonel’s head snapped back as if he had been slapped. Involuntary tears welled up in his eyes. “I cannot know,” he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his broad hand. “Jesus, I cannot know. Unless she finds out too much.”

  Desolate was the only word Kate could think of as she watched Leonel shake his head in bewilderment. We’ve hit a dead end, she thought, looking toward Gallagher. The older man simply shrugged.

  Kate touched Leonel’s shoulder. “Thank you,”

  she said gently. “Be sure to get in touch with us if you think of anything that might help.”

  As the two police officers walked away, the tall young man crumpled onto
the stoop. Burying his face in his butcher apron, he wept.

  Kate glanced sideways at her partner. Gallagher was straightening his tie and looking uncomfortable.

  “Where are we, Denny?” she asked, more to distract him than anything else.

  “We better be getting somewhere soon,” he said. The Chief called this morning while you were down the Peninsula. Must be feeling the heat from the Mayor’s office.”

  “Think we’re getting close?” Kate hoped Gallagher hadn’t noticed the sudden eagerness in her voice. Not very professional, but what a plum for the “odd couple” to wind up the Holy Hill murders in less than two weeks! How she’d relish rubbing that into the guys at Detail.

  Gallagher cleared his throat. “Let’s see. That Leonel is strong enough and mad enough to have killed the guy. But you know as well as I do, we haven’t got enough evidence to charge him.”

  “We have his prints on that statue,” Kate said. “But he claims he was just putting it back for Marina. Could be.”

  “And Joanna? Would he have killed Joanna?”

  “I don’t think he did it.” Kate buttoned her wool plaid jacket against the biting wind.

  “Well, then, where are we, Denny?” Kate repeated. “Think we’re at least making progress?”

  “Well, we’ve pretty well eliminated Luis, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And Leonel?”

  “Unless we can place him definitely at the scene.”

  “That’s progress.”

  “Progress?” Kate stared at her partner, disappointed. “All we’ve done is eliminate one suspect and raise a few unanswered questions about a second. Who have we left?”

  “Mrs. Rubiero’s whole address book.”

  Kate groaned. Even Superwoman couldn’t get through that whole address book by the end of the week.

  “Cheer up, Katie girl.” Gallagher patted her on the back. “We’re ahead of where we were an hour ago. At least, we know of two who probably didn’t do it.”

  Suddenly, Kate felt tired and hungry. “Want to walk to the coffee shop down the hill before we go looking for the gardener?” she asked.

  Nodding his head, Gallagher shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers and followed.

  By the time Mary Helen, Eileen, and Anne left the dining room, the persistent autumn sun had started to burn off the fog. A crisp wind whipped around the side of the main college building, chilling the three nuns who stood on the lawn, still talking.

  “What do you think about there being two murderers?” Mary Helen asked, eager to pick her friends’ brains.

  “Isn’t one enough?” Anne asked.

  “One too many, if you ask me,” Eileen said. “But Mary Helen may well be correct . . . two murderers with two distinct motives. Double trouble!”

  “What about one murderer? Joanna saw him, and then he had to murder her, too? That’s a good motive.” Obviously, Anne was reluctant to admit to two murderers.

  “Yes, dear—except Joanna could not have seen the murderer. We all know that!” Eileen pointed out.

  “How do we all know that?” Anne imitated Eileen’s slight brogue.

  “Because Marina told you so, Anne dear. Joanna had gone out of town that night. She called her from San Jose.”

  “But we really don’t know for sure, do we? How does Marina know she really was in San Jose when she called? She disappeared right after that. She may have lied to Marina and come back to the college. Really, no one knows exactly where she was. Except her murderer.”

  Anne’s declaration was met with silence. “Besides, she added sheepishly, her real point becoming clear, “if you think there are two murderers, please keep it to yourselves. Therese is driving everyone absolutely bananas whining about being killed in our very own cloister. If she thinks she has to watch out for two fiends, instead of one, there’ll be no enduring her.”

  Mary Helen couldn’t swallow her guffaw fast enough. Murder was no laughing matter, but human nature surely was. Her laugh burst across the silent campus. Several young women swung around at the unexpected noise.

  “Oh, oh, both my appointments spotted me.” Anne checked her watch. “I’ve about two minutes to get to my office. Girl’s pregnant, I think. One says she wants to be a nun.”

  “Different girls, I hope!” Mary Helen said lightly, secretly grateful once again that she was in history and not campus ministry.

  Smiling, Anne tried to roll her eyes like Therese’s. Then, briskly, she walked toward her basement office.

  Eileen stomped her feet to keep warm. “I’d better go, too.” She frowned toward the windows of the Hanna Memorial. “However, if luck is on my side, they may have given my job away. I’ll see you later, old dear.”

  Mary Helen watched her friend go, her own mind spinning. Murderers and policemen, hidden motives, unknown connections whirled around. Altogether, it was very unsettling! What she needed was some—what did Anne call it?—“space.” That was it. She needed space. But where? “In green old gardens, hidden away. From sight of revel and sound of strife . . . Here may I live what life I please . . .” For the life of her, she couldn’t remember the rest of the verse, but the message was clear. Her “spot” would be ideal.

  Swooping into her bedroom, she grabbed her brand new mystery novel. Deftly, she wrapped it in her plastic prayer book cover. She placed the ribbon marker on page one. A sweater. If she was going to enjoy an afternoon in her spot, she’d need a sweater. That cold stone bench seeped right through polyester. Her big, bulky Aran knit would be perfect.

  Slamming the convent door behind her, Mary Helen shook it hard to make sure it was locked. With poor Therese so twittery, there was no sense leaving the door ajar.

  Trudging up the hill from the Sisters’ Residence, she suddenly realized how tired she was. Her legs had no push. Her neck and shoulders ached. If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn that someone had siphoned her pep. An old Model T without gas, she thought, taking the small, winding path leading to her stone bench. And no wonder she was dragging. These last seven days had been hectic. She was very wise to take the afternoon off to act retired. Just sit and relax and read a good, clean, objective murder mystery, one in which you didn’t know the victim personally and in which the killer was easy to guess.

  She breathed deeply. The wild, woodsy smell of the hillside cleared her head. “To linger silent among the healthful woods, musing on such things as are worthy of a wise and good man.” In this case, woman. That Horace surely knew what he was talking about. She inhaled again. Dry pine needles crunched under her walking shoes. Carefully, she skirted a small, broken limb that had fallen from the silver dollar eucalyptus.

  The sight of eucalyptus, Scotch pine, and untamed juniper flourishing right beside a busy campus in the middle of a busy city lifted her spirits. This lovely foliage grew—oblivious of any of the human beings around it, untouched by human frailty, unharmed by human hatred or greed or jealousy or even murder.

  It was then she spotted Tony coming down the path toward her. He was wearing mud-spattered work clothes and dragging a rusty shovel. A small cloud of dust followed him. He was on her list. She should talk to him. Find out what he knew. But this afternoon she just didn’t feel like it. She wanted to be alone on her hillside, thinking her own thoughts. She didn’t want to talk about murder or motives or alibis. She didn’t even want to be polite. Fortunately, she didn’t have to be.

  “What are you doing here, Sister?” Tony asked, rather gruffly, she thought.

  None of your business! was the first retort that popped into her mind. “Going to the clearing,” she said mildly, pointing toward it with her plastic-covered book.

  “Oh,” he said, apparently not knowing what to say next. Mary Helen thought she smelled alcohol on his breath. They stood, looking at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move.

  His eyes were glazed. For a moment Mary Helen said nothing, just met his stare with a well-practiced, school-marm star
e of her own.

  Tony took a step toward her. Then she was sure she smelled it: the acrid and unmistakable odor of stale wine.

  Gripping the handle of his shovel, he steadied himself. Mary Helen was annoyed. All she needed to complete her day was an obnoxious drunk!

  “If you’ll excuse me now,” Mary Helen said, primly edging to Tony’s left. With one unsteady step he blocked her way, beginning to raise his shovel.

  “Is there something you wish to discuss?” She struggled to keep the quaver out of her voice.

  Suddenly, from several yards below, Kate Murphy’s voice called, “Tony! Is that you?”

  Mary Helen listened to the slap of four footsteps coming toward them. There went her knees again. This time they felt like spaghetti. Kate and Inspector Gallagher rounded the corner. Thank goodness.

  Tony dropped the shovel. “Yeah. Who wants to know?” He took two or three staggering steps toward them.

  “Police,” Gallagher barked, jerking his badge from his back pocket.

  “Look who’s here,” Kate smiled when she saw Mary Helen. “I hope you’re not doing our work for us.”

  Sister Mary Helen’s hand shook as she grabbed Kate’s arm and pulled her to the side. “Thank God, you’re here,” she whispered, trying to keep her voice from quaking. “That young man is very intoxicated and very angry. You don’t suppose he could be our murderer, do you? There’s something in his eyes . . .”

  Kate looked amused. “Negative,” she whispered back, cutting into the middle of Mary Helen’s sentence. “Remember—I told you he had an alibi for the night the professor was killed. I checked. He was in a bar in Santa Clara with dozens of other Portuguese who’ll swear to it, not to mention the bartender. In the trade, we call that airtight!”

  “Airtight? Are you sure?”

  Kate nodded. “Sorry, Sister.”

  Mary Helen frowned over at Tony. Unless there were two murderers, she thought.

  Gallagher fired questions which the young man answered in monosyllables.

  Kate returned to her first question. “What are you up to?”