A Novena for Murder

by Carol Anne O'Marie

  Mary Helen took a long deep breath. If I had any sense at all, I’d go straight to my room and lock the door and lie down, she thought. But I’ll be switched if I’ll let one ugly scene with one ugly man intimidate me!

  “I’m going to that favorite spot of mine to sit for a while,” she said, indicating her book.

  “Pray for us while you’re there.” Kate patted her arm. Mary Helen didn’t have the energy to explain about her plastic cover. Later.

  “And, Sister, by the way. How about dinner tonight? Jack enjoyed you so much. Besides, I’d like to talk to you about the two-murderer theory. We’ll have something simple. Maybe pick up Chinese.” Kate seemed genuinely eager.

  “I’d love that,” Mary Helen said.

  “Good. We’ll question this guy. Go downtown to do the paper work and then I’ll pick you up. Around six.”

  Mary Helen settled comfortably on the cold stone bench. It took several minutes for her breathing and heartbeat to return to normal and a little longer for her knees to lose that shaky feeling.

  Closing her eyes, she bundled her Aran knit sweater around her and pulled the thick collar over her ears. The sun was warm on her legs. When she’d started up the path, she’d been tired; after her little encounter, she was exhausted. She needed a nap. Not here, not now. She should think. Put this whole thing together. Yet her entire body felt drugged; her energy sapped; her limbs weary. She fought to stay awake. Suddenly, she felt all of seventy, or was it seventy . . . Within minutes, the old nun had fallen into a sound sleep.

  “Our friend Tony was really into his cups.” Inspector Gallagher followed Kate down the campus driveway into the parking lot.

  “It didn’t seem to loosen his tongue nor improve his disposition.” Kate leaned against the fender of the Plymouth. “What do you make of this afternoon, Denny?”

  “That little guy. Luis. He may be innocent, but he knows something. And he’s scared shitless to tell it. I’d wager it has something to do with the professor and this Sebastiao business. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Kate said. “And he may be our best bet. Not used to lying. Did you notice?”

  “Yep.” Gallagher fumbled in his jacket pocket for a brand new cigar.

  “Wish we could locate those two nephews of Senhora Rubiero’s. And the two missing Manuels—Noia and Sousa. They might be able to tell us something that would wind this case up.” Kate did not relish going through the entire Rubiero address book.

  Watching a small group of chattering students cross the asphalt, Kate felt a momentary twinge of envy as they laughed, piled into a tiny Volkswagen, and squealed out of the parking lot. Saturday night, and they could have cared less about murders and murderers and solving cases.

  “Do you think there may be something to this two-murderer theory?” she asked, watching the Volkswagen taillights disappear down the driveway.

  “Now you want two murderers?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  “Don’t give me that women’s intuition crap.” Gallagher rummaged through his pants pockets for a match.

  Kate chose not to take up the gauntlet. “We can’t seem to find one suspect who could have committed both crimes,” she said evenly.

  Gallagher grunted. “Maybe we haven’t found the right suspect,” he said. “Or maybe you’re right, and this two-killer theory is the way to go. One guy could have killed the professor, and a second guy could have killed the girl.”

  “Why guy?”

  “I don’t know.” Gallagher shrugged. “I guess a strong gal could have hit that hard. But the only woman even near either scene was that cute little secretary, Marina, with the innocent eyes. She hardly seems the type.”

  “Don’t give me that chauvinistic crap.” Tit for tat, Kate thought. “What is the type?” she asked, watching Gallagher get his cigar and match together. She was always relieved when he finally made contact.

  “Now that clown, Tony. He’s the type. An obnoxious bastard. But we already know he has an airtight alibi for one of the nights in question. I can see why the bartender remembers him.”

  “But maybe not for the day Joanna was killed.”

  “Right. We’ll get on that Monday, too.”

  “I think Sister Mary Helen was genuinely frightened of Tony. Said there was something in his eyes. Maybe she had a point.”

  “For crissake, Kate, she said Leonel had nice eyes and, therefore, couldn’t be a killer. Now there’s something wrong with this guy’s eyes that says he can be. You’ve just run across a real eye nut! And eyes are not admissible evidence in a murder case.”

  Kate couldn’t resist. “But they are the windows of the soul,” she said. Opening her car door, she threw her purse on the seat beside her. “See you downtown, Denny. Want to split the paper work?”

  “Okay,” he said, moving toward his Ford.

  The two car doors slammed simultaneously. Officers Murphy and Gallagher merged slowly onto Turk Street and headed downtown to the Hall of Justice.

  After coffee, Kate drove Sister Mary Helen home. The poor old nun had looked exhausted during dinner, she seemed delighted when Kate suggested they all turn in early. The ride from 34th Avenue to the college was a quiet one, punctuated mostly by yawns. As soon as Kate saw Mary Helen safely inside the convent, she hurried back to Jack.

  The moment she opened the front door, she knew he was angry. The loud thud of pots banging against the kitchen drainboard reverberated into the small entrance hall. A cupboard door crashed shut.

  “Hi, hon. I’m back,” she called, hanging her coat in the hall closet. Cautiously, she peeked into the kitchen. All evening she’d had the uneasy feeling that Jack was building up to something, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what.

  Jack, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbow, stood at the sink wiping silverware and slamming it into the drawer.

  “I got Sister home okay.” She tiptoed across the room and planted a light kiss on his cheek. “Thanks so much for cleaning up, pal . . .” She was about to add, “I love you,” when Jack flung the towel on the kitchen table.

  “That’s it!” Removing his chef’s apron, he threw it in a heap with the towel.

  Kate had never seen Jack quite like this before. He was furious. She really didn’t know what to do. The wrath of the patient man . . . what was the proverb? Beware the wrath of the patient man. Up to this point, Jack Bassetti had been a very patient man. “What is it?” she asked meekly.

  “I have had it with this living together business. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with us! It’s the woman who is supposed to feel used and violated. The man is supposed to be able to change his shirt and whistle on his way. Our whole relationship is back-assed!” He slammed an open palm on the kitchen table for emphasis.

  “Damn it, Kate.” He was shouting now, his Italian in crescendo. “At the risk of sounding like the heroine in a B movie—either marry me, or I’m leaving!”

  Suddenly, Kate felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. She knew by the determined set of his lips that even when his temper cooled, he meant it. So this was it—the showdown.

  “Well, say something!”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t. An ache closed her throat. Jack stood before her, stiff with anger, waiting for her answer.

  “Well?” he repeated.

  Quick tears flooded her eyes. Kate never cried. She hated to cry, yet the tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. She fumbled for a Kleenex. She tried to speak again, but couldn’t “I love you,” she managed finally.

  Jack thawed a little. “Here, sit down.” He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs. “I’ll pour a couple of glasses of brandy. Let’s talk.”

  A little of the anger had left his voice. Kate was glad. Sniffling, she slipped her hand into his. He squeezed it. “I really do love you,” she said.

  “I love you, too, Kate. But I mean it!”

  Kate rolled the rich, brown liquor around in the snifter, trying to think. “Can we talk about it after
this homicide at the college is solved? You know, Jack, it’s really on my mind. I can hardly think of anything else.” She sniffed.

  “That’s an excuse, Kate. If it isn’t this case, it will be another. You’ve got to decide.” Jack was coldly logical.

  Kate stared into her glass. She had always dreaded this moment. She had hoped it would never come. Yet she knew it was inevitable. She knew Jack wanted to settle down, raise a family. But could she? “I’ll never give an inch to any man,” she had told Ma years ago. Then, she had meant it, too. The police shrink would probably have a field day figuring out her childhood traumas, her built-in views of masculine and feminine roles, and all the rest. All she knew was that up to now she had needed to feel independent, to be successful in a man’s world, never to give an inch. But tonight she wasn’t quite sure.

  “Marriage is such a big step,” she said finally.

  “I know. But we’ve had more than enough time to test it out. I think what it gets down to, Kate, is this. Do you really love me?” Jack set his glass down.

  “Of course I love you.”

  “Enough to make a commitment?”

  “I’ve made one, or I wouldn’t still be here.”

  “I mean a permanent, legal, sacramental one. Do you remember what Sister Mary Helen said tonight about her fifty-year commitment?”

  Kate remembered. She had hoped bringing Sister Mary Helen home would somehow put Jack’s mind at ease about their relationship. Instead, the whole damn thing had backfired. The old nun had just bitten into an egg roll when Jack brought it up. “Every commitment, mine or anybody else’s, is a risk,” she had answered, “because you must make choices, give up some things in order to have others. But, if you are sure of your feelings you are willing, in fact, eager, to take the risk, really love someone. And in my case,” she added matter-of-factly, “I’ve never stopped being glad I risked it! Please pass the almond chicken.”

  “My question still stands.” Jack’s voice broke into Kate’s thoughts. “Do you love me enough to marry me, or do I move out tomorrow?”

  “You don’t mean it?”

  “I do.”

  “Is that a threat?” Kate’s eyes leveled for the challenge. Even as she spoke the words, she realized it was a helluva time to save face.

  Jack shook his head in exasperation. “You have got to be the most goddam, stubborn Irishman . . . Irishwoman that God ever created, and I must be nuts to want you.”

  Jack grabbed her clenched fists. “Kate,” he said, “it is not a threat. It is more like a goddam plea. Will you please marry me?”

  Everything in her heart wanted to shout, “Yes, I love you. I’ll marry you.” A sudden tingle of yearning rushed through her whole body. She loved him. She loved that kind, funny, wild Eye-talian just as much as he loved her. And love was a fling of the heart, not a matter for the head.

  “Kate,” Jack repeated, “will you marry me?”

  Standing, she slipped her hands into his and pulled him up. Without a word, she led him through the kitchen, turning off the lights. Bewildered, Jack followed. She stopped. In the darkened kitchen, she pressed her body against his, put her arms tightly around his waist, and rested her head against his chest.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Jack asked, his arms enveloping her.

  “Ask me to marry you again,” she whispered.

  “In the dark? Why?”

  “At the moment, it is the only way I can think of to give in and save face both.”

  Jack hugged her. She could feel he was laughing. “Will you marry me?” he managed to ask solemnly.

  Against his chest, Kathleen Murphy’s red head slowly, deliberately nodded her yes.

  Eighth Day

  Opening one eye, Sister Mary Helen squinted at her alarm clock. It was 5:30 A.M. She hadn’t slept very well. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the Chinese food she had eaten with Kate and Jack last night. And there had been a little tension in the air while they were eating. Something was definitely wrong there. That bothered her a bit. But more than likely it was this murder business that was keeping her awake. “The very air rests thick and heavily, where murder has been done.” That sounded like something Shakespeare might have said, although she knew he hadn’t. For the life of her, however, she couldn’t remember who had. Then there was this itch she had in the back of her mind, as if she were overlooking something. She couldn’t put her finger on just what it was. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t sleeping.

  Whatever the cause, she had tossed and fidgeted all night long. When she did sleep, she had awakened abruptly from outlandish dreams. The only one she could remember now was being chased by a group of Portuguese men with slanted eyes. They all brandished statues.

  The dim flicker of daylight filled her small bedroom. Quietly, she rose and dressed. The desolate moan of the foghorn from the Gate warned her to put on her trench coat, the one with the fake fur lining.

  Noiselessly, she pulled the heavy convent door closed behind her. The horns hadn’t lied. A low, dense fog creeping up from the Bay had swallowed the hill, even dulling the gray-green of the floodlights surrounding the main building. Mary Helen shivered and put her hand up. She could see her hand in front of her face, but little else. Yet the wet mist against her face invigorated her.

  This is probably a very foolish thing to do with all that’s gone on around here, she speculated, but it feels so good. She breathed deeply. The cold air made her eyes water. Her nose felt wet.

  Walking briskly away from the Sisters’ Residence toward the side path leading to her favorite spot, she could almost hear Sister Therese hiss, “Not only foolish, Sister dear, but downright dangerous.” This morning she didn’t give a tinker’s dam about danger. She needed to clear her head. “Fear of danger is ten times more terrifying than danger itself!” As the shifting fog billowed around her, she hoped whoever said that was correct.

  Low clumps of fog had completely swallowed the underbrush which bordered the side of the dirt path. Only an occasional spear of pampas grass pierced the denseness. It hung on the evergreen. The antiseptic smell of the tall, thin eucalyptus permeated the hillside.

  Deliberately, Mary Helen trudged up the pathway, enjoying the steady, rhythmic crunch of her sturdy walking shoes digging into the dirt and gravel. Her mind picked up the beat. The kinks in her brain began to untwist. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Facts, motives, who? Facts, motives, who? Last evening she had told Kate, and that sweet Jack she lived with, about Tony’s accosting her on the path. What had Kate said? “Just a belligerent drunk.” Maybe so. Perhaps she had been wrong about him. An unlikely possibility—but one she had to admit to. Still, there was something cruel in the young man’s eyes. Something about him . . . She could feel that itch begin again in the back of her mind. Maybe it had something to do with the possibility of two murderers.

  Halfway up the hill, she stopped to catch her breath. Easy does it, old girl. You’re not as young as you used to be, she reminded herself, leaning her hand against the stout trunk of an evergreen. Head bowed, she examined its rough bark.

  Mary Helen bent forward and studied the bark more closely. A slash of dark, metallic green cut across the trunk as though something had scraped against it. What could it be? A car fender, perhaps. It was about the right height. But what in heaven’s name would a car be doing on this narrow road?

  With her thumbnail, Mary Helen flicked at the green. A small, incandescent chip stuck under her fingernail. It was metallic, all right! Dark green and metallic. A dark green car—where had she seen one recently? Mary Helen closed her eyes and jogged her memory. Then with frightening certainty she remembered. The professor’s car, of course! She had heard the screeching tires on the service road and had seen it pull out behind a clump of trees and swerve onto the driveway. Professor Villanueva at the wheel, with another man beside him. Who was the other man? She wasn’t sure. She had been so startled to see the professor that his passenger had simply been a blur! Could it have been his murderer?
/>
  Mary Helen removed the chip from under her fingernail and carefully wrapped it in a Kleenex. She’d give it to Kate just as soon as she saw her. This might be an important clue, and she certainly did not want to be accused of withholding evidence.

  Almost imperceptibly, Mary Helen became aware of a slow, steady, grinding sound from the footpath. She listened. Who would be out walking this early in the morning? The sound was flat and quiet, as if someone were stealing toward her. It was not the carefree crunch that walking shoes made. Yet, it was rhythmic and definitely moving up the hill. She strained her eyes, but the dense fog blotted out all but a few feet in front of her.

  She wanted to call out, but fear constricted her throat. Her dry mouth just wouldn’t form the words. Yesterday’s encounter with Tony flashed through her mind. What if Kate hadn’t arrived just when she had? What might have happened? Would Tony have hurt her? Could this be Tony coming toward her? Or, if not Tony, maybe the murderer? The unidentified somebody they were all trying to find?

  Legs trembling, Mary Helen clung to the gnarled tree trunk and stepped off the path into the underbrush. The prickly juniper scratched her trench coat and snagged her stockings. She crouched down. Her heart thumped in her ears. Breath came in quick, painful gasps.

  The sound stopped right above her. Eyes closed, she hugged the side of the hill. All her muscles cramped. Without warning, the shale beneath her left foot gave way. She could feel herself slipping. Desperately, she grasped for the underbrush. Its shallow roots, wet with dripping fog, pulled away from the hillside.

  Mary Helen lost her balance. Over and over she rolled. Small rocks and twigs scratched against her legs and hands. She could taste the fine-grained shower of loose rock cascading with her down the hillside.

  A flat clearing stopped her fall. She lay there, dazed, as the last shower of dirt clattered in a cloud of dust around her.

  “Who is that? Are you hurt?” She heard Anne’s voice call down the hill from the pathway. For a moment, Mary Helen didn’t know if she felt relieved or angry. Whichever, it was better than sickening fear. “Are you all right?” Anne shouted.