A Novena for Murder

by Carol Anne O'Marie

  “Dear Lord,” Mary Helen bargained before she opened her eyes, “if I’m not dead, or at least maimed, I promise to start acting like a retired nun.” Even before she propped herself up on her elbows, she knew that neither the Lord nor she believed that.

  Mary Helen opened her eyes and blinked. Miraculously, her glasses had not broken. Adjusting them, she watched Anne scurry down the side of the hill in her moccasins. Of course, that was the sound:—Paiute moccasins! Mary Helen lay back on the ground, closed her eyes, and moaned.

  “Mary Helen! Are you all right?” A worried Anne squatted down beside her. “Spit,” she said, holding out the hankie she had taken from her car coat pocket. Adroitly, she dabbed at Mary Helen’s cuts and bruises.

  “What are you doing up so early?” Mary Helen asked.

  “Couldn’t sleep. And you?”

  “Same.”

  “Can you move everything?” Anne asked.

  Slowly, painfully, Mary Helen tested her arms. They moved. Even though her stockings looked like spider webs, the legs underneath seemed to be intact.

  Stiffly, she struggled to get up. “Sit still for a while and take deep breaths.” Anne pretzeled into her lotus position beside Mary Helen. “Even if you have no broken bones, you’ve had quite a shock.”

  “You can say that again.” Mary Helen ran her tongue across her teeth for a final check.

  “How did you happen to tumble?” Anne helped her empty the grit from her shoes.

  “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.” Mary Helen blinked back involuntary tears. “Thank goodness for this flat clearing, or I could have kept on rolling.” She pressed her hands against the ground. They had begun to shake. Why, she might have been killed! Her life should have flashed before her. It didn’t. In fact, she later admitted to Eileen, everything had happened so quickly that the only prayer she could think of was Grace before Meals.

  Anne examined the clearing. “Looks like someone has been digging here.” She pointed to the break where the smooth shale had been turned over.

  “Tony,” Mary Helen answered flatly, still trying to steady her hands.

  “That’s some hole!” Mary Helen followed Anne’s finger as she traced the perimeter of a large rectangle.

  Mary Helen picked small pieces of rock from the heels of her hands. Here I am nearly dead, and she’s talking about digging holes. Digging holes! With a sudden crash all her thoughts fell into place. She knew what it was that had been bothering her. Tony and his digging! She had seen him digging a huge hole to root ice plant. Ice plant only takes a shallow ditch! The freshly dug rectangle must be five or six feet long and a couple of feet wide. The size of a grave.

  A sickening sensation rose in Mary Helen’s throat. You would need a hole that large to bury someone. She put her hand over her mouth and fought down the urge to be sick. The color must have left her face, because Anne grabbed for her shoulders. And she had seen Tony digging several times! She retched.

  “What is it?” Anne’s hazel eyes were frightened behind her purple-rimmed glasses.

  Mary Helen smiled weakly. “Nothing,” she said, trying to sound calm. “Help me up, will you, and let’s get back to the college. I think I need a hot cup of coffee and a nice, long bath.”

  “I have some herbal bath oil you can use,” Anne offered, gripping both her hands.

  All I need now is to smell like oregano! Mary Helen let Anne pull her to her feet and silently lead her up the hillside toward the path.

  “Dear Lord,” Mary Helen prayed silently, holding tight to Anne’s hand, “let it be my imagination—too many mystery novels, or something. It can’t mean more dead bodies. Don’t You know this is the eighth day of Therese’s novena?” She felt a bit presumptuous asking God if He knew what day it was, but they did say there was no such thing as time in eternity. “You are supposed to find the murderer, not more people who have been murdered!”

  Panting, Mary Helen reached the path. Her whole body felt like a giant toothache. Small, dim slits of light floated through the dripping fog. Below them, the college was beginning to wake up.

  Sister Mary Helen held her watch up to her ear. “Still ticking.” She smiled sheepishly at Eileen. “A watched pot never boils,” Eileen reminded her for the third time. For nearly an hour, the two had been huddled together sipping their early-morning coffee in the small nook off the kitchen. They were waiting for nine o’clock.

  Right after the seven o’clock Sunday Mass, Mary Helen had run into Eileen. Although she had fully intended to keep her suspicions about the body-sized rectangle to herself, she was glad now she’d blurted them out. Misery loves company. One look at Eileen assured her that her friend was every bit as miserable as she was.

  Eileen watched Mary Helen turn back her cuff and check her watch yet another time. “For the love of all that’s good and holy, why don’t we just call?” she asked.

  “Because I may be wrong. There is no sense disturbing someone so early on a Sunday morning if I’m wrong. And if I’m right, whoever it is will still be there, and none the worse for the wait.”

  Eileen’s soft-wrinkled face fell into a frown. “There is a certain kind of logic that defies argument,” she said.

  At the first stroke of nine, the two nuns shot from the nook. Clopping down the hallway, they left only the steady clinking of the loose hall tiles behind them.

  By the time the college bell tolled the last stroke of nine, the two were in Eileen’s office. Door closed, Mary Helen dialed Kate Murphy.

  Inspector Gallagher stopped at the main gate just long enough for the two nuns to climb into the back seat. Slowly, the car labored up the steep grade.

  “Here.” Mary Helen pointed to the narrow dirt path leading off from the paved driveway. Gallagher stopped the car.

  “Isn’t this the same path we met you and Tony on yesterday?” Kate turned toward the back seat.

  Yes, Mary Helen nodded. Did she catch a hint of disbelief in Kate’s voice? Did Kate think she was making all this up to prove a point?

  “And what happened to your hands?” Kate noticed the scrapes. “And is that a scratch on your face?”

  “I had a tumble.” Mary Helen was not going to tell her what had really happened. She’d certainly think it was all hysteria!

  “Easy, Sisters.” Politely, Gallagher helped them from the car. Opening the trunk, he removed a shovel. “You know, Sisters”—his watery-blue eyes studied them patiently—“in these murder cases, sometimes our imaginations get the best of us. Run wild. We begin to see murders and murderers everywhere.”

  So he didn’t believe her, either. Maybe your imagination is unreliable, but mine is tried and true, thank you, Mary Helen thought. Deliberately, she pointed to the rough trunk of the evergreen.

  “This morning I also noticed that scrape. Metallic paint, I think. A car, probably. Although I have no idea why a car would be on this footpath.” Adjusting her bifocals, she stared at Gallagher. So much for overworked imagination!

  Simultaneously, Kate and Gallagher bent forward to examine the green slash. “I removed a chip”—she handed the Kleenex to Kate—“and the rectangle I spoke to you about is right down there.”

  “You two go sit on the bench,” Kate ordered as she and Gallagher clambered down the embankment. “We’ll let you know the minute we find anything.”

  Obediently, the two nuns sat freezing on the cold stone bench. A gray blanket of fog still wrapped the city.

  “This is a beautiful view, when you can see it.” Mary Helen tried to make small talk. Funny how people always tried to make small talk when faced with overwhelming situations. She was no exception.

  “I think I see the top of City Hall.” Eileen pointed to her left.

  “I hope none of the nuns walk out this way.”

  “No one in her right mind would walk out here in this cold. If they are doing anything, they are probably having a second cup of good, hot coffee.” Eileen shivered.

  “Where’s Anne?”

&
nbsp; “She had an appointment with Marina. Apparently it was something quite important. She left right after Mass.”

  “Marina! Is Anne alone?”

  “Of course she’s alone. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t want to be an alarmist, but we really don’t have any idea who the murderer is.” Or even if there is more than one. She kept that thought to herself. “It could be Marina as well as anyone else,” she said.

  Eileen frowned. “I don’t care what you say about Cain and Abel. I just cannot believe Marina would kill her own sister!”

  “Maybe not, but until we know for sure, I think it is foolish and downright dangerous for Anne to be out there alone!”

  Eileen stared at her friend in amazement. “Well, if this isn’t a typical case of the pot calling the kettle black, old dear,” she said, “then I’ve never seen one!”

  Impatiently, Mary Helen walked to the edge of the clearing and looked down at the two inspectors. Gallagher had removed his jacket and was heaving great shovelfuls of dirt from one corner. Kate stood next to him, holding his jacket and peering into the freshly dug hole.

  Abruptly, Inspector Gallagher stopped. On hands and knees, Kate inspected his hole. She mumbled something Mary Helen could not hear. Gallagher shook his head, then helped her to her feet.

  “Looks like you were right,” Kate cupped her hands and hollered up.

  It was the first time in a long while that Mary Helen could remember not wanting to be right.

  Within minutes, the entire hillside had been cordoned off. “This looks like something right out of The Streets of San Francisco.” Mary Helen pointed to the black-and-white patrol cars lining the driveway. Their circling red-and-blue lights cut through the fog. Police radios squawked. Floodlights threw broad beams across the misty clearing. A police ambulance whooped up the hill, followed closely by the coroner and several men carrying metal cases. Crime Lab, Mary Helen thought. Finally, the inevitable van marked “Channel 4—On the Scene” turned in from Turk Street and pulled behind the last patrol car. A jeans-clad, bearded fellow jumped from one door. Hoisting a heavy television camera to his shoulder, he followed a trim, smartly dressed woman. Mary Helen recognized her as one of the reporters from the five o’clock news. Poor Cecilia!

  “You two might as well go to the convent and keep warm. There’s nothing else you can do up here,” Kate said. She walked several feet down the path with the two nuns.

  “Have you any idea who’s buried there?” Mary Helen asked.

  Kate shook her head. “Whoever it is hasn’t been dead too long,” she said. “We’ll get the body out and downtown to be identified. Denny and I are going to pick up Tony. There are some questions we want to ask him. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Kate turned to walk away. Unexpectedly, she swung around. “By the way, is there anything else you’d like to mention before I go?” She leveled her eyes at Mary Helen.

  “Well, there is something.” Mary Helen swallowed hard, hesitant even to admit the possibility to herself. “I’ve seen Tony digging in several other spots.”

  Kate’s face blanched.

  Right after the evening news, Mary Helen ran into Sister Anne. Head down, the young nun tried to slide past.

  “Are you all right?” Mary Helen asked. One glimpse at Anne’s red-rimmed eyes and death-white face told her that it was a silly question.

  “Fine. Just tired.” Anne moved rapidly toward the front staircase.

  “Are you sure? Did something happen with Marina?”

  “Nothing happened,” Anne snapped. “I’m fine. Just tired,” she said, without turning around.

  While Mary Helen was debating whether or not to follow Anne up to her bedroom, the phone rang.

  It was Kate Murphy. “Are you watching TV?” she asked.

  “Just finished.” Mary Helen’s knees were still weak from the sight of hefty patrolmen struggling up the embankment with a bloated bag on a stretcher—not once, but four times! She still couldn’t believe it. The whole thing was like a horrible nightmare.

  “Thanks be to God,” Eileen had muttered when the fourth stretcher appeared. Mary Helen had looked at her friend aghast. “Death always comes in threes,” Eileen explained. “Six means it is all over.”

  “Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner,” Kate continued. “I guess you saw that they uncovered four bodies. Things moved fast after you left.”

  “Have you any idea who they are? Are they the four missing Portuguese boys?”

  “All we know so far is that they are male and Caucasian. Coroner is still working on positive I.D.’s. Also, we sent that paint to the lab. Nothing, so far. Denny and I are just back from picking up Tony. We’re just about to start the interrogation. I’ll call you tomorrow. And, Sister”—Kate’s voice had a tired ring—“thanks. And for heaven’s sake, tonight sleep well.”

  As she opened the door of the phone booth, Mary Helen could hear Sister Therese’s staccato steps coming toward her.

  “Imagine! Now it is ‘Homicidal Maniac Haunts Holy Hill’!” Therese rounded the corner waving the front page of the Chronicle. Her high-pitched voice filled the corridor. “Disgraceful! Disgusting! Dastardly!

  “But, you mark my words.” She shook her thin, arthritic forefinger at Sister Mary Helen. “Tomorrow is the last day of my novena, and we’ll have one haunting homicidal maniac in harness!”

  Ninth Day

  It was the first time in anyone’s memory that classes at the college had been cancelled. Rescheduled, yes. But cancelled—never! Sister Cecilia had made the announcement with a quivering voice.

  A heavy, silent gloom hung over the deserted campus. The largest gray stone building loomed on the hilltop like an abandoned castle left to ruin. The gargoyles set in the majestic stonework frowned into space. Even the bright yellow primroses bordering the formal gardens drooped.

  Sister Therese was desolate. Not a single soul, not even Mary Helen, ventured to mention her novena. “A despicable day in the history of this college,” Therese had proclaimed at breakfast. No one had disagreed.

  Unfortunately, someone had forgotten to inform the sun. It rose gloriously cheerful “with all his beams full-dazzling.” Mary Helen stepped out of the Sisters’ Residence. She watched the warm, golden halo cover the hill and make it sparkle. Where in the world was the fog when you needed it?

  She stretched. In spite of everything, she had slept soundly. What was it Cervantes had written? “So long as I am asleep, I have neither fear nor hope, trouble nor glory.” Yet, she woke still tired. Slowly, she rambled up the driveway. Every part of her hurt. You can’t expect to roll down a hill at your age, old girl, and never feel a twinge, she had reminded herself this morning when she pulled her two stiff knees out of bed.

  The dirt path was still cordoned off. Several official-looking cars parked along the driveway reminded her that the Crime Lab was still at work. Probably sifting through tons of dirt looking for—she wasn’t sure what. Clues, no doubt, to link someone with these heinous murders. What a job, she thought, peering down the embankment.

  It was difficult—no, impossible—to see what the men were doing from the driveway. Mary Helen pulled up the thick rope and was just about to duck under when she heard Eileen call her name.

  “For the love of all that’s good and holy, you aren’t going in there, are you?” Eileen’s gray eyes registered horror.

  Mary Helen released the rope. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “We are both wanted in the parlor. It’s Kate Murphy,” Eileen announced, watching the rope bounce.

  “I wonder what she wants.”

  “I have no idea. But they have a saying in the old country which I think fits this situation perfectly. ‘Just keep a cool head and dry pants, and you’ll be fine.’ ”

  Mary Helen stared at her friend. In all the years she’d known Eileen, she had never heard her quote that saying before. But these were quite unusual times!

  The two hurried down the driveway. Mary Helen was
puffing by the time she and Eileen sank into the overstuffed parlor couch.

  “Good morning, Sisters.” Every freckle stood out on Kate Murphy’s white face. Her eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep, shifted uneasily. “I have some good news and some bad news.”

  “Let’s hear the good news first.” Eileen leaned over and patted Kate’s hand. You could always count on Eileen to be optimistic. Mary Helen wished they would rid themselves of the bad news first.

  “Well, we questioned Tony for hours. Gallagher and I. First, I played the good guy, he was the tough cop. Then we switched. Finally, Tony broke. I think he was actually glad to get it off his chest. It’s some story.”

  The two nuns inched up to the edge of the couch waiting for Kate to continue.

  “Seems you were right all along, Sister Mary Helen. The professor, this Sebastiao business, and Joanna were all tied in. Apparently, Professor Villanueva was a real bast . . .” She caught herself. “A character. Made trips to the old country. Put himself up as a savior.

  “That Dom Sebastiao—reincarnated business you were telling me about. It’s a screwy cult that never seems to quite die out in Portugal. It rises every so often among the young men who can’t help hoping that Sebastiao will return and lead the country to glory, plus take a few of them along on his coat tails. Guess it happens every place.

  “Anyway, this guy convinced them that he was their ticket to fame and riches. They could really make something of themselves. First thing he did was bring them to the U.S. without benefit of the Immigration Department.”

  “And all for a price, you can be sure.” Eileen shook her head disapprovingly.

  “Quite a price, we found out from Luis, your janitor. What he didn’t tell us was that none of them could afford the whole thing, so they had to borrow from the professor, at a huge interest. They would be working to pay him back for years and years.

  Eileen could hardly believe it. “Sounds like a combination of loan shark and indentured servant,” she said.