The Missing Madonna

by Carol Anne O'Marie

Unabashed, Noelle continued to run her meeting. “We are here this morning to report on anything we may have discovered in the last few days about Erma and her whereabouts, not to discuss her family affairs. Who wants to speak first?” She tilted her head.

  Caroline spoke up. “Mr. Finn has something to report.” Apparently Ree Duran’s health was no longer on her mind. “He promised to tell us as soon as we all were here.”

  Five pairs of eyes eagerly shifted toward the man. Hands buried deep in his pockets, Finn blinked nervously. Mary Helen didn’t blame him. That was quite a battery of eyes for anyone to handle.

  He cleared his throat. Mary Helen held her breath. She could feel her stomach begin to flutter with anticipation. Or was it dread?

  “Erma called me.” Before he could continue, the room burst into an excited chorus of gasps and questions.

  Noelle’s businesslike voice soared above the rest “When? And what exactly did she say?”

  “Last night. And she . . . she said she was okay. Getting settled and not to worry.”

  “Did she leave a number where we could reach her?” Lucy moved forward on the sofa. From the smile on her face, Mary Helen knew she was about to go straight to the phone for a nice long talk. Fine! She would be right behind her.

  Lucy’s smile faded as Finn shook his head. Rats! Mary Helen thought, deflated. Yet she could have predicted his answer. Even if he did know, she was quite certain he wouldn’t tell.

  The room had settled into a puzzled silence. “Erma said she’d call again. Said she didn’t want to talk to anybody till she ‘sorted out some stuff,’ was the way she put it.”

  “What stuff?” Lucy’s voice quivered. “Didn’t she say?”

  The man shrugged. “Nope. She didn’t say what”

  “Then there is nothing more for us to do.” Noelle said finally. Mary Helen wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement.

  Whichever, Noelle threw the strap of her blue leather purse over her shoulder and studied the group over the top of her half glasses. “At least we know she is safe, ladies.” She tried to sound cheerful. “We should be glad for that, anyway.”

  “You’re right, Noelle,” Caroline agreed without much enthusiasm. “I suppose tonight we will all get the first real night’s sleep any of us has had since this dreadful thing began.”

  Three yesses and an indeed supported her supposition. Finn merely grunted.

  “Someone should call and inform the police.” Noelle shot an it’s-all-yours smile at Mary Helen and turned on her blue heel. “And, Caroline, will you give Barbara Quinn a ring? You both should have plenty of time to make your calls and to get over to the OWL meeting.”

  One by one, the women rose to go. The jumble of feelings in the room was hard to describe: relief, surely, yet confusion; happiness and delight, certainly, yet real bewilderment and perhaps a touch of hurt.

  Watching them, Mary Helen couldn’t help but think of Easter again. This morning’s sky had reminded her of an old holy card portraying Jesus risen. This afternoon Erma’s apartment was more like the empty tomb. What had the gospel said about the women who discovered it? “They hurried away, half overjoyed, half fearful . . . to carry the good news.” She felt that way herself.

  Pushing up from the couch, she knew she should be elated or at least relieved. Oddly, she wasn’t either.

  Unanswered questions squirmed and jostled in her mind. If anything, Finn’s revelation had filled her with an inexplicable sense of uneasiness. The whole episode was so out of character for the Erma she knew. Or maybe she hadn’t known the woman half as well as she’d thought.

  Above all, she did not want to call Inspector Honore. In fact, she thought she would put it off for a day or two. Who would be the wiser? Besides, now more than ever, it was important that he dig around. He might discover just why Erma Duran had left San Francisco in such a hurry and why she didn’t want to be contacted by her old friends, or even by her family.

  Gripping the banister, Sister Mary Helen adjusted her bifocals and started down the narrow staircase. There were so many unanswered questions, so many loose ends. Lucy Lyons was just ahead of her. At least she might have the opportunity to have one of her questions answered.

  “What exactly is wrong with Marie Duran?” she asked softly enough, she hoped, not to be overheard.

  “I’m not really sure,” Lucy whispered back. “Some serious health problem, I think.”

  They were nearing the bottom of the steps. Mary Helen had no time for diplomacy. “Mental?” she asked.

  “Erma never said.” Lucy tucked a strand of hair back into the gray braid circling her head. “That is, she was never very specific about Ree’s problem. Or about her other kids’ problems, for that matter. Her home life was very private.”

  “And you didn’t ask?”

  Again, Lucy shook her head.

  “You’ve been her best friend all these years, and you never asked?” Mary Helen was astonished, although she shouldn’t have been. Erma did have—how had Eileen put it?—a touch of lace-curtain Irish.

  Seemingly just as astonished, Lucy met her stare. “That’s why we remained best friends all these years, Sister. Nobody, but nobody, with any sense gets between a mother bear and her cubs.”

  Impatiently Caroline tooted her car horn. The windshield wipers were moving back and forth. Only then did Mary Helen realize that while they were in the apartment it had started to rain. The soft drizzle wet her face and covered her glasses.

  “And we’ve no umbrella.” Eileen fussed in the doorway behind her. “I should have known—with the red sky this morning, and all.”

  Mary Helen put out her hand. “It’s like Shakespeare’s ‘gentle rain,’ ” she said. “ ‘It droppeth . . .’ ” Hoping no one would notice, she switched, midquote, to Matthew, “ ‘On the just and unjust alike.’ ”

  “Except the unjust have all the umbrellas,” Lucy quipped, hurrying toward the car. “See you both at the meeting,” she called, waving.

  “Do you know what else the old bard said?” Eileen smiled. “ ‘All’s well that ends well.’ Right, old dear?”

  “Right” Mary Helen followed her friend to their car parked at the bottom of the Sanchez Street hill. Of course it was right. But if all had ended so well, why did she feel almost as if someone had given her a swift, hard punch in the stomach?

  Friday, May 18

  Feast of John I, Pope and Martyr

  Nothing was going right for Kate Murphy. It might just as well have been Friday the thirteenth. This morning she had been awakened by the eerie wailing of foghorns outside the Gate. Before leaving the house, she had dribbled coffee down the front of her blouse and had had to change it. She’d had the feeling then that this was not going to be her day. As the hours wore on, her pessimism became more and more justified. She and Gallagher had muddled around with rumors and leads that took them nowhere. A complete waste of time.

  Now, at five P.M., they sat across from one another in the Homicide Detail, shoving forms around on their respective desks.

  “A do-nothing day,” Gallagher grumbled, taking the last sip of cold coffee from his mug. “All I’ve got to show for it is coffee nerves.” He grimaced. “This stuff tastes like lye.”

  Staring into space, Kate nodded. The sharp ring of her phone made her jump. It was Jack. He’d be late getting home, he said. Something was breaking in Vice. There went her Friday night. Kate twisted a strand of her thick red hair. She’d been using Mama Bassetti’s St. Gerard oil for a week now—well, five days—and as far as she could tell, still no miracle!

  Maybe, as she’d suspected from the start, the stuff was pure superstition or maybe miracles take longer than five days. She’d have to call Sister Mary Helen and invite her and Sister Eileen to dinner. That way she could introduce the topic casually and find out what the two nuns thought about it.

  “What’s on your mind, Katie-girl?” Gallagher’s voice startled her.

  “Nothing much, Denny.” As close as they
were, and even though Gallagher had been on the force with her father and known her since she was a baby, she had no intention of discussing her St. Gerard oil with him. Or with anyone else for that matter, not even with Jack.

  “Don’t give me that. You’re much too quiet and you’re twisting.” He pointed to her fingers in her hair. “You can tell your old partner. What are you thinking about?”

  Kate was feeling so ornery she couldn’t resist. “If you must know, my last thought was of your old friend, Sister Mary Helen.” She watched Gallagher’s face redden.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” he exploded with what Kate considered an overreaction, even for him. Obviously the day had frustrated him too.

  “You are not dragging me into that one.” He pushed back in his swivel chair. “We should be working on our own cases. That one belongs to Honore. Let him worry about it.”

  Although Honore and his case had been the last thing on her mind, Kate couldn’t help goading Gallagher. Deliberately, she batted her eyes. “How could you be so callous, Denny? An old woman is missing. Our nun friends are concerned.”

  “The city is brimful of murderers and we can’t seem to finger any one of them.” He leafed through the forms on his desk. “And you want me to worry about one missing person?”

  “Not worry, really. Just be concerned.”

  “Concerned? I am concerned. Look!” Gallagher ran his fingers across the creases on his forehead. “See? Concerned! I’m concerned about all those crazies running loose, killing people.”

  Laughing, Kate checked her wristwatch. “Quitting time, Denny. Maybe tomorrow will be better.” She grabbed her coat off the rack next to the window. “Do you want to go somewhere and drink to it?”

  “Not tonight. I’m bushed. Besides, shouldn’t you be hurrying home to cook dinner for your husband?”

  Kate bristled. Gallagher knew very well that Jack was working late and, although he didn’t approve, he was definitely aware that they took turns cooking. He wasn’t bushed enough to pass up a chance to needle her! Well, fair is fair.

  Refusing to rise to the bait, Kate rummaged through her purse for her car keys, thinking of a way to get back. “Okay, suit yourself.”

  “Where are you going? Fahey’s?”

  Kate shook her head. “I think I’ll go to Alphonso’s Bistro,” she said, amazed at her own ingenuity at getting to Gallagher’s goat.

  “Alphonso’s Bistro? Where the hell is that?”

  “Over on Sanchez. It’s the place where Sister Mary Helen’s friend worked. The one who disappeared,” Kate added, anticipating with glee the effect it would have on Gallagher.

  “You have no damn business going there.”

  “I’m only going for a drink.” Kate tried to sound offended.

  “Alone?”

  “Of course, alone—if you’re too bushed.”

  “The hell you are,” he said, taking her by the elbow. “Your car or mine?”

  * * *

  “Turn on the heat,” Gallagher said the moment Kate started the motor of her car.

  “All you’ll get is cold air.” She shivered. The day had never cleared and now the fog had turned to a cold drizzle. She pulled away from the curb, delighted that Gallagher apparently was too tired to argue when she said she would drive.

  The Mission District was home to the City’s largest collection of Victorians, and this way she could drive by them without an argument. Maybe the view would improve her disposition. Even as a child, Kate had loved riding by the old Victorians, especially at dusk, like now, when the lights began to show through their bay windows. Over the last few years, many of them had been refurbished and painted in bold colors to bring out the fretwork or the bracketed cornices.

  It was still fun to drive slowly along Dolores Street, comparing the houses on the east and on the west. During the earthquake and fire of 1906, her father had told her, the houses on one side of the broad, palm-lined street had been saved, but those on the other side had burned. Driving south, it was easy to see that the houses on her left were postfire, unlike those on her right.

  Gallagher, she sensed, was just getting ready to complain about her circuitous route when she pulled up across the street from a forest-green awning announcing, in white script, Alphonso’s Bistro. Kate hadn’t expected the small storefront restaurant to be quite so trendy.

  Even as they walked toward the bistro, Kate knew she shouldn’t be here. Gallagher was right, although she would never give him the satisfaction of saying so. This case was Honore’s baby. She had no real desire to help him out. Yet, for some reason, she couldn’t help pushing Gallagher’s buttons. What did Flip Wilson used to say? “The devil made me do it.”

  She was concerned about the missing woman, of course; and if her probing helped Mary Helen’s friend, she thought philosophically, all the better.

  Shivering, her partner opened the plate-glass door to the dimly lit bistro. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?” he asked as soon as he and Kate had stepped inside and onto the plush carpet.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The joint looks like a house of ill repute, to put it politely.”

  Kate took in the red flocked walls, the lush carpet, the imitation hurricane lamps. “Oh? And how do you know?” she asked, then watched him fight to control his temper.

  Before he could formulate a calm answer, a short, square, plain-looking man bustled toward them. The only remarkable thing about him was the way he had taken a long strand of hair and stretched it back and forth across the crown of his head. Finn! Kate recognized him immediately from Honore’s description. It must have taken a lot of concentration and even more brilliantine for the man to make that series of V’s across his bald pate.

  “How many?” Blinking nervously, his hazel eyes darted from Kate to Gallagher and back again. Kate knew he was sizing them up. “Cops, right?” he said almost immediately.

  Kate flashed her badge. Knowing Homicide had no business asking questions, she hoped he wouldn’t look too closely. Fortunately he didn’t.

  “I can pick you guys out anywhere.” The man shrugged good-naturedly. “What can I do for you, Officers?”

  Another couple came into the small restaurant and stood behind Kate. “Why don’t you take care of these people,” she said. “We can wait”

  Looking grateful, Finn ushered the pair to a table at the far corner.

  “I thought we were coming in here for a drink,” Gallagher growled in Kate’s ear. “Like I told you, you have no business—” He stopped short. Finn was back.

  “I’m Al Finn, the owner. What can I do for you?” He held out a broad hand. “Always glad to cooperate with the police. I contribute to the Police Athletic League, you know.” Kate remembered that Honore had mentioned that.

  After they had shaken hands and introduced themselves, Kate wasn’t sure just what she wanted to ask him. She glanced over at Gallagher, who glared back. Obviously, her partner was going to be of no help at all.

  “We are here about your employee, Erma Duran. She’s been reported missing.”

  “Oh, yeah, Erma.” He licked his lips. “Another officer, a black guy, was in here asking about her.”

  A party of five ducked into the restaurant out of the cold. Finn switched his attention to them. “Will you excuse me, Officers, while I seat these people?”

  “Sure. May we look around?” Kate asked.

  “Be my guests,” Finn said, or at least Kate thought he did.

  Hands in pockets, Gallagher followed her through the restaurant. He leaned against a stainless-steel sink, folded his arms, and watched her avoid the cooks and poke around the kitchen. Everything about him said he was seething.

  Opening a door, Kate peered down a dark flight of stairs.

  “Basement,” the dark-skinned dishwasher wearing a turban said flatly. Wiping his hands on his apron, he reached around the doorjamb for the light switch. A single bulb lit the steep stairs.

  Halfway down the flight, she hea
rd Gallagher close the door behind her. She could tell by the way he stomped down after her that she was about to catch hell. Even though they had been partners for almost four years, he still treated her like one of his daughters. Kate steeled herself. Much as she hated to admit it, sometimes—like now—she reacted as if she were his daughter.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he roared.

  “Looking around.” Kate jutted out her jaw in the same stubborn way she had used to defy her father.

  “I know that! I thought we were here for a drink.” His eyes blazed.

  “We were, but the opportunity just presented itself.”

  “What opportunity? You know damn well we’re out of our jurisdiction. I told you we have no business here. I told you you can’t go butting your damn nose into—”

  “You told me?” Kate felt her face flush. She stepped closer to Gallagher. “You told me? What right do you have to tell me? You’re my partner, not my father,”

  “Don’t bring up your father, God rest him! The guy must have been a goddamn saint not to have wrung your stubborn neck. If you were mine, I’d have been up on charges long ago.” Gallagher glowered at her. Kate did her best to glower back.

  Neither of them had heard Finn open the door at the top of the basement steps.

  “I was wondering where you guys had went,” he called.

  Hoping he hadn’t overheard, Kate began to scan the basement. It was your average San Francisco turn-of-the-century basement: concrete sloping floor, narrow door at the far side leading to an alley probably once used by the coal man, wooden storage shelves along the rough concrete wall, two large laundry tubs streaked with rust. The whole place smelled of dampness and disuse.

  Carefully descending the steps, Finn stood next to Gallagher. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Damned if I know,” Gallagher barked, then softened, realizing the owner was not at fault. “My partner here is just looking around. Seeing what she can come up with that might give us an idea about the missing woman. Seems some nun friends of hers are pretty worried about her.”

  “Oh, them. Yeah. I was pretty worried about her myself”—Finn rocked back and forth on the soles of his feet, blinking—“until last night.”