The Missing Madonna

by Carol Anne O'Marie

  “What happened last night?”

  “She called.”

  “She called?” Kate could feel her face redden. Why hadn’t anyone told her?

  “Yeah. Like I told them all. The day she left she told me she’d call when she got settled. She didn’t want the kids to know where she was. Can’t blame her. They were starting to drive her crazy.”

  Really miffed now, Gallagher glared at Kate. “I can see how kids, anybody’s kids, could drive you crazy.”

  Finn recognized a comrade spirit. “Those three clowns are real crazy-makers,” he said. “Couple of days ago, the worst one, in my opinion, drove me to doing something I probably shouldn’t have done.”

  The man sounded so remorseful that for a moment Kate wondered if she should stop him and read him his rights.

  “Oh, what was that?” Gallagher was getting interested.

  “He made me so damn mad I offered him money—plane fare to St. Louis to see if he could find his mother.”

  “If you ask me,” Gallagher said, “that sounds like you were trying to help.”

  “Erma wouldn’t think so,” Finn said, licking his lips and nervously blinking even more.

  * * *

  By the time Jack Bassetti arrived home, Kate was bathed, powdered, St-Gerard oiled, and in bed. “Did you eat, pal?” She watched him hang up his jacket and loosen his tie.

  “Couple of hours ago.” His face was pale and drawn. “We sent out for pizza.”

  “Bad day, huh?”

  Nodding, Jack threw his slacks over the back of a chair and climbed into bed. “I’m beat,” he said, closing his eyes. “How was your day?”

  Kate turned out the bed lamp. “Not so good either.” She plumped up her pillow and moved closer to her husband.

  Reaching over, he put his hand on her hip. “What happened?”

  “Everything! And on top of it, I had a real screaming match with Denny.”

  Jack grunted.

  “But I think we made up. At least, we were speaking by the time we left Alphonso’s Bistro.” She waited for his reaction.

  “Alphonso’s?” Jack repeated, without even opening his eyes. “What were you doing there?”

  “That’s another thing. I’m so damn mad at Honore. Letting me go all the way over to that restaurant, only to hear that the missing woman had been found.”

  A flash from the headlights of a car parking on 34th Avenue shot across the bedroom ceiling. “Isn’t it terrible,” she asked, watching it fade into a corner, “to want to get away from your own children?” She moved closer to her husband. “It doesn’t seem right, Jack. Erma has three kids she has to escape from, and I want just one baby so badly.”

  Beside her, Jack’s body was warm and firm. She snuggled closer to him. The hair on his bare chest tickled her cheek. Maybe tonight is the night, she thought, feeling her husband’s hand slip down her thigh. Only when it landed on the mattress with a thud did she realize that Jack Bassetti was sound asleep.

  May 20

  Sixth Sunday of Easter Bay-to-Breakers Race

  On Sunday morning a low, wet fog covered Mount St. Francis College. For once, Sister Mary Helen was glad. Futhermore, she hoped it wouldn’t burn off for a good long time. As of last night, Sister Anne was still determined to run in today’s Bay-to-Breakers Race. Running was bad enough, Mary Helen thought, without courting the chance of a heat stroke.

  About five o’clock this morning, Mary Helen, unable to sleep, had heard the young nun in the convent hallway. She had cracked open her bedroom door to see if everything was all right. Anne was carrying a large glass of orange juice in one hand and a piece of whole-wheat toast in the other.

  “Shouldn’t you have an egg?” Mary Helen asked before she thought to stop herself. She knew Anne hated to be mothered or, in this case, grandmothered.

  “No eggs,” Anne mumbled, still a little groggy. “No slowly digestible protein.”

  “That’s right.” Mary Helen had read the same article in last Sunday’s paper. On Saturday night, the participants were encouraged to eat a “Last Supper” of spaghetti, French bread, ice cream, and cake—all carbohydrates. Then, three hours before the race, they were to have a light breakfast of “no slowly digestible protein.” Whatever that meant.

  “Will you and Eileen be there?” Sleepily, Anne pushed her bedroom door open with her foot.

  “We wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Mary Helen answered, knowing for sure that she, at least, wouldn’t. The previous Sunday, the Examiner, which had sponsored the race since it began in 1912, had put out a special booklet with all kinds of interesting facts and figures. Mary Helen could hardly wait. One hundred thousand runners were expected, the booklet had said, for the seven-and-one-half-mile cross-city race. With that many people in the race, she figured, there could only be a couple of hundred spectators. Eileen and she should have no trouble finding a good place.

  * * *

  “Where do you suggest we go to watch?” Eileen asked when the two nuns met in the Sisters’ dining room as soon as Father Adams had finished the morning Mass. Obviously Eileen was interested in attending. In fact, she sounded downright enthusiastic.

  Mary Helen had ripped a map showing good spectator spots from last week’s paper. “As far as I’m concerned, the top of the Hayes Street hill is out.” She pointed to the spot on the map. The hill rose two hundred feet and “separated the men from the boys,” as the saying goes. “I am afraid it will be packed,” she said, knowing full well that what she was more afraid of was witnessing a heart attack.

  “And the finish line at the beach, there at the Great Highway, probably will be packed too. Plus, we would have to drive—and where would we park?”

  Eileen’s face puckered. She looked a little disappointed. “If we situated ourselves at the Great Highway, we would have a chance to see the thrill of victory and . . . de agony of de feet.”

  Mary Helen groaned. Lucy Lyons should be quarantined. “Our best bet seems to me to be the Pan Handle.” She pointed to the narrow, grassy entrance to Golden Gate Park, which was so named because, to Mary Helen’s lasting amazement, it did in fact resemble a pan handle. “And besides, we can walk over there.” Quickly Eileen warmed to the suggestion.

  At about eight-thirty, the two nuns were elbowing their way to the front line on Fell Street, which bordered the Pan Handle to the north. Mary Helen watched in awe as the serious racers blistered past. Chests heaving, feet pounding the asphalt, they seemed guaranteed to reach the finish line within the hour.

  “Get a load of those guys!” A bald-headed man next to Mary Helen pointed to the sweating runners. “Hell, I read in the paper that Bobby Vlught, the first guy to win this thing, would have come in one hundred sixtieth today.” He looked at her for a reaction. She tried to look impressed, although she had read the same article herself.

  Before long, Eileen waved to a panting Anne. “Here comes our girl,” she said. Anne’s T-shirt, which read SOLE SISTER, distinguished her from the runners around her.

  Quite a few minutes behind Anne, Mary Helen spotted several hand-waving politicians. Next to them were a man with a toddler on his back and two gray-haired women who looked as if they were well into their seventies.

  “Glory be to God, look at that!” Nudging Mary Helen, Eileen pointed down the block to a set of human dominoes jogging along next to a life-sized whale, a couple of colored crayons, and the Bank of America team dressed as sheriffs who were chasing three women “bank robbers.”

  “Go, Jack, go!” Mary Helen recognized a familiar voice. She turned. Sure enough. Kate Murphy was pushing up right behind her.

  What a stroke of luck! Mary Helen had been debating all weekend whether or not to call Kate. Now she was spared having to decide. Meeting the woman in a crowd like this was more than a coincidence or even good luck: it was clearly an act of God.

  “Well, you never know who you’ll run into.” Mary Helen faced Kate and tried not to look or sound too pleased.

  �
�Hi, Sisters.” Kate seemed genuinely happy to see them. “There goes Jack!” she shouted, momentarily distracted. “If he ever gets to the finish line, he’ll need a week off.” The three of them waved as Jack Bassetti, gaining speed, ran steadily toward the entrance to Golden Gate Park.

  “I’ve been meaning to call and tell you how glad I was your friend has been heard from.” Kate turned back to the two nuns.

  Mary Helen had the feeling Kate was about to say more, but she didn’t wait. It would never do for Kate to ask her what Inspector Honore had said when she told him. Nor did she feel like explaining why she had decided to wait until tomorrow to call.

  Instead, she launched into the unsettling feelings she had about Erma Duran. She was careful not to leave out a single detail about the missing money, Erma’s children, or the animosity between them and Mr. Finn.

  Kate seemed sympathetic but, Mary Helen noticed, quite noncommittal, almost uninterested. “Sister, you know I’d help if I could, but this is really not within my jurisdiction. In fact, moving to another city is not against the law. Did you tell Inspector Honore about your feelings?”

  “Yes,” she said without elaborating. After all, it was true. She had told him about her feelings. Kate did not ask when.

  How she wished she could talk to Kate instead, and even to old teddy-bear Gallagher, about the case. Instinctively, she knew that, even if they didn’t want to, they couldn’t help but give her feelings more credence than Inspector Honore had done.

  “I’d better run.” Kate checked her wristwatch. “I really mean drive. I parked the car by St. Ignatius and promised Jack I’d meet him at the finish line. After the race he wants to go to the Footstock Festival in the Polo Fields. Poor guy, he still has three miles to go. And from the looks of him, I may have to drive him to the nearest hot bath instead.”

  Kate Murphy started to move away, then turned. “I mean that about getting together. We haven’t had a good visit and I miss it Don’t be surprised if you hear from me real soon.”

  Sister Mary Helen watched Kate wriggle her way through the cheering crowd. Skillfully avoiding a cluster of runners, she dashed quickly across Fell Street.

  “I wonder what is on her mind.” Eileen frowned at Mary Helen.

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s not Erma Duran. She didn’t even seem interested.”

  “Of course she’s interested. But if someone is not dead or even missing anymore, what on earth can the police do?”

  Mary Helen was peeved. All this bureaucracy! The older she became, the less patience she had with it. In fact, it was getting so she agreed with whoever had said, “A committee of one gets things done.”

  “A woman’s life may be at stake! Are we going to allow our friend to disappear in St. Louis without even finding out why?” She glared accusingly at Eileen.

  Eileen sighed, her gray eyes wide. “Life, indeed! Aren’t you being a bit dramatic? Sure, and we’ve all tried our best to get in touch with Erma, Mary Helen. You know that. But this is, after all, a free country. If she does not care to be found, there is nothing we can do about it. We are just going to have to accept the fact and be understanding.”

  As much as she hated to admit it, Mary Helen knew her friend was right. There was nothing more she could do. She would have to accept it, but she would be doggoned if she would ever understand it!

  When Kate Murphy finally found Jack in the crowd at the beach, she didn’t mention going to the Polo Field. It was obvious that her husband didn’t even want to pick up his shirt. All he wanted to do was go home for a hot shower and a stiff drink. Maybe she could talk him into going out for an early supper before he fell asleep.

  Watching Jack walk painfully up the narrow stairs toward their bathroom, Kate couldn’t resist. “You know something, pal? You’re in terrible shape for a policeman.”

  “Me?” Jack looked shocked. “Why, when I took my last physical, the doctor assured me that I was the envy of the entire medical profession!”

  “Will you need any help getting undressed and into the shower?”

  When Jack didn’t react, Kate knew he was tired.

  May 21

  Monday of the Sixth Week of Easter

  When Sister Mary Helen awoke on Monday morning the entire college was shrouded in rolling fog. Small halos shone around the campus lights. Bundling up in her heavy sweater, she trudged up the hill toward the chapel for the six-thirty Mass. Wisps of fog clung to the lowest branches of the evergreens. Shivering in the dampness, she kicked at a stone in her path.

  “Eighty percent of all people hate Monday morning,” she muttered aloud, then smiled in spite of herself.

  It had been years since she had thought of that little-known statistic. As a matter of fact, it had been the conclusion one of her eighth-grade students had arrived at in his rather novel science project more than twenty-five years ago. She couldn’t remember what method the youngster had used to make this judgment or how many people he had surveyed. She wasn’t even sure it was true. But the longer she lived, the more inclined she was to attest to its validity.

  As soon as she had finished breakfast, Sister Mary Helen left the dining room. Outside, the wet fog made her face tingle and her nose and eyes run. The sides of the hill were so socked in that, if she hadn’t known better, she might have thought the City had completely disappeared. Like Erma.

  Erma’s uncharacteristic disappearance, followed by her equally uncharacteristic phone call, the apartment, the basement of the bistro, her children—all crowded Mary Helen’s mind. Nothing jibed, and everything reminded her of the missing woman.

  Her common sense told her Erma was fine and, although she wanted to help, apparently Erma was dealing with her problems the way she thought best. Not necessarily the way Mary Helen would deal with them. Why even fifty years ago, she remembered with a smile, the two had differed on something as insignificant as how to approach their history project. Ostensibly the current situation was resolved. She would go right over to the convent and call Inspector Honore. But why did she continue to feel so uneasy?

  Sister Mary Helen was the first one to reach the convent after breakfast, so the building was deserted. A foghorn bleated in the distance. She used her key to open the heavy front door. She was determined to place her call to the inspector, go straight to her room, make her bed, and then hurry over to the alumnae office and make up for lost time. To put it bluntly, she would strictly adhere to minding her own business.

  That would be the sensible thing to do. But as soon as she stepped inside she knew she wouldn’t do the sensible thing. An empty convent, of course, meant an empty phone booth. The temptation was too great. She would contact Inspector Honore, of course, and a phone call or two to the OWLs would certainly be in order and perhaps a short call to Ree. Just to see if they had heard anything more. If they hadn’t, nothing was lost. If they had, how much easier it would be to keep her mind on her own business.

  Before any of the other nuns appeared, Mary Helen went into the narrow convent phone booth. The directory was open to B—Boris-Botvin—and Boscacci’s number was underlined.

  Poor devil. Something else must be broken, she thought, glancing at her watch. It was far too early to call Missing Persons. The OWLs, she knew, would be up. She dialed Caroline’s number, letting it ring fourteen times before she admitted to herself that Caroline wasn’t home.

  Noelle answered on the second ring. No, she hadn’t heard anything new. Yes, she would let Mary Helen know the moment she did.

  Lucy, too, was home and seemed genuinely glad to hear from Mary Helen. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation on Thursday,” she said, “about Ree’s illness. You remember I told you that Erma never said anything directly. Yet there were some things I couldn’t help surmising.”

  “Oh?” Mary Helen could feel her heart quicken.

  “You were right about Marie, I think. All weekend I’ve been mulling over the things Erma did tell me throughout the years. As I said, she never was sp
ecific, but I always had the impression that something had happened to Ree when she was a youngster. Something Erma was reticent to talk about, and that after it—whatever it was—the poor kid was never quite the same.” Lucy paused for breath.

  “Do you know anything about Mr. Finn?” Maybe there was some truth in what Ree Duran was saying.

  After what seemed like a long time, Lucy answered, “Nothing, really, except that he was a good friend of Erma’s husband, and ever since Tommy died he has been very good to her.”

  “Good in what way?”

  “Oh, he kept her working after she should have been retired; he continued to lease her the apartment at the same rent. It is almost . . .”

  “Almost what?” Mary Helen asked as Lucy hesitated.

  “Almost as if their relationship is . . .” She hesitated again. “Is more than just that of old family friends.”

  Maybe it is, Mary Helen thought, feeling even more uneasy. “Her children all seem to dislike him, you know. If he’s so good to their mother, I wonder why.”

  “I’ve often wondered that myself,” Lucy said, then added cheerfully, “but none of us chooses her offspring!”

  “Speaking of offspring, did you remember anything else?” Mary Helen was fishing. “You mentioned the other kids having problems.”

  “Oh, the boys? I can’t remember exactly what Erma said, but I knew she was concerned about Junior’s drinking and Buddy’s smoking of funny cigarettes.” Mary Helen could hear the telephone lines clicking while Lucy thought.

  “Or was it the other way around?” she said finally.

  Although it didn’t make any sense, Mary Helen dialed Erma’s apartment. Suppose we are all worrying about her and she’s decided to come home, she thought, listening to the hollow ring. She nearly dropped the receiver when someone answered.

  “Hello,” a groggy voice said. It took her a moment to realize it was Mr. Finn.