Death Goes on Retreat

by Carol Anne O'Marie

  “So I canned the kid. He wasn’t pleased, naturally. Nor was the archbishop. Not to mention Ed Moreno when Greg landed at Juvie. Actually, the only ones thrilled were the women in my department, and me, of course. It was a little chilly down at the Chancery Office for a while, but we all survived. No, I can’t think of any reason I’d have for killing him, now.”

  “Because he threatened you?” Even as she said it, Mary Helen knew she was reaching, and she wasn’t surprised when Tom Harrington objected.

  “That’s a little far-fetched, even for you, Sister,” he said, haughtiness creeping back into his voice. “He never actually carried out his threat.”

  “Well, it’s impossible to predict what anyone will do under stress.” She was determined that he was not going to have the last word.

  Tom Harrington stared sullenly into his glass. “Under stress! Under stress!” he repeated, almost as if he were mocking her. “Some guys thrive on it, you know, Sister. Some of the guys grapple with stress and become saints. Some guys, too many guys, crack under stress. Some fool around with their secretaries, some with the altar boys. I know that it’s no excuse, but at least it’s a reason. And some, like me, go for the sauce.” He raised his eyes, trying hard to focus. “I started out drinking socially. In my line of work, I’m invited to so many parties. When I got home, I’d be wound up and I’d take a little nip to put me to sleep. Now, I’m afraid, it’s starting to take me over. Do you have any idea how often I wake up in the morning with the ‘Irish flu’?”

  Mary Helen didn’t nor did she really want to. She had discovered what she came for. Tom Harrington might be arrogant and an alcoholic, but in all probability he was not a murderer.

  “Another fallen idol,” Eileen mumbled as they crossed the sweltering parking lot.

  “Weren’t you the one who was reminding us, not an hour ago, that people are most often not what they seem?”

  Eileen sighed. “You’re right. But this one looks so charming and handsome on the television! And that crooked grin is so beguiling.”

  “I’m sure Tom does a lot of good with his particular brand of charm,” Mary Helen said, trying to cheer up her friend. “And remember we’re talking about God here who can write straight with the crookedest lines.” She shrugged and added logically, “God has to if He wants His message out. All He has to write with is a lot of us sinners. Nobody knows better than you and me that we are only earthen vessels.”

  Eileen’s gray eyes looked sad. “You’re right, old dear,” she said, her brogue thickening a bit, “but somehow I didn’t expect this particular pot to have so many large, ugly cracks.”

  On the pretext of taking an afternoon coffee break, the two nuns entered St. Jude’s dining room. Their real objective was a chat with Beverly. From the absolute silence in the kitchen, they surmised that Beverly had left. When Felicita, scapular askew, burst through the kitchen door, they knew for sure.

  “She’s left without preparing one single thing!” Felicita’s round apple face blazed and she looked near tears. “I have eight people to feed—and more if the policemen stay, and then the bug man is coming tomorrow. I need to get things ready for him. Someone has to see to Laura, bring her a tray, and that blasted phone is ringing off the hook.

  “If it isn’t Mother Superior, it’s someone wanting to make a retreat here. We’ve never had so many requests as since this murder hit the morning papers.” She shuddered. “It’s positively ghoulish!”

  “It made the morning papers?” Mary Helen asked, wondering how long before Sister Cecilia called.

  Apparently Eileen was having the same thought. “Let’s be unavailable,” she whispered.

  Felicita rushed on. “That’s the least of my troubles right now,” she said, her pale blue eyes sparking. “What will I serve for dinner?”

  “Let us give you a hand,” Mary Helen offered, knowing Eileen was a whiz with leftovers. Besides, thinking about something completely different cleared the mind. When her mind was clear, the answer that she was groping for sometimes just popped right up.

  Felicita stared at her as if she’d just suggested that the tooth fairy cook supper. In the end and without much coaxing she capitulated gratefully.

  Before long the refrigerator door was opening and slamming. Plastic containers were emptied and the most delicious aromas floated up from the enormous gas stove and filled the entire kitchen.

  Sergeant Bob Little spent the better part of the afternoon walking the extensive grounds of St. Colette’s on the pretense of checking evidence. What he was really doing was mulling over his decision. He’d stopped now and again at small, hidden grottos to pray to whatever saint— and to be honest he wasn’t sure—for some guidance.

  Yet all the while he knew exactly what he must do. He had known since the moment he realized where he’d seen Beverly. He knew it from the smirk on Eric Loody’s pugnacious face.

  Fighting down his repugnance, Little decided to act. What else could he do? And the sooner the better! He checked his watch. It was nearly quitting time. If he played his cards right, he’d arrest the suspect and beat it off this hill without running into anyone else. He wouldn’t have to look anyone in the eye, or justify his decision.

  Not that it was anyone’s business. This was a police matter. Still, he hoped like hell to avoid everybody, particularly the nuns. There was something about them that made him feel like a kid again.

  Little drew in a long, deep breath and pulled himself up to his full height. He was a grown man, for chrissake! A homicide detective, not some scared kid.

  Despite his protestations, he felt the flesh beneath his mustache tingle at the thought of telling the nuns his decision. He tried to ignore it. What could possibly happen? Would some sudden thunderbolt strike him? He glanced up. The sky was absolutely cloudless. The feeling was nothing more than a hangover from Sister Immaculata, who, he’d sworn as a kid, had absolute control over all the elements.

  Little sat on the end of a fallen log. Even under a roof of redwoods, the afternoon heat was stifling. He mopped his forehead and was surprised at all the dirt that came off on his white handkerchief. He must have kicked up the dust as he walked along. No matter how I cut it, he thought, staring at the dark smudge on his handkerchief, I have to make the arrest.

  The evidence, he knew, was largely circumstantial, but that was the district attorney’s problem. The suspect had motive. She had opportunity and she had means. And since recognizing Beverly, Little had the incentive to make them stick.

  He pushed himself off the log, brushing the specks of dirt and moss from his hands. “What you are going to do, do quickly!” Where had that come from? Sister Immaculata’s religion class. He stopped, stunned, realizing those were the words of Jesus to the traitor Judas. Maybe the nun’s thunderbolts were becoming more subtle.

  Once again, standing in the scorching parking lot, Bob Little hesitated, but not for long. He needed to wrap up this case, get back to headquarters, finish the paperwork, and go home to Terry.

  Tonight he could really use a drink and maybe a rubdown. He smiled and felt a ripple of delight at the prospect of talking Terry into giving him a complete full-body massage. But before he’d allow himself even to imagine the pleasure, he’d have to make the arrest. What he needed was moral support. Where the hell was Kemp?

  Dave Kemp’s legs jutted from the open door of the unmarked car. He was talking on the radio. Little reached him just as he signed off.

  “What’s up?” Little asked, hoping that someone had stumbled on a solution to his dilemma.

  Kemp stood up and slammed the car door. The bang reverberated over the silent hillside. “The boss sent a message. He wants to know if we’re about finished up here. Seems some big noise from San Francisco called and wants the group released. To hear him, you’d think we were holding them in solitary confinement.” Kemp’s cobalt eyes had a hurt expression. “One of these bozos must have called out to somebody with connections.”

  “Don’t sweat t
he small stuff,” Little said, realizing that he was trying to sound nonchalant. Another of Sister Immaculata’s Word Smart Vocabulary words. Why was she torturing him this afternoon?

  “And another thing, Bob. Inspector Kate Murphy from SFPD left you a message.”

  Little’s heart leapt. Had she found something?

  “Murphy says Johnson’s mother is fine. She knows nothing about any phone call. Another blind alley?” Kemp asked.

  “Quite the contrary.” Little put his hand on Kemp’s shoulder. He hoped his partner wouldn’t feel it shaking. At least Kate Murphy’s information wouldn’t hinder his plan. “I’m about ready to make an arrest,” he said.

  Kemp frowned. “What?”

  “An arrest.”

  “Who?” The word came out like a jab.

  Little cleared his throat and said with as much conviction as he could muster, “I’m going to arrest Laura Purcell.”

  The expression on Kemp’s face told him that his partner did not concur. How much convincing was this going to take? Jeez, he wanted to get it over and done and get home. Maybe at this moment, a thunderbolt wouldn’t be too bad.

  As if on cue, Sister Felicita emerged from the kitchen door carrying a covered tray. Her flushed face glowed in the late afternoon sun. Through the open doorway, Little noticed some activity: Sister Eileen at the enormous stove. And was that Sister Mary Helen pushing the stainless-steel cart? He didn’t know why it surprised him. It shouldn’t have. Obviously Beverly was gone. He should have known it would be the nuns who pitched in and got the job done. He figured it had been that way from time immemorial.

  “Are you almost done for the day, officers?” Felicita asked “Or are you staying for supper?” Even her deepseated habit of hospitality couldn’t conceal her hope that she’d guessed right the first time.

  “Can we get room service?” Little couldn’t resist a little jibe.

  Flustered, Felicita glanced down at the tray. “Oh, this. It’s for Laura. Poor girl has eaten nothing all day but some soup. A little nourishment never hurt anyone.”

  The two men watched Sister Felicita, black scapular swinging behind her, bustle into St. Philomena’s Hall. “Are you going to wait until she’s done eating?” Kemp asked. “Or do we go in right now?”

  “Even the condemned get a last meal, right?” Little answered, feeling sapped of the energy and satisfaction he usually felt when he was about to arrest a murderer.

  Kemp’s mirthless laugh was cut short by a splintering crash and the hollow ricochet of jagged screams.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Little bolted toward the building, the slap of Kemp’s shoes behind him.

  The steady shrieks drew them to the room where Laura Purcell was resting. Felicita, surrounded by cracked dishes, spilled water, and clumps of steaming goulash, sagged against the doorjamb. She groaned when she saw the two officers and waved a limp hand toward the bed. “She’s dead,” she whispered hoarsely, then hunched over and began to weep.

  Bracing himself, Little moved toward the body. Laura Purcell was sprawled across the bed, almost as if she had tried to get up but had been pulled back. Her hair hung over the edge like a flaming waterfall. Her green, glassy eyes stared flatly at Little and her mouth yawned open.

  Fighting down a sickening sensation, Little touched her cold, waxy neck, then her bluish wrist, feeling for a pulse. There was none. Nor were there any apparent signs of a struggle. In fact, there were no visible signs of the cause of Laura’s death.

  Little, moving his ankle, kicked against the leg of the nightstand. A sticky soup spoon clattered to the ground. Sister Felicita groaned. Despite the unbearable heat in the room, her teeth were chattering.

  “Get her out of here,” Little mouthed to Kemp. Or soon we’ll have two corpses, he thought.

  The spoon had fallen from an empty soup bowl. Bending over the table Little sniffed the contents. Tomato soup. Beside it, a small, empty brown pill bottle lay on its side. The prescription label was torn off, but a powdery film still adhered to the inside. It would be a piece of cake for the forensic team to discover what the bottle had contained.

  “What do you make of it, Bob?” Kemp reentered the room.

  “Looks like she may have overdosed.” He pointed to the empty bottle. “Time and forensics will tell.”

  Kemp put his hands in his pockets and stared down at Laura’s body. “Such a waste.” He shook his head sadly and Little saw his bow tie bounce when he swallowed. “Why would someone so young and so beautiful kill herself? Unless you were right after all, Bob, and she did murder the boyfriend. That’s the only way it makes sense.” Kemp looked up at him with a kind of grudging admiration. “You’ve done it again, fellow, but this time I’ll be damned if I can figure out exactly what made you come to that conclusion.”

  And I hope you never do, Little thought, leaving the sweltering bedroom to make all the necessary phone calls.

  Inspectors Kate Murphy and Dennis Gallagher arrived back at the Hall of Justice at about four o’clock. Kate was tired and discouraged. Their door-to-door interviews with Mrs. Rosen’s neighbors had yielded nothing more than sore feet and a slight headache. She sank back in her swivel chair and closed her eyes.

  “Coffee?” Gallagher asked.

  Kate shook her head. “By this time of day it tastes like battery fluid,” she said.

  “When’s the last time you tasted battery fluid?” Gallagher muttered crankily, and without waiting for an answer, crossed the room toward the pot.

  What a do-nothing day! Kate thought, conscious of the hum of traffic on the freeway outside the Hall. She hadn’t even been able to talk to that Santa Cruz detective. She’d left a message. Now she wondered if he got it. She hoped this morning’s meeting with Mrs. Johnson had done him some good. The day wouldn’t seem quite so completely wasted if at least one case, somewhere, benefited from her efforts.

  The sudden ring of her phone startled her. It took a few words before she recognized Bob Little’s deep, friendly voice.

  Yes, he had received Kate’s message. Yes, their visit was helpful. He had been about to arrest the Johnson boy’s girlfriend, Laura Purcell, when she was discovered dead. Suicide, which he took as an admission of guilt.

  So Mrs. Johnson was right about Laura after all. Kate felt saddened rather than happy at the outcome. Something in her wanted Greg’s mother to be as wrong about his choice as Kate thought she was about almost everything else. But life was never that simple.

  “The others, of course, will be free to leave,” Little said.

  “Will be?” Kate asked, wondering how her two nun friends were faring.

  “Yes, when I tell them,” Little said, “which I plan to do the moment I get off this phone. So, case closed and thank you, Inspector, for your help. If there’s ever anything I can do, I owe you one. And, if you’re ever in Santa Cruz, stop by and let me buy you a drink.”

  Kate felt her face flush. Was that a come-on or did that deep, throaty voice just make it sound like one?

  “Thanks, Sergeant,” she said, and hung up quickly. No sense even trying to figure it out. Jack was all the come-on she needed and she’d tell him so as soon as she saw him tonight. She missed their easy intimacy more than she’d ever imagined she would, and she hungered to have him back. No “place” was worth the toll it was taking on their lives. Tonight, even if it killed her, she’d make up.

  The phone rang again. “Hi, hon.” Jack sounded frustrated. “I’m going to be late,” he said. “My case is breaking and—”

  “I understand,” Kate interrupted, trying not to let her annoyance show. “I’ll be waiting for you when you get there,” she said, hoping she sounded like a doting wife and not like a half-wit.

  The digital clock on the bedstand read 2:32 when Kate finally heard Jack’s key in the front door. She leaned over and switched on the bed lamp. Quickly, she ran a comb through her short red hair and put a drop of the Per Donna cologne on each wrist and on the nape of her neck. The delicate aroma o
f honeysuckle and jasmine floated on the air. Tonight, she was determined to make up, no matter what it took.

  “Are you still awake, hon?” Jack sounded surprised. His jacket was off and he had unbuttoned most of his shirt on his way up the stairs.

  “I’m waiting for you, pal,” she said, hoping she sounded like Lauren Bacall.

  “Are you getting a cold?” Jack yawned.

  Kate felt her temper fizz. Deliberately, she calmed herself, threw the covers back, and patted the space beside her invitingly.

  Jack let out a deep breath. “I’m beat.” Giving her a perfunctory peck on the cheek, he climbed in. “Sleep tight,” he said, turning off the light.

  In the shadows, his back rose in a giant hump beside her. Fighting down the urge to punch him, Kate ran one finger down his spine. “Jack,” she whispered, “don’t go to sleep yet. I have something I want to tell you.”

  “Can’t it wait, hon, I’m really zonked.”

  “It’s important.” Kate brought her lips close to his ear.

  Jack rolled over. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Kate bit back her impatience. “Yes, pal, I’m just fine, but there’s something I want to talk about.”

  Jack moaned. “At two-thirty in the morning?”

  Leaning over him, Kate flipped the light back on. Subtlety and Per Donna were getting her nowhere. Tonight Jack required the direct approach. “I’ve made a decision about Cordero,” she said, biting off each word.