Death Goes on Retreat

by Carol Anne O'Marie

  Jack raised himself up on his elbow and stared. “Which is?” he asked, his face white with fatigue.

  “I’ll move,” she said flatly.

  “What?” Jack ran his fingers through his dark curly hair.

  Kate loved it when he did that. She slipped her hand onto his thigh. “I’ll move,” she repeated.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe you’re right about raising little John outside the city . . . the weather, the safety . . .” Kate glanced over. To her surprise, her husband didn’t look nearly as pleased as she expected him to. In fact, he was frowning. Maybe breaking the news to his mother was bothering him.

  “Admittedly, your mother will have plenty to say.” Kate’s words tumbled out. She wanted so badly to put all the weeks of coldness behind them. “I’ll try to defend you when you break the news, Jack, but you are the one who will have to do it. Much as I love you, pal, and I do love you, I am not going to tell Loretta Bassetti that her ‘little family’ is moving across a bridge! For all I know, she still believes in killing the messenger.”

  Jack let out a long breath. “I hadn’t even thought about her reaction.”

  Kate shifted. “Then what the heck is bothering you? I thought you’d be ecstatic.”

  “What happened to ‘whitebread’?” Jack asked.

  “We’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

  “And moving because everyone else is moving?”

  “I didn’t say that, your mother did,” Kate snapped. If she was going to have to deal with every objection that was ever made to this move, it was going to be a very long night.

  “What is it, Jack?” she asked. “What is bothering you?”

  Jack’s eyes avoided hers. “Since you were so opposed to the moving, I’ve been thinking about it, that’s all. Maybe you have a point. Maybe we should just stay put.”

  Kate felt an unexpected flutter of relief. “So now you’re the one who doesn’t want to move?”

  “No, that’s not it, exactly.” Jack put his arm around her shoulder. Swallowing her sudden roller coaster of disappointment, she snuggled into his familiar nooks and crannies.

  “It’s just that I hope we’re not making a mistake,” Jack said.

  “If we are, it probably won’t be our last.” She reached over her husband to turn off the bed lamp.

  “You know what else, pal?” she whispered, her mouth close to his. “What I really want to do tonight is make up. I’ve missed you so much, Jack. I need you.” She felt his hands on her shoulders.

  “What’s that smell?” he asked sleepily.

  “You mean the Per Donna?” Kate sighed and, lifting her head, brushed his nose. Maybe it was worth thirty-seven dollars an ounce after all.

  “No, not that one.”

  It took several sniffs before Kate realized what smell he was talking about. Irate, she sat up. “You mean the baby powder on my hands?”

  “I just love that smell,” Jack said, reaching up to her and with both hands, slowly and tenderly, pulling her down to him.

  Detective Sergeant Bob Little’s announcement hit the dining room like a bomb. Even now, several hours later, Sister Mary Helen was still stunned.

  It was amazing how quickly the five priests had left the mountaintop. In fact, by now, even with traffic, they should all be back in their respective rectories, wading through mail and messages in an effort to put the gruesome murder and suicide behind them.

  To his credit, the monsignor had stopped long enough to offer Eileen and herself a ride back to Mount St. Francis College, but they refused. Felicita would be alone. Too tired to answer a lot of questions, she had decided to wait until morning to notify her Sisters.

  But Mary Helen had an even more compelling reason for staying the night at St. Colette’s. She did not want to face her own Sisters at the college—not until she had had time to sort out things for herself.

  After tidying up the kitchen, the three nuns settled on director’s chairs along the sundeck outside St. Jude’s. Above the treetops the sky was flushed with peach, a sign that the sun was finally setting. Mary Helen checked her wristwatch. It was eight o’clock. Too late to begin a long walk in the woods. Too early to go to bed. The only thing to do was sit and mull over the happenings of the past few days.

  “I’ll never be the same,” Felicita said.

  She was right, of course. None of them would ever be quite the same after their retreat experience. And Felicita sounded amazingly cheerful about it. Mary Helen glanced over at the plump little nun. Felicita, who on Sunday had appeared as meek and mild as milk toast, now wore a crusty expression.

  “I’ll tell the world!” Felicita said with an unexpected fierceness in her pale blue eyes. Mary Helen suspected she would.

  Without warning, Felicita yawned. “I’m going to call it a night,” she announced, all reserve gone. “Tomorrow the D-Pest Control man comes early. And then I have to call Mother Superior and tell her that the nuns can come back. And I am going to insist that Sister Timothy get that blasted car fixed once and for all. And . . .” For a moment her voice faltered, but she caught herself. “And then, I am going to demand that, lawsuit or no lawsuit, we terminate Beverly Benton.”

  Her eyes shone and Mary Helen was tempted to sing, “Wimp No More My Lady.” Under the circumstances, she thought better of it!

  “Will you two be all right alone?” Felicita asked, finally remembering her role as hostess.

  “We’re fine, thanks.” Mary Helen hoped Eileen wouldn’t mind her speaking for both of them.

  With a quick wave, Felicita disappeared into the shadows of St. Agnes’ Hall. “The mouse roars,” Eileen whispered with a grin.

  Mary Helen laughed, glad finally to be alone with her friend. Since Sergeant Little’s announcement, she’d been dying to ask Eileen what she thought, but she hadn’t had an opportunity.

  Clearly, Eileen was feeling the same. “What do you make of it all?” she asked the moment Felicita was out of earshot.

  “I don’t know what to think.” Mary Helen was frankly baffled. “I would have bet my life on Laura Purcell’s innocence.” She paused to watch a curious blue jay land on the porch rail and eye them both.

  Eileen nodded in agreement. “But Laura’s suicide seems as good as an admission,” she said gravely. “At least that’s what Sergeant Little said. What do you think we missed?”

  “I don’t know.” Mary Helen felt unsettled. “Something is not fitting together. The motive and the murderer should fit into a perfect whole. It’s as if our thoughts lost their way, somewhere.” She struggled to calm the mental maelstrom of uncertainty.

  “Perhaps we’re just losing our touch.” Eileen studied her thumbnail. “Things like that do happen when you start to grow old.”

  “We’ve more than started,” Mary Helen snapped, “and we’ve never been so far off.”

  Eileen squirmed in her chair. “What shall we do, then?” she asked.

  Mary Helen shrugged, her eyes suddenly heavy. “What can we do? The girl is dead, the police are gone, and the case is closed.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Maybe you are right, my friend, maybe we are losing our touch.”

  Bending forward, Eileen patted her hand. “Nonsense, old dear”—she had clearly jumped in on the other side—“after all, we can’t win them all.”

  “I feel so sad about that girl.” Mary Helen’s words strained around the growing lump in her throat. “Sergeant Little assumes she killed herself because she was guilty and couldn’t face the consequences. She just as easily could have been despondent. You saw how inconsolable she was today. If we’d only been able to discover Greg’s murderer.” She swatted at a mosquito diving dangerously close to her bifocals. “I am so sorry.”

  “What is it that St. Thomas Aquinas says?”

  “About what?” Mary Helen was too tired to keep up.

  “About sorrow?” Eileen thought for a moment. “It can be alleviated by a goo
d sleep, a bath, and a glass of wine.” She paused. “The wine went home with Father Tom, but two out of three should be good for something.”

  Unfortunately Mary Helen had to settle for a shower. And sleep still eluded her. She bounced on the mattress, punched the pillow, and flung out her feet, wrestling with the events of the last three days. No matter how hard she tried, she could not peacefully accept Sergeant Little’s decision that Laura’s suicide was a proof of her guilt. And why hadn’t he bothered to toy with the idea that her death might not be suicide at all? Beyond her open window, the night was still and black. In the distance, she heard the short high trill of a screech owl. Closer to her, trees and bushes rustled in the warm breeze and scratched against the porch rail. An insect pinged against her screen. Her sheet felt as cloying as a winding sheet, grabbing and binding her. She kicked it back, turned on the lamp, and reached for the Office book on her bedstand.

  Paging through it, she looked for Compline, the last canonical hour of the day. “God commands you to pray, but forbids you to worry,” some wise saint had said, and she knew it to be true.

  Slowly, calmly, she began the prayers for the feast of Saints John Fisher and Thomas More.

  “The saints endured many torments to gain the martyr’s crown,” the antiphon began. They surely did, Mary Helen thought. Both men were beheaded about two weeks apart because they stood up for what they believed was true against the powerful King Henry the Eighth.

  Even when all of England accepted Henry as head of the Church, these two men refused. They followed their consciences and lost their heads for their trouble.

  Nothing so drastic would happen to her if she refused to believe that Laura Purcell was a murderer, would it? Bob Little was no Henry the Eighth. She wouldn’t lose her head, but she knew instinctively that it would not be easy to convince the sergeant that Laura was innocent or even that her death might not have been a suicide. But she, too, would follow her conscience.

  Tomorrow, she thought drowsily, trying to focus on the psalm, she’d contact him. She’d tell him that she refused to accept his conclusion. The words on the page swam before her eyes. She’d insist he look further into Laura’s death. For heaven’s sake, no one even questioned Beverly’s whereabouts. No matter how it came out, she knew she’d never rest until she had at least tried.

  Mary Helen didn’t even feel the Office book slip from her hands. Nor did she hear the soft thud as the book slid off the bed and sprawled open on the bedroom floor.

  Wednesday, June 23

  Vigil of The Birth of

  St. John the Baptist

  Day Four

  Despite the trouble she had falling asleep, or maybe because of it, Mary Helen did not awake until the morning sun streamed into the room, making warm, thick strips across her bed. She was shocked when she checked her wristwatch. It was nearly nine o’clock.

  If she didn’t get up, the D-Pest Control man would be spraying around her in her nightgown. Not a pretty sight, she thought, dressing quickly.

  She slipped on her windbreaker, just in case, and picked up the book on coastal plants and trees that Sister Blanche had insisted she bring. Mary Helen guessed that this morning was her last chance to explore the breathtaking mountaintop. Moreover, she suspected that she might never return to St. Colette’s. The supposition made her sad.

  After breakfast, she’d telephone Sister Anne, who, she presumed, would hurry right down. Not only was Anne accommodating, but she was desperately curious. If the nuns had wind of the murder, and Mary Helen couldn’t imagine that they didn’t, Anne would be dying to find out all about it.

  Mary Helen listened. No sound came from the adjoining bedroom. Eileen was either up and out, or still sound asleep. She peeked in and was surprised to see that the bed was neatly remade and the used sheets, stuffed into a soiled pillowcase, were lumped in the corner. How in the world had she slept through all that?

  Her head ached. She needed a cup of coffee quickly. She’d take care of her own bed later.

  Fortunately, the small electric pot in the vestibule of St. Agnes’ Hall was still half full and the coffee hot. Beside it, someone, presumably Felicita, had set a plate of bran muffins.

  Mary Helen filled a styrofoam cup. Juggling her book and the muffin, she walked out into the morning. The sun was already warm and the air sticky. It was going to be another scorcher. The cool, wet June fog swirling around Mount St. Francis College would be a welcome sight.

  Mary Helen blew on her coffee, then sipped. St. Colette’s was still. Not a soul, not even a breeze, stirred. After all the activity and confusion of the last four days, it was suddenly a ghost center. Mary Helen was glad. She didn’t feel up to company quite yet, even if it was only Eileen and Felicita. What she wanted was a little quiet, a little time to strengthen her resolve of last night.

  A wooden bench had been built around the tall, thick sycamore tree behind St. Agnes’. Next to it was an old oaken tub full of Johnny-jump-ups blooming out of season. Perfect, Mary Helen thought, slipping off her jacket and leaning against the smooth white trunk.

  She closed her eyes, breathing in the fragrant air. Suddenly she was aware that it was filled with trills, high-pitched pips, raspy quees, and tiny-tin-horn sounds as sparrows and crespin and cinnamon-colored towhees foraged for their breakfast.

  A strong, high whistle rang out above the rest. The tune was familiar. Something from a Broadway musical, if Mary Helen wasn’t mistaken. Her eyes shot open. What species of bird whistles show tunes? she wondered, and laughed aloud when the D-Pest Control man rounded the corner with a cylinder of insecticide slung over one shoulder. In his hand he held a long pipe, which he guided along the building’s foundation.

  Actually, on closer examination, he was a she. The D-Pest Control man was the D-Pest Control woman. Or perhaps the D-Pest Control person was the politically correct term.

  As she was dressed in a uniform of dark blue twill pants, a blue-and-white-striped shirt, and a blue baseball cap, at first glance it was difficult to tell which sex the controller was—especially since her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore heavy brown hiking boots. At one time the earrings would have been a dead giveaway, but no more.

  “Oh, hi!” The young woman sounded startled.

  “I hope I didn’t scare you,” Mary Helen said.

  The girl’s face broke into a wide, friendly smile. “The whole place is so quiet,” she said, “I just wasn’t expecting to run into anyone.” She balanced her cylinder against the edge of the bench. “Is that coffee I smell?”

  “There’s plenty right inside the front door. Help yourself,” Mary Helen invited, and the young woman did.

  “Whew!” she said, settling down on the bench. “It’s sweltering already!” She removed her hat and studied the logo. A forlorn-looking nondescript bug in an Eton jacket had a stick and sack slung over his shoulder. “Makes you feel kind of sorry for him, doesn’t it?” she said, and wiped her forehead with a clean, white handkerchief.

  Before long, chatty Candy had introduced herself, announced that her father owned the company, and given Mary Helen more information than she needed or wanted.

  Candy was a junior at the university; hated her nickname, would rather be called Candice; did not know either Greg Johnson or Laura Purcell, although she had read about their deaths in the Santa Cruz Sentinel, and she only worked for Daddy during the summer, since she did not really approve of killing living things.

  Candy’s true love was botany. She hoped someday to be a botanist. Her eyes gleamed when she noticed Mary Helen’s plant book. She paged through it, pointing to the trees around them. Deftly, she explained the differences between a Douglas fir and a grand fir, the live oak and the scrub oak, the madrone and the California Bay.

  “You won’t find any of these trees around here,” Candy stated. She pointed to a picture of the Santa Cruz cypress with a close-up of its tightly shut cones clinging to the tip of a branch.

  “Why not?” Mary Helen s
tudied the thick green twisted tree.

  “Because they are found only in a few locations in the Santa Cruz Mountains. The place has to be dry.” Candy batted at a mosquito. “And the tree only grows inland on marine soil deposits.”

  Candy sounded like a textbook. “In places like . . .” She let the sentence trail while she tried to remember. “Like Bonny Doon,” she said finally.

  In Bonny Doon? Mary Helen stared at the colored photo of the tight green cone. She had never been to Bonny Doon, but she had seen that cone before, somewhere. Caught somewhere. Where? She shuddered. Caught in the sole of Greg Johnson’s tennis shoe!

  All at once her own tight, caught thoughts exploded like a cypress cone in time-lapse photography, scattering tiny, brown-winged seeds into the air. Her thoughts floated freely, winging to the only conclusion possible.

  Of course! She knew exactly who Greg’s murderer was. It was the only person who made any sense. Surely Sergeant Little had seen the cone too. Then why hadn’t he come to the same conclusion? She would call him and ask.

  Inspector Kate Murphy arrived at the Hall of Justice ten minutes late, which was a miracle of sorts. After making up last night, both she and Jack had slept through the alarm. The rush when John’s hungry cry woke them was like something from an old Mack Sennett movie.

  They barely spoke, knocking into one another in their haste to feed and dress the baby and themselves. Little John stared at them, fascinated at their antics, and clapped his hands and giggled happily when they bumped heads reaching for the same baby shoe.

  “You go, hon,” Jack said finally. “I’ll finish dressing him and drop him by Sheila’s. I worked late last night. No one expects me in on time.”

  Hearing the wail of the foghorns blowing in from the Golden Gate, Kate grabbed for her heavy coat and opened the front door. The wall of dripping fog made her shiver.

  “Shall we both call in sick and go back to bed?” she asked, and could tell by his hesitation that Jack was tempted.