Death Goes on Retreat

by Carol Anne O'Marie

  “On second thought, let’s save it for a long weekend,” she suggested, realizing they’d need all the time off they could accumulate for their move to Cordero. Even the thought of cleaning out this old house full of three generations of treasures from basement to attic exhausted her, but anything was worth it to be a happy family again.

  Pumping gas into the cold engine, Kate compared the idea of moving from San Francisco to removing adhesive tape from a wound. The first pull hurts like hell. You stop. Pull again. Stop. It still hurts, but not as much. Pull again. Finally the whole thing comes off, and you look at the wound and discover it’s healing.

  Kate flipped on the windshield wipers and shivered in the icy car. She glanced up at the baby’s bedroom where the thick fog formed a halo around the lighted windows. Jack was right about one thing—the weather! Sunshine in summer would be good for them all.

  “You’re late,” Dennis Gallagher growled when he saw her. “I thought you were maybe sick, but one look at that Irish mug of yours and I know you’re not. In fact,” he said, studying her as if she were a bug in a bottle, “the bloom is back in your cheeks, Kathleen! Things better?”

  She nodded, although the details were none of his business. Not that that ever stopped Denny! What actually did stop him was the loud entrance of Inspector O’Connor. For once, Kate was glad to see him.

  “You’re late!” Gallagher turned on him. “Have trouble leaving paradise?”

  “It’s that goddamn traffic on the way to the bridge. Bumper to bumper and already it’s sweltering, so cars are overheating! Then, the bridge!” He did a theatrical swoon into his desk chair. “Its name should be changed to the goddamn Golden Gate parking lot!”

  “He exaggerates,” Huegle called over from his desk. “I heard Frank and Mike on the radio on my way to work and they said that the bridge was moving at twenty miles per hour. The whole thing isn’t even two miles long. You must have stopped off for breakfast.”

  Kate laughed, but she felt a flurry of dread in the pit of her stomach. She knew what Jack and she were giving up. Had she any idea what they were taking on?

  She had just accepted a mug of coffee from Gallagher when her husband slammed through the Detail door waving the Chronicle. During their morning rush neither of them had even glanced at the headlines, let alone read the front page.

  Jack pointed to the bottom left-hand corner. “Maybe I was right after all,” he said. CORDERO POLICE BREAK UP KID ROBBERY RING, the headline shouted.

  Scanning the article, Kate was shocked at the thieves’ ages—some as young as nine—and at the extent and sophistication of their operation.

  Finally, Jack’s words sank in. “What do you mean, you were right?” She could feel her back get rigid. She squared her jaw. He was the one who’d initiated the idea of moving, who’d kept at it until their discussions became battles. It was he who had needled her about the crime in the city, about the weather, even about a place for little John to play, until she felt guilty.

  He it was whose infuriating calm and patience finally convinced her that she was only being stubborn about leaving her home. It was he who had made her afraid that their baby was suffering from their difference of opinion. It was Jack who finally had made her give in and make up and agree to move. She turned on him cold with fury.

  “Gotcha!” he said, his old playfulness returned.

  The only thing that saved him from grave bodily harm was the insistent ringing of Kate’s phone. She was surprised to hear her mother-in-law’s voice, but not a bit surprised when Loretta Bassetti asked to speak to Jack. The woman had radar!

  “Is everything all right?” Kate asked.

  “Just fine,” her mother-in-law huffed, “unless you consider having a nincompoop for a son a problem. Can I talk to him?”

  “With pleasure!” Kate covered the receiver with her hand. “There is a God,” she said, handing the phone to her husband. “It’s your mother. I think she just read the paper.”

  “Hello, Ma,” Jack said reluctantly.

  Eager to eavesdrop without actually looking like it, Kate thumbed through the rest of the front section of the paper. On the next-to-last page, her eye caught a brief article about Greg Johnson’s murder. The Santa Cruz Sheriff’s Department was declaring Laura Purcell guilty and the case closed. She wondered what Sister Mary Helen thought of the outcome. She’d probably know soon enough.

  “Yes, Ma, I read it. No, Ma, of course not . . .” Jack lowered his voice to a whisper in hopes of not being overheard. Kate moved closer.

  “What do you mean irresponsible . . . You have to speak English, Ma. I don’t know what those words mean. . . . Not that I want to.”

  Trying not to gloat, Kate glanced at her husband’s frowning face. She could imagine the other side of the conversation.

  “No, Ma. We are not moving. . . . We did discuss it. . . . Yeah, I know what I told you. But Kate and I talked about it . . . I know, Ma . . . We did decide not to . . .” He winked at Kate, who glared back at him.

  “Ma, stop! I’m a grown man. . . . I swear if you bring up that motor scooter—I’m not raising my voice. . . . Yes, I love you, too. And Kate and John . . . Speaking of which . . . Sorry, Ma, I meant whom . . . I know he’s a person. Listen, Ma, will you? Are you busy this weekend? I’d like to take Kate away for a romantic weekend.”

  Kate felt her anger start to thaw and with it came a sense of relief. She’d never have to look at the wound again. There wouldn’t be one. Jack reached for her hand and she let him take it. The old familiar ease was back in their touch.

  “You’re right, Ma. I owe her one. Thanks. We’ll drop the baby off late Friday afternoon. . . . Sure, if you want to, you can come to our house instead. If that’s easier.”

  Kate’s stomach pitched forward. What was he thinking? He’d given them just two nights to straighten up the house.

  Jack squeezed her hand. Kate scowled at him. “Okay, Ma, thanks,” he said. “I’ll tell her.”

  “Tell me what?” she asked when he’d hung up.

  “That I gotcha again! She hung up right after I said ‘Friday afternoon.’ ”

  “One of these days, Jack, I swear I’m going to murder you and even a hostile jury won’t convict me.” She tried to sound angry, but she didn’t fool anyone, especially herself.

  Sister Mary Helen was surprised at how quickly Sergeant Bob Little responded to her call. She’d scarcely had time to plan her strategy when she heard the squeal of tires in the parking lot.

  The moment she laid eyes on him, she knew no strategy was necessary. His face had paled beneath the deep tan and his brown eyes were red-rimmed and haunted, as if he had spent all night escaping demons.

  As he approached her his tall frame stooped a little and he ran his knuckles over his mustache as if it itched.

  To the unpracticed eye, he might look ill, but Sister Mary Helen knew that what ailed him was beyond the scope of the most skilled physician. When an ancient Greek, Polybius, said, “There is no witness so dreadful, no accuser so terrible as the conscience that dwells in the heart of every man,” he could have been looking at Little’s face. Clearly the sergeant was a man with something on his conscience and he wanted to get it off.

  Without meeting her eyes, Bob Little led Mary Helen to the gift shop off the main lounge. The room was as cramped and airless as she remembered. For the first time, it struck her that there was a “confessional” feeling about it: small, dark, enclosed, secret.

  Little motioned her to a chair, and quickly sat down beside her. With a hollow, mirthless laugh, he pointed to the large poster on the wall. “ ‘Truth will rise above falsehood, as oil above water,’ ” he read aloud. “I guess that’s what this is all about. Right, Sister?”

  Mary Helen nodded, but said nothing.

  Little gave a weary sigh. “Where do I begin?” He was having trouble getting his tongue around the words, as if his mouth were dry and parched. He rubbed at his mustache.

  “Tell me about Laura
,” Mary Helen prodded gently.

  “Laura!” The large man stretched back in his chair searching the ceiling for his words. He cleared his throat. “That poor kid was innocent, but you know that. More than likely, she was murdered herself, although the coroner’s report will never be conclusive.” His voice cracked. “The girl was distraught, stole or found sleeping pills, and took too many. Who’s to prove otherwise?”

  “And the cypress cone caught in the sole of Greg Johnson’s shoe. How will the forensic team explain that?”

  Little’s anxious eyes searched her face. “Oh, you know about the cone, too. Then you must know that around here it grows in the Bonny Doon area. You’re something.” He shook his head in grudging amazement. “I suppose you figured out why a smart cop like me didn’t remember that Beverly lived in that area and that she had access to a kitchenful of knives besides? I supposed you’ve figured out why it is that I didn’t arrest Beverly Benton for murder?”

  “No, Bob,” she said honestly. “I didn’t figure that out. To tell you the truth, that is what has me stumped.” Her palms were wet and the muscles in her neck and shoulders cramped with tension as she watched him wrestle with the truth.

  “Because I’m gay!” he blurted out. His eyes blazed, daring her to say something, anything, that would let him vent his anger.

  A swirl of disbelief washed over her. Only the buzz of a horsefly broke the quiet of the small room. She hoped her surprise didn’t show on her face. Still, that was no answer. Why would he allow an innocent girl to take the blame for a murder she didn’t commit just to cover up his sexual preference. It made no sense to her.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” she asked as evenly as she could.

  “Didn’t you hear me? I said, I’m gay!”

  “I heard you and I’m asking you again, what does that have to do with anything?”

  “You really don’t know, do you?” he said, his brown eyes hawk-sharp. “I’m gay and Beverly knows it.”

  “How would she know that?”

  Little gave a nervous laugh. “She saw me a couple of weeks ago at the Gay Pride Week celebration here in Santa Cruz. It was a risk going, I guess, but it was a lot of fun. Terry and I went to the Blue Lagoon and Beverly must have seen us there. Over the weekend we went for salsa lessons at the Methodist Church hall, and that’s where I remember noticing her.

  “When I first saw her at the retreat center, I realized that I knew her from somewhere. You know how you do?” He was almost talking to himself. “It really bugged me, but when someone is out of context . . .”

  Mary Helen sympathized. She had that trouble all the time.

  “Then when I heard her laugh while I was with Loody, it all came back to me. I guess I recognized that laugh from the dancing lessons. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t arrest her if you suspected that she was guilty.”

  “You really don’t get it, do you, Sister?” His tone begged her to understand, but she didn’t. He sat forward with a thud that startled Mary Helen. “If I made the arrest, Beverly had threatened to blow open my secret. ‘To explode your queer ass right out of the closet,’ as she sweetly put it! Already she’s dropped subtle hints to Loody that she has something on me, although he’s not sure exactly what. I can tell by the insolent way he looks at me. That guy is an obnoxious, bigoted bastard on his best day. I wouldn’t want to give him any ammunition. I just couldn’t risk him knowing that I’m a gay cop. At first, I thought I’d do anything to keep it from him.”

  Maybe twenty years ago, but still? Mary Helen wanted to ask, but the misery on Little’s face stopped her.

  “Do you have any idea what it means if it gets out that I’m gay, Sister?” Little’s question reverberated through the small room. “It means that I’ll be the butt of hundreds of jokes, the object of thousands of double-meaning witticisms. I will be looked upon with disgust and hatred and suspicion. My judgment will be questioned. No one will want to have a beer with me in case they get contaminated by association. I will be distrusted, snubbed, humiliated, debased, disenfranchised, and we are not even talking about anyone thinking I have AIDS. Then, someday, I may even get a bullet in my back, a friendly bullet, of course, by accident!”

  Despite the heat in the room, Mary Helen shivered. “But you are a very successful homicide detective,” she said softly, trying to reason with his terror. “I can tell that you are well liked by the other officers. It’s obvious that Deputy Kemp tries to emulate you. You are a good, kind person and an insightful detective. Wouldn’t that count for something?”

  Little’s face contorted in anguish. He stared at her. His eyes narrowed. “That wouldn’t count for shit, Sister!” he shouted. “Not for shit!”

  Unexpectedly his bottom lip quivered. “What am I going to do?” he pleaded. “I haven’t been able to sleep and when I do, I dream of that innocent girl being murdered with me watching it happen. I can’t let Beverly go free.” He smiled wryly. “I guess I absorbed too much of that Catholic guilt at Holy Cross. And I can’t arrest her.” His eyes searched Mary Helen’s face for help, but she couldn’t give any. There was really only one thing for him to do.

  “What will I do? What? What?” he chanted, slumping forward in his chair. Suddenly, he covered his face and wept.

  Sister Mary Helen reached over and touched his thick brown hair. She ached for this lovely young man and wished she could think of something to say to console him. . . . Some way she could make doing the right thing, the just thing, easy for him. Even as she wished that she could remove this suffering, she knew that it was part of life, everyone’s life.

  It belonged to the mystery of the Cross. Jesus’ own suffering raised questions about all the suffering in our world. Why must innocent people be hurt? Why do the young die? How can a loving God permit so much prejudice and violence and abuse?

  And the Cross would always remain a mystery, as does God’s plan for each of us. The only thing we can do is embrace it with courage and with faith.

  “Do what you know is right, Bob,” she whispered around the lump in her own throat. “Just do what you know is right!”

  Sergeant Bob Little hadn’t been gone five minutes when Mary Helen ran into Sister Eileen.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you! I was beginning to worry, although I don’t know what could possibly have happened to you, unless you fell or something. Which you obviously didn’t.” Eileen was dithering. “When I couldn’t find you, I went ahead and called Sister Anne, God love her, and she says she’ll start right now and be here to pick us up in about an hour. I was on my way to fix us some lunch. I met Felicita, who’d just finished with the bug man—woman—person. . . .” She corrected herself. “And Felicita looks as if she could use a pick-me-up.”

  “Do you want some help?” Mary Helen offered half-heartedly. “Not that you need any.”

  For the first time since they’d run into each other, Eileen actually looked at her. “You’re exhausted,” she said. “I thought you slept in. Where have you been?”

  Sister Mary Helen was still too shaken to explain. There’d be plenty of time once they got back to the college. She’d tell Eileen all about her conversation with both the bug person and Sergeant Little, but not before she’d digested it all herself.

  Fortunately Eileen was too preoccupied to insist on an answer. Instead, she rushed on. “Maybe it’s the heat, but whatever it is, you look as if you need a rest. And I’d suggest getting all the rest you can. According to Anne, everyone at home is anxious for us to get there. No one wants to believe the rumors that are flying around the hill.”

  Mary Helen felt her stomach drop. “Which are?”

  “That we actually stumbled on another murder.”

  “And how are we going to answer that?” Mary Helen asked, hoping Eileen would pull a good offense from somewhere.

  “I say let’s not shake hands with the Devil till we meet her.” She rolled her gray eyes h
eavenward. “And we’ve got at least two hours’ grace before we have to, so let’s enjoy. Why don’t you find a nice cool place and I’ll be with you in no time flat. Will tuna salad be okay?” Eileen threw the words over her shoulder like spilled salt.

  “Anything at all,” Mary Helen called, watching her friend bustle toward the kitchen.

  Mary Helen pulled open the door of the deserted chapel, genuflected, and slid into the cool back pew. The late morning sun struck the flame in the stained-glass window and shot fiery reds and blues across the sanctuary and over the front pews. The enormous dove leapt from the core of the flame like Hopkins’s “. . . Holy Ghost over the bent / World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.”

  She repeated the words over and over. It brought her comfort to remember that God’s love hovers over us all, embraces us all.

  Silently, she prayed for Bob Little, for the strength to do what he knew he should. She wished there were something more she could do for him, but she knew it was best to place him in God’s loving care.

  She prayed to St. John the Baptist, whose vigil was being celebrated today, and asked him to touch Bob Little with his own lionhearted courage. If what the young man says is true, she thought sadly, he’ll need every bit of it.

  She gazed through the glass chapel wall, contemplating the trees beyond. Although the panorama was breathtaking, Mary Helen was even more certain than she’d been earlier this morning that she’d never come back to St. Colette’s. Disturbing memories lurked at every turn. In fact, she’d probably never make another annual retreat without being haunted by this one.

  Mary Helen was so absorbed in her own thoughts that she jumped when Felicita tapped her on the shoulder.

  “The telephone for you. Take it in the office,” Felicita whispered. “It’s Sergeant Little.”

  With a feeling of dread, Mary Helen picked up the receiver. “Yes, Bob?” she said.

  “I did it.” His voice was low with emotion. “I arrested Beverly. When I realized she was at the rally, well, that put me on the right track. I was able to figure that she might have a motive. . . .” His words were stop and go. “I don’t know who was more surprised when I arrested her, she or I.”