“The movie, Bud! Watch the movie, not the redhead.” Cora’s words, sounding far away, floated into Mary Helen’s sinking consciousness.
Mary Helen awoke with a jerk and cleared her throat. “What happened?” she mumbled. Both aisles were cramped with passengers.
Next to her, Eileen, who was working on the crossword puzzle at the back of the in-flight magazine, pointed to the movie screen. It was back in its tight cylinder.
“The whole bunch is taking an after-the-movie stretch,” she said, nodding toward Professor DeAngelo, who, with a wry smile, was stretching his long arms toward the ceiling of the plane.
Mary Helen blinked. In the shadowy light, that twisted grin, his hollow cheeks, and those dark-rimmed eyes gave him the look of a skeleton at a feast.
Too many mysteries, she thought, watching Lisa Springer squeeze past him.
“I am so sorry. Did I bump you?” Lisa asked with exaggerated politeness.
“Not at all.” The professor lowered his arms.
“You know, Professor—” she began coyly.
“Roger. Please, call me Roger.”
With feline grace Bootsie slithered from her seat and stood behind him.
“You know, Roger”—Lisa ignored the woman completely—“since I first saw you, I have had the funniest feeling we’ve met before.” She put her face closer to his and playfully batted those sapphire blue eyes of hers. “Do I look familiar to you?”
“No. Not really.” Nervously he pulled on his beard.
Mary Helen nudged Eileen. “You don’t suppose we are going to have a triangle, do you?” she whispered, watching Bootsie lean her head against her husband’s shoulder, whisper something in his ear, then fix Lisa with a “better to eat you with, my dear” smile.
Eileen strained to see whom she was talking about. With a shrug she returned to her crossword puzzle. “What is an eight-letter word for a meddler?” she asked. “It begins with the letter b.”
Mary Helen thought, but only for a moment. “Busybody,” she hissed, “and you are not funny. You know perfectly well that I am simply a student of human nature.” She wriggled in her seat to get a better look.
The professor, now stoic-faced, squatted on the arm of his seat as Bootsie’s fingers kneaded the muscles in his neck and across his shoulders.
With hardly a backward glance Lisa made her way down the crowded aisle toward the front of the plane.
Rita Fong climbed over her husband, Neil, who was crumpled sideways in his seat. His balding head slumped forward. Deftly she reached down and snatched the half glasses from his nose. He didn’t move.
“You can sure tell those two are an old married couple!” Rita nodded toward the DeAngelos.
Mary Helen hoped that Bootsie hadn’t overheard. With all the trouble she takes to appear youthful, she surely won’t take kindly to being called an “old” anything. “What makes you think that?” she whispered.
“Because if she was the now generation, he’d be doing the rubbing.” Rita turned back to reconsider Bootsie De-Angelo. “Maybe I can talk her into enrolling in one of my aerobics classes and learning to relax her own shoulders.”
“Where do you teach aerobics?” Mary Helen asked, not that she was really interested. In fact, if the truth were known, she considered aerobics nothing more than finely tuned torture. It just seemed polite to ask.
Half listening to Rita Fong recite her schedule of classes, she noticed that Lisa had found Pepe. It was the first time Mary Helen had laid eyes on him since they boarded the plane, and she wondered vaguely where he was sitting.
The two of them stood by the water fountain in the far front of the plane, laughing and making what old Sister Thomasine, God rest her, used to call “movie star eyes” at each other.
Lisa let her gaze stray for a moment in Roger DeAngelo’s direction; then back it went to Pepe and their private joke.
An uneasy silence warned Mary Helen that she had missed Rita’s question.
“That would be just grand.” Good old Eileen came to the rescue again. “Perhaps in a little while,” she said, and Rita, looking very pleased, made her way back to her seat.
“What would be grand?” Mary Helen asked when Rita was out of earshot.
“She wants to show us a few simple exercises that we can do in the aisle, so that we won’t develop jet lag.” Eileen rolled her gray eyes heavenward.
Mary Helen groaned, visualizing the two of them huffing and puffing in the cramped aisle. “We will be a regular show,” she said.
“To hear you, one would think that she was asking us to change into black leotards and do push-ups,” Eileen snapped.
The mental picture of the two of them in leotards, no matter the color, struck Mary Helen funny at about the same moment as Eileen began to laugh.
Reluctantly Pepe left Lisa and made his way down the aisle. What a moment for him to begin his official tour guide “how-do,” Mary Helen thought, watching him approach.
“You two seem to be enjoying yourselves,” Pepe said, smiling benignly at the two nuns. Much the way one would at a couple of lovable old simpletons, Mary Helen thought. And it’s no wonder. Here we are thousands of feet in the air, staring at the upholstered backs of seats and laughing.
Pepe pulled in closer, making way for Lisa Springer to pass. The flowery fragrance of cologne wafted after her. With his smile frozen in place, Pepe’s dark eyes followed her graceful climb back into her seat.
Forgetting all about them, he moved on to the Bowmans. “Well, señor and señora, how are you two doing? Are you enjoying your trip so far?”
“It’s a hell of a long ride,” Bud muttered, shifting in his seat.
As if to agree, Bootsie DeAngelo edged around her husband and into the aisle. “I need some exercise,” she said, moving toward the front of the plane.
They certainly are a roaming group, Mary Helen thought. She tried to block out all the activity and bury herself in her mystery. She sincerely hoped that Rita Fong would forget her promise of aerobics. No such luck! At that very moment she appeared and clapped eagerly for the nuns to join her for a workout.
Rather than make a scene, Mary Helen and Eileen stood in the aisle, following Rita’s lead. At her command they pushed their palms together, rotated their heads, vigorously shook their arms. Hanging on to the sides of seats, they circled one foot, then the other.
Loath to meet the eye of any other passenger, Mary Helen kept her own gaze fixed on the overhead storage bin. Out of the corner of her eye, she did catch a glimpse of Heidi Williams. Actually Heidi was hard to miss. Wide-eyed and snapping her chewing gum, the plump girl was frankly staring. Not that Mary Helen blamed her. The three of them must have been some sight, especially when they attempted the knee bends.
“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Eileen said when they were, once again, in their seats.
“For whatever good it did,” Mary Helen grumbled, still feeling foolish.
“I am sure that the poor woman was only trying to be helpful.” Eileen circled her head once more for good measure. “To save us from jet lag and all of that.”
“I’d rather have jet lag,” Mary Helen said testily.
Without warning, the overhead lights began to blink and bells sounded.
“Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts,” the captain’s voice announced. “Currently we are flying over the Pole and will be experiencing a slight turbulence.”
Mary Helen grabbed the armrest and watched Bootsie DeAngelo, holding tightly to seat backs, fight her way down the aisle. The plane lurched, and Heidi squealed as Bootsie fell forward.
Straightening up with a nervous laugh, she leaned against an arm to steady herself. The plane rolled again, pitching Bootsie sideways. Roger grabbed for her and managed to pull her toward her own seat. Together they wrestled with gravity and the seat belt until finally she was settled.
“What’s this?” Mary Helen heard Bootsie ask. She glanced over. Bootsie was holding a small, tight
ly rolled slip of white paper. It must have been on her cushion.
Roger’s face was strained and impatient. “Looks like someone dropped a note or something,” he said. “How do I know? Just drop it on the floor.”
Bootsie unrolled the paper. “Belmont,” she read aloud. The plane dropped like an elevator. Her face blanched, and she sucked in her breath.
Books and cups clattered to the ground and bounced around in the aisle. Mary Helen’s heart bounced with them. “Pray for us sinners.” The familiar words came to her. Behind her Cora gasped and grabbed the seat back.
Across the aisle Bootsie’s face was still pale. It couldn’t have been “Belmont,” Mary Helen thought crazily, wondering what color her own face was. It must have been the sudden jolt.
“Maybe we can see something.” Beside her Eileen’s voice was amazingly steady. She pushed up the plastic shade, and the two of them peered out the small window into a sea of absolute darkness.
After what seemed hours, but was probably only minutes, the turbulence quieted and all the signs were turned off.
“How did you like that ride?” the captain’s voice asked. Most passengers chuckled appreciatively. One booed. Flight attendants rushed down the aisles, offering after-dinner drinks.
Mary Helen felt exhausted but safe again. The other passengers must have felt the same way because before long a peaceful night silence descended over the plane. One by one, people fished out the blankets and small pillows that they had been given. Covering their eyes with bandit masks, they snuggled down for a few hours’ sleep.
Darkness covered them all as the plane, caught in a limbo of time, sped through the night toward the Continent. From here or there came a cough, a soft snore. Mary Helen closed her eyes, trying to relax, regretting her earlier nap.
With the steady pulse of the engines droning through the quiet, she couldn’t help contemplating the smallness of the craft and the vastness of the ocean below and the sky in which they hung. The plane, its passengers and crew, together, formed a mere speck suspended in the vast universe. Yet each person contained a whole universe within and each was precious in God’s sight and greatly loved.
“If I climb to the heavens, you are there.” A line from an evening psalm wriggled into her mind. “If I take the wings of the dawn, and dwell at the sea’s furthest end, even there your hand would lead me, your right hand hold me fast.”
Soon they would reach the dawn. The psalmist’s words mingled with this morning’s Gospel. “Hail, Mary,” the Angel Gabriel had said, “the Lord is with thee.” Was she, like Mary, able to say at the start of this new day, “Be it done unto me according to thy word”?
The fragrance of spring flowers nearby stirred her from her reverie. Lisa Springer must be moving again. Mary Helen’s eyelids were heavy now, but she opened them just long enough to confirm that it was Lisa on her way to the back of the plane. As in a dream, she heard someone else creeping down the aisle, someone with a light step. Was that Lisa again? Poor girl, Mary Helen thought, dropping into a hazy sleep, she must have the fidgets.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 8
Feast of St. Simeon,
Prophet
The plane touched down at the Santiago airport at about 4:00 P.M., Spanish time. Sister Mary Helen had no idea what time of the night or day it was, San Francisco time, and she absolutely refused to look at her wristwatch. She was tired enough without knowing for certain that she ought to be.
When they had landed in Madrid a few hours earlier, Mary Helen was forced to admit that Rita Fong’s aerobics appeared to be working, at least for Rita. The small woman bounced around, taking pictures of anyone who would allow it, meaning anyone too weary to resist.
Unfortunately Rita had a Polaroid camera, so her victims were able to see how awful they looked in exactly sixty seconds.
“Death warmed over,” Eileen announced when she saw Rita’s candid shot of the two nuns.
“At least you have your eyes open.” Mary Helen shoved the picture into the pocket of her Aran sweater, hoping the blasted thing would get lost.
“How did it come out?” Rita called over her shoulder, snapping her husband, who had perked up long enough to answer whatever question Lisa Springer was asking him.
Rita did not listen for their reply. She was too busy corralling Heidi into the group.
“Smile, Heidi,” she commanded brightly. “I want to get Neil standing between you two lovely young things.”
Neil’s face reddened as he complied. Mary Helen found it hard to tell whether the expression on Heidi’s face was a grin or a grimace.
Their stopover in Madrid was brief. The bleary-eyed norteamericanos, under Pepe’s able shepherding, located the plane bound for Santiago de Compostela. Police, looking for all the world like extras from a B movie about a banana republic coup, peppered the aeropuerto. Under their watchful eyes, the group boarded quickly.
Now, as the small aircraft taxied into the terminal at Santiago, even Rita appeared to have wilted. No one spoke much beyond the necessary grunts, leaving all the details of disembarking to Pepe, who performed them amazingly well.
Almost before they realized it, the pilgrims, their luggage, and a young woman who had joined them at the airport were aboard a small bus heading for the ancient shrine and their almost-as-ancient lodging, the Hostal de los Reyes Católicos.
Crayon-green fields ran up to the highway. Small carpets of roses spread out in front of slate-roofed cottages, where laundry lay drying on the lawn.
“A hórreo.” Pepe pointed out the bus window to a small granite storage shed set like an oversize box atop six stone pillars. The roof was peaked with a cross on one end and an obelisk with a ball on its tip on the other. Mary Helen was about to ask about the significance when Pepe took up the microphone.
“I may just as well begin our tour now,” he said, balancing himself in the middle aisle. “Right?” He waited expectantly.
The group was apparently too sleepy to respond one way or the other.
Undaunted, Pepe continued. “First let me introduce you to Señorita María José Gómez. She has agreed to come on this tour with us as my special consultant.”
Bud Bowman let out a snort, which Pepe ignored. “Now about the hórreo. You will see many of them in Galicia. They are peculiar to this area of Spain and are used for the safe storage of grain and corn.
“The Galicians are a superstitious people”—he paused, his showmanship at its best—“so they put both the Christian symbol and the pagan symbol on the roof. They are taking no chances.”
There was an appreciative chuckle.
“And Galician women”—he smiled meaningfully at María José—“are said to practice white magic.”
Cora, who was directly in front of Mary Helen, turned around in her seat. “That’s all I need,” she said to no one in particular. “First the redhead, now white magic. My Bud’s a goner!”
Sister Mary Helen, wondering what Señor Fraga knew about there being a consultant on the trip, craned to get a better look at María José. The small woman knelt on a front seat of the bus facing them. She wore her coarse dark hair shoulder length, and in a certain light it looked as if it had been rinsed with magenta. A horseshoe headband held it off her face, which was round and clear with a nose a little too flat and too wide to make her beautiful. Her age was hard to pinpoint. Probably mid-twenties, Mary Helen thought.
María José put her hand out for the microphone. Her dark eyes darted playfully from Pepe to the tour members. “White magic is good magic,” she said in a low, gravelly voice. Again, everyone chuckled.
Eileen nudged Mary Helen and pointed to a woman walking along the roadside with a large wicker basket of wet laundry on her head. “Talk about carrying a heavy work load,” she said.
Out of habit Mary Helen groaned at the pun.
In the distance, above the softly rolling hills, the sky was a study in white and brilliant blue. As the bus wound its way toward town, Sister Mary Helen watched the mobile
clouds gathering, dispersing, suddenly piling into great darkening mountains. There was an energy in the sky that gave the rugged landscape a special beauty and made her wonder, uneasily, if Sister Therese had been right about the umbrellas.
“Do you think it’s going to rain?” She nodded toward the clouds.
“It always rains in Galicia.” Eileen looked puzzled. “You know that.”
“How would I know that?”
“I read it to you in the library. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember no such thing,” Mary Helen said with more conviction than she felt.
Eileen yawned. “That’s why we wore these heavy sweaters”—she tugged at her Aran knit—“and why the pilgrims to Santiago dressed in broad-brimmed felt hats, heavy capes, and the thickest of sandals. You do remember that?”
Before Mary Helen was forced to any admission, Heidi Williams shot out of her seat.
“There it is!” she shouted, pointing out the window. They all strained to see where she was pointing and were rewarded with the sight of the magnificent cathedral spires looming in the distance.
“Mon joie, Heidi.” María José stood in the middle aisle. “It is an ancient custom,” she said, “that the first one in a group of pilgrims who spies the towers shouts, ‘Mon joie, I am the king.’ That person becomes the king of the group, or, in your case, the queen.”
“Attagirl!” Bud called out. Pepe clapped, and Heidi let out an embarrassed giggle. María José went on to explain the legend of St. James, the symbolism of the cockleshells, and several other things that Mary Helen did remember reading in the old Catholic Encyclopedia.
Feeling a bit smug, she scanned the buildings on either side of the narrow streets, searching for the cockleshells over the doorways. To her amazement, the streets and doorways were crowded with hundreds of young people walking, bicycling, talking in groups.
Murder Makes a Pilgrimage Page 4
