Murder Makes a Pilgrimage

by Carol Anne O'Marie

  Ángel had heard enough of Pepe’s escapades. They were foolish, granted, but not criminal. This call must be costing his department a fortune.

  “Do you think, Señor Fraga, that your nephew Pepe would be capable of murder?” he asked bluntly.

  There was a long silence. “I am sorely tempted to answer yes, Comisario. That is one way to be rid of the bum for good, but in all honesty, I must say no.”

  “Why is that, señor?”

  “Because poor Pepe could not be a murderer. He has neither the brains nor the gumption!”

  By the time Ángel hung up he had begun to feel that his niece, María José, was not so bad after all. Since you can choose only your friends and not your relatives, he was grateful that Divine Providence had not saddled him with a Pepe.

  Long shadows began to fill his small office. Before he left for home and supper, he decided to try Kate Murphy once more. When he had the information from her, he would be able to relax and enjoy his meal.

  He listened to the ringing and was about to hang up when someone grabbed the receiver.

  “Hello,” a woman answered breathlessly. He recognized Kate Murphy’s voice.

  “Did I catch you at a bad moment?” he asked.

  “Not at all.” Kate sounded happy to hear from him. “I just came through the door and the phone was ringing. I’m glad it’s you. How are the Sisters doing?”

  “Sister Eileen is fine,” he said, “but Sister Mary Helen has had a rather unfortunate incident.” He told her about the nun’s near fall in the Tower of Hercules.

  “Is she hurt?” Kate asked.

  “Shaken, of course, but not really hurt.”

  “Oh, good!” He heard the relief in Kate’s voice.

  “Has your friend been able to find any information on the other tourists?” Ángel asked hopefully. “As you can see, it is becoming even more imperative that I find something, anything at all, that will help me discover who has a reason to kill Lisa Springer and who, now, has a reason to want to harm the good Sister.”

  “Inspector Gallagher is working on it today. It’s still too early here in San Francisco for him to have found any real leads.” Kate paused, and Ángel wondered why she was hedging. “There is something that perhaps I should have told you before,” she said finally.

  “Anything would be helpful.”

  Quickly Kate Murphy told him about Sister Mary Helen’s role in helping the police department solve several murders. “To anyone who reads the Bay Area papers, and I assume all your suspects are from the Bay Area,” she said, “the old nun is notorious. And I might add, she may present a real threat.”

  The back of Ángel’s neck prickled. He had sent the nuns off on a tour to La Toja with María José in command. Officer Zaldo was trailing, but if they were, as this Kate suggested, in real danger, would Zaldo be aware of it? Had he, unwittingly, facilitated a second murder?

  He must call Julietta, tell her not to wait supper—his stomach rumbled in protest—then go right to the hostal to await the bus’s return.

  “Comisario? Are you still on the line?”

  ”Sí, Inspector Murphy. What you have just told me has taken me by surprise.” He tried to keep the anger out of his voice. If this case was to be solved quickly, he needed her cooperation. “I wish I had known this sooner,” he said.

  “Why is that?” Kate sounded anxious.

  “Because I have allowed the Sisters to go on another tour today.”

  Kate sucked in her breath. “I am sorry!”

  Ángel’s temper waned now that he was not alone in feeling guilty. “Those things happen,” he said with more largesse than he felt. “Would you advise me to put the Sister, maybe both Sisters, into protective custody?” He heard her laugh echo down the phone lines.

  “That would be like trying to hold two tigers by their tails,” Kate said. “More trouble, Comisario, than it’s worth.”

  “What, then, would you suggest?” Ángel used his most formal tone. He liked being taken seriously, especially when he was hungry.

  “I’d encourage you to collaborate with her. Rather, with the pair of them,” Kate said. “They are uncanny when it comes to ferreting out the guilty party. And I, Comisario, have learned from experience that they make much better friends than enemies.”

  “Collaborate with nuns on police work?”

  “I know it sounds bizarre,” Kate said gently, “but I promise you, you won’t be sorry.”

  Sorry? Ángel thought, replacing the receiver and quickly picking it up again to call his wife. What is sorry is my police force. I have few enough officers to cover the students, the usual tourists, and the residents; none, por Dios, to spare. Of necessity, my team must be made up of Esteban Zaldo, María José, two old nuns, and me.

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Ángel had to laugh. It was like those old-time American comedians. What were they called? The Keystone Kops. All his bunch lacked were nightsticks, the Black Maria, and, of course, the high-crowned hats.

  By the time the Pulmantur bus pulled up in front of the Hostal de los Reyes Católicos, the rain had stopped. Banks of lights flooded the cathedral. They shimmered across the slick flagstone Plaza del Obradoiro, illuminating the entire area.

  Sister Mary Helen was surprised to see Ángel Serrano huddled in the arched doorway of the hotel. With his hands in his pockets and his tan raincoat wound around him for warmth, the comisario might easily have been mistaken for a plump relief carving, set in the stone facade.

  She wasn’t the only one who’d spotted him. Before the door of the bus opened, María José was waving frantically. Officer Zaldo, who had tailgated the bus all the way back from La Toja, jumped from the patrol car, leaving his door swinging open.

  At first glance Mary Helen thought Ángel looked strained. Now with both María José and Zaldo surging toward him, she was sure of it. His color drained. His shoulders tensed. Beneath a worried frown, his sharp eyes roamed the bus windows. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was relieved to see her. Could the news of the Gypsies and the purse snatching have traveled so quickly? If not, what was wrong?

  Before the bus door snapped shut behind its last passenger, Comisario Ángel Serrano had herded the two nuns, his niece, and Officer Esteban Zaldo into the hotel manager’s office. They stood in a silent knot in front of the large hand-carved desk.

  “The manager kindly offered his accommodations for privacy,” Ángel said. He pointed at chairs for Zaldo to move from the wall and set around the desk.

  Mary Helen felt a twinge of sympathy for the manager. From the telltale bits of paper still strewn across the desktop, his offer might have been more forced than free. What is so urgent? she wondered.

  With cold courtesy, Ángel invited them all to be seated.

  “Is something wrong, Comisario?” Mary Helen could restrain herself no longer.

  He raised his hand. “One moment, please, Sister.” He turned his head.

  Oh-oh! Mary Helen thought, doing a quick examination of conscience. Something is stuck in his craw. Unable to surface any recent guilt, she focused her attention where his was, on his niece.

  “What is it you are trying so frantically to tell me, María José?”

  As if a sluice gate opened, a swift and mixed channel of Spanish and English poured over the room. María José deluged her uncle with every detail of Mary Helen’s “accident” in La Toja.

  “And while this happened”—she glared at a red-faced Zaldo—“your officer was having his dinner!”

  Ángel’s dark eyes moved toward Esteban Zaldo, whose whole body stiffened to attention in his chair. “Even policemen have to eat,” Ángel said with unexpected sympathy.

  Flipping her magenta hair, María José turned to face Ángel, but his attention was still on Zaldo.

  “Did you notify the La Toja police, Esteban?” he asked in Spanish.

  María José switched to the role of an interpretor.

  “Sí, Comisario.” Zaldo’s trim mustache scarely
moved when he spoke.

  “And what did they say?”

  “That the snatching of purses from tourists is becoming common among Gypsies. And that they will be on the lookout for two women on a motorscooter, although this is common, too.”

  “Then that is perhaps all it was,” Mary Helen said when María José finished the translation. “A common occurrence.” Common or no, the ordeal had worn her out. She wanted nothing more than to forget all about it and go to bed. She pushed herself up from the chair.

  “Please, Sister, one more moment. There is something I need to talk to you about.”

  Here it comes! Mary Helen readied herself for combat. Whatever is bothering him has something to do with me, and it’s on its way!

  “Today I had a conversation with Inspector Kate Murphy.”

  Mary Helen felt her face flush. Beside her Eileen shifted in her chair. Zaldo stared in baffled silence.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you—and your work with the San Francisco police—are notorious?”

  “Even if it were true, Comisario, that is hardly the first thing one says about oneself.”

  “Sister”—anger clipped his words short—“I never would have allowed today’s trip to La Toja if I had realized.”

  Mary Helen’s back went up. Baloney! she thought. You wanted us all in one place. Maybe you even hoped something would happen to give you more to go on. Their eyes locked.

  “You see how you reacted to the news?” Her words every bit as clipped as his. “Would you have told you if you were I?”

  She watched a small storm fight its way across Ángel’s round face. Fortunately for both of them he began to grin. “Your point is well taken, Sister,” he said.

  Happily Mary Helen felt the tension fall away. Fair is fair, she thought. “To be completely candid,” she began with a stab of compunction, “Sister Eileen and I are doing a little inquiring on our own.” Still somewhat unsure of her ground, she emphasized the word little.

  Taking her cue from Mary Helen, Eileen moved forward in her chair. “We divided the group in half,” she said, “to see if we could discover a motive.”

  Ángel blinked with surprise but recovered quickly. “Good.” He sounded almost enthusiastic. “The quicker we solve this thing, the better for us all. Motive, as you say, is indeed the key.”

  With a few words he dismissed Officer Zaldo, who looked relieved to be on his way at last. “María José”—Ángel pulled a blank sheet of hotel stationery from the desk drawer—“write everything down for us.”

  With the skill of two old schoolmarms the nuns quickly outlined the information they had gleaned.

  “The Fongs,” Mary Helen began, and waited until María José scribbled down the name. “Neil is a dentist. Rita teaches aerobics. Four children. They live outside San Francisco in Burlingame. Claim never to have met Lisa before this trip. No apparent motive. She is talkative. He is the quiet, unassuming sort who doesn’t miss much.”

  Ángel brightened. “ ‘He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.’ Oxford!” he said, and gave a triumphant laugh at his ability to remember Shakespeare.

  “Very good!” Eileen said appreciatively, then took up the litany. “The Bowmans, Cora and Bud.”

  María José wrote.

  “Successful small business. One grown son in the business now. Did not know Lisa. No apparent motive.”

  “Cora, however, thinks a woman did it,” Mary Helen said.

  Eileen’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  “She told me at La Toja today that she suspects Heidi, Bootsie, and Rita, in that order, of committing the murder.”

  “What did she give as a motive?” María José glanced up from her paper.

  The comisario frowned at his niece. “Ho-Ho! I ask the question, you write.” He turned to Mary Helen. “What did she give as a motive, Sister?”

  “Jealousy in all three cases.”

  “Hmm.” Ángel hummed to himself thoughtfully.

  Mary Helen cleared her throat. She hoped they’d soon call it a night. Everything, including her throat, ached. Especially her head. “The DeAngelos, Bootsie and Roger. He is a history professor. Did you find out which college?” she asked Eileen.

  “Redwood, a small Marin County community college.”

  “And Bootsie. We both found her very tight-lipped.”

  Ángel frowned at the term.

  “Noncommunicative, almost elusive.”

  He nodded his understanding.

  “Nervous, too, I’d say,” Eileen added, “but a wealth of information on jabón!”

  Mary Helen closed her eyes, trying to remember whom they’d left out, then popped them open again. Too dangerous, she thought. I’ll drop right off to sleep.

  “Let’s not forget Heidi,” Eileen said.

  Mary Helen nearly had.

  “The girl is quite distressed about her mother’s reaction to the murder,” Eileen began. “She makes no pretense about liking Lisa. That is, liking her recently. Yet she didn’t seem to hate her enough to kill her.”

  “And let’s not forget Pepe.” Mary Helen was glad to reach the end of the list. Actually they had tried to pump María José, but under the circumstances it seemed foolish to say so.

  “In popular parlance, Pepe is what you call a flake.”

  The comisario looked puzzled again, and María José translated. “His uncle concurs,” Ángel said, beaming like an aging cherub.

  María José glanced at her notes. “I know that Cora named the three women on the tour as having a motive. But doesn’t strangulation seem more like a man’s crime than a woman’s?” She put down her pencil and flexed her fingers to relax them.

  Her uncle shrugged. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because a woman would have to be very strong to hold down her victim, especially a young, strong one.”

  “Are you telling me that women are the weaker sex?” he baited her.

  The young woman’s eyes blazed. “Of course not,” she snapped. “It just seems physically more suitable for a man.”

  Quiet settled over the manager’s office like the night-cloth over Sister Ángela’s canary cage, leaving each one to brood on his or her own thoughts.

  “Where does all that information leave us?” Ángel broke into the silence.

  “With the same basic questions and no answers,” Mary Helen said. Oh, to be upstairs in bed!

  “Perhaps things will be clearer after a good night’s sleep.” Eileen sounded hopeful.

  A sharp rap on the door startled them all. Zaldo was back with a sheaf of papers for the comisario.

  “Gracias, Esteban.” Ángel took the papers and, once again, dismissed the officer.

  “Now that we have all decided to collaborate”—his eyes twinkled as though he had made a great joke—“let me share some information from Dr. Morales’s report on the cause of death.” He scanned the papers.

  With her last spurt of energy, Mary Helen perked up.

  “According to the doctor,” Ángel began, “the victim’s head hit the corner of the crypt. Hmm . . . she was rendered unconscious. Then strangled. So, Ho-Ho, we could have here an equal opportunity murderer.”

  María José refused to bite.

  “The weapon, garrote, tool, whatever you choose to call it, is as yet unidentified. The bruise it made is about two inches wide in the center, narrower at each end, and it is perhaps padded. Does anything come to mind?” he asked after a silence.

  At the moment the only padded thing that came to Mary Helen’s mind was her pillow.

  “It is a strange bruise for a strangulation,” he said.

  “Sister Mary Helen has a strange bruise on her lower back,” Eileen blurted out. Mary Helen could not believe her ears.

  Ángel reddened. “What sort of bruise do you have, Sister?” He avoided her eyes.

  “Three bruises about the size of American dimes.” Eileen riffled quickly and apparently unsuccessfully through her traveler’s dictionary trying to fi
nd the Spanish equivalent.

  “Put that thing away,” Mary Helen snarled, then smiled sweetly at the comisario. “I’m sure they are from that tower business,” she mumbled, not sure what she’d do if he asked to see them. “From someone’s knuckle or thumb perhaps.”

  “Or a ring! A large, round ring stone!” María José’s eyes danced. “Maybe our killer is a woman after all.”

  Unexpectedly a gentle rain began to patter against the window.

  “Enough for tonight,” Ángel said, levering himself up from his chair.

  Mary Helen heard his stomach growl.

  María José smirked. “Is Tía Julietta saving your supper?” she asked.

  Ignoring her, Ángel bundled himself into his raincoat and checked his watch. “I will meet with you all here tomorrow morning at ten.” He glanced around to see if all agreed. Anyone who didn’t was too tired to object. “Sleep well,” he called. “Tomorrow with fresh minds things will be clearer.”

  From their bedroom window Mary Helen watched Ángel and María José cross the nearly vacant Plaza del Obradoiro together. Halfway across, she brushed his cheek with a kiss, and without many words, they headed in opposite directions.

  The steady rain glistened in the floodlights and washed down the ancient stone buildings, the cars, and the pedestrians alike. It cleanses the whole world, Mary Helen thought as she watched a single drop slither down the glass pane.

  “What are you looking at?” Eileen asked from her bed.

  “Nothing. Just watching the rain. ‘The silver hosannas of rain.’ Do you remember where that’s from?”

  Eileen grunted a no. “You must be asleep on your feet,” she said. “Get into bed, old dear, before you catch your death.”

  The rainwater made a low, steady trickle against the stones. Mary Helen leaned out to pull shut the window. A cough floated up from the floor below. Someone else was watching the rain.

  Déjà vu! Mary Helen thought. Like last Friday night when all this started, when she’d thought she saw someone on the cathedral steps. She squinted into the watery darkness. Tonight, strain as she might, she was positive that those cathedral steps were completely deserted.