Early next morning, the college swarmed with official-looking men in conservative business suits asking questions, dusting for fingerprints, making phone calls, taking notes, and all talking, it seemed to Sister Mary Helen, out of the sides of their mouths.
She bumped into them in the kitchen, in the convent, on the campus. A clean-shaven fellow with a full head of curly hair questioned her again about how she happened to come upon the professor’s body. He was one step up on the hierarchy from the patrolman, she guessed. Carefully, she told him everything she had told the patrolmen the night before. Therefore, she was surprised when at about ten o’clock she was summoned again to room 203 in the main college building.
Oh, oh, Mary Helen thought, spotting Sister Therese coming from the other end of the hall. She watched, fascinated, as Therese, like the proverbial bird with rumpled tail feathers, picked and pecked her way through the bevy of police officers.
“I’m on my way to chapel for my novena prayers,” she muttered to Sister Mary Helen as they passed each other. “And this!” Therese made a large dramatic gesture toward room 203. “The poor girls! Exposed to this! What must they think?” Not waiting for an answer, she continued her short staccato steps down the hall.
“They probably think it is the most exciting thing that’s happened around here in years,” Mary Helen mumbled, making sure Therese was safely out of earshot.
“Come in, Sister,” a heavy-set fellow called from the professor’s inner office. Mary Helen recognized him as the same man who had slid in behind Kate Murphy last night. He must be the top of the line, she thought.
“I’m Inspector Gallagher.” He motioned to the chair facing the desk. The Inspector balanced his ample bottom on the desk’s highly polished top. His gray tweed suit, which had a slept-in look, strained when he reached for his note pad.
Mary Helen wriggled into the chair. She pushed her bifocals up the bridge of her nose and covertly studied the man.
She’d try not to let him catch her staring. He looked like something right out of a “whodunit.” Already his tie was loose. It jig-jagged down the front of his white shirt, exposing tiny buttons straining over a paunch which hung slightly below his belt. Mary Helen could barely see the double G’s on the belt buckle. Gucci! She was surprised, not to mention what Gucci might have been to see his gold G’s holding up pants she felt sure must have a shiny seat. The belt was probably a gift from a long-suffering wife, or a daughter who hoped to spruce up Pop!
Perched on the desk, facing the elderly nun, Gallagher was doing some covert studying of his own. He ran his hand across his bald crown. She was certainly not what he had expected. No siree! This one wasn’t like the good sisters who’d taught him at old Saint Anne’s. They had been veiled, and black from head to toe, with a white linen coif hiding everything but a smooth, ageless face. Here, this old gal sat in a smart, navy blue suit, her gray hair styled in an attractive feather cut. If you looked carefully, you could still see the faint skin discoloration where her coif had once covered the sides of her face.
One thing she still had for sure, Gallagher noted, was nun’s eyes. Those peaceful, piercing eyes he remembered from grammar school, eyes that seemed to be able to read minds. They came in all colors-blue, brown. This gal’s came in a speckled hazel. Gallagher cleared his throat.
“Tell me, Sister… ah…”
“Mary Helen.”
“Yes, Mary Helen. Tell me exactly what happened last night. How you found the professor, who was around, everything you can remember.”
“Inspector, I have already told everything I know to two police officers. Both have taken copious notes. Perhaps you could simply read their notes. Those must be they, right in your hands.” She folded her hands and waited for his explanation.
“This is routine, Sister. Just routine.” He yanked at his tie. “Please, if you will, start from the beginning.” Gallagher shifted his eyes to avoid hers.
“Inspector, is this a test? Are you trying to see if I am a bumbling old lady or just an old lady who still, however, has all her wits about her?”
“Of course not,” Gallagher said. Damn! They can read minds. He suddenly felt thirteen years old. Where the hell was Murphy? He checked his watch. She should be back any minute. Let Murphy handle it, he thought. What I don’t need is another strong-minded woman on my back. This old gal might do the kid some good, too. Gallagher looked down at the penetrating, speckled eyes. And even if she doesn’t, he thought, these two gals deserve each other!
“Just routine, Sister,” he repeated.
Pedantically, Mary Helen began to recount the earthquake, her running from the convent to the college, finding Luis, hearing Marina scream, feeling a presence in the hall, finding the professor’s body, calling the police and the priest.
One helluva sharp old lady, Gallagher thought, listening to her reconstruct the events of the previous night. His face reddened. After eight years in the parochial school, he knew “helluva” was not the proper adjective to describe a sister. But, still, she was one helluva spunky old gal. Must be seventy, at least. Sharp, very sharp.
“How did I do, Inspector?” Dimples played on Mary Helen’s lined cheeks. “Did I pass the senility check?”
“Fine. Thank you, Sister.” Gallagher caught the glint of humor in her eyes. Where the hell was Murphy?
“May I go now, Inspector?”
“Yes, Sister. Thank you for your help. We’ll get in touch with you if we need more information. You aren’t going to be transferred anywhere else for a while, are you?” Gallagher didn’t think she was. She must be retired. But with this old gal, you couldn’t be too sure.
“My next change, Inspector, will probably be to Holy Cross Cemetery,” Mary Helen said, leaving the office.
When Mary Helen finally stepped out of the main college building, the morning fog had lifted and lay waiting in a thick roll over the Pacific. She breathed deeply, trying to relieve the tension that had stiffened her neck and shoulder blades. The campus and the city below sparkled in the crisp, autumn sun. San Francisco was enjoying a glorious Indian Summer day. It seemed so incongruous. Last night a man had been bludgeoned to death on this hill. Yet, this morning, except for the policemen and police cars and a tension in the air, the world went on with “business as usual.”
“Hello, old dear. I was just going to look for you,” Sister Eileen called from behind her. Eileen was the only person Mary Helen knew who could make “old dear” sound like a compliment. Perhaps it was the lilt in the brogue.
Mary Helen turned toward her friend. Dark, blue-black circles ringed Eileen’s deep-set, gray eyes.
“Didn’t sleep much?” Mary Helen asked.
“You don’t mean to tell me you did.” Eileen shivered. “That poor, poor man.” Eileen controlled the tremor that had crept into her voice. “Shall we take a quick walk before lunch? Perhaps down to Geary Street and back?” she asked. “The exercise will probably do us both some good.”
Walking, Mary Helen knew, was one of Eileen’s panaceas.
“Sure,” she said.
Silently, the two turned the corner of Turk and headed down the Parker Street hill toward Geary. Before them, Tiburon-or was it Belvedere? Mary Helen could never remember-dominated the Bay. Dozens of white sails bobbed and dipped around the massive island.
“I should have realized something had happened the moment we saw that falling star,” Eileen said as they walked.
“Falling star in the sky, sign someone will die,” Mary Helen repeated to herself. Sure enough! She marveled that Eileen remembered all those superstitions. She never was too sure, however, whether or not Eileen believed them.
“It gives me the shivers, Mary Helen. To think that someone can come right off the street into our college and kill.”
“What makes you think it was someone off the street?”
“Because the only people on campus last night were Leonel and Tony, who live here-and we weren’t even positive they were here-Luis and Marina, whom we saw, and the nuns, and I don’t see any of them as a murderer.”
“How do you know they were the only ones on the campus? Remember, I told you I thought I saw a shadow move in the upper hall.”
Eileen trembled. “That’s worse yet. That shadow you saw could have been the killer, and you were right there! It proves my theory, however. It was probably some crazed fellow right off the street.”
They walked a few yards in silence. “What do you think?” Eileen asked.
Mary Helen shrugged her shoulders. No sense upsetting Eileen with what she thought. “You’re probably right,” she said. Abruptly, she changed the subject. “Look, Eileen.” She pointed to the Golden Gate. “Isn’t it glorious on a clear day?”
Eileen smiled. “You simply cannot be somebody’s pinochle partner, old dear, without knowing when they’re bluffing. I asked, what do you think?”
Mary Helen hesitated. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear this,” she said, “but people don’t just wander in from the street and up to the second floor of a building to kill a perfect stranger. I think whoever killed the man is someone he knew. Someone had a reason. Possibly, someone we all know.” She stopped, astounded. She sounded, for all the world, like something right out of Nero Wolfe.
“Deep down, I’m afraid you’re correct,” Sister Eileen said finally. “But I can hardly bear the thought of someone we know being a murderer.”
“Eileen,” Mary Helen said bluntly, “every murderer is someone somebody knows.”
The afternoon fog rolled in early. Like soft, white fingers, it grabbed Twin Peaks and quietly squeezed out the sun.
Mary Helen was restless. At the nuns’ lunch table, Cecilia had presided, tight-lipped and composed. Her face was the color of her close-cropped, gray hair. Murder had been the main topic of conversation. It wasn’t surprising.
“Practically under our very noses,” Therese had commented before launching into an impassioned speech on the merits of double-locking doors.
Somehow, Mary Helen felt responsible, as though she should be doing something about the professor’s death. “Nonsense, old dear,” Eileen had said when she mentioned it. “All you did was call the police to report the poor man’s death. It’s up to the police to uncover the killer. Surely, they would prefer to do that without your help.”
Mary Helen knew she was right, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling of responsibility. She grabbed the paperback from the nightstand. Why not spend the afternoon on that lovely little bench reading? The minute she opened the front door of the Sisters’ Residence, however, she could taste the fog. Much too cold for bench-sitting, Mary Helen decided.
For a moment, she was at sixes and sevens. Then she spotted a light in the window of the library. It was perfect library weather. She’d drop in on Eileen, check out the stacks, especially the mystery section. Perhaps she’d even do a little groundwork on her research project. That would make her feel better. Almost as if she were honoring the dead.
Cautiously, almost reverently, Sister Mary Helen opened the beveled glass door of the Hanna Memorial Library. Edward Hanna had been the Archbishop of San Francisco when the college was founded. Looking around, Mary Helen felt sure nothing had been changed since.
Bulletlike lights, elaborately decorated with brass, hung from the high-arched ceiling. Dark, walnut shelves, filled with rare books, lined the walls. Brass reading lamps sat on long narrow tables. Black leather-backed chairs were fastened with brass studs. The young women studying in designer jeans and T-shirts looked like anachronisms.
At the far end of the main reading room, a large portrait of Archbishop Hanna dominated the scene. At the other end, short, round Sister Eileen worked feverishly at the circulation desk. Trying to get the murder off her mind, Mary Helen thought. She could always tell Eileen’s mood from the way she worked. Why not? They had been friends for fifty years.
Could it possibly be fifty years since they’d been in the novitiate together? Eileen, fresh from Dublin; she, newly graduated from the University of Arizona. They had met at the Motherhouse and liked one another instantly. “Water seeks its own level,” Eileen had said; her brogue had been thick, then. Maybe so, but for fifty years the two had been fast friends and, whenever possible, pinochle partners. Over the years, they had managed to meet at summer sessions, retreats, vacations.
Mary Helen watched Eileen smiling and stamping out books. Good old, plump, pleasant Eileen. Mary Helen had always thought of her that way, although Eileen was actually four or five years younger and not many pounds heavier than herself. Several times over the past few days, Mary Helen had thanked God that her friend was at the college. In Gaelic, the name Eileen meant “light.” She certainly considered Eileen one of the brighter lights in her dim view of coming “home” to Mount St. Francis College for Women.
Waving toward the circulation desk, Mary Helen headed for the tall, walnut card catalogs. She began to thumb through the Im section. Im, Imm, Immigration.
“See Emigration and Immigration,” the card read.
Under Emigration, she found Emigration-Atlantic Migration; Emigration-Europe on the move; Emigration-Greek-American; Emigration-Life story of an immigrant.
Finally, she hit Emigration-Portuguese; Portuguese in California; and Problems of Portuguese Immigrants. The catalog card read: “Problems of Portuguese Immigrants, Alves, Joanna.” The call number was MA 25.
A master’s thesis! Mary Helen could hardly believe anyone had already written a thesis on the subject. And Joanna Alves, one of the few names she could match with a face! What a coincidence! But then, why not? Anne had said she was a graduate student. The girl would have firsthand experience, and, after seeing her with Tony last week, Mary Helen had no doubt she had close personal contact with other immigrants. Mary Helen’s face flushed at her own pun. Too bad Eileen wasn’t closer so she could share it. But, then, she hadn’t told Eileen about seeing Tony and Joanna, nor had she mentioned her own idea for a research project. Eileen could have saved her a lot of time by telling her the subject had already been covered. Or had it? No harm in just checking to see exactly what Joanna’s conclusions were.
Slowly the old nun climbed the stairs to the stacks. Squatting down she ran her finger along the shelf. MA 22, MA 23, MA 24, MA 26. MA 25 was out.
Nobody ever reads a master’s thesis, let alone takes one out, she thought. She remembered her own, which, she presumed, was still gathering dust in Tucson. MA 25 must be misfiled. She rechecked. No MA 25!
Straightening up, she headed down the stairs and over to Eileen, who was still stamping books.
“Eileen, I need some help. I can’t find a master’s thesis, MA 25.”
“Come on in here,” Eileen whispered, ushering her into the Head Librarian’s office. Quietly, she shut the half-glass door.
“You can’t find what?”
“A master’s thesis. MA 25, by Joanna Alves.”
“Joanna? How strange. This is the second time her name has come up in less than an hour. Anne just dropped by. She is really upset. You remember how Marina insisted on going home last night, as unnerved as she was. Well, Anne just talked to her, and Marina is frantic. Joanna did not come home last night. She seems to have disappeared.”
“She couldn’t have,” Mary Helen said. “No one just disappears. Did Marina notify the police?”
“It’s too soon for Joanna to be a missing person. Poor Marina! First finding the professor, now her sister missing.” Eileen was near tears. “And you know, Mary Helen, ever since Anne dropped by, I’ve had the most dreadful feeling. No matter how I try, I can’t seem to shake it.”
“A dreadful feeling? About what?”
“About Joanna. You know the old saying, ‘Death always comes in threes’?”
The low moan of a foghorn echoed off the Gate. Its wail shattered the quiet of the Hanna Memorial Library. Mary Helen felt suddenly chilled. Eileen was right. Deaths did seem to come in threes. What if her premonition was correct? Mary Helen squared her shoulders. No matter what the case, a lovely young girl was out there somewhere-maybe hurt, or maybe in danger. And something should be done about it. She’d march right up to the professor’s office. The Inspector or Kate Murphy might still be around.
Mary Helen edged her way through a crush of students changing classes. Despite Cecilia’s P.A. announcement to pray rather than gossip, the words “murder” and “professor” seemed to ring from each noisy group she passed. Trying hard to block out the conversations, she mounted the stairs to the second-floor office. Like returning to the scene of the crime, she thought. No time for melodrama, she reminded herself, nearing the top step. Joanna might be in trouble. Somebody had to do something about it.
A crack of light shone from under the door of room 203. Good! The police must still be there. Tapping lightly on the oak door, she noticed a small slip of paper attached to it. Half was pasted to the door jamb, half on the door itself-like a giant Band-Aid applied to conceal some gaping wound.
“Warning,” it read. “This is the coroner’s seal. Any person breaking or mutilating it is guilty of…”
She stopped. A razor-thin slit ran down the middle of the paper between the words felony and penitentiary. That’s enough for me. Whoever is inside shouldn’t be! As she turned to leave, the door opened a crack. Cautiously, Marina peeked out.
Her thick, black hair fell uncombed around her pale face. Tortoiseshell glasses accentuated the blue-black shadows under her eyes. Even those beautiful eyes seemed to have lost some of their turquoise hue, Mary Helen thought, shocked at the girl’s haggard appearance. Well, no wonder! She’s had quite a night.
“I just heard about your sister,” Mary Helen said. “I’m so sorry. If there is anything I can do…”
Marina’s large eyes filled with tears. She opened the door just wide enough for a person to squeeze through. “Come in, Sister,” she whispered.
Reluctantly, Sister Mary Helen ducked into the room, feeling like a spy coming in from the cold-wherever that was! At your age, you should have better sense, old girl, she thought, trying hard to block the words felony and penitentiary from her mind.
Quietly, Marina shut the door and leaned against it.
“Are you all right, dear?” the old nun asked. “I don’t want to bother you. I just thought the police might still be…”
“I was just looking for my contact lens,” Marina interrupted. Her voice had a hollow ring. “I thought maybe I dropped it here last night when I found…” The rest of her sentence dwindled into an awkward silence.
Well, I’ll be switched, Mary Helen thought, shaking her head. Contact lenses! No wonder her eyes were such a lovely turquoise blue. Let that be a lesson to you, old girl. Nothing is ever what it seems!
“That’s a shame!” Mary Helen said aloud, glancing around the outer office. Several file drawers were pulled open. Loose papers were spread on the floor. Manila folders were scattered across the desk top. The entire office had almost a ransacked look about it. The police must have done it. If Marina were searching for anything more than a contact lens, she’d know exactly where to look. After all, she was the professor’s secretary.
“It’s such a small thing…” Marina’s voice jerked her back.
“I hope you can find it in this mess,” Mary Helen said sympathetically. “May I help?”
Before Marina could answer, Leonel emerged from the professor’s inner office. His tall, muscular body blocked the entire doorway. “Hi, Sister,” he said, his face twitching with a nervous grin.
“Hello, Leonel.” Mary Helen tried to conceal her surprise at seeing him. “Helping Marina?” she asked.
“Yeah, Sister. She needs-a help.” Quietly, Marina crossed the room and slipped her thin hand into his.
Feeling a little like the proverbial third wheel, Mary Helen looked beyond the couple into the professor’s office. A chalk outline of the man’s body had been drawn on the rust-colored carpet. She saw the circle of blood, blackened and crusty now, fanning out from behind the spot where she had seen the bronze statue. She steadied herself against Marina’s desk. Just like all those detective programs on television, she told herself, trying to calm her stomach. This time it was real, however.
“Sit down, Sister, you no look so good.” Dropping Marina’s hand, Leonel grabbed Mary Helen under the elbows and led her to the bench.
“Poor devil.” Mary Helen shook her head.
Leonel sat down beside her. “Poor? No. Diabo? Ah, yes!” Clenching his teeth, he spat out the words. His sudden vehemence startled Mary Helen. “God let us be rid of the filthy animal.” He banged the bench. “And do you know what else this God did? He let the animal be killed by Dom Sebastiao.” Leonel laughed. To Mary Helen, the laugh had an almost hysterical pitch.
“By whom?” she asked, hoping her voice sounded normal.
“Dom Sebastiao. The statue.” He pointed to the thick X on the floor. “Now that is a good joke, huh? The savior of the Portuguese. Just like the professor. A savior of his people. That is what you all think, yeah? Savior? But you ask Marina.” He pointed toward the corner.
Mary Helen had almost forgotten about Marina. Turning, she faced the young woman. Marina, her face a white mask, crouched between the filing cabinet and the wall. She said nothing. Her eyes, wide with terror, pleaded with Leonel to stop. Mary Helen could almost smell her fear. Not so much of what Leonel would do, but of what he might say. What in the world was she so afraid of? What was going on?
“Jesus!” Leonel cursed softly. “Look at what time it is. I got to go to the kitchen.” Picking up his kitchen apron, he threw the bib over his head and tied the strings.
With an infectious grin, he gallantly extended his arm toward the nun. “Sister.” He bowed deeply. “May I show you to your coffee break?”
“But Marina’s contact lens. Shouldn’t I stay and help her look?”
“No, Sister,” he said, “she will look. I will come back later to help her.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure.”
Reluctantly, Mary Helen slid her arm through his. As they moved toward the threshold of room 203, she had the unmistakable feeling that she had stumbled into the middle of something, but hadn’t the foggiest idea what it could be. At a time like this, however, both she and Shakespeare had to agree that discretion was definitely the better part of valor. Silently, she left Leonel lead her from the professor’s office.
As he closed the door behind them, Mary Helen caught one last glimpse of Marina. The young woman moved slowly out of the corner. Wearily, she slumped into the high-backed chair behind the paper-spattered desk. Hunching forward, she covered her drawn face with her hands. Mary Helen could not remember the last time she had seen such a look of agony on anyone’s face.
Chatting amiably, as if the whole scene in the professor’s office had been part of a dream, Leonel escorted the old nun down the stairs and through the dim foyer.
The two stopped momentarily at the bottom of the front steps. Several students, heads down, coats clutched tightly, hurried past into the shelter of the warm building. Leonel took a long, deep breath of fog. Tiny droplets of moisture formed on the ends of his tight curls.
“Fog, like home,” he said.
“You lived by the ocean?” Mary Helen stuffed her freezing hands into her jacket sleeves.
“Yeah, my home was near Azurara, a small fishing village in the north.” Smiling down at her, Leonel put his hand under her elbow. Gently, he steered her along the edge of the main college building onto the access road leading to the kitchen service entrance.
“Many came to this country from around my village.”
“Oh?” She studied the rugged face.
“Yeah, Sister. Many. Marina, Joanna. Tony and Luis. Carlo and his brother Jose. The two Manuels.” He counted them off on his broad blunt fingers.
“Did you know Marina at home? Or have you just become… er”-Mary Helen stumbled for the right word-“friendly since you arrived here?” She hoped she didn’t sound too snoopy.
“It is a small village I come from. I know them all since we are children. I know Marina. She and Joanna. Not here, but in our village they are rich. I am not. They are educated. I am not. I could not marry her there. Here, I can. This is the land of-how you say?-opportunity.” Leonel beamed.
Mary Helen beamed back. She knew she was a hopeless romantic, but she loved the Cinderella story, even backwards.
A sudden gust of wind pushed against Mary Helen and twisted her skirt. At times like this I miss my long habit, she thought, goose bumps running up her legs. She was glad when they finally reached the door of the warm kitchen. Leonel held it open for her. Inside, the kitchen crew banged heavy pots against the stainless steel tables. Sister Therese’s high-pitched monologue dominated the din.
“I heard that Professor Villanueva helped them all to come to America,” Mary Helen said, hoping that Leonel would fill her in on some more of the background.
“Yeah, he help us!” Leonel’s eyes narrowed, and he spat viciously into the hard ground beside the kitchen stoop. “For a price, Sister. For a price.”
“A price? Money?”
“Money, yeah. And maybe more.”
“What do you mean ‘maybe more’?”
“I’m not sure. But now four are gone.”
“Gone? I don’t understand.”
“Poof!” He snapped his fingers, then turned the palm of his hand up, empty. “Gone. Without even ‘Adeus’! When I ask the professor, he says they went to L.A. to look for work. But why don’t we hear from them? And now, Joanna. Poor Joanna.”
“Perhaps she’s just visiting someone,” Mary Helen offered.
“We tried every place. No, she is gone, too.” He shook his head, a grim note in his voice. “Poor, nosy Joanna.”
Mary Helen was just about to ask “Why nosy?” when a Plymouth rounded the corner of the service road and screeched to a stop.
Headlights cut through the dense fog. The harsh squawk of the police radio drowned out the kitchen noises. Mary Helen and Leonel watched, dumbfounded, as both car doors swung open.
Inspector Gallagher grunted from behind the wheel. Kate Murphy jumped from the passenger side and walked toward them.
Protectively, Mary Helen stepped in front of Leonel. “What is it?” she asked, hardly recognizing Kate as the same smiling young woman from the night before. Everything about her now said “business.”
“Well, Sister,” Kate began in her official police voice, “I’m afraid we are going to have to ask Mr. da Silva to come downtown with us to answer a few questions.”
Kate looked over the nun’s head at Leonel. Fear had drained all the color from his face. He was as gray as the blistery fog.
“I’m afraid, sir, you’ll have to come with us,” Kate repeated. With the precision of a fine acrobatic team, the two inspectors whipped into action.
Quickly, Gallagher spread-eagled Leonel against the college building, patted down his sides, and slipped on the handcuffs. With a steady rhythm, Kate read him his legal rights, then grumbled something into the car radio. Gallagher wedged Leonel into the back seat.
Sister Mary Helen stood speechless, a phenomenon that many later remarked was most unusual. Kate Murphy walked toward her. “Are you all right, Sister?” she asked.
Mary Helen nodded. “But why Leonel?”
“We dusted that statue for prints, Sister, and his turned up.”
“Only his?”
“No, but his were the only ones that didn’t belong there. We understand he threatened to kill the professor. ‘Crush the life from him,’ was the direct quote.”
“But Kate.” Mary Helen reached over and touched the young woman’s forearm. “Leonel may have touched that statue, but he could not have killed anyone with it. Just look at his eyes-such gentle eyes.”
Kate compressed her lips. “Sister,” she said politely, “right now we are not looking at eyes; we are looking at motive and opportunity.”
Sister Mary Helen chose to ignore motive. “Did you check on where he was that night?”
“Yes,” Kate answered. “With Marina, he says. And she says so, too. They are each other’s alibi. Yet she was alone when you saw her. Claims Leonel stayed in his room while she went to the office to pick up some work. You thought someone was in the upper hall, right? Could have been he. Anyway, we’re taking him downtown for a few questions.”
“Ready, Kate?” Gallagher called from the car.
“Talk to you later, Sister.” Kate slid in beside him.
Even before she turned around, Mary Helen felt the silent stares of the kitchen help crowding the doorway. Their stained aprons covered the opening like a patchwork curtain. Only the small, black figure of Sister Therese, eyes wide, mouth shut, broke the pattern.
Even poor Therese is stunned into silence, Mary Helen thought as she turned back to watch the taillights of the Plymouth round the building.
Almost instantly, the kitchen burst into a babble, with Therese’s voice rising above the pack.
Forgoing her coffee break, Mary Helen walked down the driveway toward the Sisters’ Residence. Poor, poor Leonel! She knew he hadn’t killed the professor. When lined up beside motive and opportunity, nice eyes and instinct were hardly a logical argument. Mary Helen realized that. Yet she knew, as surely as she knew the sun would rise in the east, that Leonel was innocent. Well, old girl, she thought, squaring her shoulders, with the police making that mistake, the burden of proving it seems to be falling directly on you!
Opening the front door of the convent, she suddenly remembered why she had gone to the professor’s office. Joanna. She had forgotten to tell Kate Murphy that Joanna Alves was missing.
“Thanks, Sister.” Kate Murphy replaced the phone and walked across the Detail to the small interrogation room. She called Gallagher out. Reluctantly, he left Leonel.
“That was Sister Mary Helen,” she said, replacing her right earring.
“What did she want?”
“Seems she forgot to tell us that Joanna Alves is missing.”
“Who the hell is Joanna Alves?”
“The secretary’s sister. You know… Marina Alves-Joanna Alves.”
“How long?”
“Only overnight, but the sister is very worried. Called relatives, friends, everyone she can think of, and Joanna’s not with any of them. You don’t suppose something has happened to her?”
“Naw! She probably just has a boyfriend.”
“Wouldn’t her sister know?”
Gallagher yawned, then checked his watch. Most of the Detail had gone home for the night, and Kate was starting to perk. He yawned again. “I think we’ve got enough to hold this guy overnight. Let’s give him to the lads upstairs and get the hell out of here. We can question him again first thing in the morning, after we’ve all had a good night’s sleep.” He emphasized the “all.”
Kate didn’t answer.
Gallagher sighed. “What’s on your mind, Katie girl?”
“I was just trying to piece the day together.”
“Yeah?”
She flipped open her note pad. “Marina found the body. Swears she was with Leonel in his room until then. If she’s telling the truth, maybe we have the wrong guy in there.” Kate was thinking aloud. “Or, maybe she did it. But then, it doesn’t seem logical to hit him, then run out and raise such a commotion.”
“Who says women are logical?”
“No sexist jokes.” Kate’s blue eyes leveled on him.
Gallagher cocked his head toward the interrogation room.
“Far as I can see, the guy in there is our best bet so far. His prints are on the statue. His and Marina’s. She’s the secretary. Secretaries sometimes move things. Dust. But him? What are his prints doing on it? Which, if you remember, is why we picked him up for questioning in the first place.”
Kate chose to ignore the sarcasm in Gallagher’s voice. “He claims that Sunday night he was with Marina. And he might just be telling the truth about the prints. He could have helped Marina replace the statue. The shelf is high.”
“If not, he is a quick thinker.”
“Or maybe the two of them could have been in it together. He bashes the professor, then disappears.”
“Wouldn’t it seem more chivalrous for him to stay with the body and let her slink away?” Gallagher yawned again.
“Chivalry is clearly dead, Gallagher,” Kate said. “Besides, he would have no valid reason to be in the office.”
“True. The girl says they were together in his room up to just before she found the body. And she’s sticking to the story, which is one of the reasons we don’t have an open-and-shut case, Katie girl.”
Again, Kate chose to ignore the sarcasm.
She ran down her notes. “Let’s see, there was the janitor, Luis Neves-says he was sweeping at the time. Officers found a pile of dirt that looks like he is either very clever or very innocent. Tony Costa is the only other person who lives on the property, besides the nuns, and he claimed he was with about one hundred other Portuguese at a hang-out in Santa Clara. I checked it out. Bartender remembers him.”
“How come the bartender remembered one guy in a crowd that big?”
“Seems Costa is a regular. Plus he gets as belligerent as hell when he has had more than his share. So the bartender keeps an eye on him.”
Gallagher shrugged. “Figures. What about the nuns?”
Kate stared at him in disbelief. “They were all together in the Community Room. Several verified that. All, that is, except Cecilia, the president, who was at an important Board of Directors’ Meeting. Mayor’s sister-in-law was with her. It’s this shadow on the stairs, the one the old nun thinks she saw, that interests me. Now, I’ll bet that’s our murderer. Maybe one of the Portuguese the professor helped, but didn’t help enough. Maybe a disgruntled student he flunked.”
“Good thinking, Kate!”
“Anyway, in case our Leonel doesn’t work out, I’m getting a list of failing students from the Registrar’s Office. And Marina told me she’d put together a list of people Villanueva is known to have helped.”
“We can pick that up tomorrow.” Gallagher checked his watch again. The Homicide Detail was growing dim. “Let’s take the guy upstairs and get the hell outa here,” he said.
The two inspectors rode down in the elevator. “Do me a favor, will you, Kate?” Gallagher asked as they walked across the Hall of Justice parking lot.
“What is it, Denny?” Kate fumbled for her car keys, unlocked the door, and slid in.
“Will you handle that old nun?”
“Why?” Kate frowned.
“Because I’ve had one session with her already, Kate, and frankly, you two deserve each other.” He slammed her door shut.
Waving, Gallagher walked toward his car.
Kate giggled. Poor Denny. But then, he was not the only man who had trouble dealing with strong women. There had been her father. Poor Pa. Turning on her lights and windshield wipers, Kate merged into the downtown traffic. Fog had blunted the city. In a few minutes, she’d be home. Signaling left, she turned toward 34th Avenue-and Jack. He should be home already. She could hardly wait to tell him about her day.
On the way toward the avenues she passed the college. It had been nice going up there today, she thought. Seeing Sister Eileen and all the nuns again. She felt a little nostalgic. College had been such a safe, stable time in her life. Everything had been so certain. Pa reading the paper, ruling the household. Ma cooking, cleaning, loving every minute of waiting on them.
Everything had been so secure. That is, until her senior year. Pa had sent her to this small Catholic liberal arts college, so she would be prepared to take “a woman’s proper place in the home.”
“So as you’ll make some man a good wife and a good mother to his children,” he had said. Poor Pa. Kate had to laugh. He had deliberately chosen a small, safe, liberal arts college for her. Pa had counted heavily on the “arts.” Little did he realize that his choice would turn his only daughter, the apple of his eye, into a flaming liberal.
She remembered clearly the night when all the resentment she had built up toward her “proper place” burst into rebellion.
Pa and she had had a terrible row in the kitchen. “A regular Donnybrook,” Ma called it later, shaking her head.
“No daughter of mine is going to join the police force,” Pa shouted, his face red with anger. “I’d be the laughing-stock of the entire Department.”
“Oh, yes I am,” she shouted back. “As soon as I graduate.”
“I said, you are not! I forbid it!”
Stubbornly, Kate folded her arms.
Furious, her father had stormed from the kitchen, but not before he turned and shouted, “I wish you were ten years younger. I’d march you right upstairs and wallop a large dose of that stubbornness out of you!”
“Don’t be too hard on the girl, Mick,” Ma called from the sink. “Remember, the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree.”
“How can you stand him?” Kate asked her mother.
“Stand him? I love him.” Ma wiped her hands on her crisp apron. “And when you love someone, you can give a little.”
“I’ll never give an inch to any man,” Kate said.
“We’ll see,” Ma said. “In the meantime, Kate, do what you need to do. Pa will come round.”
“I love you, Ma.” Kate kissed her soft cheek.
“But remember, Kathleen, whatever you choose, it’s almost impossible to have your cake and eat it, too.”
So much had happened since that night. Kate had joined the police force. Poor Pa had died suddenly. Heart. Not long after, Ma followed him. Now, Kate was living in the old, peaked wooden house on 34th Avenue with Jack Bassetti. Ma had been wrong. So far, Kate was having her cake and enjoying every bite of it.
“Hi, hon,” she called, turning the key in the front door. From the entryway, she could see the light in the kitchen.
Eyes closed, lips puckered, Jack stuck his face around the corner of the small entryway. “Kiss me, Kate,” he said in his Charles Boyer accent.
Laughing, Kate pushed the front door shut with her foot. Eyes closed, she kissed Jack loudly on his puckered lips.
Before she could open her eyes, he wrapped her in a bear hug and carried her, feet dangling, into the warm kitchen.
Rocking her back and forth, Jack kissed her neck and ears. “I made spaghetti, salad, and pot roast, my love,” he whispered. “There is Dago red chilling in the fridge. Let us eat dinner, then I will eat you.”
“Put me down, you beast!” Kate pushed against his chest, which was covered with flour. “Why don’t you ever wear an apron?” she complained, dusting the white film off her blue plaid jacket. “And don’t you know red wine should be room temperature?”
“Sixteen hours over a hot stove, and all I get is bitch, bitch, bitch.” Teasing, Jack dabbed his eyes with a pot holder. Turning to the stove, he stirred the rich, red meat sauce bubbling in an iron pot.
“What a day I had, pal.” Kate slipped a butcher apron over her head and stood next to Jack at the stove. She stole a quick peek into the oven. The spicy aroma of Italian pot roast filled the cozy kitchen. She slipped her arm through Jack’s, and rested her head against his shoulder.
“I was on Holy Hill all day. Made me feel a little sentimental. It was such a nice, sheltered place to go to school.”
“ ‘Was’ is right. That homicide is big news.” Jack took the lid off the pot of boiling pasta and tested one strand.
“Yeah, the history professor. Talked to the old nun that reported the body. Quite a character. You’d enjoy her. And you know what Gallagher asked me as we were leaving the main hall?”
“What?” Jack held up a wooden spoonful of sauce for her to sample. His dark eyes waited for her reaction.
“Delicious. He asked me if I would do him a favor and handle the nun.”
“Why?” Jack put the spoon back into the pot.
“He says we deserve each other. She is quite a formidable lady. Sharp old gal. I like her. Has one of those faces that may not have launched a thousand ships, but she certainly is captain of whatever ship she’s on.
“But you know what I think his reason really is?” Kate kicked off her shoes.
“What?”
“I think he wants to sic the nun on us and our living arrangement. He doesn’t approve, you know.”
“He doesn’t! Hell, neither do I. Neither does my mother, speaking of formidable ladies!”
“Did your mother call again tonight?” Kate stiffened. She dreaded the phone calls from Mama Bassetti. Jack was always more insistent about marriage after one. “Marry the girl, Jackie! Irish is better than nobody. Start a family before you’re too old!” Jack never said so, but Kate was pretty sure that’s what Mama Bassetti said. And she knew, even if his mother had never called, that he wanted a family, too. She wasn’t sure just how much longer she’d be able to put him off.
Jack turned toward her. He always looked more than his six foot three when he was making a point, she thought. “Kate, why don’t you just marry me?”
Lovingly, Kate reached up and ran one hand through his curly, dark hair. She knew that would distract him. No sense having the argument again and spoiling a perfectly good dinner.
“I love you, Jack,” she whispered, running her long, slim fingers down the back of his neck. “And some day we will get married. But I’m not ready yet.”
Softly, she planted a kiss on his cleft chin, then one on each corner of his wide mouth. “Smile,” she coaxed.
Slowly, Jack’s face softened, and he grinned. Reaching behind, he turned off the gas burners on the old Wedgwood. “The hell with dinner, my love.” He poured them each a tall glass of red wine. “Dinner, we will eat later. Now, I will eat you!”
Playfully, Jack carried Kate into the old-fashioned sun porch off the kitchen. Laughing, they sank into the soft, chintz-covered couch. The Dago red on the kitchen table got warm.