Mary Helen overslept. She never overslept. She was surprised and, frankly, annoyed. When she awoke, the alarm clock said 10:10, yet her bedroom was still dark. One peek out the narrow window told her why. A thick cushion of fog blunted the peaks of the hills. Slowly, the fog was rolling down, blotting out the entire neighborhood. Only the tip of Sutro Tower pierced the denseness.
“Drooping fog as black as… whatever,” the old nun grumbled, unable to recall Shakespeare’s simile. But the “drooping” and “black” part was applicable enough. The chill in the room forced her to dress quickly. Pushing aside her polyester jackets, she pulled out the bulky, Aran knit sweater Eileen had brought her from Ireland on her last visit home. Today was definitely Aran Isles weather. The sweater would be perfect.
Slamming the heavy convent door shut behind her, she hurried across the campus toward the kitchen. The fog had changed to a light rain. Small groups of wind-blown students dashed past. Shivering, Mary Helen pulled the collar of the sweater around her ears.
“Hi! I missed you this morning. Are you feeling okay?” a cheerful voice asked. Anne! Blast! Mary Helen hadn’t heard her coming up from behind.
“I’m fine. I just overslept. This fog is downright depressing.”
“Last weekend when it was so hot, we were all wishing for it.”
“That was last weekend,” Mary Helen said, pulling her wool sweater even tighter around her.
Anne laughed. “You’re beginning to sound like a real native.”
That thought was even more depressing.
“Did you have breakfast?” Mercifully, Anne changed the subject.
“I’m on my way to get a cup of coffee now.”
“I wish I could join you. I talked with Marina at dinner last night, and there are some things I want to share.”
Share? Why don’t we just tell any more? Mary Helen wondered.
“But I have appointments all day long,” Anne said, checking her Mickey Mouse watch. “Can you stop by my office late this afternoon?”
“Did you find out more about Joanna?” Mary Helen couldn’t wait.
“Not really. That is, not what she was nosing into, but more about who she was nosing into it with!”
Untangling that sentence before her first cup of coffee was too much for Mary Helen, so she let it pass. “Atta girl,” she said simply. Anne winked, and took the short cut through a side door of the main college building to her office.
Sweater collar up, head down, Mary Helen swung the kitchen door open. With a short, shrill gasp, Sister Therese scooted back.
“I’m so sorry,” Mary Helen apologized, relieved she hadn’t struck the slight nun with the wooden door-she was counting on Therese’s novena. “How’s your novena going?”
“I finished today’s prayers,” Therese said, obviously thrilled that someone was interested. “Very early this morning.”
Did she really emphasize the very and early, Mary Helen wondered, glaring at the sparrowlike figure vanishing around the corner, or was it just my imagination? She poured herself a cup of strong black coffee.
Sister Mary Helen spent the better part of the day in the stacks of Hanna Memorial Library. Armed with a pencil and scratch pad, she commandeered a vacant carrel in the 914 section.
“What on God’s green earth are you doing back here?” Eileen whispered when she finally noticed her friend. Mary Helen was surrounded by three stacks of books, two tall and one short.
“Looking up Dom Sebastiao,” she said, scanning the index of one large, dusty volume.
“Who?”
“Dom Sebastiao. Remember? The fellow Leonel mentioned, the one whose statue killed the professor? I’ve never heard of him, and I’m curious.”
“Are you having any luck?” Eileen asked, picking up a thin volume from the shortest pile. Flipping to the index, she ran her stubby finger down the page.
“Not too much.” Mary Helen patted the two tall stacks of books. “I’ve been through both these piles,” she said. “I’ve just these left.” She pointed to the shortest stack.
“Not a mention here.” Eileen added her book to the “been-through” pile.
“Although I don’t know much, I know more than I knew,” Mary Helen said.
“Now, what is it you know?” Eileen leaned against the carrel.
Mary Helen ran down the scribbled notes on her pad. “I know Dom Sebastiao was a twenty-four-year-old king who sailed out of Portugal in 1578 to conquer Morocco from Mulei Abde Almelique. He took twenty-three thousand men with him. Seems the old counselors thought it was a crazy idea. Almelique didn’t look so kindly on it, either.”
“You can never tell these kids anything,” Eileen said.
“After one terrible battle in North Africa, it was all over. Only fifty soldiers escaped. Over eight thousand lay dead. The rest were taken captive.”
“What happened to Dom Sebastiao?”
“Last seen, he was fighting, sword in hand. His body was never recovered. For years people hoped he was alive and would return.”
“Interesting,” Eileen said.
“This is the interesting part.” Mary Helen read directly from her notes. “Sebastianismo became a cult in Portugal, one that still lingers on. It embodies not only all the yearning summed up in the word saudade, but also a leaning toward insane exploits based on the fantastic hope that by some miracle they might succeed.”
Clearing her throat, she continued, “Sebastianismo also involves a kind of messianic belief that one day there will appear a liberator from oppression.” Mary Helen put down her note pad. “Yesterday, Leonel told us it would be an honor to kill the professor with the statue. I guess he considered the professor the oppressor.”
“It seems he did.” Eileen examined the half-empty shelf next to the carrel. “Look at all that dust between 914.69 and 914.70!” she said. “Amazing, isn’t it? As long as you have all those books out, I think I’ll run and get my dust rag.”
Mary Helen’s eyebrows arched. “I’m talking murder; you’re talking dust?”
“I’ve murder up to here.” Eileen touched the top of her head, turned on her heel, and rushed to her desk for the rag and the Endust.
Good old Tidy-paws! Mary Helen remembered that cleaning, like walking, was one of Eileen’s panaceas. These days she must have the cleanest library in Christendom.
Mary Helen went back to skimming indexes. For an hour, she pored over everything in the 914.69 section, the 946.90 history section, the reference section, and even the encyclopedia. Finally, yawning, she stretched and left the stacks. From the main door, she waved good-bye to Eileen, who was dusting something at the circulation desk.
Slowly, Sister Mary Helen moved down the dark, high-arched corridor that ran between the library and the chapel. Her mind and muscles were cramped.
What she needed was some fresh air. But first she’d make a quick visit to the chapel-give Sister Therese a hand. Then she’d get her mystery book and, cold or no cold, sit outside and read.
The old nun pulled open the bronze chapel door. Immediately, she caught the comfortable aroma of incense mingled with wax. The sudden contrast between the lighted corridor and the dim chapel blinded her. Only the lone, red flicker of the sanctuary lamp shone in the semidarkness.
Genuflecting, Mary Helen slipped into a back pew. The chapel was warm and quiet. The late afternoon sun illuminated the majestic stained glass windows lining the west wall. For several moments she sat, breathing deeply, drawing in all the peace and serenity of the gothic eminence. When her eyes had finally adjusted to the light, Mary Helen noticed she was not alone.
In one of the front pews, before the main altar, a young woman knelt. She was hunched over, her forehead resting on the bench in front, her ebony hair fanned out.
Must have come in before I did, Mary Helen thought. Squinting in the dim light, she studied the woman. Probably a student. But the figure remained so still, so rigid, Mary Helen began to worry. That is a strange position to pray in, she thought, and must be terribly uncomfortable. Kneeling, she hunched over and pressed her own forehead against the bench in front. It took only a minute of testing the position for her to be convinced something was definitely wrong.
Rising from her pew, she hurried up the center aisle. She cleared her throat several times, hoping not to startle the young woman. The figure did not move. Very gently, she touched the thin shoulder.
With a thud, the woman’s head slid off the bench, and her body fell. It wedged between the bench and the padded kneeler. Both arms stuck straight up in the air. Mary Helen had read enough crime novels to know rigor mortis when she saw it. Yet the legs dangled loosely. Whoever had stuffed the stiffened body into the pew must have broken the rigor in her knees. Mary Helen retched.
Sightlessly, the young woman stared up at her. The right side of her skull had been smashed, and a sickening clot of dried blood was splashed across her delicate face. Mary Helen recognized the face-it was Joanna.
Those two thin legs hung as loosely as a rag doll. Joanna had died the death of a rag doll. Mary Helen closed her eyes, hoping to blot out the sight. Instead, an image of the professor lying in a bloody halo flashed before her.
Mary Helen didn’t remember screaming. Yet she must have. Her mouth was open, her throat dry and sore. An agonizing shriek reverberated through the nave and resounded in her ears.
She lurched down the middle aisle. Her footsteps hit hard against the waxed parquet squares, their echo ringing through the empty chapel.
She leaned against the heavy, bronze door. Calm down, old girl, she cautioned herself, trying to catch her breath. Think sensibly. First things first. Phone. Yes, phone. Where was the nearest phone? It took her a moment to remember. In Eileen’s library, of course.
Throwing open the chapel door, Mary Helen turned left and headed down the deserted corridor. Thank God most of the girls were gone. No sense in alarming everyone. This might be a dream. All this might be part of a long, cruel dream. By the time she reached the door of the library, she was panting.
“What happened?” Eileen asked as soon as she saw Mary Helen’s face.
“Let’s go into your office,” Mary Helen whispered, trying hard to keep calm. Several stragglers were studying at the long, oak table. “I don’t want to be overheard. I’ve found a body in our chapel.”
Eileen followed her into the small room. Closing the door, she sank into a chair. Her gray eyes were wide.
Mary Helen headed straight for the phone on the desk. Robotlike, she picked up the receiver and dialed O. “I found a body. I think it’s Joanna.” She stopped. Eileen blessed herself. “Yes, Operator.” Mary Helen’s voice was steady. “Please, may I have the police? Homicide, please. Yes, it is an emergency.”
Mary Helen hung up. Walking to the water cooler, she filled two Dixie cups. “I wish this was something stronger,” she said, offering one to her friend. Only then did she notice that her hand was trembling.
“Come, sit down.” Eileen patted the chair across from her.
Silently, the two nuns sat facing one another. Each sipped water from her paper cup. Both strained to hear the high-pitched screech of the police siren coming up Turk Street.
“You aren’t going to believe this, Denny.” Kate Murphy hung up the phone and quickly replaced her right earring.
“Try me.” Gallagher looked up from the stack of papers on his desk.
“That was Sister Mary Helen.”
“What’s up with her?”
“She found another body. A young woman in the college chapel.” Kate grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair.
“What the hell is this world coming to?” Gallagher sputtered, leading the way out of the Homicide Detail. “Is there no place sacred any more?” he asked to no one in particular. Following him, Kate smiled. Bizarre homicides always threw Gallagher into a barrage of clichés.
With sirens screaming from their vehicle, the two inspectors maneuvered their way through rush-hour traffic toward Mount St. Francis College for Women. “Wait till the papers get hold of this,” Gallagher said.
“Papers, nothing! Wait till the Chief hears. His daughter is an alumna, and the Mayor’s sister-in-law is on the Board of Directors!”
For a long time, the two nuns sat in heavy silence, waiting for the police to arrive. A sudden gust of wind howled against the metal weather stripping. Its mournful wail filled the small library office.
Quick tears welled up in Eileen’s eyes. They ran down her pudgy cheeks. “That’s the second death,” she said.
Mary Helen fumbled for a Kleenex. “Almost new.” She handed her friend two crumpled pieces of tissue. Eileen bent over and began to sob. Clapping her hands over her ears, Mary Helen let her weep.
Several minutes later, a car slammed to a stop in front of the building, and two doors banged shut. The hollow, metallic sound floated up to the silent office. Mary Helen peered out.
“They’re here.” And, thank God, she thought, they didn’t use the siren on the hill.
“Do you think we should go out to meet them?” Eileen asked.
“Better wait right here. They know where we are.”
“Have all the students left the library?” Eileen asked, dabbing her red-rimmed eyes. “I’d hate to meet any of them.”
From the half-glass office door, Mary Helen surveyed the reading room. “The place is”-she swallowed the urge to say dead as a doornail-“deserted.”
The main door of the library swung open, and Kate Murphy clipped across the long room toward the office. Gallagher stopped long enough to stuff his cigar stub into the metal cannister. Then he followed Kate. Mary Helen was relieved to see them both. Quickly she threw open the door. “Here we are,” she whispered. Her voice filled the vacant room.
“Sister, are you all right?” Kate asked as soon as she was close enough to get a good look at the old nun’s face. “You look as white as a ghost.”
“Fine.” Mary Helen wished the young woman had thought of another figure of speech.
“You said the body was in the chapel?”
“That’s right. In the front pew.”
Gallagher stepped back deferentially. “Sister, will you take us there, please?”
Sister Mary Helen took the lead. Silently, the other three followed her into the hall.
Long shadows webbed the walls and floor in the narrow corridor. The click of Kate’s high heels echoed through the silent building. A sudden chill ran up Mary Helen’s spine. How can a place be so alive and vibrant one minute, she wondered, and so dead and desolate the next?
When the four finally reached the chapel door, Gallagher flung it open. The familiar odor of wax and incense greeted them. They stepped inside. Slowly, the heavy door closed, leaving them adjusting to the semidarkness.
Everything looked so quiet, so peaceful, so ordinary. Maybe she had just imagined everything, Mary Helen hoped. Maybe it really hadn’t happened. Maybe… On the main altar, the sanctuary lamp sputtered and popped, throwing a finger of light on a thin, white arm. The body was there. She had not imagined it. Beside her, Eileen trembled. Her single sob filled the vast emptiness. Gallagher plunged down the middle aisle. “Get the overhead lights,” he ordered, loosening his tie.
“They are in the sacristy,” Eileen whispered, then sank into the back pew.
“That’s the room next to the altar.” Mary Helen pointed toward the small door to the right of the altar.
Pivoting, Kate hurried up a side aisle. Moments later, the electric candelabra flipped on overhead. Muted light flooded the nave.
“Sister, could you by any chance identify this young woman for us?” From the front, Gallagher’s voice echoed through the chapel.
Mary Helen faced her friend. Eileen’s color was gone. Yet her Irish jaw was firmly set, her gray eyes determined. “We’ve no choice but to be brave,” Eileen whispered.
“Then it’s brave we’ll be.” Mary Helen patted Eileen’s hand. Deliberately, Eileen rose from the hard pew. Steadying herself against the bench, she linked arms with her friend. Fighting down a sudden sweep of nausea, Mary Helen forced herself to accompany Eileen up the middle aisle toward the corpse.
The two nuns skirted the bony hand grasping lifelessly at the marble. They joined Kate and Gallagher in a small, tight circle hovering over the crumpled body.
“It’s Joanna. Joanna Alves,” Eileen whispered hoarsely. Moving back, she leaned against the altar rail.
I hope she didn’t see those thin dangling legs, Mary Helen thought, moving back with her friend. Gently she put her arm around Eileen’s shoulders.
“Are you two okay?” Gallagher asked the nuns. Without waiting for an answer, he turned toward Kate. “I’ll get the boys,” he said. “You take care of these two.”
Lumbering toward the side exit, Gallagher shook his head. “Jeez, is no place sacred any more?” he grumbled. Before he reached the exit, he pulled a fresh cigar from his inside pocket. He stuck it into the corner of his mouth. The exit door was only half closed when he struck a match against the outside chapel wall. Cupping his hands, he protected the flame from a quick gust of wind.
“Goddam,” he exploded. His curse rang through the chapel. “Goddam, no place is sacred any more!”
“Come on, Sisters, let’s go into the sacristy,” Kate said, rising from beside Joanna’s broken body. Mary Helen noticed Kate’s gaze pause sympathetically on each of their faces. “The boys will be here in a few minutes to take care of things,” she said. “We can talk inside. Besides, you two had better sit down for a few minutes. Murder isn’t your usual line.”
I hope to heaven she’s right, Mary Helen thought, letting Kate shepherd them across the sanctuary. “We’re both fine,” she reassured the young woman. She noticed, however, that when she stopped in front of the tabernacle to genuflect, her knees wobbled.
Once they were settled in the small anteroom, Kate turned toward Mary Helen.
“That’s the girl you reported missing, isn’t it?” Kate asked.
The old nun nodded her head. “She didn’t come home last Sunday night, and no one had heard from her since,” Mary Helen said. “And now we know why.”
“The deceased was the sister of Marina Alves, Professor Villanueva’s secretary?” Kate checked the facts with Eileen.
“Yes.” With the back of her hand, Eileen caught a single tear escaping down her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I can’t seem to stop crying.”
Without comment, Kate turned her attention toward Mary Helen. “How did you happen to find the body?” she asked.
Quickly, Mary Helen recounted her research on Dom Sebastiao and her pop-in visit to the chapel.
“Interesting!” was the only remark Kate made at the end of the entire recitation.
“I’ll tell you what else is interesting,” Mary Helen said. “That the old expression is true! You know, the one-‘It’s an ill wind that blows no good.’ ”
“What exactly do you mean, Sister?”
“At least one good thing has come from this tragedy,” Mary Helen said.
“And what exactly is that?” Eileen looked amazed.
“Leonel. I was right about Leonel. He couldn’t have killed the girl. He is still in jail.”
Kate studied Sister Mary Helen. “I hate to break this to you, Sister,” she said, leaning her head against the sacristy wall, “but your friend, Leonel, was released from the sixth floor this morning.”
Out on 34th Avenue, Jack Bassetti was busy preparing a candlelight supper. He’d taken the day off so he would have plenty of time. Tonight, he intended to propose to Kate. Again! He took the leaves out of the dining room table to make a small intimate circle.
Standing back, Jack admired his handiwork. The delicate Bavarian china looked both romantic and domestic. Just the right touch. He was glad he’d remembered the Waterford Crystal. The flickering candles caught the sharp cuts in the wineglasses. Kylemore, Kate had called the pattern. Named after a large abbey of nuns. Good touch. Furthermore, they had been her mother’s. A little sentimentality never hurt.
No flowers, Jack decided. That decision was easy for him to make. First of all, he didn’t know how to arrange flowers. Second, how could you hold hands across a table with flowers plunked right in the middle? Hand-holding was definitely in his plan. Flowers were out.
Mentally, Jack ran down his list: table set, wine cooling, martinis in glass pitcher in fridge, Chinese from Yet-Wah’s in oven. That last item bothered him. Take-out Chinese food lacked a certain romance. But, he reasoned, the Chinese people must propose to one another over egg roll. Look how many Chinese there were!
Atmosphere! That was the one thing missing. Jack pulled the long chain on the glass chandelier in the living room. Off! He lit the large candle on the coffee table. Perfect. Now to block out the noise of the traffic on Geary Street. He had just tuned in KFOG when he heard Kate’s footsteps on the front porch.
Gently, Jack planted a light kiss on her neck.
“Are you okay?” he asked. She looked exhausted.
“Yes, I’m okay. Just beat,” she said. Her slender body sagged against him. She let him take off her jacket and put her purse and gun in the hall closet.
“You’ll never believe the day I had.”
“You’ll never believe the night I have planned,” Jack said, taking her in his arms. Slowly, he moved her in a smooth dance step from the entrance hall into the living room.
“Good grief, pal.” Kate gazed around the candlelit living room. “Did we forget to pay the P.G. and E.?”
Ignoring her remark, Jack hummed softly. Getting her to accept his proposal wasn’t going to be any easier even with his added romantic ambience. Maybe he should wait till she had a better day. Hell, he thought, twirling her into a dip, when could he ever count on Homicide having a good day?
“My feet are killing me,” Kate whispered.
“Let me sweep you off your feet,” Jack whispered back.
“Let me take my shoes off.”
Good old practical Kate, Jack thought, his eyes following her up the stairs; it was part of her charm-and part of what made her so damn frustrating.
While she was getting her bedroom slippers, Jack poured the martinis.
“To us,” he said, handing her a long-stemmed glass.
“To us.” Kate sank into the overstuffed couch by the front windows. Jack sat beside her. Silently, they each took a sip. The candle threw soft shadows across Kate’s freckled face. Putting her glass on the coffee table, she began to twist a strand of hair around her index finger, then push it into a tight curl. Jack recognized the infallible sign. She was thinking hard.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
“You’ll want your money back.”
“Try me,” Jack said, afraid she might be right.
“I know we agreed to try not to bring work home.”
“You must admit rape and murder do not make for relaxing dinner conversation.”
Kate smiled. “But I just can’t get today off my mind.”
Jack took another sip of his martini. His eyes paused on her face. “Okay,” he said, “let’s have it. What happened?”
“We had another murder at the college. Hasn’t it made TV yet?” Kate picked up her glass and twirled the long stem between her thumb and forefinger. “A young woman, Joanna Alves. She was the sister of Professor Villanueva’s secretary. Sister Mary Helen found her in the chapel-head bashed in.”
“Hot damn,” Jack swore softly. “Any suspects?”
“Not really. Leonel da Silva is our best bet so far. At least he had motive and opportunity to kill the professor. He won’t even deny he did it. But we don’t have enough to charge him. So this morning he gets out, and this afternoon the Alves girl is dead.” Kate took another sip of her martini. “And Sister Mary Helen may drive me bonkers.”
“How come?”
“She’s got her mind made up he couldn’t have done it.”
“Maybe she knows something you don’t know.”
“No. I don’t think so. It’s her intuition. She says he has ‘nice eyes.’ ”
“Did you tell her about Baby-Face Nelson?”
“I was tempted to-but you know something, Jack?” Kate shrugged her shoulders. “She’s right.”
“Right?”
“He does have nice eyes. Something is bothering the guy for sure,” she said. “Can’t put my finger on it, but he just doesn’t have the look of a murderer.”
Jack drained his glass. He was just about to launch into a firm, logical argument about the “criminal look” being a fallacy, but he thought better of it. This was not at all the way he had planned the evening. Tonight he wanted romance, not logic. He decided to make the best of the situation. Maybe he could back into the proposal.
“That nun is sharp,” he said. “Maybe she’s right. Got the feeling she doesn’t miss much.”
With the long glass rod, Jack restirred the pitcher of martinis. He topped Kate’s glass and refilled his own. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she picked up something between you and me.”
Kate’s mouth took on a straight-lipped fix. Jack recognized the fight sign. Go easy, he thought, lying back on the soft couch. Gently, he ran the heel of his hand up her rigid spine.
“Is that what this is all about?” Kate gestured toward the darkened living room. “Meeting that nun yesterday made you feel guilty about us living together, so you are going to ask me to marry you? Again!”
“Yes and no,” Jack answered calmly.
“What do you mean-‘Yes and no’?”
“Yes, it is all about asking you to marry me, again.” Jack put special emphasis on the again. “And no. No one made me feel guilty. I feel guilty all by myself. What I can never figure out is why the hell you don’t.”
Kate stared indignantly. Jack met her stare. “Do you know there is an official name for people like us?” She did not answer. “It’s POSSLQ: Persons of Opposite Sex Sharing Living Quarters.” He paused dramatically.
A smile played at the outer edges of Kate’s tight lips. Humor was always the chink in her armor. Jack pressed his advantage. “It’s true,” he said. “The Census Bureau invented the word. Do you want to go through life being my POSSLQ? On Valentine cards I can write “Roses are red, Violets are blue. Will you be my POSSLQ?”
Kate giggled. Relaxing, she kicked off her slippers and curled her legs up on the couch. Jack filled her empty glass. Snuggling closer to him, she began to twist a few strands of hair. Jack put his arm around her. Neither spoke for several moments.
Finally, Jack broke the silence. “Kate, I love you,” he said. “You love me. Why not get married?” If he couldn’t get her with romance, maybe he could do it with pure reason.
“Did your mother call again?”
“No,” he said, “but even if she had, it’s me who wants to marry you, not my mother.”
“I’m too tired to get into this tonight,” she said.
“That’s an excuse.”
“Maybe. But I can’t explain it Maybe I’m not so sure myself. I know I love you. When and if I marry, there would be no one else I’d even consider.” She smiled at him.
Damn that melting smile, Jack thought, pulling her a little closer.
“I love my job,” she said. “I worked to get where I am, and I do it as well as any man!”
“Some things you do much better,” he said, hoping to lighten her mood.
“I’m not kidding!”
“Maybe we could work something out.” The suggestion sounded feeble even to him.
“Maybe you could stay home and have the babies?” she said. Swinging her legs off the couch, Kate shoved her bare feet into her fuzzy blue bedroom slippers and pushed herself up off the couch.
No, this wasn’t the way Jack had planned the evening at all. He’d give it one more try. Reaching up, he caught her hips and pulled her onto his lap. He ran his hand down her thigh. “That is a possibility we haven’t considered.”
Turning toward him, Kate nestled comfortably into all his hollows. He could feel her body begin to relax. She fits perfectly, Jack thought, his arms enveloping her. I just can’t let her go. He nuzzled his face into her fragrant hair. The blunt edges tickled his nose and chin.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you, too,” she whispered back, “and I can smell the rice burning.” Kate ran the tips of her fingers gently up the back of his neck.
Jack tingled all over. “What the hell,” he said. “Who likes rice, anyhow?”