When Sister Mary Helen awoke on Monday morning the entire college was shrouded in rolling fog. Small halos shone around the campus lights. Bundling up in her heavy sweater, she trudged up the hill toward the chapel for the six-thirty Mass. Wisps of fog clung to the lowest branches of the evergreens. Shivering in the dampness, she kicked at a stone in her path.
“Eighty percent of all people hate Monday morning,” she muttered aloud, then smiled in spite of herself.
It had been years since she had thought of that little-known statistic. As a matter of fact, it had been the conclusion one of her eighth-grade students had arrived at in his rather novel science project more than twenty-five years ago. She couldn’t remember what method the youngster had used to make this judgment or how many people he had surveyed. She wasn’t even sure it was true. But the longer she lived, the more inclined she was to attest to its validity.
As soon as she had finished breakfast, Sister Mary Helen left the dining room. Outside, the wet fog made her face tingle and her nose and eyes run. The sides of the hill were so socked in that, if she hadn’t known better, she might have thought the City had completely disappeared. Like Erma.
Erma’s uncharacteristic disappearance, followed by her equally uncharacteristic phone call, the apartment, the basement of the bistro, her children-all crowded Mary Helen’s mind. Nothing jibed, and everything reminded her of the missing woman.
Her common sense told her Erma was fine and, although she wanted to help, apparently Erma was dealing with her problems the way she thought best. Not necessarily the way Mary Helen would deal with them. Why even fifty years ago, she remembered with a smile, the two had differed on something as insignificant as how to approach their history project. Ostensibly the current situation was resolved. She would go right over to the convent and call Inspector Honore. But why did she continue to feel so uneasy?
Sister Mary Helen was the first one to reach the convent after breakfast, so the building was deserted. A foghorn bleated in the distance. She used her key to open the heavy front door. She was determined to place her call to the inspector, go straight to her room, make her bed, and then hurry over to the alumnae office and make up for lost time. To put it bluntly, she would strictly adhere to minding her own business.
That would be the sensible thing to do. But as soon as she stepped inside she knew she wouldn’t do the sensible thing. An empty convent, of course, meant an empty phone booth. The temptation was too great. She would contact Inspector Honore, of course, and a phone call or two to the OWLs would certainly be in order and perhaps a short call to Ree. Just to see if they had heard anything more. If they hadn’t, nothing was lost. If they had, how much easier it would be to keep her mind on her own business.
Before any of the other nuns appeared, Mary Helen went into the narrow convent phone booth. The directory was open to B-Boris-Botvin-and Boscacci’s number was underlined.
Poor devil. Something else must be broken, she thought, glancing at her watch. It was far too early to call Missing Persons. The OWLs, she knew, would be up. She dialed Caroline’s number, letting it ring fourteen times before she admitted to herself that Caroline wasn’t home.
Noelle answered on the second ring. No, she hadn’t heard anything new. Yes, she would let Mary Helen know the moment she did.
Lucy, too, was home and seemed genuinely glad to hear from Mary Helen. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation on Thursday,” she said, “about Ree’s illness. You remember I told you that Erma never said anything directly. Yet there were some things I couldn’t help surmising.”
“Oh?” Mary Helen could feel her heart quicken.
“You were right about Marie, I think. All weekend I’ve been mulling over the things Erma did tell me throughout the years. As I said, she never was specific, but I always had the impression that something had happened to Ree when she was a youngster. Something Erma was reticent to talk about, and that after it-whatever it was-the poor kid was never quite the same.” Lucy paused for breath.
“Do you know anything about Mr. Finn?” Maybe there was some truth in what Ree Duran was saying.
After what seemed like a long time, Lucy answered, “Nothing, really, except that he was a good friend of Erma’s husband, and ever since Tommy died he has been very good to her.”
“Good in what way?”
“Oh, he kept her working after she should have been retired; he continued to lease her the apartment at the same rent. It is almost…”
“Almost what?” Mary Helen asked as Lucy hesitated.
“Almost as if their relationship is…” She hesitated again. “Is more than just that of old family friends.”
Maybe it is, Mary Helen thought, feeling even more uneasy. “Her children all seem to dislike him, you know. If he’s so good to their mother, I wonder why.”
“I’ve often wondered that myself,” Lucy said, then added cheerfully, “but none of us chooses her offspring!”
“Speaking of offspring, did you remember anything else?” Mary Helen was fishing. “You mentioned the other kids having problems.”
“Oh, the boys? I can’t remember exactly what Erma said, but I knew she was concerned about Junior’s drinking and Buddy’s smoking of funny cigarettes.” Mary Helen could hear the telephone lines clicking while Lucy thought.
“Or was it the other way around?” she said finally.
Although it didn’t make any sense, Mary Helen dialed Erma’s apartment. Suppose we are all worrying about her and she’s decided to come home, she thought, listening to the hollow ring. She nearly dropped the receiver when someone answered.
“Hello,” a groggy voice said. It took her a moment to realize it was Mr. Finn.
“Excuse me, I must have dialed incorrectly,” she said. “I was calling Erma’s apartment.”
“This is Erma’s apartment,” he slurred, without any explanation.
“Is she home?” Mary Helen’s heart raced expectantly.
“No.” There was a long pause. Even in his fuzzy state, Finn must have realized some explanation was due. “I miss her,” he said. “I was just here so I’d be near where she was.” The phone went dead.
From the hallway Mary Helen could hear the quick, unmistakable slap of Sister Therese pacing. She must be waiting to use the line. If Mary Helen dialed while she was at the end of the hallway, Therese would think it was still the same call. Quickly, she dialed Ree’s number, hoping she’d be talking by the time Therese paced back by the door. Fortunately the woman answered right away.
Feeling as though she had pulled a coup, Mary Helen identified herself. Ree sniffled.
“How are you feeling?” Mary Helen asked, remembering Ree’s cold.
“Terrible!” She blew her nose. Right into the receiver, from the sound of it.
“You did hear the good news about your mother?” Mary Helen asked, determined to cheer up Erma’s daughter.
“What news?”
“That she called Mr. Finn.”
Marie coughed. “I heard it, but I don’t believe it.”
“Pardon me?” Mary Helen wondered if she’d heard correctly.
“I don’t believe it!” Ree shouted without, Mary Helen noticed, a sniffle or a cough. “I’ve been thinking about it since I heard. Mommy would have called me, not him. She would know how upset I am. Yesterday I called Auntie Barbara. She thinks so, too, and she’s worried. She says I should call that policeman and tell him.”
In her mind’s eye, Mary Helen could see Inspector Honore’s face when he received that call. Poor fellow! On the other hand, she didn’t blame Barbara Quinn for being worried. The whole episode was so unlike Erma. Furthermore, if two of them expressed their concern to the inspector, he might give it more credence.
Outside the phone booth, she could hear Therese’s pacing quicken, her circling narrow. Time was limited. Any moment, Therese would pop her head in the booth, smile stiffly, and ask, “How much longer will you be on the line?”
“Why would Mr. Finn lie to us about the call?” Mary Helen asked, hoping Ree wouldn’t have an answer that made any sense. She had called wanting her own uneasiness to be relieved, not heightened.
“I don’t know.” Ree blew her nose. “All I know is Mommy said to look at the picture of the Madonna.”
Replacing the receiver, Mary Helen sat staring at the phone. For a moment she wondered why she’d given in to the temptation to call. To make herself feel better, of course. But if anything, she felt worse. Wasn’t it Mark Twain who had said, “It is easier to stay out than to get out”?
How right you were, old boy, she thought, pushing open the phone-booth door.
“At last!” Sister Therese sniffed and swept past her to the phone. Watching her, Mary Helen smiled. She couldn’t help thinking of that old expression-how did it go?-“She jumped on it like a duck on a June bug.”
Well, if nothing else worthwhile had come of her phone-calling, she had at least given the Boscaccis a twenty-minute reprieve.
“So there you are!” Eileen greeted her in the convent hallway. “You disappeared in a bit of a hurry.”
From the inflection in Eileen’s voice, it could be hard for strangers to tell if that was a statement or a question. Knowing Eileen, however, she knew exactly which it was.
“I wanted to make some phone calls.” Mary Helen shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose and stared for effect. “Private phone calls.”
Opening her gray eyes wide, Eileen stared back. “I can’t get good old Erma Duran off my mind either.”
Mary Helen winced. When would she ever learn? Trying to fool Eileen was hopeless. Trying to intimidate her was hopeless squared.
“Did you find out anything new?” she asked.
“A few things,” Mary Helen admitted. “For instance, Lucy Lyons led me to believe there could be some truth in what Ree told us last week. Mr. Finn was in Erma’s apartment, either asleep or in his cups, or both. And Marie Duran-Ree-thinks Finn is lying about her mother’s call.”
Eileen pursed her lips and frowned. “Oh, dear!” she said. Suddenly she brightened. “As they say back home, ‘bad news comes in threes.’ ” She counted on her chubby fingers: “Lucy, Finn, and Marie. The next news you hear will be good news!”
“I hope you’re right,” Mary Helen said. A cold draft whipped down the convent hallway. She shivered.
“Someone must be walking on your grave,” Eileen whispered.
Mary Helen scowled. “Someone simply opened the back door. Always-prepared Sister Therese, no doubt, is unlocking it for Allan Boscacci.”
“To each her own,” she said.
The groan of the foghorn echoed through the building, reminding both nuns that the shoreline had vanished beneath the dense blanket of gray. But Mary Helen assured herself that the shore was there under the shifting fog. Just as the answers to Erma’s sudden disappearance were there somewhere under the confusion that surrounded it.
Eileen might be wrong about her shivering, but she hoped her friend was right about the next bit of news being good. Mary Helen had several items on her list of things to do today, but they would just have to wait. Right then and there, she decided to spend the morning in the Hanna Memorial Library. She’d do some research on Erma’s Madonna. If the woman had said to look there for answers, perhaps someone should. But first she must phone Inspector Honore and tell him Erma was at least alive.
Hearing from Don Juan Ron the first thing on Monday morning did nothing to improve Kate Murphy’s disposition. “Hey, you don’t even have a case here!” She knew she sounded short-tempered, but it had been a bad night. Besides, she was still annoyed with him from last Friday. “And, furthermore, why didn’t you tell me you had heard from the lady before I made a fool of myself-”
“Because I just found out this morning,” Honore interrupted, “when the Sister called me.” She heard him crack his gum. “But the whole thing just doesn’t set right.”
“Why are you calling me? If you don’t have a case, then surely we don’t.”
“Excuse me!” Honore’s mood didn’t sound too terrific either. “I just thought since these nuns are friends of yours…”
Kate didn’t like his tone. In fact, much as she hated to face it, this morning she didn’t like anything or anybody. “Listen, Ron,” she said as patiently as she could, “I just got here. I still have my coat on. Let me call you back in an hour or so.”
“Better yet, Kate”-she could tell that Honore, too, was trying to simmer down-“why don’t I get some deli sandwiches and pick you up around noon? We can have lunch out by the Marina. That way we can eat, talk, and envy the way the other half lives.”
Despite herself, Kate laughed. Honore pressed his advantage, “I’ll even spring for some potato chips, those natural ones,” he said, displaying some of the charm that had made him a legend.
“Make them the Hawaiian kind,” Kate said, “and you have a date.”
“Was that our favorite missing person again? Or did I mistake the vibes?” Gallagher asked when she hung up.
“Let me get a cuppa, Denny. Then we’ll talk.” Kate walked slowly to the coffee urn at the back of the detail. Relax, relax, she told herself. You can’t bring your personal life to the job. But it was pretty hard not to.
Last night she’d realized that the honeymoon was definitely over. After they had come home from the Bay-to-Breakers Race, she and Jack had fought. He’d even raised his voice. Usually patient Jack had hollered at her! She could feel tears sting her eyes.
“You’re taking your goddamn frustration out on me,” he had yelled. “And what’s even worse, you’re making yourself miserable.”
She couldn’t even remember what had started the quarrel. Although if she were perfectly honest, she knew wanting to be pregnant was at the bottom of it. She also knew, even as she shouted back, that he was right. That didn’t make how she felt any easier. If anything, it made it worse. Even this morning there was still a coolness between them.
“Bad weekend?” Gallagher asked when she sat down.
Kate nodded, reluctant to talk about it. The last thing she wanted to do was cry. Careful not to burn her tongue, she took a tiny sip of coffee. She could feel her partner’s eyes riveted on her. Doubtless he was debating whether or not to let it lie. She braced herself, sure of what his decision would be.
“You and Jack have a fight?”
“Last night, to be exact. How did you know?” Hastily Kate brushed a tear from her cheek.
“How did I know? I’ve been married as long as you’ve been alive. I know the signs.’ He offered her a piece of the Danish he had in a paper bag. “It happens in the best of families. Couples who don’t fight don’t make it That’s a well-known fact.”
Gallagher stopped to take a bite of the sweet roll, chew, and swallow. “The important part is, did you make up?”
Kate shook her head.
“Oh, you should make up. Making up is the best part of fighting.” He licked raspberry off his fingers. “Don’t worry. By tonight old Jackie-boy will be full of remorse.”
Kate knew her partner said that to make her feel better. Somehow it didn’t.
Inspector Ron Honore picked Kate up promptly at noon. A few minutes later they were parked at the Marina Green. Honore had pulled the car in facing the Bay. Even if they were going to see how the other half lived, he obviously had no intention of staring at their homes while he ate.
Following the time-honored rule that a diet drink cancels out calories, he handed her a poor boy and a diet Pepsi. All morning Kate had been so filled with a dull ache that she hadn’t realized how hungry she was. She chewed in silence.
In front of them, joggers and kite flyers, oblivious of the weather, enjoyed the wide apron of lawn around the yacht harbor. Behind them, along Marina Boulevard, were the luxurious two-story stucco homes with their million-dollar views of Alcatraz, Angel Island, and the Golden Gate Bridge. Although today the islands were barely visible and a wall of fog had nearly obliterated the bridge. Only the bright orange tips of the trusses pierced the grayness. Kate wondered foolishly if couples constantly surrounded by such changing beauty ever fought.
“This thing is really starting to bug me, Kate.” Honore wiped mayonnaise from the side of his mouth and broke into her thoughts. “According to your friend Sister Mary Helen, Al Finn heard from the missing woman last Thursday.”
Kate tried to sound interested. “So what’s bugging you? She’s no longer missing.”
“Technically you’re right. This one is solved. That’s all I need, you’re thinking. But the daughter, Marie, signed the missing-person report. She claims Finn is making it up, In fact, she called me this morning right after the nun did to tell me so.”
Kate swallowed the hunk of sourdough roll that she had been chewing. “Why not get the phone number from Finn and just call the woman back?”
“Brilliant! And I thought of that too.” Honore wadded up the paper napkin, dug in the bag, and pulled out another sandwich. “Want half?” he offered.
Mouth full, Kate shook her head. At least the mystery of why the seams in Honore’s suit jacket were straining was solved. “So why don’t you call?” she asked again.
“Because Finn said the woman wouldn’t leave a number.”
“Isn’t that a little odd?”
“It seemed a lot odd to me, but Finn tells me she doesn’t want her kids to find her. My common sense tells me,” Honore said, “to forget the whole thing. But in my gut”-he pointed to his belt buckle-“it doesn’t feel right.”
Kate resisted the urge to say that maybe it was the second poor boy and not the case that was affecting his gut. “That happens,” she said instead. “So what can I do for you?”
“Just listen, mostly. Tell me what you think.” Honore paused for a large swallow of Pepsi. “Since I last talked to you, I’ve double-checked. Finn, as far as the computer is concerned, is a good, upstanding citizen. Too good to be called a liar, if you know what I mean. Not married, no dependents. In the neighborhood they tell me he gambles a little at the track-nothing too big. Loses mostly, but the guy can cover his debts. Sometimes slowly, but he covers. Also, I hear he likes women. But the old geezer’s entitled, right?”
Kate rewrapped the second half of her sandwich for later. Maybe she wasn’t as hungry as she’d thought “What women?” she asked.
“No mention of the Duran woman, if that’s what you’re wondering about. If there is anything there at all, the two of them are being very discreet. As far as the computer and the neighbors are concerned, that woman is a solid-gold saint. Pays her bills, keeps appointments, helps people out.
“Now her three kids, on the other hand-they get mixed reviews, all bad. But the daughter is more to be pitied than censured, as the old lyric goes.”
“It’s no wonder Mama doesn’t want to hear from them,” Kate said.
“Right, except that the bigger conflict seems to be between Finn and the woman’s kids, especially the daughter, this Marie. She is sure he is guilty of something, even if there isn’t anything concrete to go on.”
“It sounds to me more like a case for a family counselor than for Missing Persons.” Kate picked up several crisp brown crumbs that had fallen on the seat of the car and put them in the deli bag.
“You haven’t had the chance to see any of these people, I guess.” Honore wadded up his second napkin.
“As a matter of fact, I did meet Finn. Gallagher and I stopped by after work the other night.”
“That’s what you meant this morning by making a fool of yourself.” Honore looked so pleased that for a moment Kate was afraid he was going to hug her. “Well, what did you think?”
“To tell you the truth, the guy seemed nice enough. Cooperative, et cetera.”
“Did you have a chance to look around?” Honore stopped. “Of course not. How could you? What excuse would you use to go nosing through the guy’s restaurant?”
“He didn’t ask for any, so we didn’t give any.”
This time Honore did reach over and hug her. It was warm and hard and so unexpected that Kate was too startled to resist.
“Sorry,” Honore said, suddenly aware of what he was doing. He ran his hand over his bald head. “I hope you don’t think…”
Kate shook her head, debating whether or not to tell him that the only thing she did think was, I wish you were Jack. She decided to spare his ego.
Regaining his practiced cool, Honore cleared his throat. “Kate, you’re a real pal,” he said. “Did you find anything?”
“Nothing significant.” Kate, too, was all business. “Only that Finn’s bistro has a fairly clean kitchen, a damp basement, and that he offered to give one of Erma’s sons enough money to go to St, Louis to look for his mother. Or so he said.”
Deep in thought, the two stared out over the Marina. Dozens of blue and white yachts bobbed gently in their berths. Hungry gulls circled the masts, then, wheeling over the grass, landed on the piers, impatient for the chilly lunchtime crowd to go back to work.
Several silent walkers bundled up against the cold clip-clopped along the broad sidewalk. Watching a sweatsuited mother pushing a toddler in a stroller, Kate felt a twinge of envy and an urge to phone Jack.
“What do you think?” Honore asked finally.
“I think I had better get back to work,” she said, her tone brisk.
“No, about this case, I mean.” He offered her a piece of gum, which she declined. Honore had changed flavors. Kate couldn’t imagine that Juicy Fruit would taste any better on top of salami and mortadella than spearmint. It might be even worse!
“I don’t think there is any case, Ron. Unless you found something in the Duran woman’s apartment to indicate that she left under duress.”
Honore shook his head and shoved a stick of gum into his mouth. “I was in the apartment. Nothing there. No signs of a struggle. Everything in order, neat as a pin. In fact, that’s the funny part. She didn’t even unpack from her trip to New York or take any clothes with her to St. Louis, according to the daughter anyway. Everything is there, including that medal the nun found. Much as I hate to admit it, I’m beginning to agree with the kid, and I use the term lightly. Something is out of sync.”
“I agree.” Despite herself, Kate was getting interested. She began to twist a thick lock of hair. “A woman who is exact about paying bills, keeping appointments, whose apartment is as neat as a pin, would not go off without putting her affairs in order. And no woman in her right mind would go away without putting some clothes and makeup in a suitcase.”
“Unless something spooked her and she ran.” Honore hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “But strictly speaking, that’s not a police matter. Apparently she isn’t missing. Or harmed.”
“True. I guess the only thing you can do, Ron, is let it go.”
“I wish that daughter would stop calling me to talk about some damn picture.”
“What picture?”
“You haven’t seen the apartment, have you?” Honore checked his watch. “I could get you there and back to the Hall in forty minutes.”
“I’d need to make a phone call first.”
“I’ll stop at the Safeway.” He motioned vaguely toward Gas House Cove. “I know they have a pay phone in their parking lot.”
Honore looked so eager that Kate didn’t have the heart to turn him down. Her phone call was quick. Jack, his office said, was out.
“It’s only Our Lady of Perpetual Help.” Kate stood next to Honore in Erma’s icy bedroom. Finn had been most accommodating about letting them in. “There’s an icon like that in almost every Catholic church in the City. What did the daughter say about it?”
“She said the secret to her mother’s disappearance is in that picture. Now what the hell do you think that means?”
Kate shrugged. “Could she be a religious nut?”
“Beats me. Why?”
“They can be the worst kind.” Despite her skepticism, Kate couldn’t help taking the picture off its shelf in the corner. It was your ordinary, run-of-the-mill religious-goods store print backed with brown paper. Nothing fancy about the frame either.
“I’ve already taken it apart and checked for messages, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Honore said, watching her run her hand over the paper backing.
“Maybe there is something in these Greek letters.” She pointed to the characters in each of the upper corners.
Honore shook his head. “I called the priest in my parish to check. The writing is only the abbreviations for the four figures in the picture. It stands for”-he fumbled in his jacket pocket for a slip of paper-“Jesus Christ, Mother of God, and the two archangels, Michael and Gabriel.” Popping his gum, he slid the paper back into his pocket.
“Hm,” Kate replied, only because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. The eyes of the Madonna clasping the hand of the Child gazed at her sympathetically. Or was it her imagination? Inexplicably, her scalp prickled. All at once the empty room seemed hollow and damp. The tomblike silence was shattered by a car backfiring. Kate jumped.
“Steady, girl.” Honore studied her face. “You look pale. Feeling okay?”
“Maybe it’s the salami,” she said. “Or maybe it’s a guilty conscience.” She checked her wristwatch. “I’ve got to get back to the Hall, or Gallagher will be reporting me as missing.”
To satisfy Honore, Kate did a cursory search of the bedroom, closet, and drawers. She even looked under the bed.
“What’s this?” she asked, flipping through a black binder she found leaning against the leg of the night-stand.
“Looks to me like some kind of diary or journal.” Honore shrugged. “But nothing seems to be written in it.”
“Unless,” Kate said, noticing the dustlike traces of paper, “someone has torn the pages out.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Gallagher growled the moment Kate walked into the Homicide Detail.
“Here comes Miss Popularity now,” O’Connor called from the corner.
Although she had no idea what he meant, Kate shot him a dirty look on general principle.
“You know very well where I’ve been, Denny,” Kate said. “Did something happen?”
“Did something happen?” He ran his hand across his bald crown. “We had a goddamn chocolate chip in here dancing. Left you that bag.” He pointed to a polka-dot bag of cookies perched on the corner of her desk.
“Then the goddamn florist delivered that.” A long, narrow white box tied with red satin ribbon lay across her desk blotter.
“What’s this all for?” Kate fumbled with the small envelope from the florist.
“Since I know it’s not your birthday or your anniversary”-Gallagher rose, hitched up his belt, and moved toward the cookie bag-“all I can figure is that must have been some fight you guys had. I think it means your hubby is sorry.”
Turning her back to the detail, Kate slipped the enclosure card out of the envelope. “If you want to make up, I have some ideas,” it read. “For more details, meet me at the yellow peaked-roof house, corner of 34th and Geary, 5:30 sharp. Love Jack.”
Kate could hardly wait!
One peek through the beveled glass door of the Hanna Memorial Library and Mary Helen knew finals week at Mount St. Francis College had begun in earnest. The place bulged with students hunched over long, narrow wooden tables that were punctuated with brass reading lamps. At summer school nearly fifty years ago, she and Erma McSweeney had hunched over those same tables, Mary Helen thought with an unexpected pang of nostalgia. Diligently they had studied in the light cast by those same brass reading lamps.
From the far end of the main reading room, a bigger-than-life portrait of Archbishop Edward Hanna kept a watchful eye on the scene. Hanna had been the archbishop of San Francisco when the college was founded in the 1930s. From the looks of things, the library, named in his honor, had not changed much since.
Elaborately decorated bullet-shaped lights hung from the high-arched ceilings. Rare books, many of them bequeathed by the archbishop himself, lined the walls on dark walnut shelves. Some of the original leather-back chairs studded with brass were being occupied by young women in faded denim designer overalls. At least Sister Anne had called them designer overalls and explained that the fading was deliberate. To Mary Helen designer and overalls, even those in full color, seemed like a contradiction in terms.
At the other end of the oblong room was the circulation desk. Behind it Sister Eileen was busily stamping out books. A line of weary-looking students queued up in front of her.
Waving at her friend, Mary Helen headed for the reference section. A loud pst made her turn. Wildly, Eileen was motioning her to come over.
“What is it?” Mary Helen asked in a stage whisper. She knew Eileen took her position as head librarian very seriously.
“When you told me you’d be over to do some research I figured what it would be,” Eileen whispered back. “I could find only one reference, so I removed the book from the shelf before anyone else took it. Not that there’s much call for this particular volume of the Catholic Encyclopedia, but one never knows.”
She patted the thick black book on the desk beside her. “P,” she said, “for Perpetual Succor, Our Lady of. In some places called ‘Perpetual Help.’ ” Mary Helen noticed she had even stuck a small piece of paper in to mark the page.
“How did you know that’s what I had in mind?” Mary Helen asked, then felt foolish. The two of them had been fast friends for more than fifty years. You can’t know a person that long without having some insight into the way she thinks. Particularly if you are also her pinochle partner.
“Just a lucky guess.” Eileen turned back to the stack of books in front of her and resumed her stamping.
Mary Helen found a comfortable, well-lighted carrel along a sidewall of the library. Quickly she opened the volume of Catholic Encyclopedia to the article she hoped would shed light on Erma’s mysterious picture. She was disappointed to see how short it was.
She read carefully, hoping to stumble upon some pertinent information. Then she skimmed, still hoping something would jump out at her. Nothing did.
The article was interesting enough. It described the Byzantine Madonna and told the significance of all the figures in the picture. It gave a little history: “Fifteenth century… picture brought to Rome by pious merchant… Man died there… specified picture be venerated… For three hundred years crowds flocked to Church of San Matteo, where it was exposed.
“Augustinians served the church… also sheltered the Irish escaping persecution… In 1812, the French invaded Rome… destroyed church… Picture disappeared… lost for over forty years… Discovered in 1865 in an Augustinian oratory.
“As a boy, Pope Pius IX prayed before the picture in San Matteo… became interested in its discovery… Wrote a letter to the Father General of the Redemptorist convent… built over the ruins of San Matteo… Picture enshrined there.”
The article went on to tell about the Pope’s great devotion to the picture and to Our Lady under this title and his fixing a feast day and approving a special Mass and Office for the Redemptorist Congregation. The Pope was also among the first to visit the new shrine. Facsimiles of the picture, the article concluded, had been sent from Rome to every part of the world.
Mary Helen read the article yet a third time. Currently, she reminded herself, the feast of Our Lady of Perpetual Help is observed on June twenty-seventh. Even at third reading, none of the facts seemed to give any indication of what Erma could possibly have meant. At least they gave no indication to Sister Mary Helen.
“Any luck?” Eileen asked when Mary Helen returned the encyclopedia to the circulation desk.
“None,” she said.
“To tell you the truth, I read it before you arrived and I couldn’t make head or tail of it myself.”
“That at least makes me feel a little better.”
Eileen looked sympathetic. “From the looks of you, you couldn’t be feeling much worse,” she said.
Outside, the day was still damp and dreary. Leaning against one of the stone lions guarding the entrance to the college building, Mary Helen surveyed the scene. The benches and lawns surrounding the building were deserted; it was too cold to sit outdoors. Students pulling heavy sweaters tightly around themselves hurried along, eager to get inside. A brisk wind picked up small scraps of paper and spun them like minitornados across the deserted campus.
Only the hot pink petunias bordering the driveway seemed unaffected by the weather. The flowers looked as perky and cheerful as if the spring sun were shining.
Kicking at a loose piece of gravel in the entranceway, Mary Helen heard the pebble without really seeing it bounce down the steps in front of her. Her mind was preoccupied with Erma. Maybe a brisk walk around the grounds is what I need, she decided. Oxygen to the brain-good for the thinking. Right now her brain needed all the oxygen it could absorb.
Hands buried deep in her sweater pockets, she started along a walkway. Look to the picture, Erma had said. What in the world had she meant? Names? Perhaps.
There were Jesus and Mary, of course, and the two archangels Gabriel and Michael. Could she have meant to look for someone named Gabriel or Michael? Sister Mary Helen racked her brain, but no one and nothing surfaced.
Breathing deeply, she went over the other names connected with the Madonna: the Church of San Matteo… was there a Matthew? The Augustinians… maybe somebody named Augustine? Pope Pius IX. What was his real name? She’d have to look it up.
Then, of course, there was Marie, a derivation of Mary. But the very idea of Marie harming her mother was preposterous. She was obviously devoted to Erma and very dependent on her-actually too dependent Although Mary Helen had to admit that Marie Duran was puzzling. Why did the woman keep insisting Finn had harmed her mother? Even when he had offered money to the brother to go to St. Louis. Even-and more puzzling-after he announced that the mother had called… Marie Duran couldn’t seem to get him out of her craw. Mary Helen listened to the gravel crunch under her feet and wondered why.
Did Ree know something none of them knew? Or was she really mentally ill and unable to face the reality that Mama had finally been driven to leave home? Was she just looking for someone like Finn to take the blame?
And this picture business! What had Erma really said? Or had she said anything? After all, they had only Ree’s word for it. Maybe she had fantasized the entire conversation. But if so, why? If there was a reason, what in the name of all that was good and holy could it be?
How she wished Erma had left a phone number! Then she could “reach out and touch someone,” as the phone company frequently suggested, and clear up the whole mess.
“Hi, Sister.” Pat Boscacci’s voice startled her. The petite young woman had the two youngest of her four daughters trailing behind her. “Allan’s here somewhere.” She gave Sister Mary Helen a squeeze. “Sister Therese called him. The girls and I have come to pick him up.”
Two shining little faces smiled up at her.
“The girls had the day off. A teachers’ meeting or some such thing,” Pat said, winking at the one closer, “and we’re on our way to spend the day in Golden Gate Park. We haven’t done that in years.”
“Your poor husband,” Mary Helen said, ushering the little brood of Boscaccis toward the convent, where they could get out of the cold.
Two final bangs as soon as she opened the back door were a sure sign that Allan was finishing up. They came from the laundry room.
“Hi.” He smiled as soon as he saw them. Immediately Mary Helen noticed a large tattered and discolored rag on top of the avocado-green Maytag. Avocado-green appliances had been the last convent buyer’s idea of chic.
“That’s the culprit.” Allan pointed to what had probably once been a lovely bathmat. “Somebody must have dropped it behind the washer, then pushed the machine back on top of it, which messed up the balance.”
“Are you finished already?” Sister Therese swept down the hallway. “And here are those darling little girls. You must be frozen.” She bent toward them. “Come, come! Let me get you some hot chocolate with marshmallows floating on top.”
“No, thank you, Sister.” Pat took the girls’ hands. “We’re on our way to the park.”
“And the Japanese Tea Garden,” the younger one piped up.
Leaving the Boscaccis and Sister Therese arguing about the relative merits of hot chocolate in a warm convent versus Japanese tea in a windy garden, Mary Helen walked down the hall.
“Telephone for you, Mary Helen.” Sister Anne’s voice made her jump.
As she neared the phone booth, Anne pointed to the blinking light. “It’s Kate Murphy and she sounds wonderful.”
Kate did sound wonderful, if a little rushed. When they met at the Bay-to-Breakers, she had said she would call soon. But Mary Helen never expected it would be this soon. Something in Kate’s tone made her suspect that this was more than a friendly call. Kate had something on her mind.
What could it be? Maybe she had rashly judged her last Sunday, as Eileen suggested. Perhaps she really was concerned about Erma and had uncovered something important. Could this be the good news Eileen had predicted early this morning?
“Is there something you have to tell me?” The question was blunt, but at the moment Mary Helen’s hope overcame her finesse.
“Ask you,” Kate said.
Mary Helen was surprised and delighted when Kate invited Eileen and herself to dinner on Wednesday night. She was not nearly so delighted when Kate promised they wouldn’t say a single word about police work.
She could have sworn Kate had something important on her mind. Maybe she was losing her touch.