“Are you with us this morning,” Sister Cecilia asked, “or have you ‘ascended’ above the conversation?”
The question startled Sister Mary Helen. It was the first thing she’d really heard during the entire breakfast and it was Cecilia’s idea of an Ascension-Thursday pun. If there was anyone worse at puns than Lucy, it had to be Cecilia.
Mary Helen looked around. All eyes were on her. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little preoccupied this morning.”
“Or perhaps a little tired. You were out quite late last night.” Therese sniffed.
Smarting but feigning deafness, Mary Helen wondered what exactly had been addressed to her. Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been as important as the questions whirling around in her own mind.
She had awakened puzzling and had been puzzling ever since. In fact, she was so distracted during the morning Mass that only a look at her watch made her sure the celebrant had been Father Adams. He was the one priest who could say Mass in twenty-five minutes, three readings and a homily included-not that she had heard one word of his sermon. Her mind had begun to wander during the first reading.
Luke’s account of the Ascension was vivid: the Apostles, gaping open-mouthed; Jesus’ bare, pierced feet hovering just above their heads; their total bewilderment as they watched Him being lifted up into a cloud.
She couldn’t help but identify with them. Gazing into an empty sky, they must have wondered about the man they thought they had known so well. Fortunately for them, two men in white flowing robes appeared to explain. At the moment, she wished someone would appear and explain a few things to her, white gowns optional.
Yet despite her distractions at Mass, Mary Helen had felt God’s closeness. Who else but He could be urging her to probe and pick until she discovered truth? Only then, she knew, would He fill her with a sense of peace.
Give me a hint! Mary Helen prayed silently, picking up her breakfast tray. Or give me a break!
She excused herself from the table. Only Eileen seemed to stare at her curiously. She wondered for a moment if her lips had been moving.
Back in her bedroom, Sister Mary Helen stared at her neatly made bed, frowning. She couldn’t even remember having made it. Now, that is distracted! she scolded herself. She hated bed-making. It always seemed like such a waste of time. You just had to unmake it to get back in.
How she wished she had used the opportunity to talk to Kate Murphy last night about Erma. How she wished she could talk to her right now.
Of course! she thought, brushing her teeth, St. Gerard Majella! She paused, brush in hand. What a perfect excuse to call Kate first thing this morning.
Pulling her Aran sweater from the closet, Mary Helen hurried through the convent halls. Sounds of tidying up and getting ready for school came from each small room. Therese emerged with a dust mop, a dustcloth, and a determined look on her face, prepared to give them both a good shaking.
Downstairs, the washing machine sloshed rhythmically. Beside it the dryer hummed its monotonous hum. Everything was so normal, so right, so slow. The contrast only served to heighten Mary Helen’s sense of unrest and urgency.
The Hanna Memorial Library was nearly deserted when she arrived. Wonder of wonders, she had even beaten Eileen. Good! Mary Helen hurried over to the reference shelves.
Butler’s Lives of the Saints would have what she needed. But before she looked into it, she had better check the Catholic Encyclopedia for the real name of Pope Pius IX. Maybe his name would provide a clue to what Erma meant when she had said, Look to the picture.
The pope’s real name was Giovanni Maria Mastai-Ferretti. Mary Helen searched her mind. She couldn’t think of one John, one Mastai-Ferretti, or, for that matter, even one Italian that figured into the whole case.
In Butler’s Lives, volume IV, page 131, she found the life of Gerard Majella. Scanning the entry, she searched for a mention of St. Gerard oil, but found none. The saint had been an Italian, born in 1726. The son of a tailor, he had become one himself. Gerard had tried religious life, been rejected, and worked as a servant in the bishop’s house. Finally, he was received into the Redemptorist Order by its founder, St. Alphonsus Liguori. His life was simple-if you didn’t count miracles, bilocation, and ecstatic flights, Mary Helen thought. But as young Sister Anne would say, Who’s counting? “His feast day is celebrated on October sixteenth, and he is patron of childbearing,” she read.
In the whole account, Sister Mary Helen found no mention of any oil. Obviously Mrs. Bassetti’s neighbor had made it up. It was Mrs. Bassetti’s faith that had made it work.
Although she had suspected she wouldn’t find anything, Mary Helen couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Doubting Kate wanted to believe so badly, and nobody-certainly not Mary Helen-likes to be the bearer of bad news.
Definitely the young woman wanted children. Who wouldn’t? The shining face of the two Boscacci youngsters flashed through Mary Helen’s mind. Then Gerard Majella, the Pope, the Madonna, the washing machine, Erma, the “he” in her journal all tumbled in on themselves, banging together like so many bouncing Ping-Pong balls in the lottery spin.
Quickly, one by one, the ideas shot out and lined up, making perfect sense. Mary Helen slammed Butler’s Lives shut. She rechecked the Catholic Encyclopedia. Of course she was right! Only one thing remained to double-check. Just to make certain.
Picking up her sweater, she dashed across the quiet room. No one seemed to look up. She didn’t even notice Eileen watching her, nor did she see the worried look on her friend’s face as she let the beveled door swing shut behind her.
When Sister Mary Helen parked the car, the corner of 18th and Sanchez was virtually deserted. Several houses up on Sanchez, a small black mongrel stopped, stared, but went right back to sniffing. Apparently she didn’t even look suspicious enough to bark at.
Good! she thought, making her way to the apartment building. Crossing town, Mary Helen had formulated a hasty plan. First, she would make sure whether or not Mr. Finn was at home. She leaned heavily on his doorbell. So heavily, in fact, that she could hear it ring from outside. When he didn’t answer, she rang again.
Satisfied that Mr. Finn must have stepped out, she went to the bistro door and rapped on the window. No one appeared. She rapped again. Probably not even the cooks would arrive for at least another hour or so. The lock, she remembered, looked easy to pi-open. All right, then-pick!
Fishing in her pocketbook, she pulled out the unsolicited credit card the phone company had sent. Maybe the changes in the company weren’t all bad, she thought as she ran the card along the doorjamb. Although she had read often about the procedure in her mysteries and had seen the new Mike Hammer do it on television, Mary Helen was genuinely surprised when the front door popped open.
Carefully the old nun made her way across the darkened room, avoiding tables and pulled-out chairs. In the deserted kitchen the smell of stale grease hung on the air. Only the drip, drip, of water on the stainless-steel sink broke the heavy silence.
Taking the old key from its hook on the wall, she unlocked the basement door and flipped on the light. Holding tight to the rickety banister, she began to descend the steps. They creaked. She stopped, listened, making sure she was alone. Adjusting her bifocals, she continued.
Cautiously, Mary Helen peered around the dim basement. Good night, nurse! She had left the college so quickly she had forgotten all about bringing a flashlight. The single bulbs running across the center of the ceiling threw heavy shadows into the corners. She made her way across the room.
Against one wall the concrete sinks were filled with grime. Water had made narrow rivulets of mud down their centers. Dusty cartons marked “toilet tissue” were stacked against a rough wall. The gray paint on the alley door had begun to peel.
From outside, she could hear the muffled sound of traffic: the rattle of a pick-up truck, the dull roar of a passing motorcycle. Yet inside, the basement had a tomblike silence.
With a sense of dread, Mary Helen approached the ice maker near the middle of the basement. She touched its motor. Cold. She opened the ice-storage lid. It was empty except for a puddle of nearly stagnant water covering the bottom. Bending over, Mary Helen studied the concrete floor surrounding it.
Her stomach dropped. Her mouth was suddenly so dry she could hardly swallow. Just as she had suspected: new cement. Kate Murphy, she thought straightening up. I must phone Kate Murphy. Immediately!
Suddenly the floor overhead creaked. Was it really a creak? Or simply her imagination? A second creak followed. Frozen, Mary Helen listened. It was the unmistakable sound of someone walking lightly, cautiously, across the kitchen floor. Someone who did not want to be heard. Someone who was heading toward the basement.
Hardly breathing, Mary Helen crept toward the alley door. Its window was covered with dust. Perhaps that was why she didn’t notice, until she ran her hand along the wooden surface, that someone had removed the inside handle. That same someone had recently nailed a two-by-four to the door to make sure it was securely shut.
As she backed toward the corner, the rough wall snagged her sweater. She crouched in the shadows. Cobwebs brushed her face. Mary Helen shuddered, but refused to imagine what else might be with her in the corner. Her muscles cramped, yet she waited, not moving, too terrified to even breathe. Dust tickled her nostrils, tempting her to sneeze.
Straining, she heard the footsteps stop, the door to the basement grate open. For a long moment all she could hear was the sound of her own heart beating. A stair creaked, then another. She watched as the figure outlined by the glow of the kitchen light carefully descended the steps.
Midway, it stopped, listened for noise, descended again. She was surprised to see that the figure was clutching a large pillow.
Kate Murphy yawned and checked her wristwatch. Not even noon and she felt ready for a nap. Or maybe she wasn’t awake yet. Stretching, she looked out the window of the Hall of Justice. Outside, it was that kind of day-gray and cold and sleepy. She checked her watch again.
“A minute later, right?” Dennis Gallagher must have been watching her.
“Right,” she said. Then, unable to resist, Kate stuck out her tongue. Whoever invented sticking your tongue out was a master psychologist, she thought. It made her feel a little foolish but a lot better.
“Did you guys have a rough night?” Obviously Gallagher had chosen to ignore her reaction. “You look bushed. Still making up?”
Kate could feel her face flush. “For your dirty mind’s information,” she said, “what we did was have the nuns over for dinner last night”
“The nuns?”
“After we made up,” she added, to satisfy the incredulous look on Gallagher’s face.
He was about to comment when Kate’s phone rang. She was surprised to hear Sister Eileen’s voice, although at first the nun’s brogue was so thick Kate could barely understand her.
“Slow down, Sister,” she said.
“Speak of the devil.” Gallagher pushed back in his swivel chair to listen.
“Is there something wrong, Sister Eileen?”
“Something is always wrong,” Gallagher muttered. With her free hand, Kate shushed him.
“Glory be to God, I’m not sure, but I’m afraid so. I know how busy you are, Kate dear, and I would not think of bothering you ordinarily, but Sister Mary Helen took out of here about eight-thirty this morning like the devil himself was on her tail.”
For the third time in a matter of minutes, Kate checked her wristwatch. “That wasn’t even two hours ago.”
“You haven’t the ghost of an idea the amount of devilment the woman can get into in two hours. Or maybe you do. Anyway, she left without telling anyone where she was going and, what is worse, she had that look on her face.”
“What look?”
“ ’Tis difficult to describe unless you’ve seen it.” Eileen paused. “ ’Tis a cross between Joan of Arc and Miss Marple,” she said, “and it leads to only one thing-trouble!”
“Are you sure?” Kate tried to speak calmly and reasonably, but it was no use.
“Surr-re, I am surr-re.” Eileen was rolling her r’s. “I have been friends with the old dear for over fifty years, and I know that look when I see it. Besides, Kate, I have had a turrible eerie feeling all over since the moment I saw her leaving.”
Kate needed more to go on than faces and feelings. “Have you any idea of where-”
Eileen interrupted. “I have an idea, all right. A good idea that it has something to do with Erma Duran’s disappearance. And furthermore, I would wager all the books in Hanna Memorial, the rare ones included, that she is over there right now, poking around.”
“Perhaps she had another appointment.”
“Sure as the sun will rr-ise”-her r’s were really rolling now-“I know she’s into this Erma business. And don’t ask me if I called around. Sister Anne and I have called her office, her dentist, her eye doctor-anyplace we thought she might have an appointment. And the other OWLs as well. No one has any idea where she might be.”
“You realize, Sister, that, strictly speaking, this is not my case. It’s Inspector Honore’s.”
“Sister Anne is on the horn this minute, trying to get through to the Inspector.” Obviously Eileen had thought of everything. Kate was undoubtedly her last hope.
“What exactly is it you want me to do?” she asked and braced herself for the answer.
For the first time there was a long pause on the other end of the line. “I really do not know,” Eileen said. Kate noticed a slight quiver in her voice. “I just know my dear friend could be in some danger. And I cannot possibly sit by and let it happen.”
“I understand how you’re feeling, Sister.” Kate had picked that phrase up in a communications workshop, although she wasn’t at all sure she did understand. Sister Eileen must be frantic. She had never heard the round, jovial woman sounding so distraught “But I really don’t know what it is you want me to do.” There was another long pause. “Sister, are you all right?”
For several seconds there was no answer. “Sister?” Kate repeated.
Apparently Sister Eileen was mulling over something. “Just fine, dear,” she said, suddenly calm. “I realize, as you say, that this is not your case, so there is really nothing you can do. Thank you for listening.” Abruptly she hung up.
Kate stared at the dead receiver. “Damn!” She began to thumb through the phone book, looking for the number of the Sisters’ Residence.
“What happened?” Gallagher asked.
“I’ll tell you in a minute.” Kate dialed. The phone rang twenty times before someone finally answered.
“Sister Eileen is in the library,” a polite voice answered. “Would you like that number?”
By the time the voice found the number, gave it to Kate, and she redialed, Sister Eileen had just left.
“Double damn!” Kate slammed down the receiver.
“What was that all about?” Gallagher stood up.
“Let’s go, Denny.” Kate grabbed her coat. “I’ll explain on the way to the bistro.”
“The bistro? Why the bistro?” Apparently Gallagher wasn’t moving until he had some sort of explanation.
“Because that seems to be the only logical place Sister Eileen would go, and she was suddenly too calm for comfort-my comfort.”
“Sister Eileen?” Gallagher sat back down. “One’s bad enough; now we got the second one. And we have no damn business at all with either of them nuns. I told you not to get involved. It’s not our case. Stick to your own business.”
“Suit yourself.” Kate took her purse from her bottom drawer. “And I know you’re right, Denny, but I have the uneasy feeling that sticking to my own business may have caused Sister Eileen to make our business hers. Frankly, I couldn’t live with myself if I went by the book and let something happen to the old dears.”
Kate crossed the detail, heels clicking. Behind her she heard a familiar grunting noise. Gallagher!
“I thought you weren’t coming.” She pushed the Down button on the elevator and tried not to smile.
“Goddamn it! Get that smirk off your face.” Gallagher paused to light the stub of his cigar. “By rights, we should let those nuns get themselves killed. Serve them right! But you say you couldn’t live with yourself. What about me, huh? What do you think, that the younger generation’s got an edge on this guilt business?” He pointed his finger at her. “Hey, I could tell you stories about guilt, Katie-girl, that you wouldn’t believe!”
The moment Mary Helen heard the voice, she recognized it. She was not surprised. A little saddened maybe, but not surprised.
“I know you’re in here somewhere.”
From her corner, she watched him squinting, trying to adjust his eyes to the dimness of the basement.
How long would it take him to spot her?
“There’s no way out, you know,” the voice rasped.
Mind whirling, she crouched more deeply into the shadows. Think calmly! she told herself, ignoring the trickle of perspiration that ran down her back.
“I’ll find you. Why don’t you just come out?” Finn coaxed. He was moving slowly toward the center of the room.
She watched him peer around the old ice machine. Her hand groped along the rough wall, searching to grasp something-anything. If only she could find a board, an old wrench, something she could hit him with. That always happened in her mystery stories. But there was nothing. Not even a loose board! Her heart jolted.
Mary Helen’s legs began to cramp. She shifted her weight and tried to think, but the only thing she could think about was the sound of her own heart hammering in her ears. She pulled in a deep breath to slow it down.
“Where are you? I know you’re here.” Finn moved closer. Mary Helen closed her eyes, clenched her damp hands more tightly, and tried to shrink into an invisible ball that the man would overlook.
Whether it was from cold or from fear, now her teeth were threatening to chatter. Her legs began to tremble. Mary Helen wasn’t sure how much longer she could stay crouched in the corner, waiting for death. Or even if she should.
What had Eileen said? “An Irish coward is an uncommon character!” If it was her time to go, by God, she would go with dignity, not quailing in some dusty corner. Squaring her shoulders, she steadied herself. Then, wondering briefly if she had more bravado than brains, she rose.
God, help me! she prayed, swallowing hard to keep her throat from closing. She knew from their longstanding relationship, He most certainly would.
“Here I am!” She hardly recognized her own forced voice.
Finn looked over, blinking. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, not unkindly. “I’m sorry it’s you.”
For a moment the pair studied each other. The dim light from the bulb bounced off the bald V’s Finn’s hair outlined on the top of his head.
“I rang your apartment bell when I came,” Mary Helen said, as if trespassing were the problem.
“I guess that’s what woke me up.” Finn shifted the pillow. “I was taking a nap upstairs on Erma’s bed. Makes me feel closer to her now that she’s gone.” Mary Helen remained silent.
“I’m sorry it’s you,” he repeated, “but I should have known it would be. That business about the phone call didn’t put you off, did it?”
Woodenly, Mary Helen shook her head, wishing momentarily that it had. “I was sorry when I realized it was you too,” she said slowly. “What stumps me, however, is why, Mr. Finn. I always had the feeling that you loved Erma.”
“I did. I still do.” Finn blinked. “And I miss her. It was an accident. It really was. I didn’t mean to hurt her. I never would have hurt her on purpose.”
“What kind of an accident?”
“I lost my temper.” Perspiration broke out on Finn’s forehead. “She fell and cracked her head against the bed and… I didn’t mean to.” He rocked nervously on the soles of his feet.
Mary Helen inched over, determined not to glance at the open door leading up to the kitchen. If she could just keep him talking, keep inching over, maybe, just maybe, she could make a dash for it before… No! She refused to think about the pillow hanging limply from his hands.
“What could Erma possibly have done to make you lose your temper?” She cleared her throat. “She always seems… seemed so accommodating.”
“Yeah.” Finn glared at her. “Especially with those kids of hers. She was goofy about those kids. You know her checks had been missing.”
He stopped, waiting for Mary Helen to nod.
“She blamed me. Me! Just because I had a few gambling debts.”
“And you didn’t take them?”
His nostrils flared. “Of course I didn’t. That’s what started the argument. I told her it was Buddy. She was shocked. She tells me Buddy wouldn’t do such a thing. The little twirp!”
Finn’s eyes narrowed. “I told her all her kids were nuts. Then we really started to fight. Erma brought up an old story about me doing something to Ree when she was a kid.”
Keep him talking, Mary Helen thought, shifting her feet ever so slightly. “Ree told me as much.” She kept her voice even. “And you’re saying you didn’t?”
He stared at her in amazement. “Damn right, I didn’t! Actually it was Junior who knocked his sister down. I thought the kids were lost, so I went looking for them. He was on top of her by the time I got there. Buddy was looking on. I’m sure she didn’t tell you that part.
“I got him off her. Tommy came around the comer. When she sees him, Ree says I was the one who knocked her down.” He shrugged. “We never could figure out just what happened or whose fault it was or exactly what the kid had in mind. I never seen Tommy so mad. He walloped the daylights out of Junior right there at the track. Smacked the sister good and hard a couple of times, too, just in case.”
“Did you explain that to Erma?”
“She never wanted to talk about it. Tommy-I know he was ready to kill both kids! Somehow Erma blamed that on me too.” He shook his head. “You know, when she was around she never let him lay a hand on Ree or the little guy. And that Buddy sure could have used it. If you ask me, that’s why the poor guy drank.” He stopped to catch his breath.
“Yet I couldn’t help loving her. But she wouldn’t marry me after Tom died. Her kids, especially the daughter, didn’t like seeing me with their mother. And so Erma said she hated my temper and my drinking, but I know the kids had a lot to do with it.” Finn shifted the pillow.
Watching him, Mary Helen’s stomach roiled. She wasn’t even a foot closer to the door. “Do you have a hard time controlling your temper?” It was the only question that came to her, although she had witnessed the answer.
Finn looked and sounded puzzled, almost as if he were talking about someone else. “It happens when I’m drinking, mostly. I can’t seem to help it. Something just happens in my head. I only hit her once or twice, I guess, in all the years I’ve known her. And that was in these last few years. I been drinking more.” Finn’s eyes were blinking almost uncontrollably. “I told her I was sorry. I tried to make it up to her. I let her live here, work in my place. I tell you, I loved the woman.”
“I’m sure you did.” Mary Helen tried to soothe the man and not look shocked. No wonder the subtle mention of the picture to Ree. Erma didn’t want to upset her daughter. Good old Erma didn’t want to upset anyone. After all, Finn was her security; yet she must have feared that someday Finn’s drinking, coupled with his unbridled rage, would cause her harm.
“What made you come back here?” It was Finn’s turn to ask questions.
“The picture, really.” Suddenly her mouth was so dry, she was having trouble getting it around the words. “Erma said that if anything happened to her, we should look to the picture.” She stopped to swallow. “At first, I couldn’t make anything of it. This week I was doing some research and I remembered you telling us your name is Alphonsus after Alphonsus Liguori, founder of the Redemptorists. Our Lady of Perpetual Help is a special devotion of the Redemptorists. The picture was enshrined at their convent. It was the only connection that made any sense. But there was something else,” she added as he made a movement.
“The fact that I remembered your ice machine was leaning. Allan Boscacci, a fellow who fixes our electrical problems, says machines should be flat.” Mary Helen knew she was babbling. From the look hardening in Finn’s eyes, she realized her time was limited.
She shifted a few inches closer to the staircase and tried to stall. “Always, always, they should be flat, Allan said. And I was just checking and, sure enough…” Edging over, she pointed toward the new concrete square beneath the ice maker. “It seems unlikely that you would put a new piece of floor in crooked unless you were in a very big hurry.
“Won’t the cook be coming soon?” she asked, anxious to change the subject.
“I locked the front door and turned the CLOSED sign out.” The voice was cold, detached.
Mary Helen looked over at Finn. His eyes slid from the concrete floor up to her face.
The movement was so swift that Mary Helen was shocked to feel the pillow over her face. She gasped, sucking in air, fighting against the pressure backing her up, forcing her against the rough basement wall. Grunting, she moved her head from side to side, struggling to escape the softness covering her mouth, pushing her glasses into the bridge of her nose.
“Do not go gentle… Old age should burn and rave… Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Crazily, the words popped into her mind as she clawed at Finn’s strong hands. She could feel his flesh under her nails. Desperately she tried to push against the blackness that was smothering her.
Slowly consciousness began to slip away. Her limbs felt limp and tingly, unable to support her. Her ears were ringing. So this is what dying is like, she thought, hardly feeling the wall behind her.
A moment of passing and she would awaken to lightness and peace, where all mysteries would be solved. O Christ, Christ, come quickly!… Jesu, hearts light… She couldn’t help smiling as she slipped into the whirling blackness.
High-pitched shouts, the scuffling of feet, the thud of blows, and Caroline swearing like a stevedore convinced Mary Helen she had not yet entered paradise. Her head throbbed. Beneath her the floor was cold and hard.
Painfully she opened her eyes. Through cracked glasses she could see Noelle, Lucy, Caroline, all pulling and kicking a cowering Mr. Finn. Sister Anne held tight to his shirttails, and dear Eileen had a firm grip on his one long, thin piece of hair.
“Freeze!” Kate, crouched in shooting position, barked from the top of the stairs. Gallagher and Honore flanked her.
“I said Freeze! Before you kill the guy!” Mary Helen heard her shout. Closing her eyes, she surrendered once again to the swirling dark.