A Novena for Murder (10 page)

Suddenly, the little color left in Marina’s face drained. Her slim body swayed. Lunging forward, Anne grabbed her upper arms and bent the young woman forward, head between her knees.

“Have you eaten today?”

“No.”

“Come on, my friend,” Anne said, carefully helping Marina to her feet and putting her long arm firmly around Marina’s shoulders. “We are going posthaste to the Hungry Mouth!”

Mary Helen watched the two tall, slim young
women, like a matched pair, edge down the long corridor. After a quick trip to her small bedroom, Mary Helen set out up the driveway. She had decided to head for that secluded stone beach on the hillside and ponder the next step in her plan. “I’ll think till I’m weary of thinking,” she thought. She had brought along her faithful plastic-covered paperback to read if and when that happened. She hoped no one had beaten her to “her spot.”

My spot
! She smiled. Good night, nurse! A week ago, she hadn’t even known the spot existed. Now it was hers! If she wasn’t careful, pretty soon she’d begin to think she belonged here!

“Whew,” Mary Helen sighed audibly when she finally reached the stately clump of trees. The air had a crisp sting, but the sun brimmed the clearing. Its rays illuminated the drooping acacia, bowed with golden clusters. She sat down hard on the cold stone bench.

Crossing her legs at the ankles, Mary Helen took one long, luxurious stretch. The sun felt warm and friendly on her back. Let your mind wander freely, she reminded herself. Eliminate the impossible; test the improbable. That’s what Charlie Chan seemed to do in his cases. And somehow, his answers always popped up just in time to reveal it to Number One Son. She’d try it.

First, what is it I really know? she asked herself. Well, she knew there was a dead body. A vivid picture
of Professor Villanueva, white and limp, a thin stream of blood trickling from each ear, shot through her mind. She felt the usual wave of nausea. Enough of that!

She struggled to rid her mind of that awful image. What do I need to know? she asked herself. What I need to know is who had the opportunity and the motive.

Opportunity? Obviously, Luis the janitor and Marina both had that. Poor Luis. She remembered how ghostly pale and shaken he had been. Was it the earthquake that had frightened him, or had he seen something else? And what about Marina? The young woman had been near hysteria. But, who wouldn’t be—finding a dead body in a halo of blood? What had Marina been doing in the office so late at night? In fact, what had she and Leonel been doing in that office yesterday? Were they really looking for a contact lens? As much as the old nun wanted to believe it, that was a bit hard to swallow. Then, what were they doing there? Mary Helen would have to find out.

Suddenly, the damp cold of the stone bench began to seep through her navy polyester skirt. She was chilled. Too bad the sun was losing its battle. A thick, gray wall of fog had begun to roll back in from the Gate. She had better get up and walk. Walking would warm her up, and maybe even help her unclutter her mind.

Leaving the small clearing, Mary Helen clutched her paperback and started down the winding dirt
path through the trees. Around her, the eucalyptus made a soft swish as the wind ruffled the narrow, pointed leaves. Their gentle whisper was soothing, like a consoling presence. Which reminded her—what about that other presence, the one she had sensed in the darkened hallway? Had it just been her imagination, or had it been real? And if real, who had it been?

Then there was motive. Who had a motive? Leonel hated the professor. She had already decided that Leonel wasn’t the murderer. Therefore, someone else must have a motive, too.

Someone out there. Mary Helen paused and surveyed the side of the hill. But who? Everything appeared so peaceful, so unsullied, so “lovely, dark, and deep.” “But I”—she gazed at Tony’s freshly rooted ice plant and recited Frost aloud—“I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.” Well, at least she had several hundred yards to go. And so many questions! She must not forget this Dom Sebastiao business, whoever he was. One thing she did know for an absolute fact was that the professor had not killed himself!

From the Bay, a foghorn sounded a mournful groan. Without warning, a cloud covered the sun. Mary Helen shivered. She folded her arms even more tightly, trying to fight off the damp chill.

Behind her on the path, she heard the twigs crackling. Someone was walking. She turned, ready to greet whomever it was. No one. Silence. She walked a few yards more, and listened. Below her,
off the path, she heard the rustle of dried pine needles. Maybe a small animal was scurrying for shelter. She searched the wooded hillside. A long shadow fell from behind a tree. Was it the form of a man, or just a low-slung branch from a pine? Mary Helen adjusted her glasses for a better look. Nothing. Must be just a sudden gust of wind moving the trees.

Suddenly, coming toward her, she heard the crunching of gravel. She waited, stone still, expecting to see someone. No one. Again, silence.

“Hello,” she called loudly. Her palms felt damp with fear. No answer. Just the faint echo of her own voice mingled with the low groan of the foghorns from the Bay.

Impulsively, Mary Helen turned and ran up the dirt path. Her feet slipped on the small stones. Prickly junipers snagged her nylons. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. When she finally reached the clearing, she sat on the stone bench.

Calm down, old girl, calm down. She tried to soothe her nerves. Breathe deeply. She rubbed her knees. Not only did she have “rubbery knees"; right now they felt as if they were plain water. This is nonsense, she reminded herself, taking another deep breath. You have allowed this murder business to get the best of you. Now, what on earth are you afraid of? And who on earth would be out to harm you?

She decided, however, with a sudden surge of largesse, that tonight she’d throw in an extra prayer
or two to St. Dismas. No harm at all in giving Sister Therese a hand.

Mary Helen was relieved to hear the loud, friendly gong of the college bell calling everyone to supper. This time, she’d be happy that the dining room was not deserted.

M
ary 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.