A Novena for Murder (16 page)

And the people you called, what did you ask them?” Kate continued. Apparently, she hadn’t noticed Mary Helen’s flush.

“We asked about Joanna. How well they knew her. When they saw her last. Anything they could remember about the questions she’d asked them. Did they know the professor, too? All the usual questions.”

“What do you mean ‘usual questions’?” Kate asked, a faint smile playing on the corners of her wide mouth.

Mary Helen could feel her face redden again. She squirmed. For a moment she felt a little like Mrs. Pollifax. It was not a pleasant feeling, since she had always considered Mrs. Pollifax a bit of an eccentric. “You know, the ones all detectives ask,” she said, as nonchalantly as she could.

“And the answers?”

“Although they were all very polite, for the most part we drew blanks,” she said. “But I have some suspicions.”

“Oh?”

Kate glanced at her watch. “Sister, it’s nearly six o’clock. How about gathering up your suspicions and joining me for dinner?”

Mary Helen studied the young woman. Should she, or shouldn’t she? She hesitated, but only for a minute.

“Hurry up, hon,” Jack called from the bedroom. Kate could hear the wire springs on the old bed creak.

“I’m still doing my face,” she called back, vacantly staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. Kate was never quite sure what she was doing to her face. But every night, faithfully, she smeared it with a creamy cleanser, dabbed it with astringent, and rubbed it with moisturizer.

“Your face looks fine to me,” he called back, “and besides, that’s not what I’m interested in. Come on!”

“What is it you are interested in?” Kate asked, massaging her neck in sweeping strokes, as the directions on her beauty preparations dictated.

“Right now, I can’t decide whether I’m interested in wringing your neck for bringing that nun home for dinner or in just forgetting the whole thing and making mad, passionate love.”

Kate giggled. Gingerly, she crawled into her side of the big double bed. The old, brass monstrosity had been her parents’.

“And which interest seems to be winning out?” she asked, turning toward him. She propped herself up on one elbow and with the other hand began to slowly twist a strand of thick, red hair.

“You know damn well, but it won’t get off the ground with you curling that piece of hair,” Jack said. “What’s on your mind, Kate?”

“Tonight, of course,” she said. “Tell me, Jack, what did you think about Sister Mary Helen’s suspicions?”

“I think if you stick with her, you’ll crack the case,” Jack said. “Now let’s . . .”

“No, seriously,” Kate interrupted. “Let me talk this out with you, please.”

“Murder at the dinner table is one thing, but bringing a murder to bed?”

“Please?”

Kate felt a warm glow as she watched Jack reach over and grab the cigarettes on the night stand. He offered her one and took one himself. I’m lucky to have him, she thought. What other man would put up with me? “Shoot,” Jack said.

“What do you think?” she asked again.

“It’s your case.” Jack inhaled. “What’s important is, what do you think?” Kate noted that he had switched to his Vice-Detail voice.

“I think her suspicions are well-founded. A thesis missing from the department chairman’s office could be significant.”

“Are you sure it’s missing?” Jack handed her an ashtray.

“We didn’t come across one when we searched his office. I would have recognized the name Alves, as his secretary’s. There is, moreover, the little matter of the slit in the coroner’s seal. Maybe someone wanted it more than we did.”

“Go on.”

“Then, when the nuns called the people who had been interviewed, the older folks sounded nervous about the professor’s influence on the young. Mary Helen suspects there are some things they don’t want to say. Then, there is this Dom Sebastiao statue business.”

“What about it?” Jack asked, running his hand along her firm thigh.

Good God, the man was patient! “I love you, Jack Bassetti,” Kate said. Leaning over, she kissed his forehead.

“If you love me, for God’s sake, hurry up.” He groaned and turned over. “Some women have headaches,” he said, running his free hand over her hip. “You have murder cases. Hurry!”

“Dom Sebastiao—the legend, or cult, if you want to call it that. Could the professor have thought he was Dom Sebastiao reincarnated? It sounds silly to us, but it could be real to someone who believes it. Our murders could be just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Speaking of icebergs.” Jack gentled her body closer to his. The wire springs creaked.

“One common denominator in this case is Professor Villanueva. The murdered girl, all the young people he helped came from the same part of Portugal.” Kate’s eyes twinkled. “And they all landed at the college.”

“Which proves?”

“Nothing.” Abruptly, Kate sat up. Jack groaned.

“How many kids did he sponsor?” he asked, running the tips of his fingers up her rigid spine.

Kate shivered with pleasure. “Nine,” she said. “Marina, Joanna, Tony—the gardener at the college—Luis, the janitor, and, of course, Leonel, who does the cooking. The two fellows no one seems to be able to reach on the phone, plus Mrs. Rubiero’s two nephews.”

Kate began to trace circles on the comforter.
“Now Rubiero’s nephews seem to have disappeared also. Lead or coincidence? Who knows?”

“You and Sister Mary Helen will find that out soon enough.” Jack lifted the bed covers, inviting her to slide down under. “Aren’t you two going to see Mrs. Rubiero tomorrow?”

Kate nodded. “Wait till Gallagher hears that!”

“That Mary Helen’s quite a gal.” Jack pulled the sheet over his bare shoulder. “She said she’s been in the convent over fifty years. I’ve been thinking about that. That’s some commitment. Do you think we could ever stick to anything for that long?”

Ignoring the question, Kate snuggled down in the soft bed close to his strong body. He felt warm. “You know, Jack, it’s the motive that really bothers me,” she said.

“Shit!” Jack exploded. Kate looked at him. Poor guy, she thought, drawing her slim finger up and down the back of his neck. She could feel him begin to relax.

Tenderly, he moved his broad hand under her granny gown. “Damn these things,” he said, pushing the flannel aside. “I don’t know how grandpas managed to be so productive if grannies really wore all this.”

Kate giggled. “Grannies,” she said, edging closer, “were very cooperative.”

F
ourteen forty-eight. This is it.” Sister Mary Helen pointed toward the third small bungalow from the corner. Kate pulled up in front and parked. The wooden-framed house, set back on two small, manicured patches of lawn, was painted a bright, clean white with dark green shutters. Several large pots of cadmium-red geraniums decorated the deep porch. The house had a well-cared-for look, as if somebody loved it.

Senhora Rubiero opened the front door before they rang the bell. “Good morning, Sister.” She nodded deferentially toward Mary Helen. “Please to come in.”

“Good morning, Senhora Rubiero.” Sister Mary Helen followed the short, rotund woman into the house. “This is Officer Murphy from the San Francisco Police Department.” She motioned toward Kate, who flashed her badge. Mary Helen noticed a flash of fear in the woman’s sharp, black eyes.

“So nice of you to let us come.” Kate smiled reassuringly. Senhora Rubiero relaxed a bit.

“Please, sit,” she said, waving to a mohair couch against one wall of the small living room. The room matched the outside of the house. Though freshly polished and well-cared-for, it smelled unused. It was probably what another generation would have referred to as the parlor and used strictly for important visitors. In this house, Mary Helen figured, most of the living probably goes on in a warm, cozy kitchen.

“What lovely handiwork.” Mary Helen fingered one of the delicate doilies covering the arms and back of the couch. “Did you crochet these?” she asked.

“Yes, Sister.” The old woman blushed.

“Lovely.”

“Thank you.” Senhora Rubiero perched her squat body on the edge of an overstuffed chair across from Kate and Mary Helen.

There was an awkward moment of silence during which Mary Helen studied the woman. One glance told her that Senhora Rubiero was a no-nonsense person. Her black, laced shoes were definitely sensible and had been bought, no doubt, for comfort rather than style. A black jersey dress, properly pulled together in the front with a cameo pin, stretched across her shelflike bosom. The hem of the dress more than adequately covered the knees of her two sturdy legs. Besides the pin, her only touch of
frivolity was a pair of earrings, if you could consider the small, gold balls frivolous.

Not a single gray hair escaped from the neatly rolled knot at the nape of her neck. They wouldn’t dare, Mary Helen thought, observing the wide, strong hands that had rolled them there. A broad gold wedding band assured the old nun that Senhora Rubiero was indeed a
senhora
.

This lady might blush, demur to nuns, and even be momentarily frightened of the police, but, underneath it all, she was one tough customer. Mary Helen liked her immediately. Eileen would have called it an instant feeling of kinship!

“Can I get you something to drink, to eat?” Senhora Rubiero spoke English haltingly, but very well. There would be no danger of misunderstanding. Whatever the woman had to say would be clearly understood. Mary Helen guessed she had probably come to this country as a young married woman.

“No, thank you, Senhora.” Kate answered for both of them. “We are here on official business. We would like to ask you some questions about your two nephews.”

At the mention of the two young men, Senhora Rubiero’s black eyes flashed anger. “Carlos and Jose—two young fools. Ah, my poor sister—their mother . . . I promise her I take care. But, the young
stupidos
. . .”

Mary Helen watched, fascinated, as the woman’s thick hands began to move as quickly and nimbly as
her tongue. The subject of her nephews had completely taken away any inhibitions she might have had. She warmed to her subject.

“They come. They stay. They go. They say nothing. No hello. No good-bye. No
Gracia, Tia
. How you call? Ingrates? And, ah my poor sister. What should I tell her?”

She paused to breathe and wring her hands. Mary Helen found it difficult to tell whether she was more upset about the ingratitude of her two nephews or about reporting their absence to her sister.

“If only my Alberto was here,” she said, tapping her wedding ring. “He would take a care. They come home, eat, sleep, say nothing. But what is a poor woman to do? If only Alberto was here.” She blessed herself. Apparently, Alberto had gone to his eternal reward, one he had, no doubt, earned.

“I am only a woman,” she repeated, shaking her head sadly. Butler’s couplet rang through Mary Helen’s mind. “Women, you know, do seldom fail, to make the stoutest man turn tail.” This had, no doubt, been the case with Alberto and the nephews.

“I cannot go to these hang-outs.” She spat out the last two words.

Kate perked up. “Could you tell me about these hang-outs?” she asked, pulling a small notebook from her brown leather purse. “Where are they located? Who do the boys go there with?”

Senhora Rubiero’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know where they go. They never tell me, the
tia
. They go with other young fools . . . other
solteiros.”
Realizing
that her two visitors did not understand her last word, Senhora Rubiero translated.
“Solteiros
. How you call? Bachelors—bachelors who never want to marry.”

Kate nodded. “Who were these others?” she asked, her pencil poised.

Senhora Rubiero ignored Kate’s question. She didn’t even seem to notice he poised pencil. Jockeying her ample hips into a more comfortable position, she continued. “When we come from the old country, we work hard, pay back our benefactors. Help our relatives back home.” Mary Helen recognized the familiar ring. A generation gap in any nationality sounds the same.

“Not like now. Now they think money comes with the sun. Fool around. Don’t care for family. Live together, boy and girl, without marry.”

Mary Helen could feel Kate stiffen at the “live together without marry” line. Direct hit, Mary Helen thought, remembering her dinner last night. The old woman paused dramatically. Obviously, she had given this lecture many times before. Most recently, probably, to her nephews.

“The Sister, she understand.” Senhora Rubiero wagged her head.

“Have you any idea who these friends are, Senhora?” Kate asked.

“Other young fools.” Senhora Rubiero’s eyes darted toward the phone. “I hear them talking. Luis, Tony, my friend Erma’s cousin Manuel, Leonel, Jose. He now calls himself Joe. Fernando, Salvador,
Fatima’s boy, Angelo, some more I don’t know. They speak of Sebastiao. He will come, a savior. Save them, save Portugal.
Madre de Deus.”
She blessed herself. “Save them!
Stupidos!
Only work. Work to be saved. Hard work will save them. No savior.”

Sebastiao. There it was again. “Who did they think this Sebastiao would be?” Mary Helen asked.

The old woman shrugged “Crazy,
si
?”

“Luis, Tony, Manuel, Leonel, Jose, who calls himself Joe, Fernando, Salvador, and Angelo,” Kate read back from her note pad. “Do you have last names or phone numbers for any of these fellows?”

Senhora Rubiero pushed herself out of the overstuffed chair and waddled toward a back room.

“What do you make of it?” Mary Helen asked Kate as soon as the old woman had gone.

“If the last names jibe, these are the same people the professor helped, and at least four of them are at the college.” She shot a quick glance at Mary Helen. “Maybe we’ve hit upon the link. Maybe it’s this Sebastiao business.”

“For the men, perhaps—but Marina and Joanna? And why would someone murder Joanna?”

“Maybe both men and women belong to this—what should I call it?—cult. Or maybe Joanna was on to something. Maybe something rotten. Maybe that’s why Senhora Rubiero’s nephews have vanished, pronto. Afraid Joanna would have blown the whistle. And maybe one of them decided to make sure she wouldn’t.”