A Novena for Murder (3 page)

Well, more power to them, she thought.

That morning in that nook, Mary Helen often said afterward, she had her first glimmer of an idea for a research paper: The plight of today’s immigrant. Why not? There were plenty of them in San Francisco, and she had two lovely “primary sources” in Marina and Leonel. She peeked again. The kitchen was empty.

Turning, she stared out at one of the college’s well-tailored gardens. At the far end, by a low hedge, she spotted Leonel. He was talking to a young man in overalls and a blue denim work shirt. In fact, Leonel, arms waving, was doing all the talking. He seemed to be angry again.

That Leonel can surely switch from a lion to a lamb in a hurry, Mary Helen thought, watching him stomp back toward the kitchen, fists still clenched. Or maybe it’s this awful heat. Refilling her mug, she started back to the Sisters’ Residence to finish the morning paper.

By late afternoon, the radio was predicting a
record high. “Today’s temperatures in the city soared into the high eighties,” the newscaster reported, “topping all previous . . .”

Mary Helen snapped off her transistor. No need being reminded of how hot you were. She rummaged through her narrow closet and pulled out a short-sleeved cotton blouse. Only one sensible thing for this hot, retired nun to do, she reasoned, buttoning up her front: head for a cool, shady spot and finish her murder mystery. Snatching the latest P.D. James paperback from her nightstand, Mary Helen shoved it into her faithful paperbook cover—one with ribbon markers and all. It was the kind seen in every religious goods store. This piece of plastic had served her well. For years it had decorously disguised her mystery novels.

Quietly, she shut the door of her small bedroom.

The tropical fragrance of jasmine wafted down the convent corridor. Mary Helen sniffed her way along until she reached Sister Anne’s bedroom. The door was ajar. She caught a glimpse of Anne seated on a round, green pillow set on a square of blue rug. Eyes closed, legs pretzeled, open palms resting on her knees. Thin curls of smoke rose from a brass incense pot on her desk.

“Good Lord, Anne. What on earth are you doing?”

“Meditating. This is my lotus position. Very relaxing. You should try it.” She opened one eye to catch Mary Helen’s reaction.

Mary Helen studied Anne wreathed in wisps of white smoke. The only thing that looked relaxing to
her was that hard little pillow bulging below Anne’s faded blue jeans.

Inwardly, she thanked God she was in history and not campus ministry. Outwardly, she said, “No thanks, Anne. Getting down would be one thing. Getting up would be something else again. I’m going outside to read.” She patted her paperback.

“Prefer spiritual reading, huh?” Anne winked.

Mary Helen checked the young nun’s face to see if she knew. She knew. “St. P.D. James,” Mary Helen said.

“The cover’s a nice touch.” Anne wriggled on her pillow.

“Late afternoon . . . old gray-haired nun . . . sitting alone with book in lap. Everyone expects a prayer book. Right?” Mary Helen asked.

“Right.”

“Then, why blow the stereotype?”

Anne’s low chuckle followed Mary Helen down the corridor. At the head of the stairs she met Sister Therese. Therese simply held her nose, rolled her eyes, and pointed toward Anne’s bedroom.

Oh, oh—a generation gap right in the convent corridor, Mary Helen thought, heading out the front door into the sun-baked campus.

The heat formed wavy lines just above the asphalt. Squinting into the sun, groups of bare-armed, barelegged students dragged themselves up the hill. Mary Helen joined them until, about two-thirds of the way up, she noticed a narrow dirt path leading off into the wooded hillside below the campus. She’d take it.

Prickly junipers lined the path. Just a few feet from the main driveway and it was like being in the woods. Mary Helen avoided stepping on two tiny pine cones that had fallen. The faint, antiseptic odor of a eucalyptus grove mingled with the pungent, Christmasy smell of Scotch pine. Several hundred feet up the path, hidden behind a clump of trees, she discovered a clearing with a lovely, carved stone bench.

Now here’s where I could use Anne’s pillow, she thought. Settling herself on the bench, she drank in the view. Before her, the tall spires of St. Ignatius framed a patch of sky. Brightly colored houses with clumps of lawn zig-zagged up the Buena Vista hills. The huge television tower atop Mount Sutro, like a giant orange-and-white mantis, gave a futuristic touch to the scene.

To her left, the copper-green cupola of City Hall stole center stage. Behind it, the sun played on the waters of the Bay and bounced off the rolling Oakland hills. Beautiful—what did Herb Caen call it?—Baghdad-by-the-Bay.

As much as she had fought coming back to the college, Mary Helen had to admit the place was beautiful. She had made her novitiate here in an old building long ago demolished when the Mother-house had been moved. In those days, she had been one of the few young women who had entered her Order with a master’s degree. Rather than flaunt her higher education, she had rarely even alluded to the degree, admitting it only when someone asked her directly.

It wasn’t that she was terribly humble, or even anti-intellectual. Far from it. The truth was, Mary Helen was afraid she’d be sent to the college to teach. She dreaded the idea of being perched on this “Holy Hill,” as generations of students had dubbed it. The college had always seemed too remote, too sterile, too academic for her.

Even as a young nun, she had known she would feel most at home and do the most good in a parish where there were real people with real problems. And, to her way of thinking, she had been right. Her entire religious life had been spent in parish schools. Her list of assignments was long and impressive. Sometimes she had served as the principal; most often as an eighth-grade teacher. Yes, every one of her fifty years as a nun had been spent in a parish, and she had loved it. Right up until this week, when she had officially retired.

Somehow, Mary Helen had managed to avoid retirement or even the thought of it for the last five years. At least, she figured it was about five years. At that time she had begun to lie a little about her age. Now, quite frankly, she wasn’t so sure just how old she was. In a pinch, she reminded herself, I can always subtract my birthdate from the current year. She hesitated to do it because the difference always came out an absolute seventy-five.

This fall, however, the Superior of the Order had been adamant, initiating several meetings with Mary Helen. When Mary Helen had told Eileen about the meetings, her friend had christened them
“Leisure Lectures.” Secretly, Mary Helen referred to them as “Senility Sessions.”

“It’s time you slowed down,” the Superior had said. “Why not return to the fountainhead? Move up to the college. Relax, Rest. You’ve an M.A. in history you have never really used. If you must do something, do some research.”

Well, here you are, old girl—Mary Helen watched a solitary freighter pass behind a miniature Ferry Building—one of the drips returned to the fountainhead. And nothing would do, she scolded herself, but to inflict yourself on a history department chairman who probably thinks your old M.A. and all those years of eighth-grade teaching have prepared you for nothing at all. This afternoon, however, it was too hot to do anything but rest and relax. Tomorrow, weather permitting, she’d worry about Professor Villanueva and research.

Opening her P.D. James, she flipped back the marking ribbon of her prayer-book cover. This spot was so secluded, so cool and quiet. She must remember its existence. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply. Against the silence she heard the muted city traffic, the faraway echo of a girl’s shrill laugh. Gradually, she began to notice another sound—a rhythmic scraping she couldn’t identify.

Eyes still closed, she cocked her head and tried to concentrate. What on earth was it? First a crunch, then a pause, then a plop. Crunch, pause, plop. Over and over. The rhythm never changed.

Digging! Her eyes opened. That’s what it was!
Something about only mad dogs and Englishmen being out in the noonday sun leaped into her memory.

From the stone bench, Mary Helen peered down among the trees, trying to pinpoint the noise. At first she spotted nothing. No one. Then, below and to her right, she noticed several wooden flats of sparkling ice plant. Someone was rooting ice plant on the hillside. She hoped it was the kind with the featherlike, magenta bloom. That was her favorite.

Tiptoeing to the edge of the clearing, she stretched her neck to get a better look. A ray of sun flashed against the spoon of a shovel. Sure enough, she could see the blue-denim back of a man, two large mounds of dirt on either side of him. He was planting, probably to keep the shale from slipping during the rainy season. For a moment, Mary Helen closed her eyes and visualized the hill aflame with bright, magenta blossoms. No wonder Anne claimed this gardener was the best they’d ever had. How many gardeners would be thinking about the rainy season on the hottest day of the year? And how many gardeners would have solved the problem so aesthetically?

Abruptly, the young man stopped and leaned his shovel against the rough trunk of a pine. Pulling a large handkerchief from his back pocket, he turned and began to wipe sweat from his face and hands. Mary Helen recognized the profile. It was the same young fellow Leonel had been talking to this morning. So this was Tony, the gardener. Good. Another name with another face. Mary Helen was pleased
with herself. She held the theory that the sooner you could attach names to faces, the sooner you felt at home. And as long as this place looked as if it were going to be home . . .

Mary Helen was just about to shout a greeting down the hill when below her and to the right she heard the crunch of dried pine needles. Someone was coming up behind Tony. He must have heard it, too. Swiftly, he shoved his handkerchief into his back pocket and grabbed for the shovel.

A young woman emerged from between two low shrubs. She faced Tony. Mary Helen could hear the murmur of their voices, but they were too far away for her to catch the conversation. There was something familiar about the woman. She was tall and slight, with a delicately carved face. She looked like Marina, Professor Villanueva’s secretary. She must be the sister, Joanna. She would ask Anne about it at dinner. Then she’d have another name with a face. Good.

From below, the tone of the conversation took a higher pitch. The old nun still could not make out what was being said. She strained for a better look. For several moments, the two faced one another. Then, flinging his shovel aside, Tony grabbed the girl and planted a firm, hard kiss on her lips.

A bit too passionate for my taste, Mary Helen thought, still staring down at the young couple. Then, unexpectedly, Tony pulled away. Shielding his eyes against the glare, he scrutinized the hill. Embarrassed, Mary Helen drew back. Good night, nurse,
she chided herself, you are getting to be a regular Miss Marple! At least, Agatha Christie had the good manners to let Miss Marple be bird-watching. You’re just plain gawking! The decent thing to do, old girl, is to let young love have a little privacy.

Back on her bench, Sister Mary Helen flipped open her book. In the distance she heard the sounds of four feet on dried pine needles. There were no more digging noises.

The flat clang of the bell from the college belfry tolled dinner. Tucking her book under her arm, Mary Helen tramped down the path and onto the driveway.

The parched campus was deserted. Long shadows played across the buildings and the formal gardens. With most of the faculty and students gone for the day, the stately college buildings crested the hill with an aura of peace. Sweet peace, she thought, and stopped for a moment to pull in a long, deep breath.

The sudden shriek of tires warned her that someone was taking the service road too fast. A dark green sports car shot from behind a shield of trees and squealed onto the driveway. Looks like the Devil himself is chasing whoever that is, Mary Helen thought as the car sped past her. Two men were in the front seat. She caught a quick glimpse of the driver. Professor Villanueva! Why was he driving so fast? And at this time of day? What business did he have on the service road?

That was the last time Sister Mary Helen ever saw Professor Phillip Villanueva alive.

Inspectors Murphy and Gallagher were on duty when the call came in.

“Murder at your alma mater, Kate.” Slamming down the phone, Dennis Gallagher hitched his pants over his paunch. “Let’s go!”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Kate Murphy grabbed her wool jacket and followed him out of the Homicide Detail room.

“Who got killed?” she asked, watching Gallagher hook a red light in the window of the city’s Plymouth.

“Some professor. Villanueva’s the name. Skull fractured with a statue. A nun reported his body right after the quake. Thought it was an accident. The guys answering the call weren’t so sure. Coroner says they’re right. Looks like homicide.”

Cautiously, Gallagher pulled out of the Hall of Justice parking lot and turned left toward the college.

For several blocks, the two drove in comfortable silence. The other men in the Detail had nicknamed them “the odd couple.” Red-headed, fiery-tempered Kate Murphy was Homicide’s token woman; easygoing, soft-hearted Dennis Gallagher, its senior inspector.