A Novena for Murder

by Carol Anne O'Marie

  “Fine.” Mary Helen wished the young woman had thought of another figure of speech.

  “You said the body was in the chapel?”

  “That’s right. In the front pew.”

  Gallagher stepped back deferentially. “Sister, will you take us there, please?”

  Sister Mary Helen took the lead. Silently, the other three followed her into the hall.

  Long shadows webbed the walls and floor in the narrow corridor. The click of Kate’s high heels echoed through the silent building. A sudden chill ran up Mary Helen’s spine. How can a place be so alive and vibrant one minute, she wondered, and so dead and desolate the next?

  When the four finally reached the chapel door, Gallagher flung it open. The familiar odor of wax and incense greeted them. They stepped inside. Slowly, the heavy door closed, leaving them adjusting to the semidarkness.

  Everything looked so quiet, so peaceful, so ordinary. Maybe she had just imagined everything, Mary Helen hoped. Maybe it really hadn’t happened. Maybe . . . On the main altar, the sanctuary lamp sputtered and popped, throwing a finger of light on a thin, white arm. The body was there. She had not imagined it. Beside her, Eileen trembled. Her single sob filled the vast emptiness. Gallagher plunged down the middle aisle. “Get the overhead lights,” he ordered, loosening his tie.

  “They are in the sacristy,” Eileen whispered, then sank into the back pew.

  “That’s the room next to the altar.” Mary Helen pointed toward the small door to the right of the altar.

  Pivoting, Kate hurried up a side aisle. Moments later, the electric candelabra flipped on overhead. Muted light flooded the nave.

  “Sister, could you by any chance identify this young woman for us?” From the front, Gallagher’s voice echoed through the chapel.

  Mary Helen faced her friend. Eileen’s color was gone. Yet her Irish jaw was firmly set, her gray eyes determined. “We’ve no choice but to be brave,” Eileen whispered.

  “Then it’s brave we’ll be.” Mary Helen patted Eileen’s hand. Deliberately, Eileen rose from the hard pew. Steadying herself against the bench, she linked arms with her friend. Fighting down a sudden sweep of nausea, Mary Helen forced herself to accompany Eileen up the middle aisle toward the corpse.

  The two nuns skirted the bony hand grasping lifelessly at the marble. They joined Kate and Gallagher in a small, tight circle hovering over the crumpled body.

  “It’s Joanna. Joanna Alves,” Eileen whispered hoarsely. Moving back, she leaned against the altar rail.

  I hope she didn’t see those thin dangling legs, Mary Helen thought, moving back with her friend. Gently she put her arm around Eileen’s shoulders.

  “Are you two okay?” Gallagher asked the nuns. Without waiting for an answer, he turned toward Kate. “I’ll get the boys,” he said. “You take care of these two.”

  Lumbering toward the side exit, Gallagher shook his head. “Jeez, is no place sacred any more?” he grumbled. Before he reached the exit, he pulled a fresh cigar from his inside pocket. He stuck it into the corner of his mouth. The exit door was only half closed when he struck a match against the outside chapel wall. Cupping his hands, he protected the flame from a quick gust of wind.

  “Goddam,” he exploded. His curse rang through the chapel. “Goddam, no place is sacred any more!”

  “Come on, Sisters, let’s go into the sacristy,” Kate said, rising from beside Joanna’s broken body. Mary Helen noticed Kate’s gaze pause sympathetically on each of their faces. “The boys will be here in a few minutes to take care of things,” she said. “We can talk inside. Besides, you two had better sit down for a few minutes. Murder isn’t your usual line.”

  I hope to heaven she’s right, Mary Helen thought, letting Kate shepherd them across the sanctuary. “We’re both fine,” she reassured the young woman. She noticed, however, that when she stopped in front of the tabernacle to genuflect, her knees wobbled.

  Once they were settled in the small anteroom, Kate turned toward Mary Helen.

  “That’s the girl you reported missing, isn’t it?” Kate asked.

  The old nun nodded her head. “She didn’t come home last Sunday night, and no one had heard from her since,” Mary Helen said. “And now we know why.”

  “The deceased was the sister of Marina Alves, Professor Villanueva’s secretary?” Kate checked the facts with Eileen.

  “Yes.” With the back of her hand, Eileen caught a single tear escaping down her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I can’t seem to stop crying.”

  Without comment, Kate turned her attention toward Mary Helen. “How did you happen to find the body?” she asked.

  Quickly, Mary Helen recounted her research on Dom Sebastiao and her pop-in visit to the chapel.

  “Interesting!” was the only remark Kate made at the end of the entire recitation.

  “I’ll tell you what else is interesting,” Mary Helen said. “That the old expression is true! You know, the one—‘It’s an ill wind that blows no good.’ ”

  “What exactly do you mean, Sister?”

  “At least one good thing has come from this tragedy,” Mary Helen said.

  “And what exactly is that?” Eileen looked amazed.

  “Leonel. I was right about Leonel. He couldn’t have killed the girl. He is still in jail.”

  Kate studied Sister Mary Helen. “I hate to break this to you, Sister,” she said, leaning her head against the sacristy wall, “but your friend, Leonel, was released from the sixth floor this morning.”

  Out on 34th Avenue, Jack Bassetti was busy preparing a candlelight supper. He’d taken the day off so he would have plenty of time. Tonight, he intended to propose to Kate. Again! He took the leaves out of the dining room table to make a small intimate circle.

  Standing back, Jack admired his handiwork. The delicate Bavarian china looked both romantic and domestic. Just the right touch. He was glad he’d remembered the Waterford Crystal. The flickering candles caught the sharp cuts in the wineglasses. Kylemore, Kate had called the pattern. Named after a large abbey of nuns. Good touch. Furthermore, they had been her mother’s. A little sentimentality never hurt.

  No flowers, Jack decided. That decision was easy for him to make. First of all, he didn’t know how to arrange flowers. Second, how could you hold hands across a table with flowers plunked right in the middle? Hand-holding was definitely in his plan. Flowers were out.

  Mentally, Jack ran down his list: table set, wine cooling, martinis in glass pitcher in fridge, Chinese from Yet-Wah’s in oven. That last item bothered him. Take-out Chinese food lacked a certain romance. But, he reasoned, the Chinese people must propose to one another over egg roll. Look how many Chinese there were!

  Atmosphere! That was the one thing missing. Jack pulled the long chain on the glass chandelier in the living room. Off! He lit the large candle on the coffee table. Perfect. Now to block out the noise of the traffic on Geary Street. He had just tuned in KFOG when he heard Kate’s footsteps on the front porch.

  Gently, Jack planted a light kiss on her neck.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. She looked exhausted.

  “Yes, I’m okay. Just beat,” she said. Her slender body sagged against him. She let him take off her jacket and put her purse and gun in the hall closet.

  “You’ll never believe the day I had.”

  “You’ll never believe the night I have planned,” Jack said, taking her in his arms. Slowly, he moved her in a smooth dance step from the entrance hall into the living room.

  “Good grief, pal.” Kate gazed around the candlelit living room. “Did we forget to pay the P.G. and E.?”

  Ignoring her remark, Jack hummed softly. Getting her to accept his proposal wasn’t going to be any easier even with his added romantic ambience. Maybe he should wait till she had a better day. Hell, he thought, twirling her into a dip, when could he ever count on Homicide having a good day?

  “My feet are killing me,” Kate whispered.

  “Let me swe
ep you off your feet,” Jack whispered back.

  “Let me take my shoes off.”

  Good old practical Kate, Jack thought, his eyes following her up the stairs; it was part of her charm—and part of what made her so damn frustrating.

  While she was getting her bedroom slippers, Jack poured the martinis.

  “To us,” he said, handing her a long-stemmed glass.

  “To us.” Kate sank into the overstuffed couch by the front windows. Jack sat beside her. Silently, they each took a sip. The candle threw soft shadows across Kate’s freckled face. Putting her glass on the coffee table, she began to twist a strand of hair around her index finger, then push it into a tight curl. Jack recognized the infallible sign. She was thinking hard.

  “A penny for your thoughts.”

  “You’ll want your money back.”

  “Try me,” Jack said, afraid she might be right.

  “I know we agreed to try not to bring work home.”

  “You must admit rape and murder do not make for relaxing dinner conversation.”

  Kate smiled. “But I just can’t get today off my mind.”

  Jack took another sip of his martini. His eyes paused on her face. “Okay,” he said, “let’s have it. What happened?”

  “We had another murder at the college. Hasn’t it made TV yet?” Kate picked up her glass and twirled the long stem between her thumb and forefinger. “A young woman, Joanna Alves. She was the sister of Professor Villanueva’s secretary. Sister Mary Helen found her in the chapel—head bashed in.”

  “Hot damn,” Jack swore softly. “Any suspects?”

  “Not really. Leonel da Silva is our best bet so far. At least he had motive and opportunity to kill the professor. He won’t even deny he did it. But we don’t have enough to charge him. So this morning he gets out, and this afternoon the Alves girl is dead.” Kate took another sip of her martini. “And Sister Mary Helen may drive me bonkers.”

  “How come?”

  “She’s got her mind made up he couldn’t have done it.”

  “Maybe she knows something you don’t know.”

  “No. I don’t think so. It’s her intuition. She says he has ‘nice eyes.’ ”

  “Did you tell her about Baby-Face Nelson?”

  “I was tempted to—but you know something, Jack?” Kate shrugged her shoulders. “She’s right.”

  “Right?”

  “He does have nice eyes. Something is bothering the guy for sure,” she said. “Can’t put my finger on it, but he just doesn’t have the look of a murderer.”

  Jack drained his glass. He was just about to launch into a firm, logical argument about the “criminal look” being a fallacy, but he thought better of it. This was not at all the way he had planned the evening. Tonight he wanted romance, not logic. He decided to make the best of the situation. Maybe he could back into the proposal.

  “That nun is sharp,” he said. “Maybe she’s right. Got the feeling she doesn’t miss much.”

  With the long glass rod, Jack restirred the pitcher of martinis. He topped Kate’s glass and refilled his own. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she picked up something between you and me.”

  Kate’s mouth took on a straight-lipped fix. Jack recognized the fight sign. Go easy, he thought, lying back on the soft couch. Gently, he ran the heel of his hand up her rigid spine.

  “Is that what this is all about?” Kate gestured toward the darkened living room. “Meeting that nun yesterday made you feel guilty about us living together, so you are going to ask me to marry you? Again!”

  “Yes and no,” Jack answered calmly.

  “What do you mean—‘Yes and no’?”

  “Yes, it is all about asking you to marry me, again.” Jack put special emphasis on the again. “And no. No one made me feel guilty. I feel guilty all by myself. What I can never figure out is why the hell you don’t.”

  Kate stared indignantly. Jack met her stare. “Do you know there is an official name for people like us?” She did not answer. “It’s POSSLQ: Persons of Opposite Sex Sharing Living Quarters.” He paused dramatically.

  A smile played at the outer edges of Kate’s tight lips. Humor was always the chink in her armor. Jack pressed his advantage. “It’s true,” he said. “The Census Bureau invented the word. Do you want to go through life being my POSSLQ? On Valentine cards I can write “Roses are red, Violets are blue. Will you be my POSSLQ?”

  Kate giggled. Relaxing, she kicked off her slippers and curled her legs up on the couch. Jack filled her empty glass. Snuggling closer to him, she began to twist a few strands of hair. Jack put his arm around her. Neither spoke for several moments.

  Finally, Jack broke the silence. “Kate, I love you,” he said. “You love me. Why not get married?” If he couldn’t get her with romance, maybe he could do it with pure reason.

  “Did your mother call again?”

  “No,” he said, “but even if she had, it’s me who wants to marry you, not my mother.”

  “I’m too tired to get into this tonight,” she said.

  “That’s an excuse.”

  “Maybe. But I can’t explain it Maybe I’m not so sure myself. I know I love you. When and if I marry, there would be no one else I’d even consider.” She smiled at him.

  Damn that melting smile, Jack thought, pulling her a little closer.

  “I love my job,” she said. “I worked to get where I am, and I do it as well as any man!”

  “Some things you do much better,” he said, hoping to lighten her mood.

  “I’m not kidding!”

  “Maybe we could work something out.” The suggestion sounded feeble even to him.

  “Maybe you could stay home and have the babies?” she said. Swinging her legs off the couch, Kate shoved her bare feet into her fuzzy blue bedroom slippers and pushed herself up off the couch.

  No, this wasn’t the way Jack had planned the evening at all. He’d give it one more try. Reaching up, he caught her hips and pulled her onto his lap. He ran his hand down her thigh. “That is a possibility we haven’t considered.”

  Turning toward him, Kate nestled comfortably into all his hollows. He could feel her body begin to relax. She fits perfectly, Jack thought, his arms enveloping her. I just can’t let her go. He nuzzled his face into her fragrant hair. The blunt edges tickled his nose and chin.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  “I love you, too,” she whispered back, “and I can smell the rice burning.” Kate ran the tips of her fingers gently up the back of his neck.

  Jack tingled all over. “What the hell,” he said. “Who likes rice, anyhow?”

  Fifth Day

  Sister Mary Helen woke up feeling furious. Morning Office in the Community Room did not help.

  “I don’t see why we can’t pray in our own chapel.” Sister Therese’s high-pitched whine before coffee made even placid Eileen flinch.

  “Because the police have it cordoned off,” said Sister Anne, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Head bowed, she studied the tips of her toes wiggling in her doe-colored Paiutes.

  “Well, I don’t see why we couldn’t stay in the back. This is the fifth day of my novena, and I’d like to say my prayers in the chapel. This place is certainly not conducive to my recollection,” Sister Therese said, taking in Sister Anne’s lotus position.

  “We can’t go to the chapel because they are trying to find clues to the murderer,” Anne said. White-faced, she leaned back against the arm of the upholstered chair. She rested her hands on her knees and closed her eyes.

  “Well, they certainly don’t think one of us did it, do they?” Therese looked as though she had suddenly sniffed something sour. “Really, it was a shame that it had to be one of us who found the body.” She rolled her eyes toward Mary Helen.

  Mary Helen could feel both her eyebrows and her blood pressure rise. Fortunately, Eileen began intoning the Morning Office for the Dead.

  After prayers, Eileen approached Mary Helen. “You look like a t
hundercloud,” she said, as the two began the climb from the Sisters’ Residence to the college dining room for breakfast. “Were you able to sleep at all last night?”

  “Not much. I just couldn’t get yesterday off my mind. What’s that line from Romeo and Juliet? ‘Death lies on her like an untimely frost. Upon the sweetest flower of all the field’?”

  Eileen put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. Halfway up the hill, Mary Helen stopped to catch her breath. Ahead, slits of yellow light from the narrow windows pierced the dense morning fog. That same wet fog swallowed up the underbrush on the hillside and clung to the tips of the evergreens. The low moan of a foghorn floated in from the Gate.

  “And what about you?” Mary Helen asked. “Did you sleep?”

  Eileen shook her head. “I am still unable to believe it. And I can’t seem to stop blubbering. It’s like a horrid nightmare. The professor. Then Joanna. Poor, dear Marina!” She dug into her jacket pocket for a Kleenex.

  Sister Anne, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her green corduroy car coat, caught up with the pair. She padded along beside Eileen. “Hi, you two,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “How are you doing?”

  “Terrible,” Mary Helen snapped, suddenly annoyed. No one should be cheerful on a day like today. But one look at the young nun’s face made Mary Helen regret her impatience. “How about you?” she asked, softly.

  “Terrible,” Anne answered, all pretense gone.

  “I’ll bet you are.” Vividly, Mary Helen recalled Anne and Inspector Gallagher leading Marina into the sacristy yesterday. The three of them had come through the back door. Marina’s eyes were glazed, her slim body rigid. But she had insisted on seeing her sister’s body. Softly, Marina had begun to whimper like a frightened, wounded animal. Then with one blood-curdling wail, she had shattered the silence. The shrill echo had filled the chapel and reverberated against the stained glass windows—like a moment frozen out of an Alfred Hitchcock film. Mary Helen had closed her eyes and covered her ears. “Dear God, make all this go away,” she had prayed. But of course, nothing had gone away.

  “I suppose you eventually got Marina to sleep?” Eileen said.