Kate shrugged. “Could she be a religious nut?”
“Beats me. Why?”
“They can be the worst kind.” Despite her skepticism, Kate couldn’t help taking the picture off its shelf in the corner. It was your ordinary, run-of-the-mill religious-goods store print backed with brown paper. Nothing fancy about the frame either.
“I’ve already taken it apart and checked for messages, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Honore said, watching her run her hand over the paper backing.
“Maybe there is something in these Greek letters.” She pointed to the characters in each of the upper corners.
Honore shook his head. “I called the priest in my parish to check. The writing is only the abbreviations for the four figures in the picture. It stands for”—he fumbled in his jacket pocket for a slip of paper—“Jesus Christ, Mother of God, and the two archangels, Michael and Gabriel.” Popping his gum, he slid the paper back into his pocket.
“Hm,” Kate replied, only because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. The eyes of the Madonna clasping the hand of the Child gazed at her sympathetically. Or was it her imagination? Inexplicably, her scalp prickled. All at once the empty room seemed hollow and damp. The tomblike silence was shattered by a car backfiring. Kate jumped.
“Steady, girl.” Honore studied her face. “You look pale. Feeling okay?”
“Maybe it’s the salami,” she said. “Or maybe it’s a guilty conscience.” She checked her wristwatch. “I’ve got to get back to the Hall, or Gallagher will be reporting me as missing.”
To satisfy Honore, Kate did a cursory search of the bedroom, closet, and drawers. She even looked under the bed.
“What’s this?” she asked, flipping through a black binder she found leaning against the leg of the night-stand.
“Looks to me like some kind of diary or journal.” Honore shrugged. “But nothing seems to be written in it.”
“Unless,” Kate said, noticing the dustlike traces of paper, “someone has torn the pages out.”
* * *
“Where the hell have you been?” Gallagher growled the moment Kate walked into the Homicide Detail.
“Here comes Miss Popularity now,” O’Connor called from the corner.
Although she had no idea what he meant, Kate shot him a dirty look on general principle.
“You know very well where I’ve been, Denny,” Kate said. “Did something happen?”
“Did something happen?” He ran his hand across his bald crown. “We had a goddamn chocolate chip in here dancing. Left you that bag.” He pointed to a polka-dot bag of cookies perched on the corner of her desk.
“Then the goddamn florist delivered that.” A long, narrow white box tied with red satin ribbon lay across her desk blotter.
“What’s this all for?” Kate fumbled with the small envelope from the florist.
“Since I know it’s not your birthday or your anniversary”—Gallagher rose, hitched up his belt, and moved toward the cookie bag—“all I can figure is that must have been some fight you guys had. I think it means your hubby is sorry.”
Turning her back to the detail, Kate slipped the enclosure card out of the envelope. “If you want to make up, I have some ideas,” it read. “For more details, meet me at the yellow peaked-roof house, corner of 34th and Geary, 5:30 sharp. Love Jack.”
Kate could hardly wait!
* * *
One peek through the beveled glass door of the Hanna Memorial Library and Mary Helen knew finals week at Mount St. Francis College had begun in earnest. The place bulged with students hunched over long, narrow wooden tables that were punctuated with brass reading lamps. At summer school nearly fifty years ago, she and Erma McSweeney had hunched over those same tables, Mary Helen thought with an unexpected pang of nostalgia. Diligently they had studied in the light cast by those same brass reading lamps.
From the far end of the main reading room, a bigger-than-life portrait of Archbishop Edward Hanna kept a watchful eye on the scene. Hanna had been the archbishop of San Francisco when the college was founded in the 1930s. From the looks of things, the library, named in his honor, had not changed much since.
Elaborately decorated bullet-shaped lights hung from the high-arched ceilings. Rare books, many of them bequeathed by the archbishop himself, lined the walls on dark walnut shelves. Some of the original leather-back chairs studded with brass were being occupied by young women in faded denim designer overalls. At least Sister Anne had called them designer overalls and explained that the fading was deliberate. To Mary Helen designer and overalls, even those in full color, seemed like a contradiction in terms.
At the other end of the oblong room was the circulation desk. Behind it Sister Eileen was busily stamping out books. A line of weary-looking students queued up in front of her.
Waving at her friend, Mary Helen headed for the reference section. A loud pst made her turn. Wildly, Eileen was motioning her to come over.
“What is it?” Mary Helen asked in a stage whisper. She knew Eileen took her position as head librarian very seriously.
“When you told me you’d be over to do some research I figured what it would be,” Eileen whispered back. “I could find only one reference, so I removed the book from the shelf before anyone else took it. Not that there’s much call for this particular volume of the Catholic Encyclopedia, but one never knows.”
She patted the thick black book on the desk beside her. “P,” she said, “for Perpetual Succor, Our Lady of. In some places called ‘Perpetual Help.’ ” Mary Helen noticed she had even stuck a small piece of paper in to mark the page.
“How did you know that’s what I had in mind?” Mary Helen asked, then felt foolish. The two of them had been fast friends for more than fifty years. You can’t know a person that long without having some insight into the way she thinks. Particularly if you are also her pinochle partner.
“Just a lucky guess.” Eileen turned back to the stack of books in front of her and resumed her stamping.
Mary Helen found a comfortable, well-lighted carrel along a sidewall of the library. Quickly she opened the volume of Catholic Encyclopedia to the article she hoped would shed light on Erma’s mysterious picture. She was disappointed to see how short it was.
She read carefully, hoping to stumble upon some pertinent information. Then she skimmed, still hoping something would jump out at her. Nothing did.
The article was interesting enough. It described the Byzantine Madonna and told the significance of all the figures in the picture. It gave a little history: “Fifteenth century . . . picture brought to Rome by pious merchant . . . Man died there . . . specified picture be venerated . . . For three hundred years crowds flocked to Church of San Matteo, where it was exposed.
“Augustinians served the church . . . also sheltered the Irish escaping persecution . . . In 1812, the French invaded Rome . . . destroyed church . . . Picture disappeared . . . lost for over forty years . . . Discovered in 1865 in an Augustinian oratory.
“As a boy, Pope Pius IX prayed before the picture in San Matteo . . . became interested in its discovery . . . Wrote a letter to the Father General of the Redemptorist convent . . . built over the ruins of San Matteo . . . Picture enshrined there.”
The article went on to tell about the Pope’s great devotion to the picture and to Our Lady under this title and his fixing a feast day and approving a special Mass and Office for the Redemptorist Congregation. The Pope was also among the first to visit the new shrine. Facsimiles of the picture, the article concluded, had been sent from Rome to every part of the world.
Mary Helen read the article yet a third time. Currently, she reminded herself, the feast of Our Lady of Perpetual Help is observed on June twenty-seventh. Even at third reading, none of the facts seemed to give any indication of what Erma could possibly have meant. At least they gave no indication to Sister Mary Helen.
“Any luck?” Eileen asked when Mary Helen returned the encyclopedia to the circulation desk.
“None,” she said.
“To tell you the truth, I read it before you arrived and I couldn’t make head or tail of it myself.”
“That at least makes me feel a little better.”
Eileen looked sympathetic. “From the looks of you, you couldn’t be feeling much worse,” she said.
* * *
Outside, the day was still damp and dreary. Leaning against one of the stone lions guarding the entrance to the college building, Mary Helen surveyed the scene. The benches and lawns surrounding the building were deserted; it was too cold to sit outdoors. Students pulling heavy sweaters tightly around themselves hurried along, eager to get inside. A brisk wind picked up small scraps of paper and spun them like minitornados across the deserted campus.
Only the hot pink petunias bordering the driveway seemed unaffected by the weather. The flowers looked as perky and cheerful as if the spring sun were shining.
Kicking at a loose piece of gravel in the entranceway, Mary Helen heard the pebble without really seeing it bounce down the steps in front of her. Her mind was preoccupied with Erma. Maybe a brisk walk around the grounds is what I need, she decided. Oxygen to the brain—good for the thinking. Right now her brain needed all the oxygen it could absorb.
Hands buried deep in her sweater pockets, she started along a walkway. Look to the picture, Erma had said. What in the world had she meant? Names? Perhaps.
There were Jesus and Mary, of course, and the two archangels Gabriel and Michael. Could she have meant to look for someone named Gabriel or Michael? Sister Mary Helen racked her brain, but no one and nothing surfaced.
Breathing deeply, she went over the other names connected with the Madonna: the Church of San Matteo . . . was there a Matthew? The Augustinians . . . maybe somebody named Augustine? Pope Pius IX. What was his real name? She’d have to look it up.
Then, of course, there was Marie, a derivation of Mary. But the very idea of Marie harming her mother was preposterous. She was obviously devoted to Erma and very dependent on her—actually too dependent Although Mary Helen had to admit that Marie Duran was puzzling. Why did the woman keep insisting Finn had harmed her mother? Even when he had offered money to the brother to go to St. Louis. Even—and more puzzling—after he announced that the mother had called . . . Marie Duran couldn’t seem to get him out of her craw. Mary Helen listened to the gravel crunch under her feet and wondered why.
Did Ree know something none of them knew? Or was she really mentally ill and unable to face the reality that Mama had finally been driven to leave home? Was she just looking for someone like Finn to take the blame?
And this picture business! What had Erma really said? Or had she said anything? After all, they had only Ree’s word for it. Maybe she had fantasized the entire conversation. But if so, why? If there was a reason, what in the name of all that was good and holy could it be?
How she wished Erma had left a phone number! Then she could “reach out and touch someone,” as the phone company frequently suggested, and clear up the whole mess.
“Hi, Sister.” Pat Boscacci’s voice startled her. The petite young woman had the two youngest of her four daughters trailing behind her. “Allan’s here somewhere.” She gave Sister Mary Helen a squeeze. “Sister Therese called him. The girls and I have come to pick him up.”
Two shining little faces smiled up at her.
“The girls had the day off. A teachers’ meeting or some such thing,” Pat said, winking at the one closer, “and we’re on our way to spend the day in Golden Gate Park. We haven’t done that in years.”
“Your poor husband,” Mary Helen said, ushering the little brood of Boscaccis toward the convent, where they could get out of the cold.
Two final bangs as soon as she opened the back door were a sure sign that Allan was finishing up. They came from the laundry room.
“Hi.” He smiled as soon as he saw them. Immediately Mary Helen noticed a large tattered and discolored rag on top of the avocado-green Maytag. Avocado-green appliances had been the last convent buyer’s idea of chic.
“That’s the culprit.” Allan pointed to what had probably once been a lovely bathmat. “Somebody must have dropped it behind the washer, then pushed the machine back on top of it, which messed up the balance.”
“Are you finished already?” Sister Therese swept down the hallway. “And here are those darling little girls. You must be frozen.” She bent toward them. “Come, come! Let me get you some hot chocolate with marshmallows floating on top.”
“No, thank you, Sister.” Pat took the girls’ hands. “We’re on our way to the park.”
“And the Japanese Tea Garden,” the younger one piped up.
Leaving the Boscaccis and Sister Therese arguing about the relative merits of hot chocolate in a warm convent versus Japanese tea in a windy garden, Mary Helen walked down the hall.
“Telephone for you, Mary Helen.” Sister Anne’s voice made her jump.
As she neared the phone booth, Anne pointed to the blinking light. “It’s Kate Murphy and she sounds wonderful.”
Kate did sound wonderful, if a little rushed. When they met at the Bay-to-Breakers, she had said she would call soon. But Mary Helen never expected it would be this soon. Something in Kate’s tone made her suspect that this was more than a friendly call. Kate had something on her mind.
What could it be? Maybe she had rashly judged her last Sunday, as Eileen suggested. Perhaps she really was concerned about Erma and had uncovered something important. Could this be the good news Eileen had predicted early this morning?
“Is there something you have to tell me?” The question was blunt, but at the moment Mary Helen’s hope overcame her finesse.
“Ask you,” Kate said.
Mary Helen was surprised and delighted when Kate invited Eileen and herself to dinner on Wednesday night. She was not nearly so delighted when Kate promised they wouldn’t say a single word about police work.
She could have sworn Kate had something important on her mind. Maybe she was losing her touch.
May 23
Wednesday of the Sixth Week of Easter
“Why don’t you come about seven o’clock?” Kate had said. “That sounds like a nice, fashionable hour to dine. Furthermore, it will give Jack and me time to get home from work and get dinner ready.”
“And for the two of us to have a snack, so we won’t be starving to death,” Eileen had said when Mary Helen relayed the message.
Since they received Kate’s invitation on Monday afternoon, Mary Helen had been wrestling with how best to get Kate interested in her growing uneasiness about Erma’s whereabouts.
“It’s not against the law to move,” Kate had told her.
It’s also not against the law to find out why a person needed to do it so quickly, she reassured herself.
She might even mention that strange dream entry she had discovered in her friend’s journal. But how could she bring that up without letting on that she had ripped out the pages and read them? As hard as she tried, she could not figure out a way.
On the dot of seven, the Sisters arrived in front of the yellow peaked-roof house on Geary Boulevard. Mary Helen was surprised to see a white Camaro parked in her usual spot.
“She never mentioned other company,” she said. “I wonder who . . .” It didn’t take her long to find out.
“Sisters, Sisters, come in.” Mary Helen recognized Mrs. Bassetti’s voice immediately. “It’s so good to see you! And right on time. Jackie, it’s the Sisters. Don’t just stand there, take their coats.”
Well, well! she thought, realizing now who the driver of the Camaro was. There’s lots of zip left in us old girls yet. If the opportunity arose, she must invite Mrs. Bassetti to join OWL.
The Murphy-Bassetti living room was warm and cozy. Outside, the fog hadn’t lifted all day. Mary Helen settled down in front of the roaring fire. Actually, as far as she was concerned, the fog hadn’t lifted—literally or figuratively—all week long. Not in th
e neighborhood and certainly not about Erma Duran. The living-room fire was so bright and welcoming. Tonight might just be the night. She moved over on the sofa to make room for Eileen and waited for the first opportunity to talk about Erma.
“What can I get you, Sisters?” Jack returned from hanging up their coats.
“Tell them what you have.” His mother settled next to the Sisters. “That’s not the way I raised him,” she apologized.
Patiently, Jack reeled off a long list of spirits. Both Eileen and Mary Helen settled on beer.
“He’s a good boy.” Mrs. Bassetti beamed, watching her son leave the room.
“He surely is,” Eileen agreed. “That reminds me of an old saying we had back home.”
Mary Helen frowned. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine which one.
“ ‘Three things are always ready in a decent man’s house.’ ” Eileen looked around, smiling, “ ‘A beer, a bath, and a good fire.’ ”
Both Mrs. Bassetti and Mary Helen stared. For a split second, Mary Helen feared Mrs. Bassetti was about to run the tub.
Jack reentered with the drinks. Now might be her chance. Kate, who had been sitting quietly, passed around a platter of crisp vegetables and creamy dillweed dip. Mary Helen was amazed to see how much more patient the young woman had become, especially with her mother-in-law.
You could do well with some of that patience yourself, old girl, she thought, trying to stay calm. Erma and her predicament would come up in its own good time.
The five chatted pleasantly about everything and nothing, until Mary Helen was nearly convinced that the evening would turn out to be purely social. Try as she might, there was no polite way to introduce Erma Duran into the conversation. Mary Helen was beginning to seriously consider impolite ways.
As they finished their second drinks, Jack excused himself. “Dinner will be served,” he announced, “just as soon as I finish the gravy.”
“Aren’t you going to help him?” Mrs. Bassetti frowned at her daughter-in-law.
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