The Missing Madonna

by Carol Anne O'Marie

  “He hates it when I help him,” Kate answered. “Besides, he’s getting to be a much better cook than I am.”

  Unable to restrain herself, Mrs. Bassetti rose and bustled toward the kitchen. “Jackie,” they heard her say, “don’t use a fork. Here, let me do that. Get me a wooden spoon. God help us, you’ve got company and there’s nothing worse than lumpy gravy.”

  As soon as Mrs. Bassetti was out of earshot, Kate moved over and sat on the couch with the Sisters. “Poor Mama Bassetti.” She twisted a thick piece of her red hair. “She can’t get used to a liberated woman.”

  “And how are you, Ms. Liberated Woman?” Mary Helen asked.

  “Just fine, really, except”—Kate cut the chitchat short—“there is something I wanted to ask you about before my mother-in-law comes back.”

  Aha! So there was a hidden agenda, after all! Mary Helen felt suddenly warm inside. She would have sworn that Kate had something on her mind when she called last Monday, and she was right. The old touch was still right on target.

  “I want to ask you about getting pregnant.”

  Mary Helen hoped her expression didn’t give her away. She had been so sure Kate was going to talk about Erma that it took her several blinks to rearrange her thoughts and several more to adjust her face.

  She didn’t want to appear disappointed, nor did she want to appear astonished, when she realized what the topic was.

  “Pardon me?” Eileen’s voice rose. Obviously she was not fretting over appearances.

  The two listened attentively while Kate told of her desire to conceive and her failure so far. At least Mary Helen was as attentive as she could possibly be, wondering all the while what in the world Kate was getting at.

  “Then she”—Kate pointed toward the kitchen—“gave me some St. Gerard oil. She was given it by a neighbor and claims it works miracles.” Kate quickly related the story. “What do you know about it?” she asked.

  So that was the point! Mary Helen racked her memory. “Nothing,” she said finally. “Nothing at all.”

  To be brutally truthful, she had never heard of St. Gerard oil, and she seriously doubted that St. Gerard had either. Perhaps Eileen knew something about it That kind of thing was more up her alley. She looked questioningly at her friend.

  Equally baffled, Eileen shook her head. “I have never heard of it either.” Kate looked so deflated that Eileen couldn’t resist adding, “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” she said. “After all”—her eyes twinkled—“neither of us has ever had any call to use it.”

  “I suppose not,” Kate said absently.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Mary Helen offered. Obviously, in her present mood, the girl needed a straw to grasp. “First thing tomorrow morning, as soon as Eileen’s library opens, I’ll look it up and give you a call. If your mother-in-law attributes three children to having used it, someone must have heard of it.”

  That settled, maybe now she could mention Erma.

  But Mrs. Bassetti, her face flushed, reappeared in the doorway. “Come to the table. Quick! While it’s hot. Mangia! Mangia!” She wiped her hands on the corner of an oversized butcher apron, which must have been her son’s.

  Jack’s leg of lamb was delicious and the gravy lumpless. The dinner conversation flowed from current events to life at the college. Mary Helen waited for the lull. She was just about to fill it when Mama Bassetti beat her to it. She regaled them with several charming stories about Jack as a youngster. Although he fidgeted in his chair, Jack seemed to take them good-naturedly enough.

  The evening passed pleasantly and quickly, although several times Mary Helen found herself distracted. Erma Duran hung on the edge of her mind like a heavy weight. Something bothered her and, whatever it was, hovered just out of reach, evading her grasp. She felt like a person awakening after a vivid dream, aware of it yet unable to remember the details.

  When the old-fashioned clock on the mantel struck ten, Mary Helen was shocked. High time they went home. Everyone should be starting to droop. Besides, their hosts had to go to work tomorrow. For that matter, so did Eileen and she. Mary Helen glanced around the table. Actually, the only one who looked droopy was Jack. But then, poor dear, he had been bending over a hot stove. With his mother “helping.”

  About ten-thirty, they finally rose to go. Jack walked them to the car and Kate waved from the open doorway. Mrs. Bassetti was already in the kitchen, attacking the dishes no doubt, in case it was also Jack’s turn to clean up.

  “Congratulations, old dear.” Eileen said as soon as Mary Helen turned on the ignition.

  Great waves of fog billowed down Geary Boulevard, obscuring her vision. She hit the defrost and the windshield wipers simultaneously. “Congratulations for what?”

  “For spending an entire evening with two police officers and not bringing up Erma Duran, not even once!”

  “It’s not that I didn’t want to bring her up.” Mary Helen edged carefully away from the curb, watching for approaching headlights cutting through the swirling fog.

  Eileen’s gray eyes opened wide. “Then why didn’t you?” she asked.

  “Because I really could never find a way to fit it in.”

  “Which in itself is a miracle of sorts,” both nuns said in unison.

  May 24

  Ascension Thursday

  “Are you with us this morning,” Sister Cecilia asked, “or have you ‘ascended’ above the conversation?”

  The question startled Sister Mary Helen. It was the first thing she’d really heard during the entire breakfast and it was Cecilia’s idea of an Ascension-Thursday pun. If there was anyone worse at puns than Lucy, it had to be Cecilia.

  Mary Helen looked around. All eyes were on her. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little preoccupied this morning.”

  “Or perhaps a little tired. You were out quite late last night.” Therese sniffed.

  Smarting but feigning deafness, Mary Helen wondered what exactly had been addressed to her. Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been as important as the questions whirling around in her own mind.

  She had awakened puzzling and had been puzzling ever since. In fact, she was so distracted during the morning Mass that only a look at her watch made her sure the celebrant had been Father Adams. He was the one priest who could say Mass in twenty-five minutes, three readings and a homily included—not that she had heard one word of his sermon. Her mind had begun to wander during the first reading.

  Luke’s account of the Ascension was vivid: the Apostles, gaping open-mouthed; Jesus’ bare, pierced feet hovering just above their heads; their total bewilderment as they watched Him being lifted up into a cloud.

  She couldn’t help but identify with them. Gazing into an empty sky, they must have wondered about the man they thought they had known so well. Fortunately for them, two men in white flowing robes appeared to explain. At the moment, she wished someone would appear and explain a few things to her, white gowns optional.

  Yet despite her distractions at Mass, Mary Helen had felt God’s closeness. Who else but He could be urging her to probe and pick until she discovered truth? Only then, she knew, would He fill her with a sense of peace.

  Give me a hint! Mary Helen prayed silently, picking up her breakfast tray. Or give me a break!

  She excused herself from the table. Only Eileen seemed to stare at her curiously. She wondered for a moment if her lips had been moving.

  Back in her bedroom, Sister Mary Helen stared at her neatly made bed, frowning. She couldn’t even remember having made it. Now, that is distracted! she scolded herself. She hated bed-making. It always seemed like such a waste of time. You just had to unmake it to get back in.

  How she wished she had used the opportunity to talk to Kate Murphy last night about Erma. How she wished she could talk to her right now.

  Of course! she thought, brushing her teeth, St. Gerard Majella! She paused, brush in hand. What a perfect excuse to call Kate first thing this morning.

  Pulling h
er Aran sweater from the closet, Mary Helen hurried through the convent halls. Sounds of tidying up and getting ready for school came from each small room. Therese emerged with a dust mop, a dustcloth, and a determined look on her face, prepared to give them both a good shaking.

  Downstairs, the washing machine sloshed rhythmically. Beside it the dryer hummed its monotonous hum. Everything was so normal, so right, so slow. The contrast only served to heighten Mary Helen’s sense of unrest and urgency.

  The Hanna Memorial Library was nearly deserted when she arrived. Wonder of wonders, she had even beaten Eileen. Good! Mary Helen hurried over to the reference shelves.

  Butler’s Lives of the Saints would have what she needed. But before she looked into it, she had better check the Catholic Encyclopedia for the real name of Pope Pius IX. Maybe his name would provide a clue to what Erma meant when she had said, Look to the picture.

  The pope’s real name was Giovanni Maria Mastai-Ferretti. Mary Helen searched her mind. She couldn’t think of one John, one Mastai-Ferretti, or, for that matter, even one Italian that figured into the whole case.

  In Butler’s Lives, volume IV, page 131, she found the life of Gerard Majella. Scanning the entry, she searched for a mention of St. Gerard oil, but found none. The saint had been an Italian, born in 1726. The son of a tailor, he had become one himself. Gerard had tried religious life, been rejected, and worked as a servant in the bishop’s house. Finally, he was received into the Redemptorist Order by its founder, St. Alphonsus Liguori. His life was simple—if you didn’t count miracles, bilocation, and ecstatic flights, Mary Helen thought. But as young Sister Anne would say, Who’s counting? “His feast day is celebrated on October sixteenth, and he is patron of childbearing,” she read.

  In the whole account, Sister Mary Helen found no mention of any oil. Obviously Mrs. Bassetti’s neighbor had made it up. It was Mrs. Bassetti’s faith that had made it work.

  Although she had suspected she wouldn’t find anything, Mary Helen couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Doubting Kate wanted to believe so badly, and nobody—certainly not Mary Helen—likes to be the bearer of bad news.

  Definitely the young woman wanted children. Who wouldn’t? The shining face of the two Boscacci youngsters flashed through Mary Helen’s mind. Then Gerard Majella, the Pope, the Madonna, the washing machine, Erma, the “he” in her journal all tumbled in on themselves, banging together like so many bouncing Ping-Pong balls in the lottery spin.

  Quickly, one by one, the ideas shot out and lined up, making perfect sense. Mary Helen slammed Butler’s Lives shut. She rechecked the Catholic Encyclopedia. Of course she was right! Only one thing remained to double-check. Just to make certain.

  Picking up her sweater, she dashed across the quiet room. No one seemed to look up. She didn’t even notice Eileen watching her, nor did she see the worried look on her friend’s face as she let the beveled door swing shut behind her.

  * * *

  When Sister Mary Helen parked the car, the corner of 18th and Sanchez was virtually deserted. Several houses up on Sanchez, a small black mongrel stopped, stared, but went right back to sniffing. Apparently she didn’t even look suspicious enough to bark at.

  Good! she thought, making her way to the apartment building. Crossing town, Mary Helen had formulated a hasty plan. First, she would make sure whether or not Mr. Finn was at home. She leaned heavily on his doorbell. So heavily, in fact, that she could hear it ring from outside. When he didn’t answer, she rang again.

  Satisfied that Mr. Finn must have stepped out, she went to the bistro door and rapped on the window. No one appeared. She rapped again. Probably not even the cooks would arrive for at least another hour or so. The lock, she remembered, looked easy to pi—open. All right, then—pick!

  Fishing in her pocketbook, she pulled out the unsolicited credit card the phone company had sent. Maybe the changes in the company weren’t all bad, she thought as she ran the card along the doorjamb. Although she had read often about the procedure in her mysteries and had seen the new Mike Hammer do it on television, Mary Helen was genuinely surprised when the front door popped open.

  Carefully the old nun made her way across the darkened room, avoiding tables and pulled-out chairs. In the deserted kitchen the smell of stale grease hung on the air. Only the drip, drip, of water on the stainless-steel sink broke the heavy silence.

  Taking the old key from its hook on the wall, she unlocked the basement door and flipped on the light. Holding tight to the rickety banister, she began to descend the steps. They creaked. She stopped, listened, making sure she was alone. Adjusting her bifocals, she continued.

  Cautiously, Mary Helen peered around the dim basement. Good night, nurse! She had left the college so quickly she had forgotten all about bringing a flashlight. The single bulbs running across the center of the ceiling threw heavy shadows into the corners. She made her way across the room.

  Against one wall the concrete sinks were filled with grime. Water had made narrow rivulets of mud down their centers. Dusty cartons marked “toilet tissue” were stacked against a rough wall. The gray paint on the alley door had begun to peel.

  From outside, she could hear the muffled sound of traffic: the rattle of a pick-up truck, the dull roar of a passing motorcycle. Yet inside, the basement had a tomblike silence.

  With a sense of dread, Mary Helen approached the ice maker near the middle of the basement. She touched its motor. Cold. She opened the ice-storage lid. It was empty except for a puddle of nearly stagnant water covering the bottom. Bending over, Mary Helen studied the concrete floor surrounding it.

  Her stomach dropped. Her mouth was suddenly so dry she could hardly swallow. Just as she had suspected: new cement. Kate Murphy, she thought straightening up. I must phone Kate Murphy. Immediately!

  Suddenly the floor overhead creaked. Was it really a creak? Or simply her imagination? A second creak followed. Frozen, Mary Helen listened. It was the unmistakable sound of someone walking lightly, cautiously, across the kitchen floor. Someone who did not want to be heard. Someone who was heading toward the basement.

  Hardly breathing, Mary Helen crept toward the alley door. Its window was covered with dust. Perhaps that was why she didn’t notice, until she ran her hand along the wooden surface, that someone had removed the inside handle. That same someone had recently nailed a two-by-four to the door to make sure it was securely shut.

  As she backed toward the corner, the rough wall snagged her sweater. She crouched in the shadows. Cobwebs brushed her face. Mary Helen shuddered, but refused to imagine what else might be with her in the corner. Her muscles cramped, yet she waited, not moving, too terrified to even breathe. Dust tickled her nostrils, tempting her to sneeze.

  Straining, she heard the footsteps stop, the door to the basement grate open. For a long moment all she could hear was the sound of her own heart beating. A stair creaked, then another. She watched as the figure outlined by the glow of the kitchen light carefully descended the steps.

  Midway, it stopped, listened for noise, descended again. She was surprised to see that the figure was clutching a large pillow.

  * * *

  Kate Murphy yawned and checked her wristwatch. Not even noon and she felt ready for a nap. Or maybe she wasn’t awake yet. Stretching, she looked out the window of the Hall of Justice. Outside, it was that kind of day—gray and cold and sleepy. She checked her watch again.

  “A minute later, right?” Dennis Gallagher must have been watching her.

  “Right,” she said. Then, unable to resist, Kate stuck out her tongue. Whoever invented sticking your tongue out was a master psychologist, she thought. It made her feel a little foolish but a lot better.

  “Did you guys have a rough night?” Obviously Gallagher had chosen to ignore her reaction. “You look bushed. Still making up?”

  Kate could feel her face flush. “For your dirty mind’s information,” she said, “what we did was have the nuns over for dinner last night”

  “The
nuns?”

  “After we made up,” she added, to satisfy the incredulous look on Gallagher’s face.

  He was about to comment when Kate’s phone rang. She was surprised to hear Sister Eileen’s voice, although at first the nun’s brogue was so thick Kate could barely understand her.

  “Slow down, Sister,” she said.

  “Speak of the devil.” Gallagher pushed back in his swivel chair to listen.

  “Is there something wrong, Sister Eileen?”

  “Something is always wrong,” Gallagher muttered. With her free hand, Kate shushed him.

  “Glory be to God, I’m not sure, but I’m afraid so. I know how busy you are, Kate dear, and I would not think of bothering you ordinarily, but Sister Mary Helen took out of here about eight-thirty this morning like the devil himself was on her tail.”

  For the third time in a matter of minutes, Kate checked her wristwatch. “That wasn’t even two hours ago.”

  “You haven’t the ghost of an idea the amount of devilment the woman can get into in two hours. Or maybe you do. Anyway, she left without telling anyone where she was going and, what is worse, she had that look on her face.”

  “What look?”

  “ ’Tis difficult to describe unless you’ve seen it.” Eileen paused. “ ’Tis a cross between Joan of Arc and Miss Marple,” she said, “and it leads to only one thing—trouble!”

  “Are you sure?” Kate tried to speak calmly and reasonably, but it was no use.

  “Surr-re, I am surr-re.” Eileen was rolling her r’s. “I have been friends with the old dear for over fifty years, and I know that look when I see it. Besides, Kate, I have had a turrible eerie feeling all over since the moment I saw her leaving.”

  Kate needed more to go on than faces and feelings. “Have you any idea of where—”

  Eileen interrupted. “I have an idea, all right. A good idea that it has something to do with Erma Duran’s disappearance. And furthermore, I would wager all the books in Hanna Memorial, the rare ones included, that she is over there right now, poking around.”