They sat there, knee to toe. Like survivors on a raft, Mary Helen thought. Clinging to one another for dear life. There was no denying someone had brutally stabbed Greg Johnson. They had all been here and they were all here now. Except Felicita.
She had gone with Laura. The poor girl was so overwrought that Little suggested Felicita give her a hot toddy and put her to bed.
Even from the dining room they had heard Laura’s protests; then a sudden silence. Undoubtedly she had agreed, although Mary Helen doubted if she would sleep. She had probably realized a bed was the one private place where she could lie down and cry her heart out.
“Where do you suppose Beverly is?” Eileen asked.
Mary Helen had forgotten about Beverly.
“Maybe she’s in the kitchen.” Andy Carr toyed with his beard. “Or maybe she’s the one in with Little,” he suggested unconvincingly, staring at the floor.
Monsignor McHugh groaned. “Anyplace but making another meal,” he said. Apparently, the last two he’d consumed were still fighting it out.
With an unexpected bang, a side door slammed, letting in a burst of warm air and Sister Felicita.
“If I had a heart, I’d be dead,” Eileen whispered.
“Sorry!” Felicita’s black veil was askew atop her tousled angel hair. Her face was as flushed as if she’d wrestled with demons and barely won. “I feel about twenty years older than Methuselah,” she said.
Sister Mary Helen squeezed over to make room.
“Is it still Monday?” Felicita plopped down beside her.
“As far as we know.” Ed Moreno was trying his best to lift the mood.
Felicita’s eyes flicked around the square. “Has Detective Sergeant Little called anyone yet?”
Con McHugh shook his head. “No one, unless it’s Beverly, since the rest of us are all here.”
“Did you get Laura calmed?” Mary Helen asked, trying to make conversation.
“That poor girl.” Felicita’s pale blue eyes flooded. “I only wish there were something I could do to make this all go away.”
Her wish fell like a pall on the assembled religious. No sound was audible from the gift shop. Every attempt at conversation fell like a kamikaze pilot on a mission. Tom Harrington toyed with the obi of the geisha’s kimono.
“This is slower than your confession line, Con,” Ed Moreno tried again. When Con McHugh didn’t rise to the bait, even Ed fell silent.
The relentless summer sun thudded against the plate-glass windows. With each passing minute the temperature in the lounge rose and the morale of those sitting in it plummeted.
Finally, the gift shop door opened and a florid-faced Beverly emerged. Without a word, she hurried from the room.
Deputy Kemp, minus his bow tie, stood by the open door. That gift shop must feel like ladies’ night in the Turkish bath, Mary Helen thought, watching the deputy focus on her.
“Sister.” He nodded pleasantly. “Can we see you now?”
“May we,” she heard Little’s voice correct. Congratulations to your English teacher, Mary Helen thought, following Kemp’s lead.
The small room was windowless and stifling. Mary Helen took the chair, still warm and moist from Beverly, across from Bob Little. She scanned the walls and shelves and almost gasped aloud when she read the saying on the poster behind Little’s head.
“Truth will rise above falsehood,” it read, “as oil above water.” She wondered if it was a coincidence or if Little had tacked it there intentionally.
Bob Little’s tall good looks seemed unwilted by the heat. He studied her with friendly brown eyes—eyes that must drive the young girls gaga, Mary Helen thought.
He asked her to retell the events of the morning, which she did in detail. Deputy Kemp scratched away in his notebook as Little gently eased her through her grisly discovery.
“Did you see anyone on your way down the hill?” he asked when she’d finished.
“No. No one.”
“Whom did you run into first?”
“Monsignor McHugh.”
“Then?”
“Father Moreno came out of his room, and shortly after that Father Tom Harrington came out of his in his pajamas. But you can’t suppose . . .”
“Don’t worry.” Little’s face broke into a smile. “We don’t suppose anything yet. We’re just trying to get the facts straight, Sister. Can you remember hearing anything out of the ordinary during the night?” he asked. “Or in the early hours of the morning?”
Mary Helen thought. Actually, she had heard nothing at all until the cooing of the mourning dove awakened her. “I slept the sleep of the dead,” she blurted out, instantly wishing she could reswallow her words. Little didn’t seem to notice.
When Mary Helen left the room, she was feeling restless. The very thought of sitting in that hot, sticky lounge was too much. She needed some exercise. A walk around the grounds might clear her head. It might clear up something else that was bothering her as well. Where had those big dogs gone? The last time she saw them, they had loped off to chase something in the underbrush.
“Sister Eileen,” she heard Deputy Kemp say, “may we see you next, please?”
Choosing a shady footpath, Sister Mary Helen approached a screen door leading to the kitchen. She was surprised to hear voices coming from inside. Beverly and a man were talking. His voice sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on exactly whose it was. They were talking softly, but from the tone the conversation was heating up.
Mary Helen eased toward the door. Both backs were toward her. Beverly fanned herself and ran her free hand up the untidy haystack of hair piled on her head. Beside her was a broad, thick tan-shirted back belonging to a man with short reddish hair. Sergeant Loody! Of course!
What kind of business could he have with Beverly? And why wasn’t he guarding the murder scene?
Even policemen need a coffee break, Mary Helen thought, hurrying past the door before they spotted her. She was in no mood for a confrontation or even a conversation with either of them.
She followed a secluded wooded trail up the hillside. Thankfully, it was far away from Madonna Grove, yet had the same wilderness beauty.
Live oak, white-barked sycamore, and waxy madrone shaded the path. Fragrant yellow broom and sword fern grew along its sides. Mary Helen walked a wide berth around the bright red poison oak leaves and stooped to examine the ballerina-shaped fuchsia blossoms.
Amid all this peace and beauty, how could she have discovered something so heinous? She breathed in the fragrant air.
The angry buzz of swarming insects snagged her attention. Her stomach jumped and her hands felt cold and shaky. Was this going to happen every time she heard bugs buzzing? Was her mind going to conjure up imaginary evils even in this idyllic setting?
She moved toward the noise. They were after something. Bravely she stole a glance and her stomach pitched forward in a sickening lurch at what she saw. Her question was answered. There, lying rigid and stiff, in a field of miner’s lettuce and buttercups, were the two German shepherds. Except for their arched necks and their open, bulging eyes, they might have been asleep. The sound of her screams filled the silent woods.
“It was louder than the Berkeley ferry bell,” Eileen said later, but Mary Helen never did believe that.
Deputy David Kemp was the first to hear the scream. Eileen was the first to recognize it.
“It’s Sister Mary Helen,” she said, her brogue thick.
Detective Little threw back his chair. He heard it bang against the gift shop wall as he followed Kemp out the door.
The two men ran toward the noise. Surprisingly, the little old nun, Eileen, was not too far behind, puffing but keeping up.
“Atta girl!” he wanted to call over his shoulder, but he needed all his breath to keep going himself. Too much time with Terry and not enough working out, he thought ruefully.
“What the hell’s Loody doing here?” Kemp pointed to the enormous figure bursting throug
h the screen door by the kitchen. “Isn’t he supposed to be guarding the scene?”
“Maybe he needed to take a leak,” Little said, then hoped that Sister Eileen hadn’t heard him.
“Aren’t there enough trees in the woods?” Kemp called.
Before Little could answer, Mary Helen stumbled into the clearing, her face the color of pabulum. She swayed. He grabbed her. Her whole body was trembling.
“What is it, Sister? What happened?”
With great effort, Mary Helen sobbed out her grim discovery.
“Get somebody up there,” Little shouted, keeping his arm firmly around her.
Eileen caught up. Slowly, the two of them half walked, half carried Mary Helen toward the kitchen. Beverly filled the doorway.
“What you need is a good strong cup of coffee.” Little nodded toward Beverly, knowing she heard him. Without any change of expression, she went inside.
Where had he seen her before? He knew he recognized her from somewhere, yet he could not put his finger on where. A woman of her stature was hard to forget. This was his first visit to St. Colette’s, so it hadn’t been here. It had bothered him all during lunch. If he thought about it long enough, he knew he’d remember.
That was why he had called for her first, although his interrogation had shed no real light. Beverly Benton, forty-one years old, had lived in the Bonny Doon area of Santa Cruz for about two years. Alone. Before that she had lived in San Francisco, working as a chef at an upscale restaurant on Kearny Street.
She said that the job was “too pressured” and so she had moved from the city and found work at the retreat house as their cook.
She had never been married, had no immediate family, and didn’t know the victim, other than that he was Laura Purcell’s boyfriend.
Last night, she had stayed home alone watching reruns on television and had gone to sleep early because today the priests’ retreat started and she knew it would be a busy week.
She added, with the first bit of emotion Little had seen her show, that she had no good reason to kill Greg Johnson.
When he asked, “What about a not so good reason?” she had actually smiled. Maybe she even had a sense of humor.
Bob Little felt Mary Helen sag in his arms. “We’re almost there, Sister,” he said.
“If you ask me, she needs something stronger than coffee.” Beverly reappeared with a full snifter. Little caught the distinctive smell of brandy. With surprising gentleness, she held it up to the old nun’s lips. Eileen hovered nearby.
“Sister looks like she’s in good hands,” Little said. He was anxious to get up the hill to check out this latest development. Who the hell kills dogs? “If you think she needs a doctor, just let one of the deputies know.”
Mary Helen’s back stiffened. “A doctor is totally unnecessary.” She sniffed. “There’s plenty of life left in the old girl yet.” The flint in her eyes left no doubt in his mind that what she said was true.
By the time Little arrived at the new crime scene, Kemp had summoned the forensic team. Carefully they studied the ground around the two animals, searching for anything that might be useful. Deputy Foster, looking as if he had been hit with the flu, stood to one side. “Looks like poison,” he managed.
Loody’s face twisted with disgust. He stared at the two German shepherds. “What kind of a son of a bitch poisons a dog?” he asked, kicking viciously at a rock. It ricocheted off a tree trunk with a ping, narrowly missing one of the forensic team.
The man stared up angrily. “Take a hike, will ya?”
Before Loody could answer, Little grabbed his arm. “I need you back at the parking lot,” he said with all the good humor he could dredge up. “With everyone else up in the hills, you never know what kind of nut will wander in.”
Loody hesitated, then, much to Little’s relief, he followed him down the hillside. Little felt he didn’t need any insurrection among the troops.
“What was going on in the kitchen?” Little made sure they were out of earshot before speaking.
Loody’s small eyes became even smaller. “What do you mean?” he asked.
Little shrugged. “When I was running toward the screaming, I saw you barrel out the kitchen door. I was just curious what you were doing there. Maybe you happen to know the cook from somewhere?”
“It was as hot as hell in that grove and I was sweating like a pig. I needed a glass of water, that’s all,” Loody said, too quickly.
“Just wondering.” Obviously this was not the time or place to get the truth out of Eric Loody. He’d wait. “Make sure no one crosses the line, will you, Sergeant?” he said, pointing to the bright yellow cordon.
Loody scoffed. “Just let ’em try!”
Bob Little paused by the kitchen door. Sister Eileen gave him an “okay” signal. Confident that Mary Helen was in good care, he continued to the gift shop.
Back in the small, airless room, Little closed his eyes, deep-breathing as Terry had taught him, purposely trying to relax. I still have “miles to go before I sleep,” he thought, remembering Sister Immaculata’s penchant for making her students memorize poetry. He usually chose Frost. At least he understood the stuff.
After a few minutes, he ran his finger slowly down the list of names. Monsignor McHugh, Cornelius J. Might as well start with the top banana. Besides, he was the one who knew the victim’s mother. Marva. Little remembered the name because it was so odd. Like naming a baby “Wonder Woman.” If Terry and he ever had a child, he wondered what they’d name it. Something a lot more ordinary than Marva or Cornelius.
Thinking about a child was really far-fetched. Terry and he hadn’t even decided on a permanent commitment. They had their careers. Terry was on the way to becoming a highly paid architect and he considered himself a successful cop.
True, they had lived together for a little over two years in a small gem of a Victorian built on a short street off East Cliff that dead-ended at the beach. The cottage belonged in Terry’s family and was once undoubtedly the only dwelling on the cliff.
The place reminded him of a gingerbread house, but Terry loved it. Probably had something to do with being an architect. When pushed he had to admit that its location was ideal. The soothing rhythm of the waves, the ever-changing sky, and the long stretch of beach provided a perfect place to forget crime. But—back to work . . .
“Monsignor Cornelius McHugh,” Little called from the doorway. “May I see you next, please?” He wondered absently if the other kids had called him “Corny.”
The monsignor, sitting stiffly in St. Colette’s lounge, rose from a Chinese-red couch. Slowly, almost painfully, he walked the length of the room and crossed the threshold into the stifling gift shop.
“It’s a sorry way to begin a retreat,” he said.
It’s a sorry way to begin anything, Little thought. A trickle of sweat slid down his back. Where the hell was Kemp? Somebody needed to take notes.
He didn’t have to wait long. Kemp, his face red from coming down the hill, threw open the door and pulled the notebook from his breast pocket. “Ready,” he said, clicking his ballpoint pen and waiting for Little to begin.
Two hours and four priests later, Detective Sergeant Little was happy to hear a knock on the door. The room felt like a sauna and his rear end ached from sitting on the small, hard chair. Kemp’s face had an unhealthy glow and not only was his bow tie off, but the first three buttons of his shirt were open. Before long he’d be stripped down to his T-shirt.
“Sorry to disturb you, Sergeant.” Sister Felicita peered at him through her rimless glasses. “There is a lady—Inspector Kate Murphy—on the telephone.”
Little had almost forgotten about Murphy. He checked his watch. Nearly quitting time for her. Maybe she’d gleaned something from the victim’s mother. He sure hoped so. He was getting no place fast with these clerics.
“Take a break, Dave,” Little said, and followed Felicita outside. A breeze was picking up. Thank God. Maybe the night would cool off so h
e could get some shut-eye. Things always seemed clearer after a good night’s sleep.
Sister Felicita ushered him into a small office, carefully shutting the door as she left.
“Sergeant Little,” he said, picking up the receiver.
“Inspector Murphy here.” Her voice was energetic, especially for the end of the day, Little thought, but then she hasn’t been cooped up for hours in a sweatbox.
Kate Murphy got right down to business. “My partner and I dropped by Marva Johnson’s home and notified her of her son’s death.”
“How did she take it?” Little asked, realizing what a dumb question that was.
“She was shocked, of course, but somehow not surprised.”
“How’s that?”
“She strongly disapproved of his lifestyle.”
“Which was?”
“Promiscuous, from her point of view. She thought his girlfriend Laura Purcell was ‘a tramp.’ Her words.”
Little was surprised. If anything, Laura had seemed to him like the all-American coed type. Somebody that anyone’s mother would approve of. His sure would. “So?”
“So, if Laura didn’t lead him into trouble someone else would.”
“Other women?”
“Not only women, anyone, even priests. He was in the seminary, you know.”
Little did know. He had learned that much, anyway, from his interviews with the clergymen.
“She implied that if he hadn’t met Father Tom Harrington—he’s a prominent priest here in San Francisco—” Kate explained.
“I know who he is. I just spent a half hour talking to him,” Little said.
“He’s there too?” Kate sounded surprised.
“Why do you ask?” Little’s heart sank. Don’t tell me he’s a pedophile or some damn thing, he thought. So much had been in the media lately about the sexual abuse and indiscretions by priests, and even bishops, that the impact was gone. It just left him with a sad, sick feeling.
“I had the impression that it was a nuns’ retreat,” Kate said.
With a sense of relief, Little cleared his throat. “No. There was just a little mix-up with your two nun friends. Actually, it is, or was supposed to be, a priests’ retreat. It could happen to anybody.”
Death Goes on Retreat Page 8