Murder Makes a Pilgrimage

by Carol Anne O'Marie

  Mary Helen closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The salty smell of the Pacific was in the air. She heard the college flags snapping atop their pole and from somewhere the caw-caw of a sea gull. It must have been a day much like today in Galilee, she thought, when Jesus called Matthew. In the Gospel story for this morning’s liturgy Jesus had said, “Follow me.” And Matthew, the tax collector, by his own admission had left all, “got up,” and followed Him.

  God works in mysterious ways, Mary Helen mused, feeling the warmth of the sun on her shoulders and back. For the most part she had stopped years ago trying to figure out the inscrutable whys and hows. Maybe this pilgrimage to Spain was where He was calling her. Who knew? Why, then, was she so hesitant to follow? No reason that made any sense really.

  Satisfied that Eileen had headed for the library, Mary Helen ducked back into the building. Eileen was right, of course. Life was too short. The more she thought about it, the more a week in sunny Spain sounded like “just what the doctor ordered,” so to speak. Actually she had not been to the doctor since her yearly checkup last January, at which time he had pronounced her “Amazing!”

  Her feet clicked along on the red tile hallway toward the Hanna Memorial Library. Just like castanets, she thought, getting more and more into the spirit of the adventure. By the time she pushed open the doors of the hallowed Hanna, she was softly humming the chorus of “Lady of Spain, I Adore You.”

  Sister Mary Helen found Eileen in the small workroom off the main librarian’s office. She was surrounded by black leather-covered tomes.

  “We really don’t have too much information on Santiago de Compostela,” Eileen muttered without even looking up. “ ‘Galicia is in the extreme northwest corner of Spain. Its climate is generally wet, much like that of Ireland,’ ” she read aloud.

  “Spain is sunny,” Mary Helen said stubbornly, unwilling to give up her illusion.

  “All I know is that if it’s like back home, we had better be prepared and pack our Aran sweaters.” She shoved a volume of the 1910 Catholic Encyclopedia toward Sister Mary Helen, who skimmed through the statistics of the shrine and the metropolitan see of Compostela, its etymology, and its history.

  “Here’s something about a Holy Year,” she read. “ ‘Jubilee years (Holy Years) are held when the feast of St. James, July 25, falls on a Sunday. The years come at odd intervals of 6-5-6-11 years apart.’ ”

  Eileen counted on her fingers. “We really are very lucky to be going,” she said. “Do you realize what our chances are of being able to celebrate another año santo?”

  “Very slim-o,” Mary Helen grunted, pulling yet another book from the pile. “Listen to this, Eileen. ‘Tradition says that the disciples of St. James spirited away his dead body from Spain and set sail for Jaffa. Seven days later the ship, propelled by wind and waves, arrived on the coast of Galicia. A man was riding his horse beside the sea. As the ship neared, the horse bolted and the man was carried out by the waves. Instead of drowning, the rider surfaced covered with cockleshells. Since then the cockleshell has been the symbol of St. James and the badge of a pilgrim to Compostela.’ ” Mary Helen paused. “Now what do you think of that?”

  “It works for me.” Eileen looked up from the book that she was perusing.

  “How did I know it would?” Mary Helen muttered. “Shall I go on?”

  “By all means, old dear. My books just have the facts. You seem to have stumbled on all the good stuff.”

  “ ‘The saint’s tomb was lost, then rediscovered in 813 by a shepherd who saw little starlike lights over an oak grove. It is sometimes called “St. James of the Field of Stars.” ’ ”

  Sister Mary Helen glanced up to see if Eileen was still listening. She was mesmerized. “Do you want to hear the names of some of the famous people who have visited the shrine?”

  Eileen nodded.

  “St. Francis of Assisi on his way to found his first monastery in Spain; St. Dominic; William of Aquitaine; Louis the Seventh of France; Don Juan of Austria; Marshal Pétain; Angelo Giuseppe Roncalli before he became Pope John the Twenty-third—”

  “And us,” Eileen added dreamily. “You do have your passport, don’t you?”

  “You know I do,” Mary Helen answered. She renewed her passport and her driver’s license religiously, not as religiously as she renewed her three vows, of course, although some convent wag had once remarked that it was close.

  “Then what is it that is still bothering you?” Eileen studied Mary Helen’s face. “I can tell that something is.”

  “Several things,” Mary Helen admitted. “From all we’ve read here and what I remember from the article in the San Francisco Catholic, the Holy Year starts in January. The Feast of St. James and the culminating celebration are in July. Why, then, are we going in October? And why would the Patio Español sponsor such a trip? To make any sense, it has to be a promotional of some sort. Why would you promote an event when it is almost over?” She paused to let that much sink in. “And then there’s still the problem of Cecilia.”

  Eileen raised her hand. “Whoa! You can ask Señor Fraga about his reasons when you call to accept. I’m sure he has a satisfactory explanation. I have already taken care of Sister Cecilia.” She grinned. “I simply left her a note.”

  The phone in the workroom rang before Mary Helen could squeal at Eileen’s news. Even with the receiver pressed against Eileen’s ear, she could hear the cold, clear tone in the college president’s voice.

  “I know how busy you are at this time, Sister dear,” Eileen said, her brogue lilting. “I didn’t want to take up an appointment space, so I knew you’d appreciate a note instead. Much quicker for you,” she rushed on. “Mary Helen is here with me, and we have been reading the most wonderful things about this shrine. It should be a very worthwhile religious experience for the two of us. And it is so steeped in history and tradition. The college, I know, will benefit from our having been. Why, one of us can speak about it to a history class and one to a religion class. It is a small part of the medieval church still left in today’s world. Then there is the foreign language department—I beg your pardon?” Eileen paused to listen. “Oh, we will and thank you.”

  “What did she say?” Mary Helen asked.

  “She said, ‘Have a good time.’ ”

  “Poor devil, what else could she say?” Mary Helen shrugged, staring with new admiration at her dear old friend, already returning to her stack of books. “What chance did she stand against you?”

  Mary Helen checked her wristwatch. “Let’s stop for a coffee break,” she said. She needed one. The two nuns had been reading silently and to each other for well over an hour.

  “Thank goodness you can’t find more books on the subject.” Mary Helen pushed back a piece of gray hair that per in falling over her glasses. “We probably know more about Santiago de Compostela than most of the natives. Let’s leave something to the tour guide.”

  “Right you are.” Eileen stretched. “Let’s just put these books back on the table to be reshelved, and we’ll call it a day.”

  The two nuns started down the long hallway toward the Sisters’ dining room in companionable silence. At this time of day the passageway was deserted. In the name of ecology, someone had flipped off the overhead lights.

  “I feel as if we’re two moles in a tunnel,” Eileen groused, and Mary Helen was about to agree when the rapid clicking of the tiles warned them that someone was approaching in a hurry.

  Eileen squinted down the dim corridor. “Whoever that is, the devil himself must be in pursuit,” she whispered.

  Or the place is on fire, Mary Helen thought, hoping that if that were the case, someone had rescued the coffeepot and a couple of Ramon’s fresh glazed doughnuts.

  “Is one of you, by any possibility, Seester Mary Helen?” They heard the voice almost before they saw the short, stout man. His dark eyes darted from one to the other.

  “I am.” Although Mary Helen had never seen the face before, she recognized the
voice.

  “Seester, I am Señor Fraga from the Patio Español,” the man said with a stiff, formal bow. When he straightened up, Mary Helen noticed that his mouth pulled into a thin, tense line.

  “We just spoke on the telephone.” He was checking, no doubt, to see if she remembered.

  “Yes, of course, señor,” Mary Helen answered quickly, eager to show him that despite their recent conversation, she did have all of her senses and most of her wits intact.

  “Because of our earlier mix-up, Seester, I was anxious to present this to you in person.” Señor Fraga thrust out his hand which held a thick white envelope. “Pulmantur” was typed across its front.

  “This contains your information,” he said, speaking a bit more quickly than he had on the phone. “There is a pamphlet about the tour, your luggage tags, a list of the documents you will need, and your itinerary. Your tickets, of course, await you at the airport. That is, Seester, if you accept the prize.” He paused, studying her face. Obviously he was still not sure whom and what he was dealing with.

  “We accept,” Eileen announced brightly.

  With a look of relief Señor Fraga thrust the envelope toward her.

  “Wait just a minute, señor,” Mary Helen blurted out.

  Señor Fraga looked stricken. “You do not accept?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, I do. Thank you. But I do have a few questions.”

  It took a little convincing, but Mary Helen persuaded Señor Fraga to join them in the Sisters’ dining room. After a sprinkling of preliminary chitchat, a cup of coffee, and one of Ramon’s fresh doughnuts, Mary Helen could see the man begin to relax.

  “As I mentioned in the hall, señor,” she began, “I do have a few questions about our trip. I am curious about how many people won your contest. Just I, or are there more?”

  “Ten, Seester.” He spread both his hands on the table top. “Five winners and five companions.”

  “The Patio Español is sending ten people to the Holy Year in Santiago?” Mentally she calculated the cost. Roughly it was what Shirley and she had hoped to net on the alumnae fashion show.

  Mary Helen noted a melancholy look on Señor Fraga’s face when he nodded his head. “Yes, Seester,” he said, accepting another doughnut from Eileen.

  “The Patio Español is sending ten people to a Holy Year in Santiago in October when, from what I understand, it began in January and its main day of celebration was held on July twenty-fifth. I’ve given it some thought, señor, and at the risk of sounding crass, I am wondering why.”

  “Why? Why? Because,” he began with a touch of bravado, “Galicia is my province. Santiago is my home.”

  Their eyes met and held. He took a fierce bite of his doughnut. As he chewed, Mary Helen could almost see his mental cranes turning, appraising her, deciding just how much to tell. When he finally swallowed, Ramon’s doughnut seemed to act like truth serum.

  “Why? I will tell you why, Seester.” His shoulders sagged a little. “To be quite frank, it is because my nephew, my wife’s sister’s only boy, is a—how you call it?—he is a bum. Thirty years old and no job!” Señor Fraga narrowed his eyes as he picked up momentum. “But always the angle. Sí, always the angle. Now he thinks he will be a travel agent.”

  The corners of his mouth turned down as if he had just tasted something sour. “A travel agent,” he repeated, pausing to let the nuns savor the foolishness of such an ambition. “So what does he do? He sets up an año santo trip to Santiago with Pulmantur in Madrid. Promises them ten people. A big man.” He stuck his thumbs behind the lapels of his suit jacket. “Not two or even five or six. No. My nephew is a big man. He will find ten. He will run the trip, be the guide. He signs the contract, takes the advance.

  “Now, it is getting onto October. The año santo is almost over. Pulmantur wants its money.” Señor Fraga’s face was flushed. Clearly he had worked himself up to a full head of steam. “And the big man? He has no money. He has no pilgrims. His mother, she comes to me.”

  His voice shifted into a falsetto to imitate his sister-in-law. “ ‘Carlos, please help my Pepe.’ Can you imagine, Seesters, a thirty-year-old still called Pepe? ‘I am afraid he will go to jail!’ she says. ‘Good place for him,’ I say. She cries. She goes to my wife, who says that I am a heartless man.” Incredulous, Señor Fraga shrugged and stared at the nuns. “Me, a heartless man!

  “ ‘Maybe this is Pepe’s big chance,’ my wife says. I say, ‘Pepe has had enough chances from me.’ ” He slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the cups. “ ‘Enough, no more,’ I say. But my wife, she begs me, and when I say, ‘No,’ she cries, and then she stops speaking.”

  A frustrated and spent Señor Fraga leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “It costs me a fortune, but maybe it is worth it after all. At least, my wife is speaking, her sister is out of my hair, and Pepe, he is out of the country for a while. There are nice girls at Pulmantur. Maybe he will meet one, marry her, and stay in Spain.

  “But enough of my troubles.” He pushed the last bit of glazed doughnut into his mouth and drained his cup. “I must get back to my restaurant.” Señor Fraga rose. “Adios, for now,” he said, bowing formally to each of them. “I will see you on Thursday, October seventh. A driver will pick you up here and bring you to the airport. The time is on your itinerary.” He pointed to the envelope that Eileen was still clutching.

  “Perhaps you would just as soon we didn’t accept the trip,” Mary Helen said, feeling a certain sympathy for the man.

  Eileen’s face fell, but Señor Fraga’s fell farther. “No, Seester, we must send ten people to Santiago. I am happy that two of them are religious. I have already given all the information to my accountant.”

  Accountant? Mary Helen wondered, watching Señor Fraga disappear. With short, quick steps he sailed down the darkened hallway, leaving nothing but the staccato clicking in his wake.

  “He surely answered all your questions,” Eileen said cheerfully.

  And raised a few, too, Mary Helen thought, wondering just how wise it was to go on a tour led by someone who sounded as irresponsible as Pepe.

  Eileen suffered from no such qualms. “Our winning was even lucky for Señor Fraga,” she noted. “He seems genuinely pleased to have picked out two religious.”

  Suddenly something that the señor had said and that had puzzled her became crystal clear. “Picked is right!” Mary Helen stared at her friend. Of course, he had “picked” them. He would have picked as many religious as were in the box.

  “We are a charitable tax deduction, Eileen,” she announced triumphantly. “That’s why he is so anxious for us to go, and that is why he said ‘accountant.’ He may have to pay full fare for eight, but not us. Us he has declared a donation.”

  At first Eileen stared at her with wide, unbelieving eyes. Finally she dismissed the suggestion with a wave of her pudgy hand. “This fund-raising business is beginning to affect you, Mary Helen. You see tax deductions everywhere.” She wagged her head. “Not to press a point, old dear, but I honestly do think it was a stroke of very good luck that I saw that box and that you won this trip. You know, Mary Helen, you really do need a vacation, a chance to get away from everything and just relax.”

  And what better place to do it, Mary Helen thought, than in sunny Spain?

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 7

  Feast of

  Our Lady of the Rosary

  The shrill ring of the convent doorbell cut through the chatter in the Community Room. Much to Mary Helen’s surprise, the nuns had gathered there after the last class for an impromptu party to wish the travelers well.

  Sister Agnes had prepared her famous spinach dip, Sister Marta had arrived with a steaming platter of buffalo wings, and Anne, with a few of the other young nuns, had seen to the liquid refreshments.

  “Vaya con Dios. Go with God.” Tall, slim Cecilia raised her glass in a toast.

  If we’re going with Pepe, God had better not be too far away, Mary Helen thought, raising h
er own glass in return.

  “And have a treat on us.” Looking over her rimless glasses, Cecilia handed Eileen an envelope with a slight bulge.

  Mary Helen was genuinely touched and was about to say so when Sister Therese (who insisted her name be pronounced “trays”) burst into the room.

  “Your carriage awaits without,” she announced to one and all.

  “Without a what?” old Sister Donata, her perpetual straight woman, asked.

  “Without these two.” She pointed to Eileen and Mary Helen.

  In the ripple of polite laughter and predictable groans that followed, Mary Helen and Eileen headed toward the front door. Their suitcases were already in the parlor, awaiting the arrival of the driver who would take them to the San Francisco Airport. It turned out to be Señor Fraga himself.

  “Good afternoon, Seesters,” he greeted them. “You are ready, I see. Muy bien!” After snatching up the two suitcases, he carried them to the car, opened the trunk, and put them in. With a flourish he flung open the door to the backseat and held it.

  As if it were a chauffeured limo, Mary Helen thought, except, of course, Señor Fraga drove a Toyota, not a limousine.

  “You two can’t leave without a good-bye hug.” Young Sister Anne followed them down the hall.

  Inwardly Mary Helen groaned. Why a hug? Why not just a nice, cheerful good-bye with maybe a peck on the cheek? Not that she was against hugs per se, but she’d been noticing of late that it was always the thin young nuns like Anne who were the huggers. When you formed a few rolls in the wrong places, you became a little more circumspect.

  None of this seemed to bother Sister Eileen, who was squeezing Anne and looking pleased to do so.

  “I brought you each a little gift.” Anne reached into her apron pocket.

  “You shouldn’t have,” Eileen protested as Anne handed each a small travel diary. A thin pencil was attached to its back cover.