“Thank you, Anne.” Sister Mary Helen was moved by the young nun’s thoughtfulness, although she had no intention of using the diary. When she traveled, she was usually too tired at the end of the day to write anything at all. Furthermore, she knew that when she returned home, she’d be entirely too busy to reread it.
“This is such a very special trip”—Anne beamed—“that I thought you might want to capture some of your most exciting moments.”
Mary Helen felt a little chagrined. Anne was right. This was a special trip. She should try to jot down something about it, although she rather doubted that a semireligious pilgrimage to a little-known shrine in an out-of-the-way corner of Spain would hold too many exciting moments. She dropped the thin diary into her pocketbook and gave Anne a quick goodbye hug.
“Don’t forget these!” Therese’s nasal voice echoed down the convent hallway and out onto the porch. In each hand she held a fold-up umbrella. “We wanted to get you a little something you could use on your trip, and I thought of these,” she declared proudly, thrusting an umbrella at each of them.
Mary Helen frowned. “Spain is sunny!” she blurted out unthinkingly.
At first Therese looked hurt, and Mary Helen felt like an ingrate. She was just about to apologize when Therese recovered with a sniff. “We’ll see!” she said smugly. “We will just see!”
Shoving the second unwanted gift into her carryon bag, Mary Helen stepped into the waiting car.
Wordlessly Señor Fraga zipped along the 280 Freeway toward the San Francisco Airport, just ahead of the evening commuter traffic. Mary Helen’s eyes burned, yet she was afraid to close them lest she drop off to sleep. The bump of the tires along the road, the hum of the engine, and the warmth of the October sun filling the car were so soothing that she was sure to fall right off.
And no wonder! Eileen and she had scurried around for the last two weeks, making the necessary arrangements at the college, digging out their passports, purchasing a few traveler’s checks, and packing and repacking their suitcases, trying not to forget anything essential yet keep them light enough to carry.
Of course, Mary Helen had checked out a couple of new paperback murder mysteries from the library and stashed them in her pocketbook. She was careful to slip the one she intended to read first into her plastic prayer book cover. After all, there was no sense scandalizing the other “pilgrims” unnecessarily.
There would be plenty of time both to sleep and to read once they boarded the plane. According to the itinerary, Mary Helen figured that the trip to Madrid, their first stop, would take about eleven hours.
A blazing red-orange yolk of sun was sinking quickly and turning the sky into a study of lavender and pink. They passed the National Cemetery; Señor Fraga exited 280 and sped along the Portola Freeway toward San Francisco International.
The airport was a maze of traffic and blinking lights. Hunched over the steering wheel, Señor Fraga maneuvered the lanes for departing and arriving flights, for domestic and international airlines.
With an air of relief, he pulled up in front of their terminal and spoke at last. “Seesters, not to worry. We are here in plenty of time.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “In fact, we are early. I will give you to my nephew if I can find him. And then I will see personally to your luggage.” He hustled them out of the Toyota and into the terminal.
Mary Helen was curious to meet the much-maligned Pepe.
“Ah, Seesters, here comes the big man now.” Señor Fraga frowned toward a young fellow pushing his way through the crowd.
The two men could not have looked less alike if they’d held a contest. Where the señor was short and stout, his nephew was tall, broad-shouldered, and thin in all the right places.
Nor did he fit Mary Helen’s stereotype of a bum. His gray woolen suit was tailored to perfection, his face tanned, and his eyes, like the words of the old Irish ballad, were “dark and . . . roving.”
“Ah, Tío Carlos! Early, as always.” The young man smiled. Beside her, Mary Helen felt Señor Fraga stiffen.
“Seesters,” he said, scarcely hiding his contempt, “this is my wife’s sister’s boy, my nephew, Señor Jose Nunez de Costa.”
With a smile that revealed a mouthful of straight white teeth, Señor Nunez clicked his heels and gave a deferential bow.
“Pepe. Please call me Pepe,” he insisted. “It is my supreme pleasure to meet you both.” His voice was unctuous. “We are indeed fortunate to have two such religious women upon this pilgrimage.” He faced Mary Helen.
If you only knew what we’ve heard about you and this trip, she wanted to say, but thought better of it. After all, they had eleven hours together on this plane, plus another short hop to Santiago. Not to mention a week in a foreign country. No sense starting off on the wrong foot.
“Except for our friend Consuelo Aguilar we would never have been in your uncle’s restaurant.” Mercifully Eileen filled the conversation gap. She turned to include the señor, but he had vanished.
Pepe, seemingly unconcerned about his uncle’s quick exit, led the two nuns through the milling crowd. “Follow me, Sisters,” he shouted over his shoulder. “We are in the First Class Lounge. I will introduce you to the rest of our pilgrims.”
“Thank you, señor,” Eileen shouted back, grabbing Sister Mary Helen’s hand to make sure that they weren’t separated.
“Pepe, Sister.” Mary Helen was puffing to keep up. “Please just call him Pepe.”
When the three reached the First Class Lounge, Pepe pulled back the heavy smoked-glass door. Chinese stone lions glowered at them from pedestals on either side of the entrance, and the uniformed attendant at the reception desk didn’t look much friendlier.
“I moved the rest of your party to the far end of the room.” She strained the words through a plastic smile.
With a gracious bow, Pepe motioned the nuns to follow him down the length of the narrow room toward a group of chairs behind a potted palm. Six people sat on the sea green chairs, holding coffee cups and looking uneasy.
“Ah, he’s back,” a thin-faced man with a graying beard announced. All heads turned toward Pepe.
“Peregrinos! Pilgrims,” he proclaimed in a loud, cheerful voice, “here are two more for your ranks.” Quickly he introduced Mary Helen and Eileen to the man with the gray beard, who turned out to be Professor Roger DeAngelo, and to the professor’s wife, Barbara.
“Please call me Bootsie,” she said with just a touch of a southern drawl. Next they met Dr. Neil and Mrs. Rita Fong, an Asian couple. Neil quickly made it clear he was a dentist, not a medical doctor. “Before anyone starts telling me about his or her lumbago,” he said with an easy smile. Finally, they were introduced to two young women, Heidi Williams, whose hair, eyes, and build reminded Mary Helen of butterscotch drop, and her friend, Lisa Springer.
Settling the nuns in chairs, their host excused himself to hurry back into the terminal in search of his last two missing “pilgrims.”
In the awkward silence that followed Pepe’s departure, the group made several attempts at conversation. Questions and answers bumped into one another the way questions and answers do when a group tries to establish some common ground.
“How did you happen to be at Patio Español? . . . Do you by any chance know so-and-so? . . . Is this your first trip to Spain? . . . I had an uncle who lived on the Avenues, by Fort Miley.”
Eileen fielded the ones that came their way. Mary Helen wondered how long it would take before the chitchat petered out and, for lack of anything better to say, someone would ask, “Whatever happened to the nuns in habits?” That was all right, but its singularly insulting companion, “Don’t you think nuns got more respect when they wore religious dress?” raised Mary Helen’s hackles.
“I have never been treated with anything but respect, and God help anyone who tries to do otherwise,” she was always tempted to answer. So she was relieved when Dr. Fong, peering over his half glasses, noticed that Eileen and she were without coffee and
supplied the perfect excuse to leave the group.
“Can I get you some?” Fong asked in a low, soothing voice.
“No, thank you, Doctor.” She pushed herself up from the soft chair. “We’ll be sitting for a long time. Moving around will do us good.”
Sister Eileen joined her at the refreshment table set against the darkened windows that formed one wall of the lounge.
“Whan that Aprill with his shoures sote,/The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote.” Out of the corner of her mouth, Eileen whispered the opening phrases of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.
Although Mary Helen hadn’t thought of the old classic in years, even a cursory glance brought home Eileen’s point. Professor DeAngelo was as hollow-cheeked and melancholy-looking as she remembered Chaucer’s scholar to be. His dark eyes, however, which had settled a bit too close to his nose, held a hard brilliance unknown in Chaucer’s time: contact lenses.
And the doctor? How had the poet described his doctor? Something about being dressed in “sangwin and in pers . . . lyned with taffeta and with sendal.” Actually, that more accurately described the doctor’s tiny wife, Rita, in her blood-red blouse and blue-gray pleated skirt. Her coarse black hair was piled high on her head in thick curls that added several inches to her height.
A loud thud drew attention toward the doorway.
“For God’s sake, Bud, be careful!” A high-pitched voice filled the First Class Lounge. It belonged to a sixtyish woman with waxy margarine yellow hair.
Rings of underarm perspiration were already formed on Bud’s plaid shirt. “What the hell have you got in here anyway, Cora?” he grumbled. “Lead?”
Cora ignored him.
Readjusting a slippery garment bag over his arm, Bud struggled to retrieve a makeup kit.
“Let me help you, Señor Bowman.” Like oil poured on seawater, Pepe relieved the man of the carryon luggage and hurried to introduce the newcomers to the group. He began with the two nuns.
Bud shook Sister Mary Helen’s hand. “Sorry we’re late,” he announced to the group at large. “My wife can never get any place on time.”
“I could if I had a little cooperation,” Cora announced just as loudly.
Treating their sparring as if he hadn’t heard it, Pepe moved the couple on to meet the two young women. “This is another of our lucky winners,” he said, “Heidi Williams.”
Heidi grinned and moved her gum to the side of her mouth. “This is my friend, Lisa,” she said, nodding toward her companion.
Bud Bowman’s eyes fastened on Lisa, and it was no wonder. Lisa Springer was tall, slender, and as strikingly beautiful as Heidi was plain. Her hair, the color of liquid amber, was pulled back and fastened with a sapphire ribbon that highlighted the blue of her eyes.
Lisa preened a little, almost as if being admired were a new phenomenon or at least one she never tired of. She smiled up at Bud. Only one crooked incisor marred her otherwise perfect face.
“For God’s sake, Bud, don’t just stand there staring. We’ve got more people to meet,” Cora hissed.
Mercifully a large group of Japanese tourists entered the lounge, and the room took on a pleasant buzz as the Bowmans met the others.
The two nuns made their way back to the urn for a second cup of coffee. “The Wife of Bath,” Eileen mouthed to Mary Helen. She rolled her gray eyes toward Cora Bowman.
Mary Helen gave a surreptitious nod. Eileen’s right, she thought, remembering the artist’s rendition of the famous pilgrims that had hung for years in the hallway of the college’s English department. Right down to the woman’s florid complexion, gap-toothed smile, and great wide hips. She was even wearing glossy new shoes. It was uncanny!
“Who does that make us?” Mary Helen asked, helping herself to a miniature Danish.
“Why, the Madame Prioress and her nun companion, of course.” Eileen winked. “You do have a ‘fair forheed.’ ”
Mary Helen touched her brow. All she felt were wrinkles.
“And I know many a tale about Cecilia.”
“Cecilia?” Mary Helen was puzzled.
“Don’t you remember, old dear? Chaucer’s nun’s tale was about Cecilia. The saint, naturally, not ours.” Eileen blinked piously. “Although our Cecilia may be a saint for all we know.”
“Of course, I don’t remember,” Mary Helen said, refusing to comment on Eileen’s last remark, “and frankly, I’m wondering how you do. I never realized your memory was that good.”
Eileen frowned. “What’s wrong with my memory?”
“Nothing at all. Actually, it is amazing.”
“I have always had a good memory,” Eileen groused.
“Yes, I know, but how in the world do you remember all that? It must be years since you read The Canterbury Tales.”
Sister Eileen’s round face flushed.
“How long?”
Airily she refilled her cup. “Not too long,” she said.
“How long?” Mary Helen narrowed her eyes.
“Well, if you must know, a week ago.” Eileen tilted her head defensively. “I am in the library, you know. It is only natural for the girls to ask me for help.”
“Peregrinos! Pilgrims.” Pepe’s voice cut off any further conversation. “It is nearly time for us to board our plane. Passports, please.” He clapped his hands for attention. “Everyone, please, get out your passports.”
Their host’s command propelled the tour group into action. Searching through his jacket pockets, the professor looked even more melancholy than before. His wife, who stood nearly as tall as he did, crowded in behind him.
When they were introduced, Mary Helen had judged Bootsie DeAngelo to be much younger than her husband, more the age of one of his students. The black hair pulled back from her face with a colored band and curled softly around her shoulders, plus the youthful figure accented by the short flowered-print shirt flaring over her hips, gave that impression.
Standing nearer her, Mary Helen realized with a start that Bootsie’s hair was really too black, almost shoe polish black. The long, thick eyelashes, which she used quite effectively, were much too long and heavy to be her own. She felt a twinge of pity as she noticed the makeup-caked wrinkles etching the corners of the woman’s eyes and mouth.
Youth is like spring, Mary Helen wanted to caution her, an overpraised season, but she knew that was something Bootsie DeAngelo must discover for herself.
Her musing was cut short when Pepe again announced, “Passports, please,” and the Bowmans began to argue. “I gave mine to you.” Cora watched Bud pat the pockets of his slacks.
“Passports, please,” Pepe repeated. “It is nearly boarding time.”
Dr. Fong’s face paled at the prospect of the long flight, and Heidi Williams let out a high-pitched nervous giggle.
Rummaging through her pocketbook, past a paperback mystery and Anne’s travel diary, foraging for her own passport, Mary Helen kept hearing snippets of The Canterbury Tales in her head. What had Chaucer said about his pilgrims? “Of various sorts”—this group surely was—“gathered together in a flock.”
Finally extracting her passport from the bowels of her pocketbook, she wondered if this motley pack would ever become a flock. She didn’t envy Señor Pepe Nunez, who undoubtedly fancied himself their shepherd. Poor fellow, she thought, watching him shoo the group that moved anything but sheeplike toward the gate, he surely has his work cut out for him.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant began. “Welcome aboard Flight Nine-forty with direct service to Madrid.”
Mary Helen hardly heard the rest of the spiel. She was too busy shoving her carryon bag with its bulky umbrella under the seat in front of her and trying to buckle her seat belt. Happily Eileen and she were on the side section of the plane, with two seats together, so they had only each other to bump.
The plane began to roll. “Be sure that your seats are in their upright positions and that your trays are securely fastened.”
Befo
re the attendant could continue, the flashing of lights and the dinging of bells sent her scurrying and the heavy plane rattled and trembled into a takeoff.
Eyes closed, Sister Mary Helen grabbed the armrest and held her breath. All around her the plane shook and roared. Silently she began a decade of the Rosary and found the familiar, almost unthinking repetition of the Hail Mary comforting. “Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”
With the final thud of the wheels against the belly of the aircraft, they were airborne.
“I always forget how much you hate takeoffs,” Eileen called above the roar of the plane, which still soared straight up, piercing the cloud cover.
Mary Helen cautiously opened her eyes and peered around. “I don’t seem to be the only one.” She pointed to the armrest across the aisle and the set of white knuckles still clutching it. They belonged to Dr. Fong.
Just behind them, Bud Bowman softly comforted his wife. “Relax, babe. It’s okay,” he said. “Nothing is going to happen now. We’re off the ground. Relax.”
Cora drew in a hissing breath.
“Relax,” Bud repeated, “and leggo of my arm, will ya? You’re stopping my circulation.”
A sudden ring of bells assured them that they had, at last, reached cruising altitude. Lisa Springer was one of the first out of her seat. Self-consciously she threaded her way down the narrow aisle, surveying each row as she went.
Mary Helen wondered absently if she was looking for anyone in particular. The other tour members were seated in a clump toward the back of the plane. She made a mental check: Bowmans, behind; Fongs, Lisa and Heidi, across the aisle in the wide middle section; DeAngelos, directly in front of the Fongs.
Only Pepe was unaccounted for. Perhaps Lisa had gone in search of him. Before Mary Helen could give it any more thought, the flight attendants began to gallop through the plane with orange juice, pillows, blankets, small utility packs, and, finally, the menu. The next hour was taken up with cocktails and dinner. When the movie came on, both nuns had seen it.
Eileen decided to rest her eyes while Mary Helen delved into her new paperback mystery. With relish, she opened to Chapter One. An eerie quiet settled over the plane. Only the engine hummed. Beside her Eileen began a soft, rhythmic snore. By Chapter Two Mary Helen’s own eyes were burning. She closed them. The steady drone of the plane lulled her toward sleep.
Murder Makes a Pilgrimage Page 3