Murder Makes a Pilgrimage

by Carol Anne O'Marie

  “Kicked him?” Esteban’s mustache twitched. “That little thing kicked him?”

  Although Rita Fong was tiny, to Ángel’s way of thinking her small person emitted a giant’s strength. Was it the command in her voice? The brightness of her dress? Or was it those eyes, which peered at him like two hard lumps of polished jet?

  “That is his version,” Ángel said. “She claims that she was concerned because he was drinking too much wine and wine is not good for him. She says that was what they were discussing in the hallway and that he became angry, shouted, and stalked away.”

  “That was the commotion Señora Bowman heard.” Zaldo’s eyes brightened. “Perhaps the doctor went outside for a breath of air, met Señorita Springer, tried to make drunken advances. When she refused, he struck her.”

  “That is an interesting theory, Esteban, except that both the Fongs agree—and it is one of the few things that they do agree upon—that Dr. Fong returned a few minutes later, sick and penitent, and that they spent the rest of the night in bed together.”

  As far as possible from each other, Angel supposed, feeling a twinge of pity for the doctor. He himself hated going to bed angry. After a row with Julietta, rather than sleep in a tense bed, he always apologized and Julietta was quick to forgive. For some reason Ángel could not imagine Rita Fong forgiving at all.

  “What about the murdered girl’s friend, Heidi?” Esteban interrupted the comisario’s reverie.

  “Aha! Heidi.” Angel turned over his paper. Gum-chewing Heidi had provided him with a wealth of information. “She told me that she and Lisa went to bed about three this morning. Pepe had left the hotel briefly with María José, who, at least in Heidi’s view, was furious with him.”

  At the mention of Ho-Ho’s name, Esteban squirmed uncomfortably. “I am sorry, Comisario, that your sister’s only daughter is involved.”

  “It is not your fault, Esteban.” Nor mine either, he thought, regardless of what his sister, Pilar, would say. Maybe he should have put Ho-Ho in jail for a few hours. Teach them both a lesson!

  “María José told me,” he continued, “that she was angry because Pepe had not bothered to escort her to the banquet. Then afterward he had danced with the other single women while he left her sitting.”

  Ángel’s stomach growled so loudly that he cut short his niece’s rendition of the evening. “She went home early,” he said, dreading the thought of checking out her alibi with his sister. “Pepe returned to the hotel, where they danced until closing time, and he escorted the girls on a moonlit walk around the university.”

  Zaldo’s eyes narrowed.

  “All very aboveboard,” Ángel added quickly. “When they finally went to their room, they found a note had been shoved under the door. For Lisa.”

  “A note! From the murderer?”

  “From an admirer, according to Heidi, although they might be one and the same.”

  “Where is this note?”

  “Heidi tells me that the murdered girl tore it into little pieces and flushed it.” Bad on the evidence and bad on the plumbing, Angel thought, pushing himself up from his chair. Zaldo shot to attention. “At ease, Esteban. At ease. We’ll talk more after dinner.” He put his hand on the officer’s rigid shoulder. “Why don’t you go home and have your dinner, too?”

  “But what about the nuns, Comisario?”

  “The nuns?” Reluctantly Angel sat back down and motioned for Officer Zaldo to do the same. “You don’t think that one of them is the murderer, do you?” He ran his fingers around his tonsure. “One was asleep all night. And the other one? She did have something interesting to add. She happened to look out the window sometime during the early-morning hours and spotted what she thought might be a person on the cathedral steps.

  “On the other hand, she claimed that whoever it was stood so still that perhaps it was only shadows. Not a word about this to anyone, Esteban, until we can check it out further.” The clock in the tower struck two.

  “But after dinner. Facts are better on a full stomach, don’t you agree? The nuns, however, I think we can safely rule out.”

  The young officer’s boots scraped nervously against the carpet.

  “What is it, Esteban? Is there something about the nuns that you have not told me?”

  “While you were interrogating the Americans, Comisario, I took the liberty of checking with the hotel’s manager to see if any telephone calls were placed.”

  “And?”

  “One, Comisario. To San Francisco. From the nuns’ room.” With a flourish, Esteban Zaldo produced a slip of paper with the number.

  Ángel accepted the paper and stuffed it into his coat pocket. “Good work, Zaldo,” he said, watching his subordinate try to conceal a satisfied smile. “We’ll look into this as soon as possible.” He checked his wristwatch. It was two here in Santiago. That made it six in the morning in San Francisco. If he expected cooperation from whoever was on the other end of the line, he had better wait an hour or two.

  “But for now, I insist,” he said, “that we stop for dinner.”

  With a click of his heels, Esteban Zaldo turned sharply and, shoulders squared, strode from the manager’s office.

  As the stiff back passed through the door, Ángel Serrano couldn’t help wondering about Officer Zaldo. Perhaps the poor chap has been watching too much American television, he thought. Those black-and-white reruns of, what was that program called? “The Streets of San Francisco”?

  “Peregrinos!” Pepe wrung his hands nervously. “Your attention, please!” He raised his voice, although it was hardly necessary. Except for Rita Fong’s steady aerobic commands and assorted grunts and wheezes from the participants, the small room was quiet.

  When Pepe entered, it went deadly still. All of them stood immobile. If Mary Helen hadn’t known better, she would have sworn that she heard nine hearts thudding like pistons waiting for their guide to continue.

  And was it any wonder? Although hope ran high that Lisa’s murderer was a random mugger, in their inmost beings, Mary Helen suspected, they all knew it was one of them. Had Comisario Serrano discovered which one? For the moment she couldn’t decide which was worse: to know that you were doing aerobics with a murderer or just to wonder if you were.

  A glance at the frozen faces of her companions assured Mary Helen that they all were having the same misgivings. All except one, that is. But which one? She realized she was shaking.

  Pepe cleared his throat. “The comisario has said that we may go on with our scheduled events until further notice.”

  The group gave a collective sigh of relief, as if the short reprieve indicated that the murderer might be an outsider after all.

  Pepe fumbled with the itinerary. “We missed the cathedral tour, of course.” His face changed to an unbecoming turkey red. “Dinner is in the cafeteria downstairs.”

  “It’s about time.” Bill Bowman broke the silence and smiled broadly. “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse. How about you?” He grinned at Bootsie DeAngelo.

  Will he never learn? Mary Helen wondered, watching Bootsie recoil in disgust. “How can you eat at a time like this? How can any of you eat?” Her cold blue eyes narrowed and roamed the room, challenging them. “For God’s sake! One of us has just been murdered!”

  “Jeez, lady”—Bud shrugged—“I was only making conversation.”

  “And just who asked you to?” Bootsie spit out, her nerves apparently still at the breaking point.

  An uneasy silence filled the room. Bootsie DeAngelo’s husband stepped up behind her and touched her shoulders. “Calm down, sweetheart,” he whispered.

  “Don’t you patronize me, Roger.” She framed each syllable through clenched teeth and shrugged off his hands.

  “Understandably we are all upset.” It was Dr. Fong’s soft voice. As he spoke, his glasses slipped down his nose. “But there is really no sense in taking our feelings out on one another.”

  “Just what we all need! First a health nut, now an amateu
r psychologist,” Bootsie snapped.

  “You need more than an amateur shrink.” Unfortunately Cora Bowman felt called into the battle. “You need a full-blown—”

  “Speaking of being full-blown,” Bootsie interrupted with a nasty sneer.

  Cora’s face flamed. Her jowls shook with rage.

  “Now, now, please,” Pepe began, but no one except Sister Mary Helen seemed to notice.

  Rita Fong stepped to Cora’s side and pulled herself up to her full height. “Only a very insecure person needs to be so insulting.” Her almond eyes were sharp. “Or a person who has something to cover up with a smoke screen, I believe they call it.”

  “Rita!” Dr. Fong choked.

  The silence in the room was electric. Bootsie De-Angelo’s taut face was an unhealthy white. Mary Helen herself felt a little light-headed.

  “As long as we are talking about a smoke screen.” Professor DeAngelo spoke deliberately, his dark eyes made even harder by his contact lenses. “Perchance, you, Mrs. Fong, are the one who followed that poor girl.”

  Cora sprang to Rita’s defense and glared at DeAngelo. “Just what makes you think it was a woman, Mr. Romeo—Professor?”

  “Jeez, all I was trying to do was make with a little light talk,” Bud Bowman grumbled to Eileen, who nodded sympathetically.

  “How dare you?” DeAngelo’s lean face tightened with anger. Mary Helen watched him clench and unclench his fists. “How dare you speak to me like that? You gap-toothed busybody!” he shouted.

  Cora’s hand flew to her mouth as if she had been slapped.

  “Hey, guy, watch your mouth with my wife. Nobody insults my Cora.” Bud pointed a thick finger at DeAngelo. “One more word out of that yap of yours, and I’ll knock you into the middle of next week.”

  DeAngelo stuck out his chin in defiance, as though begging Bowman to throw the first punch. Mary Helen feared that he would have, too, except for a long, loud, piercing shriek from Heidi.

  Everyone spun toward the girl in surprise. With all the ruckus, Mary Helen had almost forgotten about poor Heidi.

  “Stop it! Stop it, all of you!” she screamed. “Lisa’s dead, and no one cares. Everyone’s saying hateful things. Stop it!” Exploding into sobs, Heidi collapsed into the nearest chair, covered her face with her hands, and wept.

  “This is turning into some vacation,” Sister Eileen grumbled as she and Mary Helen entered the high-ceilinged dining room on the ground floor of the hostal. It had taken several minutes for Pepe to quiet Heidi, make peace among the Bowmans, Fongs, and DeAngelos, and herd his pilgrims into the ornate cafeteria. But he had done it with aplomb and without, Mary Helen noticed, the assistance of María José. Where had the girl gone?

  Dinner was a silent, strained affair that seemed to drag on much longer than the wall clock indicated. If there ever had been a chance that the group might gel and begin to enjoy one another, the scene in the catchall room had taken care of that.

  When they sat down, Pepe babbled a little, probably from habit. It was obvious that neither Heidi, on his left, nor Bootsie, on his right, was listening. Maybe he wasn’t even listening to himself. Bud Bowman, eyes down, dived into his pumpkin-colored soup while Cora stared vacantly out a dining-room window onto a rose-splashed patio. Rita Fong pushed her salad around her plate, occasionally slipping a lettuce leaf onto the plate in front of her husband, who didn’t seem to notice. Next to her, Mary Helen felt Professor De-Angelo’s long, narrow left foot jiggle nervously as he chewed.

  There were several attempts at civilized conversation, one or two promising volleys with Eileen tossing the ball. But these too hit the ground, even before the entrée was served.

  “Give it a rest,” Mary Helen muttered when Eileen introduced the topic of the weather. The food, the decor of the room, and the ancient traditions surrounding the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela had already fallen flat.

  With a resigned shrug, Eileen returned to her plate of steamed scallops. The general consensus seemed to be: eyes down, shovel it in as quickly as possible, and grunt politely now and again.

  One by one the other pilgrims and even Pepe excused themselves until only the two nuns and red-eyed Heidi were left at the long table. Mary Helen stared absently at the clutter of half-filled plates and half-empty crystal glasses and popped the last piece of a tart into her mouth.

  “I could do with a bit of fresh air and exercise,” Eileen said, replacing the delicate china teacup on its saucer. “How about you, Mary Helen?”

  Mary Helen nodded. Actually she would have preferred a quick siesta, but she suspected that it was useless to try to sleep. All morning she had kept herself distracted, but she knew that just below her consciousness lurked the image of Lisa. The moment she closed her eyes, the girl was sure to appear, twisted behind the silver casket, her lips swollen and purple with the tip of her tongue protruding, the blood-matted curls, the staring eyes like two round vacant holes. And with it all, the surrealistic shimmering of the raspberry lamé. Yes, indeed, fresh air and a bit of exercise were just what the doctor ordered.

  “We do have time for a stroll before our next event?” Eileen asked in that Irish half question, half statement way of hers. She rummaged through her pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Let’s see,” she scanned it. “ ‘October 9. Saturday afternoon: Free time to explore the city.’ We are not expected to meet again until supper at nine. Perfect!”

  Eagerly Eileen pushed back her chair. “How about a quick walk down one of those quaint streets surrounding the cathedral?”

  It’s a quick talk, you want, old girl, Mary Helen thought, pushing back her own chair. And so do I. So much had gone on this morning, and they hadn’t had a minute alone. She was quite surprised, therefore, when Eileen turned toward Heidi and asked, “Would you care to join us, dear?”

  Heidi’s hazel eyes filled with tears. Mary Helen held her breath. She didn’t know if her nerves were up to another deluge. Not that Heidi could help it. She was in shock, the same shock that had all their nerves on edge. A change of scene, fresh air, and a little exercise would do them all good.

  “We would be very happy for your company,” Eileen coaxed.

  To Mary Helen’s amazement, Heidi gave in immediately and ran off to change from her high heels to her tennis shoes.

  “Before the girl gets back down, Mary Helen, tell me what you thought of those flare-ups before lunch,” Eileen spoke quickly. “I’m dead to know.”

  “If you are so dead to know, why did you ask Heidi to come along with us? You know she’ll be right back. And if we don’t want her hysterics again, I think we’d be wise to change the subject.”

  “Not at all.” Eileen pursed her lips. “Getting it out of her system might be the best thing for her.”

  “Spare us, O Lord.” Mary Helen rolled her eyes toward the ornate ceiling.

  Ignoring her, Eileen continued. “That is why I made the decision to ask Heidi to join us.”

  “So that she could get it out of her system?” Mary Helen narrowed her eyes. “Who do you think you are kidding?”

  Eileen shot Mary Helen her “I will not deign to dignify that with an answer” look and hurried on. “I realize that if we were alone, we could pool information, talk freely. And since Heidi is with us, that will have to wait. But it did occur to me that if we asked Heidi to join us, we might be able to find out something about whom Lisa was with yesterday afternoon. Also, where the girls went last night and with whom, when Lisa left the room . . . You know, old dear, ‘pump her,’ as they say.”

  “Who says that?”

  Eileen’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “All those detectives in the books say that. If anyone should know, you should.”

  “Eileen, you never cease to amaze me.” Mary Helen feigned more amazement than she actually felt. “You, of all people, should know enough to keep out of police business. Kate Murphy is always telling me that. And if my memory serves me correctly, you are always agreeing with her.”

  “And
neither of us is fool enough to think for a pig’s wink that you are going to do it. So we might just as well get started while the trail is fresh.”

  Mary Helen studied her friend fondly and realized, once again, what it was that had kept them pals for over fifty years.

  Ángel Serrano dawdled over his last swallow of wine. Across the dinner table his wife, Julietta, eyes closed, leaned back in her chair. With her plump hands folded on her stomach and her eyes shut like that, it was difficult for him to tell whether or not she was asleep.

  Soon he must go back to work. Before he did, he wanted to tell her about the murder. At least about María Josés involvement in it before someone else did. Or before Pilar arrived at their front door with a full head of steam.

  Long ago, when their sons were babies, they had made it a rule never to talk about his work at the dinner table. Even now with the boys grown and gone, Julietta kept the rule. Actually, if Ángel remembered correctly, it was she who had made the rule in the first place.

  Surely by now she must have heard about the dead body in the cathedral. Everyone in town must be buzzing about it. He wondered if Julietta was awake. He knew exactly what she’d say if he asked her. “Don’t be silly, Ángel. I never take a siesta. I am just resting my eyes.”

  He studied the familiar face. Where once it had been sharp and firm, it was now soft and full with tiny laugh lines like cobwebs around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth.

  Her hair was still black, thanks to Ricardo, the hairdresser, but mid-life had filled out all those delectable curves that had haunted him in his youth and sent him running back home from Oxford to win her. Gad, how he desired her still!

  “What is it, Ángel?” She must have felt him staring.

  “You don’t want to know.” He rose from the table.

  Her smile brought all her soft wrinkles to play. “I’ll bring our coffee into the parlor,” she said, standing up, too, “so we can talk.”

  In the front parlor they sat side by side on the worn brocade sofa, sipping café con leche while Ángel told her about Pepe Nunez’s tour, the discovery of a dead American tourist, and María José’s involvement.