“I’d liked to have had the chance to try,” Gallagher growled, but Kate knew it was more a matter of having the last word than of meaning it.
When she finally hung up, Kate walked over to the kitchen window and stood beside Jack and the baby.
“Ma, ma, ma.” Little John pointed to a red-throated hummingbird treading air. “Ma,” he screeched, watching it dart across the back porch and down toward the yard.
“Maybe the kid’s going to be a naturalist.” Jack put his free arm around Kate. “Just as soon as he gets you and the bird straight, hon, there’s no telling where he’ll go.”
“Very funny.” Kate watched the hummingbird stop, start, then dive into their small, narrow yard. And what a mess it was, she thought guiltily. The weeds shone green, and the square, seedy plot of grass was gray. Forlorn fuchsia plants drooped with red and purple dancing ladies, and dusty rhododendron and camellia bushes barely clung to life.
“Our yard is a disgrace,” Kate muttered, putting her head on Jack’s shoulder. “We’re probably the talk of the entire neighborhood.”
Immediately Baby John began a game of peekaboo, using his father’s head as a shield.
“What should we do?” Kate bobbed out. “Boo!”
“About what?”
“About the backyard, pal. Boo!”
“Get a shade for this window?”
Baby John giggled. Jack looked pleased. “This guy’s got a great sense of humor,” he said, planting a noisy kiss on the baby’s cheek.
After lunch Kate and Jack, at Kate’s insistence, tackled the backyard. Kate decided to weed, while Jack mowed the lawn or what was left of it, trimmed the edges, and turned soil. He unearthed the remnant of a tiny oval fish pond, slimy with decaying stems of water lilies.
Little John crawled and scooted along behind Kate, babbling, investigating rocks and twigs and pointing with glee at the earthworms that crawled out of the broken dirt. Finally, worn out, he lay down on the cool cement walk and fell asleep.
Gently Kate moved him to a blanket under the shade of the overhanging porch. She felt like joining him.
“Want to quit?” Jack squatted down beside his wife.
“I’m pooped,” Kate admitted. “How about you?” Her arms and legs were beginning to burn, and dirt was caked under her fingernails. Her stomach was queasy, probably from working in the heat.
“Tomorrow we’re going to feel muscles we didn’t even know we had,” Jack said. “It’s got to be five o’clock somewhere. How about a drink?” Taking Kate’s hand, he helped her up, then gathered up the baby, blanket, blades of dried grass and all.
They had just settled down in the living room when the front doorbell rang—once, twice, three times before Jack reached the door. “Ma!” he said, doing an admirable job of sounding glad to see his mother. “What brings you?”
“What brings me?” Loretta Bassetti bustled into the entranceway, her soft, full cheeks flushed with the heat. “Jackie, go out to the car. I’ve been cooking all day long. It’s in the backseat.”
“Hi, Loretta,” Kate called with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “Come on in and sit down. We’ve been gardening.”
“It’s about time!” Loretta said without even looking at Kate. Instead she went directly to the playpen, where John still slept soundly. “Why isn’t my precious grandson in a bed like other children?” she asked in a stage whisper. “Why is he sleeping in this cage full of stuff?”
“What did you bring us?” Kate asked, reminding herself that Loretta meant well.
“How about an old-fashioned?” Jack called from the kitchen.
“Homemade ravioli, a little salad, and garlic bread. Put the ravioli in the oven, Jackie. Keep it hot,” she shouted, “and, yes, I’ll take you up on that offer of a drink.”
John stirred in the playpen. The piquant aroma of tomatoes and garlic and basil floated down the short hallway, and Kate realized how hungry she was.
Loretta accepted the old-fashioned but refused the invitation to join them for dinner.
“It’s good for a little family to be together,” she said and, with a salute, sipped her drink.
Kate bristled. “Little family” sounded so patronizing, as if they were munchkins playing house.
“We’ve had about as much togetherness today as any little family can handle,” Jack joked, and showed his mother a blister on the palm of his hand. “I mowed the lawn.”
“What lawn? Last time I looked out your kitchen window, it looked like a hayfield. Maybe what you needed was a scythe.”
“It wasn’t that bad, Ma.”
“Ha! My friend Mrs. Molinari, who lives around the corner, says your backyard is an eyesore for the whole neighborhood.” She glared accusingly at her son.
“I told you so,” Kate muttered.
“What else does Mrs. Molinari say?” Jack asked.
“She says that I’ve got the most beautiful baby grandchild in the whole world”—Mrs. Bassetti moved toward the playpen—“and that’s why I’m still friends with the old buttinsky.”
Baby John stirred in his crib, eyes fluttering open at last. His grandmother could resist no longer. “Come to your Nonie,” she cooed.
To Kate’s relief John recognized her immediately, smiled, and held out his arms to be picked up.
Mama Bassetti rocked the contented baby. “If Kate ever decides to go back to work—and I don’t know why in the world she would, after all, what kind of son did I raise that can’t take care of a wife and one child?—you cannot leave this precious baby with strangers. Can they, sweetie?”
Much to her delight, John answered, “Na, na, na.”
“Sweet Mother of God.” Mama Bassetti was wide-eyed. “Did you hear that, Kate, Jackie? My sweet boy is saying my name.”
“Strike the naturalist,” Jack mouthed to Kate. “Put in diplomat.”
Once again Kate was having trouble falling asleep. She heard the grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway strike eleven, eleven-thirty, midnight, and the quarter hours in between. Although her body was tired and heavy, a faint discomfort kept her from dozing off. Not that she was sick, exactly, but she wasn’t just right either.
Kate rolled into a more comfortable position. Maybe she had eaten too many ravioli for dinner or maybe Mama Bassetti’s crack about leaving the baby with strangers was making her uneasy. Although she refused to be baited by her mother-in-law, finding the right person to care for John was a big factor in her decision. So she really had not decided whether or not to go back to work. She didn’t miss it, most of the time. Granted, if she was honest, she had felt exhilarated when Mary Helen called.
Sister Mary Helen. Kate wondered how the old nun and her murder investigation were doing. Maybe I should give her a ring, she thought, counting ahead on her fingers. About eight-thirty in the morning in Santiago. A new day had begun. Mary Helen was probably already up.
Too bad, Kate thought, then felt guilty. Was she really disappointed that she couldn’t rouse an old woman in the middle of the night? Turn about is fair play, she reasoned, counting the hours again. If I called around dinnertime . . .
I really am sick. Kate gave the pillow a cranky punch. Some pagan philosopher whom she’d studied at Mount St. Francis College said that “Revenge is always the delight of a mean spirit. . . .”
Revenge isn’t too Christian either, she thought, waiting for the grandfather clock to strike again, especially revenge on a nun. But in this exhausted, sleepless moment, it did sound very, very sweet.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 10
Twenty-Seventh Sunday
in Ordinary Time
Feast of St. Francis Borgia,
Confessor
The sharp, insistent ring of the telephone pierced Mary Helen’s dreamless sleep. As she pulled herself up from the blackness, she heard Eileen shuffle across the bedroom.
“Hello,” Eileen called into the receiver. Rather cheerfully, Mary Helen thought, for the middle of the night.
After a
few “yesses” and a noncommittal “no” or two, Eileen hung up.
“Who was on the horn?” Mary Helen asked, her voice hoarse.
“None other than our esteemed tour guide, Señor Pepe, with good news. At least, I think it’s good,” Eileen added tentatively, and sat on the edge of the canopied bed.
“Good or bad, couldn’t it wait until morning?”
“It is morning, old girl. Eight-thirty, to be exact.”
“You’re fooling.” Mary Helen rose on one elbow. The sudden motion brought on a wave of nausea and made her aware that her head ached with exhaustion. A heavy sadness hovered on the edge of her consciousness. It took her a moment to recall why she was so tired and sad. It took her a moment to remember that Lisa Springer was dead.
“What’s his news?” she asked, hoping that the police had found Lisa’s killer and that he was a demented maniac on a wild, unfathomable spree. Not that being killed by a maniac made Lisa any less dead or her murder any less tragic. It was just more palatable, somehow, more excusable than realizing that a perfectly normal-appearing person, one you’d had dinner with the night before, was a cold, calculating murderer. Despite the warmth of her bed, Mary Helen shivered.
“We had better be up and about.” Eileen crossed the room. With a tug, she drew back the velvet window drapes. Dark clouds shifted across the leaden sky.
“Pepe said that there is Mass in a cathedral chapel at nine,” she said, “and that at ten-thirty the comisario is allowing us to continue part of our tour.”
“Which part?” Mary Helen asked.
“ ‘The visit to La Coruña’ ”—Eileen read from the trip brochure—“ ‘a lovely seaside city built on a narrow point jutting out into the Atlantic.’
“Sounds cold,” she said.
“Was that where we were supposed to go today?” Mary Helen asked.
“Not really,” Eileen hedged. “Today we were scheduled for an in-depth tour of the cathedral, but as you know . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Mary Helen did know, and like an aftershock, the knowledge was more vivid and grim than she wanted to admit. Her memory conjured up Lisa with purple lips and a deep, thick welt across her throat, the thin streaks of blood slithering down the raspberry lamé.
Her stomach lurched, and for a long moment she was afraid she was going to be sick. She had found Lisa’s body, and for some inexplicable reason she felt guilty about it.
“Are you feeling up to today, old dear?”
The unexpected sympathy in Eileen’s voice made tears sting Mary Helen’s eyes. Unable to speak, she simply nodded and padded toward the bathroom.
Oh, good! Mary Helen thought, hearing Eileen get on the phone to the restaurant and order café con leche. A long, hot shower followed by a strong cup of coffee! The combination should bolster her courage. Relieved, she turned on the water and let the biting stream pour over her.
As uncontrollable tears splattered down her face and merged with the gushing water, she realized that today she was going to need all the bolstering that she could manage.
“Tío, I insist!” María José pulled herself up to her full height and gave her head a determined toss that made her seem taller than her five feet. The fluorescent light in Ángel Serrano’s office at the police station caught the magenta highlights in her dark hair. He stared at the strange color combination, silently wondering what it reminded him of. Doll hair! he thought triumphantly, motioning his niece to the chair on the other side of his desk.
“Sit down, Ho-Ho.” He tried to sound soothing.
“Please, do not talk down to me, Tío.” Folding her arms, she refused to sit.
Wearily Ángel stood and came around the desk. His eyes smarted with fatigue. “How am I talking down to you?” he asked.
“By calling me that ridiculous, childish nickname.”
Ángel apologized. Loosening his tie, he ran his finger around his shirt collar. He must ask Julietta to do something about this starch. “María José,” he began as patiently as his chafed neck allowed, “I cannot—repeat, cannot—send you on this American tour bus as an undercover officer.”
“Is it because I am a woman, Tío?” Her chin protruded in a small, stubborn V.
“No, Ho—” He caught himself just in time. “No, María José. It has nothing to do with your being a woman.”
“Then why?” she demanded.
Ángel shrugged. “It is because you are not a policeman.”
María José bristled.
“Excuse me, police person. You are my niece.”
“That’s easy!” Her dark eyes danced. “You can deputize me!”
Ángel moaned aloud. “You are watching too much North American television,” he said. “This is not the Wild, Wild West, nor is it Madrid or even Barcelona. This is Santiago de Compostela.”
“Regardless, Tío,” María José interrupted, “there must be some way we can handle this. Do you use undercover officers?”
“Undercover officers!” He exhaled loudly, hoping she’d realize that she was getting on his already stretched nerves. “I’ve been up all night, hija, searching the cathedral, soothing Canon Fernaández, appeasing the mayor, talking to that insistent reporter from La Voca de Galicia .” He stopped for breath and glared at his niece for effect. “I have not been home since dinner yesterday, and now you want me to think about an undercover officer?”
He did not tell her that he had already told Julietta that having given out assignments to his men, he was on his way home for breakfast and a few hours of sleep. Ángel knew that by the time he arrived she would have drawn him a hot bath and prepared his favorite soup, caldo gallego. His mouth watered at the thought of the thick, comforting soup full of potatoes and fresh spinach. He yearned for it and for round, pleasant Julietta.
“Tío?” María José interrupted his daydream.
His Julietta was the ideal wife. How, he wondered crossly, had his family spawned the little spitfire that stood defiantly before him? She had always been headstrong, but now she was getting out of hand. His sister, Pilar, was hopeless in controlling her. Once this tourist murder business was finished, he must talk to his brother-in-law.
“María José,” Ángel began firmly, “as you know, we have very little crime in Santiago, therefore very little need for undercover officers. The officers I do have will be able to—”
“Who will be able to?” She cut him off. Her mercurial eyes blazed. “Esteban Zaldo? Ha!” She did a perfect imitation of the large, muscular policeman leering. “Will anyone let something slip in the front of such a sinister face? Don’t you see, Tío?” Frustrated, María José collapsed into the chair she had refused. “I am the best one to do this. The Americans already know and trust me. Pepe and I have a relationship.”
Ángel cringed at the word. “Relationship? What relationship?”
María José’s face didn’t even color, although she averted her eyes from his. “Friends, Tío. We are merely friends.”
Her voice gave away nothing. Ángel scrutinized her face, hoping it was true. Surprisingly, María José’s face was inscrutable. Good asset in police work, he thought in spite of himself.
Actually, as reluctant as he was to admit it, Ángel did think María José’s plan had some merit. It was unorthodox, but so was murder in the cathedral’s sacred crypt. Strange times call for strange measures.
“Are you afraid of what the mayor will say, Tío, if he finds out?” Again, María José intruded on his thoughts.
Ángel shook his head. The mayor was the last person he was afraid of.
“It’s Mama then, isn’t it?”
Ángel was astonished. His niece was right on the mark! He couldn’t help laughing. “María José,” he said, “our mayor’s wrath pales before that of my sister, Pilar, were I to put you in danger.”
“Then I’ll talk to Mama myself!” She shot up from the chair. “She’ll understand, Tío. I know she will and she’ll give her permission.”
“No, no, no!” Ángel p
ut up his hands as if to block a blow. Of course, Pilar would give permission. She indulged her only daughter shamefully. It was he who would get the phone call, the deluge of abuse.
“Are you afraid of your own baby sister?” María José asked in disbelief.
Ángel nodded. It was less humiliating than trying to explain to his niece that her mother drove him crazy, and his rank as comisario notwithstanding, when Pilar started her endless verbal barrages, Ángel visualized himself grabbing his sister by her skinny chicken neck and wringing it.
A mischievous grin played at the corners of María José’s mouth. “If you don’t want Mama to know, Tío, then let’s not tell her.”
For a long moment Ángel considered the pros and cons of Ho-Ho’s plan. On the one hand, she was trusted by Pepe Nunez and the American tourists. She was eager, observant, and, if this morning was any test, downright persistent.
On the other hand, she wasn’t a police officer. She could be in danger. He’d ask Zaldo to follow the tour bus at a discreet distance. His sister, of course, would never approve, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
His eyes burned from lack of sleep, and his muscles ached. Even if his niece didn’t discover anything useful, she would be out of town and out of his hair for the rest of the day. Best of all, as soon as she left, he could get home to Julietta and his soup.
“Go, Ho-Ho,” he said. “Look for slips, attitudes, random remarks, anything that might give me something to go on. When you come home tonight, give me a full report.”
María José’s dark eyes sparkled. “I will, Tío, and gracias!”
“And remember, hija, not one single word to your mama,” he called to her fleeing back.
With a great yawn, Ángel Serrano turned off his office lights, but not before he had checked his calendar. He made a note of the exact date of his brother-in-law’s return.
A compact silver and red tour bus with “Pulmantur” printed in script down its side was parked outside the Hostal de los Reyes Católicos. Pepe Nunez stood beside its open door. His face was no longer ruddy, but the color of French vanilla ice cream, with blue circles, like bruises, under his eyes.
Murder Makes a Pilgrimage Page 13