“My niece, Heidi, the two nuns.” Ángel reviewed the front row in his mind. “Next to Sister Mary Helen?” He concentrated, trying to see who was there, but the person remained a blank.
Now the back row, he thought, those behind. He remembered the round, placid face of Dr. Fong peering over his half glasses at el botafumeiro. His face appeared between María José and Heidi. Next to him . . . Ángel squeezed his concentration harder, hoping a face would appear.
A stiff rap came on his door.
“Pase!” he shouted angrily. The door opened, and the archbishop’s secretary, Monsignor Varela, strode into the office as if by divine right. With him was Canon Fernández. The monsignor peered down his aquiline nose at the soles of Ángel’s shoes.
“Monsignor!” With a slam of his chair Ángel was on his feet. “I wasn’t expecting a visit from either of you. Why didn’t you simply call?”
The monsignor was tall and, in Ángel’s opinion, thin enough to hang on a clothes hanger. This morning his face looked as if he had just found a flea in his hair shirt. By contrast, the canon was a bantam of a man whose bluster kept him perpetually rosy-checked.
“The canon tells me he has been calling all morning,” Monsignor Varela said, “only to be told that you are busy.”
“Indeed, it is true.” Ángel frowned. “I have been trying to reconstruct the whole series of events in my mind, to figure out, you see, who had the motive, the opportunity, the means.”
“Figure all you please”—the monsignor’s tone was superior—“but do it quickly. The archbishop is very distressed with the events that have taken place during the past week in his cathedral. I understand that your niece has been involved. The archbishop is also very concerned and, I daresay, displeased about a young lady from our city being involved in such a crime. We don’t want to displease God’s servant the archbishop, so I urge you to solve this quickly.” The monsignor didn’t say so, but his tone implied “or else.”
The canon, smirking like a satisfied tattletale, held open the door. With a flourish the monsignor swept out of the office, leaving Ángel mentally telling God’s servant the archbishop what he might do with his distress, concern, displeasure, and, yes, his “or else.”
“God, forgive me,” he whispered, rolling his eyes toward heaven. “It’s nothing personal to You! None of us can help our subordinates.”
The clerics’ visit ruffled Ángel’s powers of concentration. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples in an attempt to regain the scene. After several tries it seeped back into his mind.
In the front row he saw María José, Heidi, Eileen, Mary Helen, and someone else. Behind them, Neil Fong, someone tall, Bud Bowman’s head over Eileen’s right shoulder, Cora, someone else, and Pepe on the end. That made sense. Pepe would have brought up the rear.
An insistent knocking interrupted him again. This time Ángel walked to the door and opened it himself. He was glad he did. It was the bold young reporter from La Voca de Galicia, and he had no intention of letting the man get a foothold in his office.
“I am busy.” Ángel’s voice echoed through the entire floor of the building.
“The people have a right to the news,” the reporter said quietly.
“What is your name, señor?” Ángel asked in a voice he hoped sounded threatening.
“Héctor Luna,” the young man answered, totally unimpressed. “Have you any comment on this morning’s near tragedy in the cathedral, Comisario?”
“No comment.” Ángel tried to control his temper.
“Only twice in its entire history has el botafumeiro ever posed a threat to the congregation. Once in 1499 and again in 1622—”
“I know the history of el botafumeiro, young man. I knew it long before you were born and I don’t need any upstart—”
Luna cut him off. “Is it true that your niece, María José Gómez, is helping you with your investigation?”
“Get him out of here before I’m the one taken in for murder,” Ángel roared so loudly that two of his officers came running.
He slammed the office door and watched the small pane of glass rattle in its frame. What if word of María José’s involvement should reach Pilar? There would be the devil to pay.
Ángel’s temples throbbed, and his stomach churned. He checked his watch. No wonder! It was dinnertime. Picking up the telephone receiver, he called his wife and told her that he’d be home as soon as he was done thinking.
“Thinking, Ángel?” Julietta’s voice was sympathetic. “You know you can always think better when you are full. What are you thinking about?”
Quickly he told her about trying to reconstruct the positions of the American pilgrims in the sanctuary, about those he could place in his mind and those he could not.
“Of course,” he said, “the blanks are the DeAngelos and Rita Fong. I could ask them, but I want them to think that my eye was on them the entire time. It should have been, you know,” he admitted to his wife.
“The Chinese lady was in the front row next to the Sister,” Julietta said.
“Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure. She had on a lovely silk dress that I’d die to fit into.”
“And behind? Do you remember who was behind María Joséí”
“The woman with the too-black hair?”
“Bootsie. How can you remember that?”
“Because I thought both Ho-Ho and this woman should see my hairdresser Ricardo for a better coloring job.”
“And on the far end behind the Sister?”
“Two men.”
“Can you recall who stood where?” he asked, more as a credibility test than anything else. He had remembered Pepe was on the far end.
“Ángel”—her voice was teasing—“you know that I don’t look at any man besides you.”
“So now we know that one of the two of them shoved her, but which one had the reason?”
“Ángel, querido mio, anyone could have pushed her,” Julietta reminded him gently. “Anyone with a reason and a long arm or a quick step. Anyone who took advantage of everyone else’s distraction. You must admit all eyes were on el botafumeiro.”
“Enough, Julietta!” he said impatiently because he knew she was right.
“Come home.” There was a subtle invitation in her voice.
“I have to call San Francisco. As you helped point out, the motive here is all-important. And I have some police detectives investigating these North Americans for me.”
“Ángel, it is nighttime in San Francisco. Come home. Eat something. The time will go more quickly.”
“What if the mayor calls or that newspaper reporter? Or if the canon comes looking for me, or, God forbid, what if the children drop by?”
“I have already taken care of that. I have pulled down the shades, locked the doors. If the phone rings, we will not answer. If anyone comes, we will pretend we are not at home. We will only be at home to each other,” she said in a rich, husky, inviting whisper. “We will not be at home to anyone else, especially the children.”
Kate Murphy had just put John down for his afternoon nap when her telephone rang. Damn, she thought, glaring at it. If that is Mama Bassetti, I am not answering any questions about baby-sitters or work.
She stomped toward the telephone table. I know if I go back, I’ll need someone to stay with John. I know I have to make a decision soon. Too soon, she thought, her neck muscles cramping with tension. If she intended to return to Homicide, she was due to report in on Monday!
“Hello,” she barked into the receiver, and was pleasantly surprised and a little embarrassed to hear the crisp British accent of Ángel Serrano.
“I have some disturbing news, Inspector,” he said. The long-distance wires snapped. “I am afraid that someone is making attempts on Sister Mary Helen’s life.”
“Is she all right?” Kate asked. Dread filled her stomach like a heavy meal.
“So far she is fine.” Ángel’s tone was urgent. “At the moment I have he
r under police protection, but I am most anxious that we identify this killer before we have another victim. That is why I am calling you, Inspector Murphy. Has your friend found anything?”
Kate had intended to nap first, then call Gallagher just before he quit at four-thirty. That way he’d have had the entire day to investigate, and maybe he’d be so eager to get home that he wouldn’t question her about her decision to come back to work. But the comisario’s voice was so grave she changed her mind immediately.
“I’ll call him right away,” she said. “As soon as I’ve talked to him, I’ll call you right back.”
“Regardless of the time, Inspector.” Ángel sounded relieved.
“Homicide,” Dennis Gallagher shouted into the receiver.
“How are you doing on those tourist names I gave you?” Kate dived straight to the point.
“It’s like pulling molasses,” Gallagher said, happily mixing his clichés.
“The comisario just called me, and he’s afraid someone is trying to kill Sister Mary Helen. So he wants as much information on these clowns as possible. And as soon as possible. What have you found?”
“What the hell is this world coming to? Killing an old nun!” Gallagher sounded as shocked and outraged as if he hadn’t suggested it several times himself.
Kate heard him shuffling through papers. “José, aka Pepe, Nunez,” Gallagher began. “Hispanic male, thirty years old.”
“Skip the statistics,” Kate urged. “Just get to the juicy stuff.” Her pencil was poised.
“Our boy Pepe has a juvenile record. Nothing dangerous. Mostly disorderly conduct. Stuff like mooning in Golden Gate Park and peeing in the lagoon at the Palace of Fine Arts. He has a host of unpaid parking tickets. One of these days he’ll find a Denver boot on his tire, but that’s Traffic’s problem.”
Gallagher paused, and Kate heard him lighting his cigar stub.
“Haven’t you given up that disgusting habit yet?” she asked.
Gallagher just blew smoke into the phone by way of a response.
“The Fongs,” he said. “From our point of view, both Rita and Neil are clean as a whistle. Not even a parking ticket. He’s a dentist with a small but lucrative practice on Judah Street. I called his office but got his exchange. I haven’t had time yet, but I’ll nose around, see if I can locate his receptionist or his dental assistant to get something about his character.”
“I’ll let you know, Denny, after I talk to Serrano, but if he’s that squeaky clean, maybe there’s no reason.”
“The squeaky cleans can fool you, Katie-girl,” Gallagher said, “and we got two more of them, Cora and Bud Bowman. He’s an electrician. I went by his shop in Daly City and talked to his kid. Nice young fella, big, blond, worried about his folks. Far as I can figure, they are as average as apple pie. Been married over forty years. Worked hard at it and at the business, the kid says.
“Being married that long would keep them, at least him, out of trouble, if you ask me.” Kate heard Gallagher rustle his papers. “I had to call Patio Español three times before I got ahold of Carlos Fraga. He’s a busy guy, and to hear him talk, he’d be just as glad if they kept his nephew in the Spanish hoosegow for good.”
“Why is that?” Kate asked.
“Because he thinks the kid’s a pain in the butt, that’s why.”
“But that doesn’t make him a criminal.”
“Sometimes you wonder,” Gallagher said pensively. “Kids, not cute little kids like yours, Kate, but kids change, and sometimes they drive you right over the wall.
“I took another shot at Mrs. Mabel Springer, the victim’s mother, to see if she’d thought of anything. The poor lady seemed skinnier and mousier than before except this time I didn’t fall for it. Once burned, you know—”
“Did she think of anything more?” Kate asked.
“No. When I got to the house, she was going through some old things of Lisa’s. Pictures, yearbooks, you know.”
“Doesn’t she work?”
“Night shift,” Gallagher said, “at San Francisco General. Anyway, she gave me some coffee, and she sort of seemed to want company. Showed me lots of pictures of Lisa. Speaking of kids who change, did that kid change!”
“What do you mean?”
“She went from a fat, redheaded kid in pigtails to a fat teenager to one gorgeous young woman with flowing red hair.”
“What happened to change her?”
“Her mom said that it was after her freshman year in college. She got a scholarship to college. When she got there, something happened, her mom has no idea what, that made her decide to change, and you should see the results.”
“What college?” Kate scribbled down Gallagher’s answer on her pad. “Belmont?” she asked. “The Catholic college down the peninsula?”
“No.” Gallagher hesitated, and Kate heard the sound of more paper shuffling.
“Here it is.” He must have really worked to locate the place, Kate thought. “Belmont College. It’s a small private college in Greensboro.”
“North Carolina?” Kate was surprised. “That’s a long way from home.”
“According to her mother, the farther away the better. Not from the mother’s point of view—the kid’s. Lisa wanted a new start. Her mother says she dropped everything to go away, even her old friends like Heidi next door. They were inseparable since they were babies. That’s why Mrs. Springer thought it would be good for them to go on this trip together. Then she wept like it was her fault, somehow, that the kid was killed. I stuck around for another cup of coffee. Then, since I was so close, I went next door to the Williams house. Did I hit pay dirt!”
“You mean you think Heidi may be responsible.”
“What I mean is, I think it’s a miracle that somebody in that house hasn’t killed the mother.”
“Why?” Kate tried not to sound disappointed. She was hoping for a quick breakthrough in this case.
“Because the woman is obnoxious. First of all, she’s built like a Sherman tank. No, I take that back. She’s built more like one of those balloon people they blow up and float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade on TV.”
Kate had an instant and vivid picture of Mrs. Williams.
“Her name is Marvis. Marvis Williams. The husband is Malcolm. The missus keeps house, and Malcolm works at a bank within walking distance of home. Every noon he walks home for lunch, which Marvis cooks. And, from the looks of her, eats most of. So, when I rang their bell, I hit a doubleheader.”
“They sound like something out of a fifties sitcom,” Kate said.
“Except they aren’t funny. Marvis may not look like a Sherman tank, but she acts like one. Malcolm apparently did not want Heidi—who is their only child, and they look like she was born late in their lives—anyway, he didn’t want her to go to Spain. At all. Forbade it.
“But the poor guy, who looks more like Mr. Peepers than anything else, had no real say. The missus thought Heidi should go, and should go with Lisa next door.
“ ‘Lisa knows how to have fun,’ the lady tells me. ‘She went to college and is making a life for herself. I want our Heidi to get out and meet the right people while she’s young. I want her to have a better life than I’ve had.’
“The husband’s face and neck went beet red, and he gave her such a look that I was afraid he’d leave his bowl of chicken noodle soup and strangle her. ‘Lisa Springer’s kind of fun is not the kind I want my daughter to have,’ he bellows.
“ ‘And what kind of fun do you have?’ his wife yells. ‘Heidi is my daughter, too, Mr. Perfect. Although you’d never know it. She’s exactly like your mother. She can’t cut loose, enjoy herself. Even when I get her out of this house and she goes to Spain, she screws up. I skimped around so she could have a few nice dresses and some spending money, and what does she do? She gets mixed up in a murder.’
“By this time Marvis’s eyes are blazing, and her face is almost purple. ‘Wait until I get my hands on that kid,’ she says to the fath
er. ‘I’ll wring her fat neck.’
“ ‘If anyone needs her fat neck rung, it’s you, my dear Marvis,’ he says as mean as you please. Only this time he is staring into the empty soup bowl.
“Right about then I excuse myself. I know either a donnybrook or a coronary is coming, and I don’t want to explain to the lieutenant why I’m in the middle of the Williamses’ kitchen when I should be working on my own cases.”
“Sounds gruesome.”
“They’re a couple of showstoppers,” Gallagher agreed.
“Did you get to the professor and his wife? What were their names?”
“DeAngelo,” Gallagher roared. “What do you think I am? Some sort of miracle worker? It’s only two-thirty, for crissake, and I’m not bilocated. I can do only one thing at a time.”
“Does that mean no?”
“It means sort of. The professor teaches at Redwood College in West Marin. He’s new there, and the secretary I talked to was real closemouthed about information. She wants me to talk to the dean or whoever and ask him about the guy. All she’d do was make me an appointment with the big mucky-muck, which is for tomorrow morning. I did manage to wrestle the name of the Faculty Wives’ president from her. Bootsie is a member of the group. The president lady wanted to see my credentials, so I decided to see them both tomorrow morning, unless, of course, the lieutenant sees me first.”
“You’re great, Denny. The comisario will be thrilled to get this background.” Kate heard the baby fussing in his crib.
“It would have gone a hell of a lot faster if I had some help,” Gallagher wasn’t able to resist saying. “Are you coming back?”
Kate felt a tightness over her eyes. “I haven’t decided, Denny,” she said.
“I wish you’d hurry up and make up your mind, Katie-girl. The suspense is killing me.”
“You’ll know when I know,” she said. “Promise.”
“Not that I’m keeping track, mind you, but I think your leave is up on Monday.”
John let out such a wail that even Gallagher heard it.
Perfect timing, Kate thought.
“Sounds like wet pants to me.” Gallagher said a quick good-bye. And as in so many things, he turned out to be right.
Murder Makes a Pilgrimage Page 21