Carol Sister O'Marie - The Missing Madonna

“I hope you aren’t ill, Sister.”

“No, not at all.” Mary Helen was touched by the young woman’s concern. “I have an important meeting, that’s all. But I am expecting a call,” she added, “from one of the OWLs, probably Mrs. Coughlin. Please just take the message.” Carefully , she wanted to add, but didn’t She knew Lynda was always careful.

The old nun put on her wool coat and pulled a knitted scarf from her bottom drawer. It seemed silly to dress so warmly during the second week of May, but the moment she stepped outside she was glad she had.

A strong gust of wind blew her coat open and twisted the ends of her scarf. Quickly, she began to walk down the hill toward the college entrance.

I wonder what Lynda would think if she knew whom I was meeting, Mary Helen mused, turning her face to avoid the small specks of dust that whirled up from the road.

Head down, she turned left on Parker Avenue. All along the street the west wind howled and bent the young, spindly eucalyptus trees planted near the curb. Even the older, sturdier evergreens bordering the University of San Francisco’s ball field swayed with its force.

Fortunately, the wind was also pushing the heavy clouds aside. Vivid patches of blue began to peek among the gray.

Mary Helen squinted. Up ahead on the corner, directly across the street from the massive St. Ignatius Church, was her destination, the adobe-pink Carmelite monastery.

Eyes watering, Sister Mary Helen ducked into the side entrance of the imposing building. Pulling against the wind’s force, she opened the chapel door and stepped quickly into the silence. The heavy wooden door closed, leaving her in semidarkness.

Genuflecting, she slipped into a back pew and closed her eyes. The delicate aroma of incense hung on the air. From somewhere behind the grille to the right of the main altar, she heard the soft, nearly imperceptible, chanting of the cloistered nuns at Divine Office. The peace and otherworldliness of the place was almost palpable.

This was where she was having her meeting-the one she’d mentioned to Lynda. Her meeting was with God. It was one of her secrets. One she had never told anybody, not even Eileen. But for some time now, whenever Mary Helen wanted a serious meeting with God, she’d been coming here. She knew from years of experience that God heard and listened to her anytime and anywhere, but, of late, the Carmelite monastery had become like sacred ground.

The reason might seem foolish to some people, but it made perfect sense to Mary Helen. It had all happened at breakfast one morning. Father Adams, the Jesuit from St. Ignatius who frequently said the early-morning Mass for the Sisters, had stayed for coffee. Someone had asked him if he knew how the poor cloistered Carmelites across the street from the church had managed to build a monastery that was two stories high and nearly half a city block long.

Laughing, Father Adams related the story. An old, shabbily dressed woman who attended St. Ignatius regularly had stopped one of the Jesuit fathers after Mass. She had a little money, she told him, and when she died she wanted to leave it to charity. To whom did he think she should will it?

The priest thought for a moment He also said Mass for the nuns across the street He knew the group had come from Spain and were dirt-poor. Their monastery was a shambles. He had heard them praying each day that God would send them a benefactor. The priest figured the woman couldn’t have much, but he knew the nuns would be grateful for whatever she left them, no matter how small the amount.

“Why don’t you leave it to the Carmelites?” He pointed to the rundown monastery on the corner.

“Will they pray for me when I die?” she asked.

“Praying’s their business,” the priest answered with a wink.

When the old woman died, she left the Carmelite nuns more than a million dollars.

Since the morning she’d heard that story, whenever she needed serious help Mary Helen had walked down from the college, slipped into the back pew, and offered her intentions with theirs. Praying, after all, was their business, and from the appearance of the monastery, God was into answering them.

Before she left the darkened chapel, Mary Helen looked for the icon of Our Lady of Perpetual Help. Unable to find one, she lit a votive candle before an ornate statue of the Blessed Virgin. Any port in a storm, she thought, letting herself out onto the windswept street.

As Mary Helen neared the back door of the convent, a red Ferrari rounded the corner and came to a quick stop beside her. She recognized Allan Boscacci.

Rolling down the window, he waved. “Hi, Sister.” A shy smile lit up his handsome face. “It’s all fixed.”

All fixed? Mary Helen thought for a minute. What? Of course, the broken refrigerator. “What was it?” she asked.

“The screwdriver. Iceboxes work better,” he said with a wink, “when they are set flat on the ground.”

“Thanks, Allan.” Mary Helen waved as the sports car rounded the bend. Iceboxes and humans, she thought.

The convent’s back door slammed. Amused, Mary Helen watched an irate Sister Therese, waving both hands and a screwdriver, talking nonstop to Luis. Hands in pockets, the handyman simply shrugged and shook his head.

If the poor devil had been smart, Mary Helen thought, deciding to skirt the scene and go directly to her office, he would never have let on that he understood English.

“Here’s your message, Sister.” Lynda rose and handed her a slip of blue paper. “But it’s not from Mrs. Coughlin.”

Opening the note, Mary Helen read, “Noelle Thompson called. Meeting at Erma’s apartment with her daughter. Ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Expecting you and Sister Eileen.”

Not an extra word-so like Noelle. Mary Helen grinned. Clear, efficient, organized. Coincidentally, in keeping with the woman’s penchant for blue, Lynda had written the message on blue paper. Noelle had definitely taken charge and, with her running the inquiry, if there was any information to be had, she would certainly unearth it.

Folding the note, she shoved it into the pocket of her coat, went to her inner office, and called Homicide. It was time to bring Kate Murphy up-to-date.

Inspector Dennis Gallagher answered the phone on the first ring. Kate noticed her partner’s face start to turn red, forehead first, then his cheeks, finally, his neck. He loosened his already loose tie.

“What is it?” she mouthed. Poor Gallagher looked almost as though he were in pain. Forestalling her with a raised index finger, he listened intently.

“Yes, ’Ster,” he said finally. “Yes, ’Ster. Right here. Hold on.”

Pushing the Hold button on the phone, he held out the receiver to Kate. “Jeez, Katie-girl!” He ran his hand across his bald pate. “It’s that nun again. Something about a missing owl. I can’t make head or tail out of the damn thing. But I warn you, steer clear.”

Laughing, Kate removed her right earring and took the phone. “Hi, Sister,” she began cheerfully. “So, no word from your friend yet?”

Quickly, Mary Helen brought her up-to-date.

“When are you meeting the daughter?” Kate frowned slightly.

“Tomorrow at ten-thirty.”

“Well, that will probably solve the whole thing.” Kate tried to sound optimistic. “She’ll give you a relative’s name; you’ll contact your friend; and everyone will sleep easier.”

“I hope you’re right.” Mary Helen didn’t sound as convinced as Kate had hoped she would.

“You keep me posted, Sister,” Kate said. “And promise me you won’t try to do anything on your own.”

“What the hell was that all about?” Gallagher asked the moment she hung up. He watched her put her earring back on. “And why don’t you get one of them holes in your ears like my kids did?”