Carol Sister O'Marie - The Missing Madonna

“I’ve been meaning to call and tell you how glad I was your friend has been heard from.” Kate turned back to the two nuns.

Mary Helen had the feeling Kate was about to say more, but she didn’t wait. It would never do for Kate to ask her what Inspector Honore had said when she told him. Nor did she feel like explaining why she had decided to wait until tomorrow to call.

Instead, she launched into the unsettling feelings she had about Erma Duran. She was careful not to leave out a single detail about the missing money, Erma’s children, or the animosity between them and Mr. Finn.

Kate seemed sympathetic but, Mary Helen noticed, quite noncommittal, almost uninterested. “Sister, you know I’d help if I could, but this is really not within my jurisdiction. In fact, moving to another city is not against the law. Did you tell Inspector Honore about your feelings?”

“Yes,” she said without elaborating. After all, it was true. She had told him about her feelings. Kate did not ask when.

How she wished she could talk to Kate instead, and even to old teddy-bear Gallagher, about the case. Instinctively, she knew that, even if they didn’t want to, they couldn’t help but give her feelings more credence than Inspector Honore had done.

“I’d better run.” Kate checked her wristwatch. “I really mean drive. I parked the car by St. Ignatius and promised Jack I’d meet him at the finish line. After the race he wants to go to the Footstock Festival in the Polo Fields. Poor guy, he still has three miles to go. And from the looks of him, I may have to drive him to the nearest hot bath instead.”

Kate Murphy started to move away, then turned. “I mean that about getting together. We haven’t had a good visit and I miss it Don’t be surprised if you hear from me real soon.”

Sister Mary Helen watched Kate wriggle her way through the cheering crowd. Skillfully avoiding a cluster of runners, she dashed quickly across Fell Street.

“I wonder what is on her mind.” Eileen frowned at Mary Helen.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s not Erma Duran. She didn’t even seem interested.”

“Of course she’s interested. But if someone is not dead or even missing anymore, what on earth can the police do?”

Mary Helen was peeved. All this bureaucracy! The older she became, the less patience she had with it. In fact, it was getting so she agreed with whoever had said, “A committee of one gets things done.”

“A woman’s life may be at stake! Are we going to allow our friend to disappear in St. Louis without even finding out why?” She glared accusingly at Eileen.

Eileen sighed, her gray eyes wide. “Life, indeed! Aren’t you being a bit dramatic? Sure, and we’ve all tried our best to get in touch with Erma, Mary Helen. You know that. But this is, after all, a free country. If she does not care to be found, there is nothing we can do about it. We are just going to have to accept the fact and be understanding.”

As much as she hated to admit it, Mary Helen knew her friend was right. There was nothing more she could do. She would have to accept it, but she would be doggoned if she would ever understand it!

When Kate Murphy finally found Jack in the crowd at the beach, she didn’t mention going to the Polo Field. It was obvious that her husband didn’t even want to pick up his shirt. All he wanted to do was go home for a hot shower and a stiff drink. Maybe she could talk him into going out for an early supper before he fell asleep.

Watching Jack walk painfully up the narrow stairs toward their bathroom, Kate couldn’t resist. “You know something, pal? You’re in terrible shape for a policeman.”

“Me?” Jack looked shocked. “Why, when I took my last physical, the doctor assured me that I was the envy of the entire medical profession!”

“Will you need any help getting undressed and into the shower?”

When Jack didn’t react, Kate knew he was tired.

When Sister Mary Helen awoke on Monday morning the entire college was shrouded in rolling fog. Small halos shone around the campus lights. Bundling up in her heavy sweater, she trudged up the hill toward the chapel for the six-thirty Mass. Wisps of fog clung to the lowest branches of the evergreens. Shivering in the dampness, she kicked at a stone in her path.

“Eighty percent of all people hate Monday morning,” she muttered aloud, then smiled in spite of herself.

It had been years since she had thought of that little-known statistic. As a matter of fact, it had been the conclusion one of her eighth-grade students had arrived at in his rather novel science project more than twenty-five years ago. She couldn’t remember what method the youngster had used to make this judgment or how many people he had surveyed. She wasn’t even sure it was true. But the longer she lived, the more inclined she was to attest to its validity.

As soon as she had finished breakfast, Sister Mary Helen left the dining room. Outside, the wet fog made her face tingle and her nose and eyes run. The sides of the hill were so socked in that, if she hadn’t known better, she might have thought the City had completely disappeared. Like Erma.

Erma’s uncharacteristic disappearance, followed by her equally uncharacteristic phone call, the apartment, the basement of the bistro, her children-all crowded Mary Helen’s mind. Nothing jibed, and everything reminded her of the missing woman.

Her common sense told her Erma was fine and, although she wanted to help, apparently Erma was dealing with her problems the way she thought best. Not necessarily the way Mary Helen would deal with them. Why even fifty years ago, she remembered with a smile, the two had differed on something as insignificant as how to approach their history project. Ostensibly the current situation was resolved. She would go right over to the convent and call Inspector Honore. But why did she continue to feel so uneasy?

Sister Mary Helen was the first one to reach the convent after breakfast, so the building was deserted. A foghorn bleated in the distance. She used her key to open the heavy front door. She was determined to place her call to the inspector, go straight to her room, make her bed, and then hurry over to the alumnae office and make up for lost time. To put it bluntly, she would strictly adhere to minding her own business.

That would be the sensible thing to do. But as soon as she stepped inside she knew she wouldn’t do the sensible thing. An empty convent, of course, meant an empty phone booth. The temptation was too great. She would contact Inspector Honore, of course, and a phone call or two to the OWLs would certainly be in order and perhaps a short call to Ree. Just to see if they had heard anything more. If they hadn’t, nothing was lost. If they had, how much easier it would be to keep her mind on her own business.

Before any of the other nuns appeared, Mary Helen went into the narrow convent phone booth. The directory was open to B-Boris-Botvin-and Boscacci’s number was underlined.

Poor devil. Something else must be broken, she thought, glancing at her watch. It was far too early to call Missing Persons. The OWLs, she knew, would be up. She dialed Caroline’s number, letting it ring fourteen times before she admitted to herself that Caroline wasn’t home.

Noelle answered on the second ring. No, she hadn’t heard anything new. Yes, she would let Mary Helen know the moment she did.

Lucy, too, was home and seemed genuinely glad to hear from Mary Helen. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation on Thursday,” she said, “about Ree’s illness. You remember I told you that Erma never said anything directly. Yet there were some things I couldn’t help surmising.”