Carol Sister O'Marie - The Missing Madonna

Pulling her Aran sweater from the closet, Mary Helen hurried through the convent halls. Sounds of tidying up and getting ready for school came from each small room. Therese emerged with a dust mop, a dustcloth, and a determined look on her face, prepared to give them both a good shaking.

Downstairs, the washing machine sloshed rhythmically. Beside it the dryer hummed its monotonous hum. Everything was so normal, so right, so slow. The contrast only served to heighten Mary Helen’s sense of unrest and urgency.

The Hanna Memorial Library was nearly deserted when she arrived. Wonder of wonders, she had even beaten Eileen. Good! Mary Helen hurried over to the reference shelves.

Butler’s Lives of the Saints would have what she needed. But before she looked into it, she had better check the Catholic Encyclopedia for the real name of Pope Pius IX. Maybe his name would provide a clue to what Erma meant when she had said, Look to the picture.

The pope’s real name was Giovanni Maria Mastai-Ferretti. Mary Helen searched her mind. She couldn’t think of one John, one Mastai-Ferretti, or, for that matter, even one Italian that figured into the whole case.

In Butler’s Lives , volume IV, page 131, she found the life of Gerard Majella. Scanning the entry, she searched for a mention of St. Gerard oil, but found none. The saint had been an Italian, born in 1726. The son of a tailor, he had become one himself. Gerard had tried religious life, been rejected, and worked as a servant in the bishop’s house. Finally, he was received into the Redemptorist Order by its founder, St. Alphonsus Liguori. His life was simple-if you didn’t count miracles, bilocation, and ecstatic flights, Mary Helen thought. But as young Sister Anne would say, Who’s counting? “His feast day is celebrated on October sixteenth, and he is patron of childbearing,” she read.

In the whole account, Sister Mary Helen found no mention of any oil. Obviously Mrs. Bassetti’s neighbor had made it up. It was Mrs. Bassetti’s faith that had made it work.

Although she had suspected she wouldn’t find anything, Mary Helen couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Doubting Kate wanted to believe so badly, and nobody-certainly not Mary Helen-likes to be the bearer of bad news.

Definitely the young woman wanted children. Who wouldn’t? The shining face of the two Boscacci youngsters flashed through Mary Helen’s mind. Then Gerard Majella, the Pope, the Madonna, the washing machine, Erma, the “he” in her journal all tumbled in on themselves, banging together like so many bouncing Ping-Pong balls in the lottery spin.

Quickly, one by one, the ideas shot out and lined up, making perfect sense. Mary Helen slammed Butler’s Lives shut. She rechecked the Catholic Encyclopedia . Of course she was right! Only one thing remained to double-check. Just to make certain.

Picking up her sweater, she dashed across the quiet room. No one seemed to look up. She didn’t even notice Eileen watching her, nor did she see the worried look on her friend’s face as she let the beveled door swing shut behind her.

When Sister Mary Helen parked the car, the corner of 18th and Sanchez was virtually deserted. Several houses up on Sanchez, a small black mongrel stopped, stared, but went right back to sniffing. Apparently she didn’t even look suspicious enough to bark at.

Good! she thought, making her way to the apartment building. Crossing town, Mary Helen had formulated a hasty plan. First, she would make sure whether or not Mr. Finn was at home. She leaned heavily on his doorbell. So heavily, in fact, that she could hear it ring from outside. When he didn’t answer, she rang again.

Satisfied that Mr. Finn must have stepped out, she went to the bistro door and rapped on the window. No one appeared. She rapped again. Probably not even the cooks would arrive for at least another hour or so. The lock, she remembered, looked easy to pi-open. All right, then-pick!

Fishing in her pocketbook, she pulled out the unsolicited credit card the phone company had sent. Maybe the changes in the company weren’t all bad, she thought as she ran the card along the doorjamb. Although she had read often about the procedure in her mysteries and had seen the new Mike Hammer do it on television, Mary Helen was genuinely surprised when the front door popped open.

Carefully the old nun made her way across the darkened room, avoiding tables and pulled-out chairs. In the deserted kitchen the smell of stale grease hung on the air. Only the drip, drip , of water on the stainless-steel sink broke the heavy silence.

Taking the old key from its hook on the wall, she unlocked the basement door and flipped on the light. Holding tight to the rickety banister, she began to descend the steps. They creaked. She stopped, listened, making sure she was alone. Adjusting her bifocals, she continued.

Cautiously, Mary Helen peered around the dim basement. Good night, nurse! She had left the college so quickly she had forgotten all about bringing a flashlight. The single bulbs running across the center of the ceiling threw heavy shadows into the corners. She made her way across the room.

Against one wall the concrete sinks were filled with grime. Water had made narrow rivulets of mud down their centers. Dusty cartons marked “toilet tissue” were stacked against a rough wall. The gray paint on the alley door had begun to peel.

From outside, she could hear the muffled sound of traffic: the rattle of a pick-up truck, the dull roar of a passing motorcycle. Yet inside, the basement had a tomblike silence.

With a sense of dread, Mary Helen approached the ice maker near the middle of the basement. She touched its motor. Cold. She opened the ice-storage lid. It was empty except for a puddle of nearly stagnant water covering the bottom. Bending over, Mary Helen studied the concrete floor surrounding it.

Her stomach dropped. Her mouth was suddenly so dry she could hardly swallow. Just as she had suspected: new cement. Kate Murphy, she thought straightening up. I must phone Kate Murphy. Immediately!

Suddenly the floor overhead creaked. Was it really a creak? Or simply her imagination? A second creak followed. Frozen, Mary Helen listened. It was the unmistakable sound of someone walking lightly, cautiously, across the kitchen floor. Someone who did not want to be heard. Someone who was heading toward the basement.

Hardly breathing, Mary Helen crept toward the alley door. Its window was covered with dust. Perhaps that was why she didn’t notice, until she ran her hand along the wooden surface, that someone had removed the inside handle. That same someone had recently nailed a two-by-four to the door to make sure it was securely shut.

As she backed toward the corner, the rough wall snagged her sweater. She crouched in the shadows. Cobwebs brushed her face. Mary Helen shuddered, but refused to imagine what else might be with her in the corner. Her muscles cramped, yet she waited, not moving, too terrified to even breathe. Dust tickled her nostrils, tempting her to sneeze.

Straining, she heard the footsteps stop, the door to the basement grate open. For a long moment all she could hear was the sound of her own heart beating. A stair creaked, then another. She watched as the figure outlined by the glow of the kitchen light carefully descended the steps.

Midway, it stopped, listened for noise, descended again. She was surprised to see that the figure was clutching a large pillow.

Kate Murphy yawned and checked her wristwatch. Not even noon and she felt ready for a nap. Or maybe she wasn’t awake yet. Stretching, she looked out the window of the Hall of Justice. Outside, it was that kind of day-gray and cold and sleepy. She checked her watch again.