Carol Sister O'Marie: The Missing Madonna

“I fully intended to,” Mary Helen said. “In fact, I was in the library looking up St. Gerard oil when the whole thing tumbled together.”

Kate’s blue eyes studied her. She bent forward. Obviously she didn’t want the other two inspectors to hear. “What did you find out about it?” she whispered.

She looked so eager, so hopeful, Mary Helen didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. Not right now, anyway. Instead she closed her eyes.

“She must have drifted off, poor dear.” She heard Kate whisper.

“She had a close one.” Mary Helen recognized Honore’s low voice. “She’d better watch herself after this, before something really happens to her.”

“Watch herself, hell!” Gallagher growled. “Nothing’s going to happen to her. That nun leads a charmed life. What’s going to happen, goddamn it, is that the old gal’s going to end up being the death of me!”

Over a month later, on the Feast of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, Sister Mary Helen organized a Memorial Mass for Erma Duran. The day seemed appropriate, not only because of Erma’s devotion to Mary under this title but because the picture had been a tremendous help in solving the case.

And to Mary Helen’s way of thinking, the Carmelite monastery seemed like just the place to hold it. Who knew how much help their prayers had been? Therefore, she was thrilled when Mother Virginia, the Carmelite prioress, and Father Adams both agreed.

“My campus ministry group will do the music,” Sister Anne volunteered. “Our new guitarist is just great!”

“Who are you inviting?” Sister Eileen asked.

“Our OWL chapter and Erma’s children, of course,” Mary Helen said. “And I’ll let Kate Murphy know. Maybe she and a few of the policemen would like to attend.”

By ten o’clock the Carmelite chapel was full. Sister Mary Helen was delighted to see that Mother Virginia had arranged for a large print of the Byzantine Madonna to be placed on a side altar. Several vigil lights and a large bouquet of homegrown roses surrounded the icon.

From behind the iron grille at the side of the main altar she could hear the rustle of the cloistered nuns assembling. Several of the OWLs peered curiously, hoping in vain to catch a glimpse of them.

Next to Lucy Lyons, Erma Duran’s three children sat in reserved seats, looking dutiful if totally out of place. Junior, thank God, had found a shirt to wear under his leather jacket. Marie had changed her polyester slacks for a skirt and, from a distance, it seemed Buddy had come sans earrings.

The clang of a bell signaled Father Adams’s entrance onto the ornate main altar. The congregation rose. Mary Helen was happy to see Kate Murphy slip into a side pew. Gallagher, Honore, and Jack Bassetti followed her.

The familiar ritual lulled Mary Helen into a brown study: Erma Duran, her goodness, the circumstances of her death. The woman, God rest her-and Mary Helen was sure He was doing just that-had been the salt of the earth. But even salt can lose a bit of its savor. Nobody’s perfect; everyone has an Achilles’ heel.

Mary Helen’s eyes slid toward Erma’s children, her Achilles’ heel. Certainly the Byzantine Madonna to whom she was so devoted would understand that. In the picture, Mary’s own eyes were filled with sadness over her Child. Mary Helen could imagine the two mothers chatting now.

Sadly she wondered if Erma’s three children would ever realize the parts they’d played in their mother’s death. She wondered, too, what would happen to Alphonsus Liguori Finn.

Father Adams had just finished reading the gospel for the Feast, when Mary Helen noticed Kate Murphy dash out. The young woman’s face was pasty.

Slipping out behind her, Mary Helen found Kate in the vestibule, a Kleenex over her mouth, retching.

“Quickly! Over here!” The old nun shepherded her to a small restroom and closed the door just in time to muffle Kate’s gagging. “Are you all right?” Mary Helen called. The flushing of the toilet drowned out the answer.

Clammy and shaken, Kate opened the door. She wiped her mouth with a damp paper towel.

“Are you okay, hon?” Jack Bassetti stood behind Mary Helen.

Leaning against the vestibule wall, eyes closed, Kate nodded her head.

“Has she been sick?” Mary Helen asked.

“For the last week or so. At first I thought she had a touch of the flu.” Jack put his arm around his wife. “It’s going around the Hall. But it’s the funniest land of flu. She’s only sick in the morning. By the afternoon she seems to be fine.”

Kate, who had recovered, patted her lips with the damp towel.

Mary Helen couldn’t help smiling. “A fine detective you are, Jack Bassetti!” she said. Maybe there was something to St. Gerard and this oil business, after all. “It sounds to me as if what your wife has is not a touch of the flu. It’s a touch of pregnant!”

“Pregnant?” Jack shouted.

“Shh.” Mary Helen wondered just how much the congregation was overhearing.

“Yes, indeed,” she said. She shoved her bifocals up the bridge of her nose to study the couple. “I will bet you dollars to doughnuts that Kate’s flu bug turns out to be nothing more than a classic case of morning sickness.” She patted her friend’s hand.

Kate beamed at her husband. “I was hoping to surprise you. Tomorrow is my doctor’s appointment. Then I’ll know for sure. Isn’t it great?” She hugged him. “Same doctor, different reason!”

At the moment, Mary Helen could not remember when she’d seen the thought of a trip to the doctor bring such a look of radiance and joy to anyone’s face.

Sister Carol Anne O'Marie is a mystery writer and a nun in the St. Joseph of Carondelet religious order.

She has written eleven novels, whose protagonist is Sister Mary Helen, an elderly nun who solves crimes. Most of the books are based in San Francisco.

Sister Carol Anne O'Marie and Sister Maureen Lyons run a shelter for homeless women in Oakland, CA.