Sister O'Marie - A Novena for Murder

“Looking up Dom Sebastiao,” she said, scanning the index of one large, dusty volume.

“Who?”

“Dom Sebastiao. Remember? The fellow Leonel mentioned, the one whose statue killed the professor? I’ve never heard of him, and I’m curious.”

“Are you having any luck?” Eileen asked, picking up a thin volume from the shortest pile. Flipping to the index, she ran her stubby finger down the page.

“Not too much.” Mary Helen patted the two tall stacks of books. “I’ve been through both these piles,” she said. “I’ve just these left.” She pointed to the shortest stack.

“Not a mention here.” Eileen added her book to the “been-through” pile.

“Although I don’t know much, I know more than I knew,” Mary Helen said.

“Now, what is it you know?” Eileen leaned against the carrel.

Mary Helen ran down the scribbled notes on her pad. “I know Dom Sebastiao was a twenty-four-year-old king who sailed out of Portugal in 1578 to conquer Morocco from Mulei Abde Almelique. He took twenty-three thousand men with him. Seems the old counselors thought it was a crazy idea. Almelique didn’t look so kindly on it, either.”

“You can never tell these kids anything,” Eileen said.

“After one terrible battle in North Africa, it was all over. Only fifty soldiers escaped. Over eight thousand lay dead. The rest were taken captive.”

“What happened to Dom Sebastiao?”

“Last seen, he was fighting, sword in hand. His body was never recovered. For years people hoped he was alive and would return.”

“Interesting,” Eileen said.

“This is the interesting part.” Mary Helen read directly from her notes. “Sebastianismo became a cult in Portugal, one that still lingers on. It embodies not only all the yearning summed up in the word saudade , but also a leaning toward insane exploits based on the fantastic hope that by some miracle they might succeed.”

Clearing her throat, she continued, “Sebastianismo also involves a kind of messianic belief that one day there will appear a liberator from oppression.” Mary Helen put down her note pad. “Yesterday, Leonel told us it would be an honor to kill the professor with the statue. I guess he considered the professor the oppressor.”

“It seems he did.” Eileen examined the half-empty shelf next to the carrel. “Look at all that dust between 914.69 and 914.70!” she said. “Amazing, isn’t it? As long as you have all those books out, I think I’ll run and get my dust rag.”

Mary Helen’s eyebrows arched. “I’m talking murder; you’re talking dust?”

“I’ve murder up to here.” Eileen touched the top of her head, turned on her heel, and rushed to her desk for the rag and the Endust.

Good old Tidy-paws! Mary Helen remembered that cleaning, like walking, was one of Eileen’s panaceas. These days she must have the cleanest library in Christendom.

Mary Helen went back to skimming indexes. For an hour, she pored over everything in the 914.69 section, the 946.90 history section, the reference section, and even the encyclopedia. Finally, yawning, she stretched and left the stacks. From the main door, she waved good-bye to Eileen, who was dusting something at the circulation desk.

Slowly, Sister Mary Helen moved down the dark, high-arched corridor that ran between the library and the chapel. Her mind and muscles were cramped.

What she needed was some fresh air. But first she’d make a quick visit to the chapel-give Sister Therese a hand. Then she’d get her mystery book and, cold or no cold, sit outside and read.

The old nun pulled open the bronze chapel door. Immediately, she caught the comfortable aroma of incense mingled with wax. The sudden contrast between the lighted corridor and the dim chapel blinded her. Only the lone, red flicker of the sanctuary lamp shone in the semidarkness.

Genuflecting, Mary Helen slipped into a back pew. The chapel was warm and quiet. The late afternoon sun illuminated the majestic stained glass windows lining the west wall. For several moments she sat, breathing deeply, drawing in all the peace and serenity of the gothic eminence. When her eyes had finally adjusted to the light, Mary Helen noticed she was not alone.

In one of the front pews, before the main altar, a young woman knelt. She was hunched over, her forehead resting on the bench in front, her ebony hair fanned out.

Must have come in before I did, Mary Helen thought. Squinting in the dim light, she studied the woman. Probably a student. But the figure remained so still, so rigid, Mary Helen began to worry. That is a strange position to pray in, she thought, and must be terribly uncomfortable. Kneeling, she hunched over and pressed her own forehead against the bench in front. It took only a minute of testing the position for her to be convinced something was definitely wrong.

Rising from her pew, she hurried up the center aisle. She cleared her throat several times, hoping not to startle the young woman. The figure did not move. Very gently, she touched the thin shoulder.

With a thud, the woman’s head slid off the bench, and her body fell. It wedged between the bench and the padded kneeler. Both arms stuck straight up in the air. Mary Helen had read enough crime novels to know rigor mortis when she saw it. Yet the legs dangled loosely. Whoever had stuffed the stiffened body into the pew must have broken the rigor in her knees. Mary Helen retched.

Sightlessly, the young woman stared up at her. The right side of her skull had been smashed, and a sickening clot of dried blood was splashed across her delicate face. Mary Helen recognized the face-it was Joanna.

Those two thin legs hung as loosely as a rag doll. Joanna had died the death of a rag doll. Mary Helen closed her eyes, hoping to blot out the sight. Instead, an image of the professor lying in a bloody halo flashed before her.

Mary Helen didn’t remember screaming. Yet she must have. Her mouth was open, her throat dry and sore. An agonizing shriek reverberated through the nave and resounded in her ears.

She lurched down the middle aisle. Her footsteps hit hard against the waxed parquet squares, their echo ringing through the empty chapel.

She leaned against the heavy, bronze door. Calm down, old girl, she cautioned herself, trying to catch her breath. Think sensibly. First things first. Phone. Yes, phone. Where was the nearest phone? It took her a moment to remember. In Eileen’s library, of course.

Throwing open the chapel door, Mary Helen turned left and headed down the deserted corridor. Thank God most of the girls were gone. No sense in alarming everyone. This might be a dream. All this might be part of a long, cruel dream. By the time she reached the door of the library, she was panting.

“What happened?” Eileen asked as soon as she saw Mary Helen’s face.

“Let’s go into your office,” Mary Helen whispered, trying hard to keep calm. Several stragglers were studying at the long, oak table. “I don’t want to be overheard. I’ve found a body in our chapel.”

Eileen followed her into the small room. Closing the door, she sank into a chair. Her gray eyes were wide.

Mary Helen headed straight for the phone on the desk. Robotlike, she picked up the receiver and dialed O. “I found a body. I think it’s Joanna.” She stopped. Eileen blessed herself. “Yes, Operator.” Mary Helen’s voice was steady. “Please, may I have the police? Homicide, please. Yes, it is an emergency.”

Mary Helen hung up. Walking to the water cooler, she filled two Dixie cups. “I wish this was something stronger,” she said, offering one to her friend. Only then did she notice that her hand was trembling.

“Come, sit down.” Eileen patted the chair across from her.

Silently, the two nuns sat facing one another. Each sipped water from her paper cup. Both strained to hear the high-pitched screech of the police siren coming up Turk Street.