Sister O'Marie - A Novena for Murder

Mary Helen crossed the room and squatted beside his body. Thin streams of blood trickled from his ears, encircling his head with a bright red halo. Avoiding his blank, staring eyes, she grabbed his limp wrist. It was still warm. She felt for his pulse. Nothing. His well-manicured hand fell back. Lifeless. She put her fingers on either side of his long, slender neck, sticky with fresh blood. Still no pulse.

She leaned against the edge of his desk. Don’t fall apart now, old girl . She controlled the sob aching in her throat.

Slowly, she reached for the phone and dialed O. They would need an ambulance-and the police.

What next? Be logical . A priest. He needs a priest. Numbly she dialed St. Ignatius Church.

Sister Mary Helen forced herself to look around the office. Everything was as she remembered it. Nothing moved, nothing different, except for the bronze statue that lay on the floor near the professor’s body. The professor’s body! Kneeling beside the sprawled figure, she reverently intoned the ancient Latin prayer for the dead. De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine. Domine. exaudi vocem meam . The words rang through the empty room.

“Oh, my gosh, is he dead?” Sister Anne whispered. Mary Helen jumped. She had not heard Anne coming. No wonder. Anne was wearing her blasted Paiute moccasins.

“I think so,” Mary Helen answered in a flat tone. Behind her, she heard Anne retch, then bolt from the room.

Mary Helen struggled to her feet, and sank into the professor’s high-backed leather chair. Almost every mystery novel she read mentioned “rubbery” knees. She had wondered how they felt. Now she knew.

White-faced, Sister Anne reappeared in the doorway. “Sorry,” she said. Her large, hazel eyes avoided the floor. The old nun just nodded. In the silence, Mary Helen could hear the younger woman swallow. “What happened?” Anne asked, hardly managing to get her tongue around the words.

“It looks as if that statue may have fallen on him.” Mary Helen pointed to a large, bronze figurine of a medieval nobleman. It lay on the blood-drenched carpet several feet behind the professor’s head.

“Where did it come from?” Anne asked, without looking down.

“Up there. I noticed it the other morning when I was here.” Mary Helen swiveled her chair toward the bookcase. A small space at the end of the third shelf was vacant. “The quake must have knocked it off the shelf.”

“What a freak accident! Nothing else seems disturbed!”

“We’d better not touch anything until the police arrive,” Mary Helen warned her, unnecessarily. They always said that in all the mysteries she’d read.

Anne looked at her. “That’s for murder. This was just an accident. A freak accident.”

The whine of a siren filled the small office. A black-and-white patrol car rolled up in front of the college. Its rotating light threw long shadows in the semidark room. A police radio could be heard in the distance, and two doors slammed shut.

Heavy footsteps clambered up the marble staircase. The outer office lights flipped on. Two of the burliest policemen Mary Helen had ever seen filled the doorway.

“Evening, Sisters.” Both officers removed their hats.

Good Catholic boys, Mary Helen observed, watching Sister Eileen sandwich her way between the men. Sister Eileen was leading a small ascetic-looking Jesuit carrying the holy oils. Somberly, the priest knelt beside the professor’s body and began the sacred words of anointing.

The three nuns sat quietly on a bench in Professor Villanueva’s outer office. “Just in case we have any more questions,” one of the patrolmen had said. Mary Helen could hardly believe that it was only three days ago that she had first set foot in this room.

San Francisco had been hot. It was one of those October days in the city which make the natives sweat, swear, and bless the fog they had cursed the week before. Already the radio predicted another day in the upper eighties.

Trudging up the driveway from the Sisters’ Residence to the main college building, Mary Helen stopped to catch her breath. Sisters’ Residence, indeed! Nothing but academia for “convent,” she thought, staring back at the plain, squat structure. It looked like the college’s poor relation. She didn’t know if she’d ever get used to calling that unpretentious square anything but a convent. As long as she was living on the hill, however, she figured the only decent thing to do was try.

Shielding her eyes against the glaring sun, the old nun admired the imposing building ahead. Its majestic stonework shimmered against the cloudless sky. All its windows, like so many slits in a castle turret, were flung open to catch the morning coolness. Even the gargoyles seemed to be sweating.

It’s going to be a scorcher, she thought, checking her watch. Nine-thirty. Plenty of time. Her appointment with Professor Villanueva wasn’t until nine forty-five.

As she approached the side of the building, voices tore through the quiet. Stopping, she looked up. The sounds were coming from one of the first few tiny windows on the second floor. Although at first she could not make out what was being said, the tone was unmistakable-anger.

“Bastardo !” a furious voice shouted.

Mary Helen hurried around to the front of the building. No matter what the language, there are some words you can always understand.

“Morning, Sister.” A student passed her on the front steps of the main building. Mary Helen hesitated before the ornate double doors. Above them, rococo lanterns framed gold-leaf letters proclaiming: Mount St. Francis College for Women, Founded MCMXXX.

The college! The one place she had been trying to avoid for fifty years, and now-here she was. Before she could reach out to grasp the fluted handle, the heavy door flew open and a tall, curly-haired, apparently angry young man, burst past her. Shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, stained kitchen apron covering faded jeans, he hardly fit his opulent surroundings.

Adjusting her bifocals, Mary Helen watched him take the front steps two at a time, then disappear around the corner of the building. Whoever he was, he was in a hurry.

The tomblike coolness of the foyer gave her a sudden chill. Dark tapestries covered the walls and stairwells. Pale marble busts of saints and scholars stood on equally pale pedestals. Each stared at her with cold, vacant eyes. Stiffening her back, the old nun let the door swish shut behind her.

Life goes on with or without you, old girl, she reminded herself, so you might as well go with it. Turning right, she started up the curved staircase to the second floor. She half expected to see a knight in full armor clank down the marble steps toward her.

Sister Mary Helen took another quick look at her watch. Right on time. Lightly, she tapped on the wooden door marked 203.

“Come in, it’s open,” a pleasant voice called over the clicking of a typewriter. “Just push.”

As she entered, a well-dressed young woman, her thick, black hair clipped back severely, looked up from the typewriter. Mary Helen was struck by the young woman’s beauty. Not by her features so much, although they were delicate and well-proportioned, as by the eyes. The young woman’s eyes were such a clear, deep blue that they looked almost turquoise against her translucent skin.

Smiling, she rose and extended her right hand. Her hand was large for a woman’s, and her grip was firm. A good sign, Mary Helen noted. “Welcome, Sister,” the young woman said, with the hint of an accent. “You must be Sister Mary Helen.” The old nun nodded.

“I’m Marina, Marina Alves. Professor Villanueva’s secretary. The professor expects you. I’ll buzz him.” With one long, slim finger, the young woman pushed the button of the intercom. “The sister is here,” she announced.