Sister O'Marie - A Novena for Murder

“What do you mean, you couldn’t tell why?”

“I couldn’t tell if she thinks something happened to them, or if she thinks they’re ‘flaky,’ and that’s what’s upsetting her. I made an appointment for you to see her on Saturday.”

“Why me?”

“Because youth appeals to youth, and I figured the opposite might also hold.” Anne opened one eye to check Mary Helen’s reaction.

The older nun chose to ignore the remark. She simply said, “Fine.”

“And you, old dear? Did you get anywhere at all?” Eileen asked.

“Not too far,” Mary Helen said, “but I did pick up a tone in several voices.”

“A tone?”

“Yes, I think something is going on. When I mentioned Professor Villanueva, several of the older folks acted as if they suspected something they were not willing to tell. One woman said she was worried about the young people the man had helped. Do you know what she did when I asked her why?”

“What?”

“She hung up!” Mary Helen let that sink in before she played her trump card. “Do you know whom I did get?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Kevin Doherty! I hit the jackpot with him. He’s been worried about Joanna since she finished her thesis. Wants to talk about it. I have an appointment with him at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, here.”

Mary Helen checked her watch. “It’s almost dinner time. Let’s split up and come to the dining room from different angles,” she said. “And don’t be late. People might wonder what we’ve been up to.”

“They’d never guess,” Anne said, without opening her eyes.

Mary Helen pushed all the sheets of paper toward Eileen. “You keep these someplace. Maybe locked in your office. Someplace where no one can get at them.”

Eileen nodded. “And if someone questions me, old dear, do you have a cyanide capsule you’d like me to slip under my tongue?”

Head down, Mary Helen rushed along the dim corridor toward the dining room. The loose tiles clicked to the steady rhythm of her footsteps. She didn’t even notice Kate Murphy coming toward her.

“Sister, may I talk to you a minute?” The voice startled her. Kate must have been with the investigating team in the chapel.

“Surely,” Mary Helen said, without looking up.

Taking the old nun by the elbow, Kate steered her into a small hopper room off the hall. “It will only take a minute,” she said.

Even before turning to face Kate, Mary Helen had begun to examine her own conscience. There were only a few things she could think of right off to feel guilty about. Had Kate discovered the broken seal on the professor’s office door, or was it the lists, or the phone calling? Had she realized the three nuns had begun their own investigation?

“This is a little embarrassing,” Kate started, “but I’d like to ask you a personal question, if I may.”

A cold wash of relief swept over Mary Helen.

“When I went to school here,” Kate said, “the older nuns, in fact, all the nuns, were a bit more…” Kate stumbled for a word.

“Traditional?” Mary Helen supplied.

“Right. And I always thought the older women might stick with that.”

“They might.”

“Well, if I may ask.” Embarrassed, Kate cleared her throat. “Why didn’t you?”

Mary Helen smiled. She remembered distinctly the shocked looks of her peers when, after forty years in the traditional habit of her Order, she had decided to change to modern dress.

At first, her hairdo had given her a little trouble. But a hairdresser friend had rescued her with a short feather cut and a permanent. The result startled her the first few times she passed a mirror. Now she found her hair neat and easy to manage.

Smiling, she gave Kate the same answer she had given to many of her contemporaries who resisted the updating of the Order. “Well, I figured life would go on with or without me,” she said, “so I might as well go with it. I must admit that I did resist one change.”

“What was that?”

“I refused to change my name! When I received the habit,” she said, “I was given the name Mary Helen. I have lived with it so long I think of myself as Mary Helen.”

Kate nodded. “That seems valid,” she said.

“When we had a choice to return to our baptismal names, I refused. Long ago, I had stopped thinking of myself as Sally O’Connor.” The old nun bent toward Kate. “Besides,” she whispered, “a seventy-five-year-old Sister Sally sounds ridiculous!” Kate’s laughter filled the small hopper room.

“Sister,” she asked, “would it ever be possible for you to come to my home for dinner?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Mary Helen answered.

“Good.” Kate took the nun’s hand and pressed it, giving an extra squeeze before she hurried down the corridor.

Puzzled, Mary Helen watched her go. Something was odd. Why in the world did Kate Murphy want her to come to dinner? Why did she seem so eager to get to know her better? Did Kate suspect that she, too, was investigating? Maybe she wanted to collaborate. Mary Helen allowed herself a moment to fantasize before logic took over. More likely, it had something to do with that tall, black-haired inspector, Jack Bassetti. Yes, she’d put her money on Jack Bassetti.

After dinner, most of the nuns crowded into the television room for the local news. All eyes were eagerly glued to the large console as Sister Anne tuned it in. They were not disappointed. The two murders at Mount St. Francis College for Women filled the lead segment.

A brash woman reporter shoved a microphone in front of Sister Cecilia. “How did you feel, Sister, when a second body was discovered at your college?” she asked.

From the look on Cecilia’s face, Mary Helen thought, the answer was clear.

“And so far the killer has not been apprehended,” the anchorman pontificated. “Will homicide hit the Holy Hill, again?” he asked, leaving a pregnant pause. Fade-out.

“Mother of God!” Sister Therese’s ejaculation whipped across the hush. Quickly, she left her place to recheck the window latches. They could hear her patter down the corridor to set the dead bolt on the front door.

“I can’t stand this,” Mary Helen mouthed to Eileen. “If we don’t do something, we’ll spend the entire evening listening for someone approaching to murder us in our beds.”

Eileen grimaced. “Why don’t we play a fast game of pinochle?” she asked. “We could give a semblance of normalcy, anyway.”

“Good idea,” Mary Helen said, grabbing Anne and a fourth.

As hard as she tried, Mary Helen couldn’t keep her mind on the game. Even Eileen frowned once, when she led with the wrong trump. Finally, Mary Helen threw in the last trick. She yawned. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I know I’m distracted and playing poorly. Right now, I think my best move would be to go straight to bed.” She was a little annoyed when no one, not even pleasant Eileen, had the courtesy to contradict her.

Mary Helen drew a warm bath. She threw in a bit of bath oil in the hope it would help relax her. After soaking until her fingers were prunelike, she hopped into bed, wide awake. She tried reading for a few minutes, but she couldn’t concentrate on the plot.

Finally, in desperation, she switched off the bedroom light and stared at the ceiling. The floodlights floated eerie, green shadows across the flat white. Mary Helen’s mind whirled. Was Leonel the murderer, after all? she wondered. Or was it that mysterious presence she had sensed in the hallway the night the professor died? Was it someone she knew, or a total stranger? And Joanna. Who had killed Joanna? Had her murderer still been in the chapel when she’d discovered the body? She hadn’t thought of that before. He could have been crouched down in a pew just waiting to pounce. And was she sure it was a he ? Could the murderer by any chance be a she ? But who? Where was the murderer now? Home asleep? Do murderers sleep well at night? Or was he out roaming around? Maybe even stalking the darkened campus. Mary Helen flipped on the bedroom lamp. Grabbing her glasses from the night stand, she checked to make sure she had locked the door. The button was pushed in. She flicked off the lamp. What would Kevin Doherty have to say in the morning?