Sister O'Marie - A Novena for Murder

Get hold of yourself, old girl, she thought, deliberately forcing her mind to let go. Think of something else. For example, why did you lose so badly at pinochle tonight? She replayed her hand, but before she took the final trick, she fell into a fitful sleep.

The Jack of Diamonds was chasing the Queen of Spades down the long, narrow corridors of the main building. Whenever he gained on her, she would lash at him with the yellow flower in her right hand. In a fit of rage, the Jack pursued her into the chapel. He cornered her in the front pew, just before the altar. She cowered before him. Raising his thick arm high above her head, he brandished not his usual wide sword, but a bloodied statue of Dom Sebastiao. Again and again, he pommeled her thin body until the Queen of Spades lay a broken heap at his feet.

Sister Mary Helen unbolted the heavy front door of the convent. Again! It was the third time she had done it in less than twenty minutes. This time she stationed herself in the small front parlor to stake out the door. Who was the culprit, the phantom bolter who kept slipping in to relock it? She had her suspicions.

The sound of quick, nervous footsteps pattering down the long corridor confirmed them. Shoving her bifocals up the bridge of her nose, she confronted Sister Therese in the tiny entrance hall.

“Why do you keep rebolting the door?” she asked, trying not to sound too piqued.

“Because you never know who could walk right in here and murder one of us in our own convent.”

“In broad daylight?”

“The Alves girl was murdered in broad daylight.”

Therese had a point, one that could hardly be refuted. Mary Helen changed to a more positive subject. “How’s your novena coming?” she asked.

“Just fine. I’m on the sixth day. We should be getting some results very soon,” Therese said with such confidence that Mary Helen didn’t doubt for one moment that she was right.

“And if the point you are trying to make is that I should rely on prayer alone and not bolt the door, you are sadly mistaken.” Her small, sharp nose lifted. “God helps those who help themselves,” she said, quoting the old proverb as though it were Holy Writ.

Mary Helen watched the small, birdlike figure stomp down the hallway. Therese had misunderstood. Mary Helen’s point was a simple one. Kevin Doherty was scheduled to arrive any minute now, and she pulled back the bolt so that the convent wouldn’t sound like a fortress when she opened the door for him. She realized, however, that any explanation would be lost on Therese’s fleeing back. The soft chime of the doorbell broke into her thoughts.

“Good morning,” Sister Mary Helen said, opening the door wide. A tall, lanky young man stood in the doorway. He looked as if he should be suited up and dribbling a basketball.

“I’m Kevin Doherty,” he said. “I’ve an appointment with…” He hesitated, searching for the name.

“With me. Come in, please.” Mary Helen led the young man to a small side parlor. He dropped into a chair. Self-consciously, he tried to ease his long legs into a comfortable position. It took three tries before he settled on putting them straight out in front of him.

Sitting opposite him, watching him fidget, Mary Helen realized what a striking couple the two must have made. Kevin, with his full head of golden hair, pug-nosed, a real Celt; Joanna, blue-black haired, delicate featured, a Latin beauty. “Star-crossed lovers,” she and Shakespeare would have agreed.

“So nice of you to come over, Kevin,” Mary Helen began, attempting to put the young man at ease. It had always been her contention that sitting in state in a small, sterile convent parlor could make the most phlegmatic person tense.

“My pleasure, Sister.” She could see his Adam’s apple move up and down his thin neck. He was having trouble getting the words out. “I-I really…” he stammered, then swallowed hard. “I really care about Joanna. I’d like… to help.”

“Perhaps if you could tell me a little about her,” Mary Helen said gently. “How you met. Where she might have been the past few days. Whatever you think could be important.”

Doherty pulled his legs in and hunched forward. He looked to Sister Mary Helen, for all the world like a curly-haired, freckled-faced Thinker .

“Well, we met in class,” he said. “Went out a few times, and I think we would have had something going if it hadn’t been for this thesis business.”

“What thesis business?”

“She got really involved. Something she discovered in her research.”

“Do you know what it was?” Mary Helen’s heart began to beat faster. Maybe, at last, she was hitting on something. Maybe Therese’s novena was beginning to pay off.

“No,” he said.

Her heart dropped. “Just no ?”

“She wouldn’t tell me what it was all about. Said it was dangerous. Didn’t want me to know.” The young man shrugged his shoulders. “Can you imagine that, Sister? Too dangerous for a guy my size, but okay for a little thing like her.” It seemed incredible to the old nun, too.

“The whole business became almost an-an obsession,” he said. “Worried me a lot.” He cracked his knuckles and shook his head sadly. “I guess I was right to worry. Like she said, it was dangerous. I still can’t believe…” He stopped, tears glistening in his eyes. Mary Helen resisted the urge to put her arms around him.

“Do you think she suffered much?” he asked, after a long pause.

“I don’t think so.” Mary Helen shuddered, remembering the girl’s crushed skull. “I think death was quick.”

“I’d like to find the guy who did it and break him in two.” Doherty cracked his knuckles again.

“Even if you don’t break him in two, it’s important we find the fellow,” Mary Helen agreed, “so that he won’t harm anyone else.” She paused a moment to let that sink in. “Now tell me, Kevin, is there anything at all you can remember about the research?”

He leaned back in his chair and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. “Well, I know it was on the Portuguese immigrants. Some kind of an abuse, I think. She went down to Santa Clara County a lot, talking to people.”

“Can you remember any names she may have mentioned?”

“Yeah, one,” he said. “Mrs. Rubiero.”

Rubiero-that was the woman Anne had made the appointment with. Maybe they were getting someplace, after all. “Why do you remember that name?”

Kevin shrugged. “No reason,” he said, “except that I met Joanna that night for dinner in Millbrae. She had just come from Mrs. Rubiero’s. She mentioned it, and the name stuck with me because we had a Portuguese kid on my high school basketball team by the same name.”

He thought for a moment. “You know what, Sister? Now that I think about it, it was right after that that she started to get funny.”

“Funny?”

“Yeah. Broke dates. Wouldn’t talk much. Didn’t have time for me. I could never figure out why. She said it would all be different when something got straightened out.”

“Maybe she’d found another boyfriend.” Mary Helen said that as gently as she could, remembering the scene with Tony on the hillside.

“Naw,” the young man said, with a masculine ego that Mary Helen found amusing. “She really liked me.”

“Did she ever mention a young man named Tony?” she asked.

“That weirdo! Yeah, she mentioned him plenty. Hated him. She’d go the other way if she saw him coming. He even tried to bother her once or twice when I was with her.”

So she had been correct about the kiss. It had not been too affectionate. She stored that information on the back burner of her mind.