Sister O'Marie - A Novena for Murder

Almost immediately, Professor Phillip Villanueva opened the frosted glass door separating his office from his secretary’s. Mary Helen was shocked at how perfectly he fit the stereotype of the successful college professor. Tall and slender, he came complete, even in all this heat, with a brown tweed jacket, turtleneck pullover, and a sweet-smelling pipe. Yet there was something about the professor’s narrow face that Mary Helen and Shakespeare referred to as that “lean and hungry look.”

“Welcome, Sister.” He ushered her inside. “We are so glad to have you.” He ran his hand over his straight hair. “Your wisdom will be a real asset to our history department.”

Mary Helen knew bunk when she heard it. Why, the man had just met her. How in the world would he know whether she was wise or not? Unless he thought it came with age. She wanted to tell him that someone had once said, “The older I grow, the more I distrust the familiar doctrine that age brings wisdom.” Instead, she threw back a little bunk of her own. “I’m looking forward to working in your department, Professor.”

Professor Villanueva dropped into the high-backed swivel chair behind his desk. “Please, be seated.” His smile was broad and practiced. Mary Helen sat on the edge of a small, brown chair facing him. His eyes remained untouched. After fifty years in the classroom, she considered herself an expert on eyes.

She glanced around the office. Like everything else about the professor, it was a study in perfection. Polished oak desk, elegant, yet understated desk set, a ficus-benjaminus flourishing in a muted ceramic pot, an oil painting of three mallards flying into a soft sunset.

Macho, down to the last neatly housed paper clip! She looked through her bifocals at the leather-bound volumes lining the bookshelves. Only a large bronze statue precisely placed at the end of the third row broke the symmetry.

Rapidly, the professor outlined several research projects. She might be interested in pursuing one, he suggested. She wasn’t, but he didn’t pause long enough for her to reply. As he spoke, he nervously clicked his pencil against his front teeth and swiveled his chair toward the small window behind the desk. Obviously, the young man had other things on his mind.

So did Mary Helen. Nonetheless, she folded her hands in her lap and forced herself to look attentive. It was all she could do to fight down her schoolmarm urge to tell him to sit still and stop fidgeting.

Abruptly, the professor stood. “You think about these ideas, Sister. Perhaps you have some of your own, as well. We’ll talk more later.”

Meeting adjourned. Ushering her out of his office, the professor gave her a big smile and a handshake. But the smile still didn’t reach his eyes.

The college bell gonged out the hour. Ten o’clock. Perfect timing for her coffee break, Mary Helen thought. For fifty years she had considered her morning and afternoon coffee breaks essential. She regarded those few quiet moments she took twice daily to blow and sip and think a contemplative experience. At this stage of her life, she had no intention of changing that habit.

Turning right, she moved down the long corridor leading to the back of the building and the kitchen/dining-room area where both the students and the nuns had their meals. Separate but equal dining rooms, her friend Eileen called the arrangement.

“Glad to see you’re finding your way around.” Sister Anne’s voice startled Mary Helen. Curious, she had not heard the young nun pad up behind her. She glanced at Anne’s feet. They were shod with laced moccasiny-looking affairs.

“Paiutes.” Anne wiggled her toes.

“Humph!” was the only comment Mary Helen could think of to make.

“It’s ten o’clock,” said Sister Therese, who preferred her name pronounced “trays,” rushing by. Loose tiles clinked under her busy feet. “You know how the kitchen staff likes us to get our coffee and get out so they can get on with lunch.”

Sister Therese did not wait for a response. In addition to being slightly high-strung, Therese was slightly deaf.

Anne spoke out of the corner of her mouth, just in case. Apparently, she had learned from experience that it was difficult to predict when Sister Therese’s hearing would suddenly improve. “I know what young Leonel likes,” she said. “He wants us to finish coffee so he can have some time alone with his girl friend before starting lunch.”

“Who’s Leonel?” Mary Helen asked.

“Our assistant cook. Sweet young man. I’ll introduce you.”

“Does this girl friend go to school here?” The idea of a cook-wooing coed appealed to her.

“She works here. Villanueva’s secretary.”

“Marina? I just met her a few minutes ago. She’s a lovely child.”

“Right. Leonel and she came from the same village, or at least the same province, in Portugal. Villanueva helped them both to emigrate. Marina has been with us a couple of years. Leonel, almost a year now.”

Sister Anne swung the kitchen door open and held it for Mary Helen. “We’ve had a lot of Portuguese here,” she said. “Those two. Marina’s sister, Joanna. She’s a graduate student. The college gave her a full scholarship. But most of them work around the place. And they are very good workers, too. You’ll meet Tony. He’s the gardener. Probably the best we’ve ever had. Have you noticed the grounds?”

Mary Helen hated to admit she hadn’t, so she just cleared her throat. Anne didn’t seem to notice.

“There’s a lot of ground to keep up. We’ve had four or five fellows who started to work here, to give Tony a hand. Next thing, they leave for better jobs. Can’t blame them. Then there’s Luis. Does janitorial work. He’s brand new, but, so far, very conscientious.”

Rummaging around, Sister Anne unearthed two clean coffee mugs. “Villanueva sponsors them all,” she said, answering the next question Mary Helen was about to ask. “I guess he must have a good heart to take such an interest in these kids.”

Mary Helen was about to comment when Anne pointed across the kitchen to a black, curly head protruding from a row of stainless steel pots. “That’s Leonel.”

Wiping his hands on his apron, Leonel came toward the two nuns. He held one hand out to Mary Helen. She was so surprised, she nearly neglected to shake it. This mild-mannered young fellow was the same young man who, not twenty minutes before, had burst from the main college building in a rage.

“Hi, Sister.” A toothy grin broke across his face. A dentist’s delight, Mary Helen thought, running her tongue over her own front teeth, which overlapped slightly.

The young man’s dark, round eyes smiled down at her. There was something simple and almost sweet about him that she liked immediately.

Anne poured Mary Helen coffee from the urn, brewed herself a cup of camomile tea, and headed back to her campus ministry office.

Cradling her mug, Mary Helen settled into the nook right off the kitchen. She had just begun to blow and sip when Marina came in. Shyly, she moved toward Leonel. One peek at the couple, and Mary Helen knew Anne was correct. Definitely courting!

Well, more power to them, she thought.

That morning in that nook, Mary Helen often said afterward, she had her first glimmer of an idea for a research paper: The plight of today’s immigrant. Why not? There were plenty of them in San Francisco, and she had two lovely “primary sources” in Marina and Leonel. She peeked again. The kitchen was empty.

Turning, she stared out at one of the college’s well-tailored gardens. At the far end, by a low hedge, she spotted Leonel. He was talking to a young man in overalls and a blue denim work shirt. In fact, Leonel, arms waving, was doing all the talking. He seemed to be angry again.