Sister O'Marie - A Novena for Murder

Tiptoeing to the edge of the clearing, she stretched her neck to get a better look. A ray of sun flashed against the spoon of a shovel. Sure enough, she could see the blue-denim back of a man, two large mounds of dirt on either side of him. He was planting, probably to keep the shale from slipping during the rainy season. For a moment, Mary Helen closed her eyes and visualized the hill aflame with bright, magenta blossoms. No wonder Anne claimed this gardener was the best they’d ever had. How many gardeners would be thinking about the rainy season on the hottest day of the year? And how many gardeners would have solved the problem so aesthetically?

Abruptly, the young man stopped and leaned his shovel against the rough trunk of a pine. Pulling a large handkerchief from his back pocket, he turned and began to wipe sweat from his face and hands. Mary Helen recognized the profile. It was the same young fellow Leonel had been talking to this morning. So this was Tony, the gardener. Good. Another name with another face. Mary Helen was pleased with herself. She held the theory that the sooner you could attach names to faces, the sooner you felt at home. And as long as this place looked as if it were going to be home…

Mary Helen was just about to shout a greeting down the hill when below her and to the right she heard the crunch of dried pine needles. Someone was coming up behind Tony. He must have heard it, too. Swiftly, he shoved his handkerchief into his back pocket and grabbed for the shovel.

A young woman emerged from between two low shrubs. She faced Tony. Mary Helen could hear the murmur of their voices, but they were too far away for her to catch the conversation. There was something familiar about the woman. She was tall and slight, with a delicately carved face. She looked like Marina, Professor Villanueva’s secretary. She must be the sister, Joanna. She would ask Anne about it at dinner. Then she’d have another name with a face. Good.

From below, the tone of the conversation took a higher pitch. The old nun still could not make out what was being said. She strained for a better look. For several moments, the two faced one another. Then, flinging his shovel aside, Tony grabbed the girl and planted a firm, hard kiss on her lips.

A bit too passionate for my taste, Mary Helen thought, still staring down at the young couple. Then, unexpectedly, Tony pulled away. Shielding his eyes against the glare, he scrutinized the hill. Embarrassed, Mary Helen drew back. Good night, nurse, she chided herself, you are getting to be a regular Miss Marple! At least, Agatha Christie had the good manners to let Miss Marple be bird-watching. You’re just plain gawking! The decent thing to do, old girl, is to let young love have a little privacy.

Back on her bench, Sister Mary Helen flipped open her book. In the distance she heard the sounds of four feet on dried pine needles. There were no more digging noises.

The flat clang of the bell from the college belfry tolled dinner. Tucking her book under her arm, Mary Helen tramped down the path and onto the driveway.

The parched campus was deserted. Long shadows played across the buildings and the formal gardens. With most of the faculty and students gone for the day, the stately college buildings crested the hill with an aura of peace. Sweet peace, she thought, and stopped for a moment to pull in a long, deep breath.

The sudden shriek of tires warned her that someone was taking the service road too fast. A dark green sports car shot from behind a shield of trees and squealed onto the driveway. Looks like the Devil himself is chasing whoever that is, Mary Helen thought as the car sped past her. Two men were in the front seat. She caught a quick glimpse of the driver. Professor Villanueva! Why was he driving so fast? And at this time of day? What business did he have on the service road?

That was the last time Sister Mary Helen ever saw Professor Phillip Villanueva alive.

Inspectors Murphy and Gallagher were on duty when the call came in.

“Murder at your alma mater, Kate.” Slamming down the phone, Dennis Gallagher hitched his pants over his paunch. “Let’s go!”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Kate Murphy grabbed her wool jacket and followed him out of the Homicide Detail room.

“Who got killed?” she asked, watching Gallagher hook a red light in the window of the city’s Plymouth.

“Some professor. Villanueva’s the name. Skull fractured with a statue. A nun reported his body right after the quake. Thought it was an accident. The guys answering the call weren’t so sure. Coroner says they’re right. Looks like homicide.”

Cautiously, Gallagher pulled out of the Hall of Justice parking lot and turned left toward the college.

For several blocks, the two drove in comfortable silence. The other men in the Detail had nicknamed them “the odd couple.” Red-headed, fiery-tempered Kate Murphy was Homicide’s token woman; easygoing, soft-hearted Dennis Gallagher, its senior inspector.

Actually, Gallagher had agreed to take Kate on as his partner because of her father, Mick Murphy. A prince of a man, Gallagher always called him, and when Murphy died, Gallagher considered it his duty and privilege to look out for Mick’s only child.

After two years of riding together, Gallagher still felt fatherly and protective toward Kate. He had to admit, however-though never to her-that his respect and admiration for her work had grown. Kate Murphy was a sharp gal and one helluva good cop. Her private life he considered something else again. Why, poor Mick must be rolling over in his grave. He could just hear him. “Bad enough living in sin, but living in sin with an Eye-talian!”

“This is the perfect case for you, Kate.” Gallagher cleared his throat.

“For me? Why?”

“You went to that fancy school. You’ll know how to talk with these nuns.”

Kate stared in amazement. Gallagher was a devout, practicing Catholic. She’d never noticed any hesitancy in his talking with nuns.

“So will you, Denny,” she said.

“Nuns always like the girls better than the boys.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Besides, it will be good for you to get back into contact with them.” Gallagher made a left onto Turk Street. Picking his stubby cigar out of the ashtray, he stuck it into the corner of his mouth.

So that was it! Dennis Gallagher was having a sudden attack of Father Knows Best! Although they had never discussed it outright, Kate knew he disapproved of her living arrangements with Jack Bassetti. Not that Gallagher disliked Jack. He didn’t. What he disliked was their living together without-What did he call it?-“benefit of blessing.” Denny never passed up an opportunity to extol the joys of marital bliss. Ad nauseam , in Kate’s opinion.

Tonight Gallagher was on a new tack. Turn Kate over to the “good sisters.” Maybe they could straighten her out. She could almost hear her father’s brogue saying the same thing.

“What exactly did you mean by that last snide remark?”

“What snide remark?”

“Good for me to get back in contact with the nuns.”

“Nothing, Katie. You’ve just not been around the school for a while. It would be good.”

“Good for what, Denny? For making me feel guilty about living with Jack?”

“Who mentioned Jack?” Gallagher’s face reddened.

“I did!”

“Don’t slam the door,” Gallagher started to yell as the car came to a halt in the parking lot, but the bang reverberated through the Plymouth.

“Sorry, Denny,” Kate grinned, turning to him. “I know you care, and I appreciate it, but I’m a big girl now.”

“Poor Mick Murphy. God rest him!” she heard Gallagher mutter as she climbed the steps into the main college building.