Sister O'Marie - A Novena for Murder

“This is routine, Sister. Just routine.” He yanked at his tie. “Please, if you will, start from the beginning.” Gallagher shifted his eyes to avoid hers.

“Inspector, is this a test? Are you trying to see if I am a bumbling old lady or just an old lady who still, however, has all her wits about her?”

“Of course not,” Gallagher said. Damn! They can read minds. He suddenly felt thirteen years old. Where the hell was Murphy? He checked his watch. She should be back any minute. Let Murphy handle it, he thought. What I don’t need is another strong-minded woman on my back. This old gal might do the kid some good, too. Gallagher looked down at the penetrating, speckled eyes. And even if she doesn’t, he thought, these two gals deserve each other!

“Just routine, Sister,” he repeated.

Pedantically, Mary Helen began to recount the earthquake, her running from the convent to the college, finding Luis, hearing Marina scream, feeling a presence in the hall, finding the professor’s body, calling the police and the priest.

One helluva sharp old lady, Gallagher thought, listening to her reconstruct the events of the previous night. His face reddened. After eight years in the parochial school, he knew “helluva” was not the proper adjective to describe a sister. But, still, she was one helluva spunky old gal. Must be seventy, at least. Sharp, very sharp.

“How did I do, Inspector?” Dimples played on Mary Helen’s lined cheeks. “Did I pass the senility check?”

“Fine. Thank you, Sister.” Gallagher caught the glint of humor in her eyes. Where the hell was Murphy?

“May I go now, Inspector?”

“Yes, Sister. Thank you for your help. We’ll get in touch with you if we need more information. You aren’t going to be transferred anywhere else for a while, are you?” Gallagher didn’t think she was. She must be retired. But with this old gal, you couldn’t be too sure.

“My next change, Inspector, will probably be to Holy Cross Cemetery,” Mary Helen said, leaving the office.

When Mary Helen finally stepped out of the main college building, the morning fog had lifted and lay waiting in a thick roll over the Pacific. She breathed deeply, trying to relieve the tension that had stiffened her neck and shoulder blades. The campus and the city below sparkled in the crisp, autumn sun. San Francisco was enjoying a glorious Indian Summer day. It seemed so incongruous. Last night a man had been bludgeoned to death on this hill. Yet, this morning, except for the policemen and police cars and a tension in the air, the world went on with “business as usual.”

“Hello, old dear. I was just going to look for you,” Sister Eileen called from behind her. Eileen was the only person Mary Helen knew who could make “old dear” sound like a compliment. Perhaps it was the lilt in the brogue.

Mary Helen turned toward her friend. Dark, blue-black circles ringed Eileen’s deep-set, gray eyes.

“Didn’t sleep much?” Mary Helen asked.

“You don’t mean to tell me you did.” Eileen shivered. “That poor, poor man.” Eileen controlled the tremor that had crept into her voice. “Shall we take a quick walk before lunch? Perhaps down to Geary Street and back?” she asked. “The exercise will probably do us both some good.”

Walking, Mary Helen knew, was one of Eileen’s panaceas.

“Sure,” she said.

Silently, the two turned the corner of Turk and headed down the Parker Street hill toward Geary. Before them, Tiburon-or was it Belvedere? Mary Helen could never remember-dominated the Bay. Dozens of white sails bobbed and dipped around the massive island.

“I should have realized something had happened the moment we saw that falling star,” Eileen said as they walked.

“Falling star in the sky, sign someone will die,” Mary Helen repeated to herself. Sure enough! She marveled that Eileen remembered all those superstitions. She never was too sure, however, whether or not Eileen believed them.

“It gives me the shivers, Mary Helen. To think that someone can come right off the street into our college and kill.”

“What makes you think it was someone off the street?”

“Because the only people on campus last night were Leonel and Tony, who live here-and we weren’t even positive they were here-Luis and Marina, whom we saw, and the nuns, and I don’t see any of them as a murderer.”

“How do you know they were the only ones on the campus? Remember, I told you I thought I saw a shadow move in the upper hall.”

Eileen trembled. “That’s worse yet. That shadow you saw could have been the killer, and you were right there! It proves my theory, however. It was probably some crazed fellow right off the street.”

They walked a few yards in silence. “What do you think?” Eileen asked.

Mary Helen shrugged her shoulders. No sense upsetting Eileen with what she thought. “You’re probably right,” she said. Abruptly, she changed the subject. “Look, Eileen.” She pointed to the Golden Gate. “Isn’t it glorious on a clear day?”

Eileen smiled. “You simply cannot be somebody’s pinochle partner, old dear, without knowing when they’re bluffing. I asked, what do you think?”

Mary Helen hesitated. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear this,” she said, “but people don’t just wander in from the street and up to the second floor of a building to kill a perfect stranger. I think whoever killed the man is someone he knew. Someone had a reason. Possibly, someone we all know.” She stopped, astounded. She sounded, for all the world, like something right out of Nero Wolfe.

“Deep down, I’m afraid you’re correct,” Sister Eileen said finally. “But I can hardly bear the thought of someone we know being a murderer.”

“Eileen,” Mary Helen said bluntly, “every murderer is someone somebody knows.”

The afternoon fog rolled in early. Like soft, white fingers, it grabbed Twin Peaks and quietly squeezed out the sun.

Mary Helen was restless. At the nuns’ lunch table, Cecilia had presided, tight-lipped and composed. Her face was the color of her close-cropped, gray hair. Murder had been the main topic of conversation. It wasn’t surprising.

“Practically under our very noses,” Therese had commented before launching into an impassioned speech on the merits of double-locking doors.

Somehow, Mary Helen felt responsible, as though she should be doing something about the professor’s death. “Nonsense, old dear,” Eileen had said when she mentioned it. “All you did was call the police to report the poor man’s death. It’s up to the police to uncover the killer. Surely, they would prefer to do that without your help.”

Mary Helen knew she was right, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling of responsibility. She grabbed the paperback from the nightstand. Why not spend the afternoon on that lovely little bench reading? The minute she opened the front door of the Sisters’ Residence, however, she could taste the fog. Much too cold for bench-sitting, Mary Helen decided.

For a moment, she was at sixes and sevens. Then she spotted a light in the window of the library. It was perfect library weather. She’d drop in on Eileen, check out the stacks, especially the mystery section. Perhaps she’d even do a little groundwork on her research project. That would make her feel better. Almost as if she were honoring the dead.

Cautiously, almost reverently, Sister Mary Helen opened the beveled glass door of the Hanna Memorial Library. Edward Hanna had been the Archbishop of San Francisco when the college was founded. Looking around, Mary Helen felt sure nothing had been changed since.

Bulletlike lights, elaborately decorated with brass, hung from the high-arched ceiling. Dark, walnut shelves, filled with rare books, lined the walls. Brass reading lamps sat on long narrow tables. Black leather-backed chairs were fastened with brass studs. The young women studying in designer jeans and T-shirts looked like anachronisms.