Sister O'Marie - A Novena for Murder

“It’s such a small thing…” Marina’s voice jerked her back.

“I hope you can find it in this mess,” Mary Helen said sympathetically. “May I help?”

Before Marina could answer, Leonel emerged from the professor’s inner office. His tall, muscular body blocked the entire doorway. “Hi, Sister,” he said, his face twitching with a nervous grin.

“Hello, Leonel.” Mary Helen tried to conceal her surprise at seeing him. “Helping Marina?” she asked.

“Yeah, Sister. She needs-a help.” Quietly, Marina crossed the room and slipped her thin hand into his.

Feeling a little like the proverbial third wheel, Mary Helen looked beyond the couple into the professor’s office. A chalk outline of the man’s body had been drawn on the rust-colored carpet. She saw the circle of blood, blackened and crusty now, fanning out from behind the spot where she had seen the bronze statue. She steadied herself against Marina’s desk. Just like all those detective programs on television, she told herself, trying to calm her stomach. This time it was real, however.

“Sit down, Sister, you no look so good.” Dropping Marina’s hand, Leonel grabbed Mary Helen under the elbows and led her to the bench.

“Poor devil.” Mary Helen shook her head.

Leonel sat down beside her. “Poor? No. Diabo ? Ah, yes!” Clenching his teeth, he spat out the words. His sudden vehemence startled Mary Helen. “God let us be rid of the filthy animal.” He banged the bench. “And do you know what else this God did? He let the animal be killed by Dom Sebastiao.” Leonel laughed. To Mary Helen, the laugh had an almost hysterical pitch.

“By whom?” she asked, hoping her voice sounded normal.

“Dom Sebastiao. The statue.” He pointed to the thick X on the floor. “Now that is a good joke, huh? The savior of the Portuguese. Just like the professor. A savior of his people. That is what you all think, yeah? Savior? But you ask Marina.” He pointed toward the corner.

Mary Helen had almost forgotten about Marina. Turning, she faced the young woman. Marina, her face a white mask, crouched between the filing cabinet and the wall. She said nothing. Her eyes, wide with terror, pleaded with Leonel to stop. Mary Helen could almost smell her fear. Not so much of what Leonel would do, but of what he might say. What in the world was she so afraid of? What was going on?

“Jesus!” Leonel cursed softly. “Look at what time it is. I got to go to the kitchen.” Picking up his kitchen apron, he threw the bib over his head and tied the strings.

With an infectious grin, he gallantly extended his arm toward the nun. “Sister.” He bowed deeply. “May I show you to your coffee break?”

“But Marina’s contact lens. Shouldn’t I stay and help her look?”

“No, Sister,” he said, “she will look. I will come back later to help her.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure.”

Reluctantly, Mary Helen slid her arm through his. As they moved toward the threshold of room 203, she had the unmistakable feeling that she had stumbled into the middle of something, but hadn’t the foggiest idea what it could be. At a time like this, however, both she and Shakespeare had to agree that discretion was definitely the better part of valor. Silently, she left Leonel lead her from the professor’s office.

As he closed the door behind them, Mary Helen caught one last glimpse of Marina. The young woman moved slowly out of the corner. Wearily, she slumped into the high-backed chair behind the paper-spattered desk. Hunching forward, she covered her drawn face with her hands. Mary Helen could not remember the last time she had seen such a look of agony on anyone’s face.

Chatting amiably, as if the whole scene in the professor’s office had been part of a dream, Leonel escorted the old nun down the stairs and through the dim foyer.

The two stopped momentarily at the bottom of the front steps. Several students, heads down, coats clutched tightly, hurried past into the shelter of the warm building. Leonel took a long, deep breath of fog. Tiny droplets of moisture formed on the ends of his tight curls.

“Fog, like home,” he said.

“You lived by the ocean?” Mary Helen stuffed her freezing hands into her jacket sleeves.

“Yeah, my home was near Azurara, a small fishing village in the north.” Smiling down at her, Leonel put his hand under her elbow. Gently, he steered her along the edge of the main college building onto the access road leading to the kitchen service entrance.

“Many came to this country from around my village.”

“Oh?” She studied the rugged face.

“Yeah, Sister. Many. Marina, Joanna. Tony and Luis. Carlo and his brother Jose. The two Manuels.” He counted them off on his broad blunt fingers.

“Did you know Marina at home? Or have you just become… er”-Mary Helen stumbled for the right word-“friendly since you arrived here?” She hoped she didn’t sound too snoopy.

“It is a small village I come from. I know them all since we are children. I know Marina. She and Joanna. Not here, but in our village they are rich. I am not. They are educated. I am not. I could not marry her there. Here, I can. This is the land of-how you say?-opportunity.” Leonel beamed.

Mary Helen beamed back. She knew she was a hopeless romantic, but she loved the Cinderella story, even backwards.

A sudden gust of wind pushed against Mary Helen and twisted her skirt. At times like this I miss my long habit, she thought, goose bumps running up her legs. She was glad when they finally reached the door of the warm kitchen. Leonel held it open for her. Inside, the kitchen crew banged heavy pots against the stainless steel tables. Sister Therese’s high-pitched monologue dominated the din.

“I heard that Professor Villanueva helped them all to come to America,” Mary Helen said, hoping that Leonel would fill her in on some more of the background.

“Yeah, he help us!” Leonel’s eyes narrowed, and he spat viciously into the hard ground beside the kitchen stoop. “For a price, Sister. For a price.”

“A price? Money?”

“Money, yeah. And maybe more.”

“What do you mean ‘maybe more’?”

“I’m not sure. But now four are gone.”

“Gone? I don’t understand.”

“Poof!” He snapped his fingers, then turned the palm of his hand up, empty. “Gone. Without even ‘Adeus’ ! When I ask the professor, he says they went to L.A. to look for work. But why don’t we hear from them? And now, Joanna. Poor Joanna.”

“Perhaps she’s just visiting someone,” Mary Helen offered.

“We tried every place. No, she is gone, too.” He shook his head, a grim note in his voice. “Poor, nosy Joanna.”

Mary Helen was just about to ask “Why nosy?” when a Plymouth rounded the corner of the service road and screeched to a stop.

Headlights cut through the dense fog. The harsh squawk of the police radio drowned out the kitchen noises. Mary Helen and Leonel watched, dumbfounded, as both car doors swung open.

Inspector Gallagher grunted from behind the wheel. Kate Murphy jumped from the passenger side and walked toward them.

Protectively, Mary Helen stepped in front of Leonel. “What is it?” she asked, hardly recognizing Kate as the same smiling young woman from the night before. Everything about her now said “business.”

“Well, Sister,” Kate began in her official police voice, “I’m afraid we are going to have to ask Mr. da Silva to come downtown with us to answer a few questions.”

Kate looked over the nun’s head at Leonel. Fear had drained all the color from his face. He was as gray as the blistery fog.

“I’m afraid, sir, you’ll have to come with us,” Kate repeated. With the precision of a fine acrobatic team, the two inspectors whipped into action.