The Missing Madonna (9 page)

The moment she got back to the convent, Mary Helen called the alumnae office. “I’ll be in a little later this morning,” she told Lynda, her new secretary.

“I hope you aren’t ill, Sister.”

“No, not at all.” Mary Helen was touched by the young woman’s concern. “I have an important meeting, that’s all. But I am expecting a call,” she added, “from one of the OWLs, probably Mrs. Coughlin. Please just take the message.”
Carefully
, she wanted to add, but didn’t She knew Lynda was always careful.

The old nun put on her wool coat and pulled a knitted scarf from her bottom drawer. It seemed silly to dress so warmly during the second week of May, but the moment she stepped outside she was glad she had.

A strong gust of wind blew her coat open and twisted the ends of her scarf. Quickly, she began to walk down the hill toward the college entrance.

I wonder what Lynda would think if she knew whom I was meeting, Mary Helen mused, turning her face to avoid the small specks of dust that whirled up from the road.

Head down, she turned left on Parker Avenue. All along the street the west wind howled and bent the young, spindly eucalyptus trees planted near the curb.
Even the older, sturdier evergreens bordering the University of San Francisco’s ball field swayed with its force.

Fortunately, the wind was also pushing the heavy clouds aside. Vivid patches of blue began to peek among the gray.

Mary Helen squinted. Up ahead on the corner, directly across the street from the massive St. Ignatius Church, was her destination, the adobe-pink Carmelite monastery.

Eyes watering, Sister Mary Helen ducked into the side entrance of the imposing building. Pulling against the wind’s force, she opened the chapel door and stepped quickly into the silence. The heavy wooden door closed, leaving her in semidarkness.

Genuflecting, she slipped into a back pew and closed her eyes. The delicate aroma of incense hung on the air. From somewhere behind the grille to the right of the main altar, she heard the soft, nearly imperceptible, chanting of the cloistered nuns at Divine Office. The peace and otherworldliness of the place was almost palpable.

This was where she was having her meeting—the one she’d mentioned to Lynda. Her meeting was with God. It was one of her secrets. One she had never told anybody, not even Eileen. But for some time now, whenever Mary Helen wanted a serious meeting with God, she’d been coming here. She knew from years of experience that God heard and listened to her anytime and anywhere, but, of late, the Carmelite monastery had become like sacred ground.

The reason might seem foolish to some people, but it made perfect sense to Mary Helen. It had all happened at breakfast one morning. Father Adams, the Jesuit from St. Ignatius who frequently said the early-morning Mass for the Sisters, had stayed for coffee. Someone had asked him if he knew how the poor cloistered Carmelites across the street from the church had managed to
build a monastery that was two stories high and nearly half a city block long.

Laughing, Father Adams related the story. An old, shabbily dressed woman who attended St. Ignatius regularly had stopped one of the Jesuit fathers after Mass. She had a little money, she told him, and when she died she wanted to leave it to charity. To whom did he think she should will it?

The priest thought for a moment He also said Mass for the nuns across the street He knew the group had come from Spain and were dirt-poor. Their monastery was a shambles. He had heard them praying each day that God would send them a benefactor. The priest figured the woman couldn’t have much, but he knew the nuns would be grateful for whatever she left them, no matter how small the amount.

“Why don’t you leave it to the Carmelites?” He pointed to the rundown monastery on the corner.

“Will they pray for me when I die?” she asked.

“Praying’s their business,” the priest answered with a wink.

When the old woman died, she left the Carmelite nuns more than a million dollars.

Since the morning she’d heard that story, whenever she needed serious help Mary Helen had walked down from the college, slipped into the back pew, and offered her intentions with theirs. Praying, after all, was their business, and from the appearance of the monastery, God was into answering them.

Before she left the darkened chapel, Mary Helen looked for the icon of Our Lady of Perpetual Help. Unable to find one, she lit a votive candle before an ornate statue of the Blessed Virgin. Any port in a storm, she thought, letting herself out onto the windswept street.

*  *  *

As Mary Helen neared the back door of the convent, a red Ferrari rounded the corner and came to a quick stop beside her. She recognized Allan Boscacci.

Rolling down the window, he waved. “Hi, Sister.” A shy smile lit up his handsome face. “It’s all fixed.”

All fixed? Mary Helen thought for a minute. What? Of course, the broken refrigerator. “What was it?” she asked.

“The screwdriver. Iceboxes work better,” he said with a wink, “when they are set flat on the ground.”

“Thanks, Allan.” Mary Helen waved as the sports car rounded the bend. Iceboxes and humans, she thought.

The convent’s back door slammed. Amused, Mary Helen watched an irate Sister Therese, waving both hands and a screwdriver, talking nonstop to Luis. Hands in pockets, the handyman simply shrugged and shook his head.

If the poor devil had been smart, Mary Helen thought, deciding to skirt the scene and go directly to her office, he would never have let on that he understood English.

“Here’s your message, Sister.” Lynda rose and handed her a slip of blue paper. “But it’s not from Mrs. Coughlin.”

Opening the note, Mary Helen read, “Noelle Thompson called. Meeting at Erma’s apartment with her daughter. Ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Expecting you and Sister Eileen.”

Not an extra word—so like Noelle. Mary Helen grinned. Clear, efficient, organized. Coincidentally, in keeping with the woman’s penchant for blue, Lynda had written the message on blue paper. Noelle had definitely taken charge and, with her running the inquiry, if there was any information to be had, she would certainly unearth it.

Folding the note, she shoved it into the pocket of her
coat, went to her inner office, and called Homicide. It was time to bring Kate Murphy up-to-date.

*  *  *

Inspector Dennis Gallagher answered the phone on the first ring. Kate noticed her partner’s face start to turn red, forehead first, then his cheeks, finally, his neck. He loosened his already loose tie.

“What is it?” she mouthed. Poor Gallagher looked almost as though he were in pain. Forestalling her with a raised index finger, he listened intently.

“Yes, ’Ster,” he said finally. “Yes, ’Ster. Right here. Hold on.”

Pushing the Hold button on the phone, he held out the receiver to Kate. “Jeez, Katie-girl!” He ran his hand across his bald pate. “It’s that nun again. Something about a missing owl. I can’t make head or tail out of the damn thing. But I warn you, steer clear.”

Laughing, Kate removed her right earring and took the phone. “Hi, Sister,” she began cheerfully. “So, no word from your friend yet?”

Quickly, Mary Helen brought her up-to-date.

“When are you meeting the daughter?” Kate frowned slightly.

“Tomorrow at ten-thirty.”

“Well, that will probably solve the whole thing.” Kate tried to sound optimistic. “She’ll give you a relative’s name; you’ll contact your friend; and everyone will sleep easier.”

“I hope you’re right.” Mary Helen didn’t sound as convinced as Kate had hoped she would.

“You keep me posted, Sister,” Kate said. “And promise me you won’t try to do anything on your own.”

“What the hell was that all about?” Gallagher asked the moment she hung up. He watched her put her earring back on. “And why don’t you get one of them holes in your ears like my kids did?”

“Ugh!” Kate pushed her swivel chair back from her
desk. “Sister Mary Helen belongs to a politically active group of older women called OWL—” she began.

“Murder wasn’t bad enough,” her partner interrupted. “Now the nun is into politics. What the hell is wrong with the Pope? Why can’t he keep the nuns in the convents where they belong?”

Kate ignored him. “A woman friend of hers hasn’t been heard from since the group returned from their convention in New York.”

“How long ago?” Gallagher leaned forward.

“A week tomorrow.”

“Did they ask relatives, friends, the usual?”

“They’re still checking things out But you know, Denny, I’m beginning to worry.”

“Missing Persons is not our department. We got enough homicidal maniacs running around the City to worry about without getting into somebody else’s detail” He riffled through the stack of papers on his desk. “See this?” He did it again, and a little cloud of cigar ash from the filled-to-capacity ashtray on his desk scattered across Kate’s blotter.

Gallagher blew it onto the floor. “Tell the Sister to call the nearest station. If the guy who gets the call figures something’s fishy, he’ll contact Missing Persons.”

“How can you be so callous, Denny, after all that woman has done for us? Now, really, where would we have been if she hadn’t helped us out in both the homicide cases on Holy Hill?”

Gallagher raised his hand. “Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate what she did. She was a big help. My point is, this time why can’t you let her help out a couple of other guys?”

Kate went to the coffee maker and brought back two steaming mugs of black coffee. “Jack has a plan.” She set one cup in front of her partner, watching him blow on it, and hoped the coffee wouldn’t end up in the same place the cigar ashes had.

Gallagher looked over the rim, sipping noisily. “What’s the plan?”

“He wants me to turn her over to Honore. You know Ron Honore, in Missing Persons?”

“Know him! Sure I know him. What is it they call him?”

“It depends on who the
they
is,” Kate answered, knowing full well he was referring to Honore’s reputation as a ladies’ man.

“Something like Don Juan or Ron Juan.” He scratched his bald pate. “Whatever! Those two nuns will slow him down. And if you ask me, it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.” Gallagher fumbled around in his jacket pocket, searching for his half-smoked cigar. “What’s more, the sooner you do it the better.

“By the way, Katie-girl.” He shoved a page of the morning
Chronicle
toward her. “What do you think of this?”

Kate glanced at the paper. It was a full-page ad from Emporium-Capwell’s Department Store. “To Mom with Love” was written above a page displaying jewelry, bathrobes, and food processors.

Mother’s Day! Oh, my God! Kate had forgotten this coming Sunday was Mother’s Day. She hadn’t even thought of a present for Jack’s mother. And she’d bet even money that Jack hadn’t thought of one either.

“What do you think Mrs. G. would like?” Gallagher hitched his trousers up over his paunch. “She’s not my mother, I keep telling her, but the one year I forgot, there was hell to pay for the whole week after.”

Kate smiled, trying to picture the sweet, accommodating Mrs. G. in a full-blown snit. It didn’t even seem possible. She wondered for a moment if Jack would ever forget her on Mother’s Day—or whether or not he’d even have the opportunity.

She could feel a familiar lump forming in her throat This is ridiculous, she told herself. Jack is absolutely
right. If it is bothering me this much, I should get it checked out. Find out once and for all if I am going to be—how does the Bible put it?—a “barren wife.”

“How about this locket?” Gallagher pointed at the Emporium-Capwell ad. “Or maybe this Cuisinart, huh, Kate? Whatever the hell that is.”

Picking up the paper from the desk, Kate hoped Gallagher wouldn’t notice her eyes starting to fill as she scanned the page. At the moment nothing seemed appealing for either Mrs. G. or for her mother-in-law.

Kate glanced at her watch, wondering where Jack might be. It was getting close to lunchtime. She’d give him a call and remind him to pick up a present for his mother. Maybe he could do it on his lunch hour. And she’d tell him about Sister Mary Helen and ask him to contact Ron Honore. That would kill two birds with one stone. As soon as she thought it, Kate wished the word
killed
hadn’t popped into her mind.

When Sisters Mary Helen and Eileen arrived at Erma’s apartment, the front door was slightly ajar. Quietly they went up the narrow staircase. Caroline and Lucy were already in the living room standing silently beside a couple of armchairs. Finn, this time fully dressed with his long strand of hair plastered neatly in place, stared sullenly out the window.

An unnatural silence filled the whole place. Actually, the scene looked, to Mary Helen’s way of thinking, like a wake without a corpse, or refreshments either, for that matter.

“You beat us here.” Eileen’s cheerful greeting seemed to jar the group into action.

Smiling, Lucy walked toward the Sisters. “That’s the trouble with being punctual,” she said, attempting to be light. “Nobody’s ever there to appreciate it.”