Death Goes on Retreat (27 page)

“So, Sister, you aren’t perfectly content to be sequestered in this idyllic spot where you can contemplate God in nature and in your fellowman?” He drained his glass.

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Father,” she said stiffly, and watched him struggle before the arrogance slowly faded from the handsome face.

“You’re right,” he said softly. “Some would say it’s the booze talking, but anyone who really knows will tell you it’s me talking, uninhibited by this.” He rattled the ice cubes in his glass, then rose and refilled it.

“What was your question? Who had a reason to kill Greg Johnson?” He gave Mary Helen that crooked smile, then blew back a curly lock that had fallen across his forehead. “And, of course, you don’t mean ‘who,’ you mean ‘did you’ kill him? Right?”

“Not entirely.” Mary Helen wanted her options kept open.

With a grunt Tom positioned himself back in the easy chair and stared pensively out the small bedroom window. Just beyond it a clump of periwinkle shimmered in the sun. The heat in the room was stifling.

“I can’t speak for the others, naturally,” Tom said, taking a long swallow from his glass, “but as for me, I had no reason to kill the kid. Not that I knew him all that well. He only worked for me for a couple of weeks. The archbishop thought communications might be his bag. He communicated all right! With everything in a skirt. It
got so that none of the secretaries felt comfortable around him.

“I took him out for a drink a couple of times after work and tried to tell him, man to man, to knock it off.” Harrington’s face flushed. “You know what that little twit—who, by the way, could match me drink for drink—had the nerve to tell me?” He stared, enraged by the very remembrance. “That I was nothing but an aging souse. He threatened to write a letter to the
San Francisco Catholic
denouncing me as nothing but a glibtongued alcoholic. Wouldn’t Absolute Norm love that? And I think he would have done it, too, except that one of the secretaries threatened a sexual harassment suit.

“So I canned the kid. He wasn’t pleased, naturally. Nor was the archbishop. Not to mention Ed Moreno when Greg landed at Juvie. Actually, the only ones thrilled were the women in my department, and me, of course. It was a little chilly down at the Chancery Office for a while, but we all survived. No, I can’t think of any reason I’d have for killing him, now.”

“Because he threatened you?” Even as she said it, Mary Helen knew she was reaching, and she wasn’t surprised when Tom Harrington objected.

“That’s a little far-fetched, even for you, Sister,” he said, haughtiness creeping back into his voice. “He never actually carried out his threat.”

“Well, it’s impossible to predict what anyone will do under stress.” She was determined that he was not going to have the last word.

Tom Harrington stared sullenly into his glass. “Under stress! Under stress!” he repeated, almost as if he were mocking her. “Some guys thrive on it, you know, Sister.
Some of the guys grapple with stress and become saints. Some guys, too many guys, crack under stress. Some fool around with their secretaries, some with the altar boys. I know that it’s no excuse, but at least it’s a reason. And some, like me, go for the sauce.” He raised his eyes, trying hard to focus. “I started out drinking socially. In my line of work, I’m invited to so many parties. When I got home, I’d be wound up and I’d take a little nip to put me to sleep. Now, I’m afraid, it’s starting to take me over. Do you have any idea how often I wake up in the morning with the ‘Irish flu’?”

Mary Helen didn’t nor did she really want to. She had discovered what she came for. Tom Harrington might be arrogant and an alcoholic, but in all probability he was not a murderer.

“Another fallen idol,” Eileen mumbled as they crossed the sweltering parking lot.

“Weren’t you the one who was reminding us, not an hour ago, that people are most often not what they seem?”

Eileen sighed. “You’re right. But this one looks so charming and handsome on the television! And that crooked grin is so beguiling.”

“I’m sure Tom does a lot of good with his particular brand of charm,” Mary Helen said, trying to cheer up her friend. “And remember we’re talking about God here who can write straight with the crookedest lines.” She shrugged and added logically, “God has to if He wants His message out. All He has to write with is a lot
of us sinners. Nobody knows better than you and me that we are only earthen vessels.”

Eileen’s gray eyes looked sad. “You’re right, old dear,” she said, her brogue thickening a bit, “but somehow I didn’t expect this particular pot to have so many large, ugly cracks.”

On the pretext of taking an afternoon coffee break, the two nuns entered St. Jude’s dining room. Their real objective was a chat with Beverly. From the absolute silence in the kitchen, they surmised that Beverly had left. When Felicita, scapular askew, burst through the kitchen door, they knew for sure.

“She’s left without preparing one single thing!” Felicita’s round apple face blazed and she looked near tears. “I have eight people to feed—and more if the policemen stay, and then the bug man is coming tomorrow. I need to get things ready for him. Someone has to see to Laura, bring her a tray, and that blasted phone is ringing off the hook.

“If it isn’t Mother Superior, it’s someone wanting to make a retreat here. We’ve never had so many requests as since this murder hit the morning papers.” She shuddered. “It’s positively ghoulish!”

“It made the morning papers?” Mary Helen asked, wondering how long before Sister Cecilia called.

Apparently Eileen was having the same thought. “Let’s be unavailable,” she whispered.

Felicita rushed on. “That’s the least of my troubles
right now,” she said, her pale blue eyes sparking. “What will I serve for dinner?”

“Let us give you a hand,” Mary Helen offered, knowing Eileen was a whiz with leftovers. Besides, thinking about something completely different cleared the mind. When her mind was clear, the answer that she was groping for sometimes just popped right up.

Felicita stared at her as if she’d just suggested that the tooth fairy cook supper. In the end and without much coaxing she capitulated gratefully.

Before long the refrigerator door was opening and slamming. Plastic containers were emptied and the most delicious aromas floated up from the enormous gas stove and filled the entire kitchen.

Sergeant Bob Little spent the better part of the afternoon walking the extensive grounds of St. Colette’s on the pretense of checking evidence. What he was really doing was mulling over his decision. He’d stopped now and again at small, hidden grottos to pray to whatever saint— and to be honest he wasn’t sure—for some guidance.

Yet all the while he knew exactly what he must do. He had known since the moment he realized where he’d seen Beverly. He knew it from the smirk on Eric Loody’s pugnacious face.

Fighting down his repugnance, Little decided to act. What else could he do? And the sooner the better! He checked his watch. It was nearly quitting time. If he played his cards right, he’d arrest the suspect and beat it off this hill without running into anyone else. He
wouldn’t have to look anyone in the eye, or justify his decision.

Not that it was anyone’s business. This was a police matter. Still, he hoped like hell to avoid everybody, particularly the nuns. There was something about them that made him feel like a kid again.

Little drew in a long, deep breath and pulled himself up to his full height. He was a grown man, for chrissake! A homicide detective, not some scared kid.

Despite his protestations, he felt the flesh beneath his mustache tingle at the thought of telling the nuns his decision. He tried to ignore it. What could possibly happen? Would some sudden thunderbolt strike him? He glanced up. The sky was absolutely cloudless. The feeling was nothing more than a hangover from Sister Immaculata, who, he’d sworn as a kid, had absolute control over all the elements.

Little sat on the end of a fallen log. Even under a roof of redwoods, the afternoon heat was stifling. He mopped his forehead and was surprised at all the dirt that came off on his white handkerchief. He must have kicked up the dust as he walked along. No matter how I cut it, he thought, staring at the dark smudge on his handkerchief, I have to make the arrest.

The evidence, he knew, was largely circumstantial, but that was the district attorney’s problem. The suspect had motive. She had opportunity and she had means. And since recognizing Beverly, Little had the incentive to make them stick.

He pushed himself off the log, brushing the specks of dirt and moss from his hands. “What you are going to do, do quickly!” Where had that come from? Sister Immaculata’s
religion class. He stopped, stunned, realizing those were the words of Jesus to the traitor Judas. Maybe the nun’s thunderbolts were becoming more subtle.

Once again, standing in the scorching parking lot, Bob Little hesitated, but not for long. He needed to wrap up this case, get back to headquarters, finish the paperwork, and go home to Terry.

Tonight he could really use a drink and maybe a rubdown. He smiled and felt a ripple of delight at the prospect of talking Terry into giving him a complete full-body massage. But before he’d allow himself even to imagine the pleasure, he’d have to make the arrest. What he needed was moral support. Where the hell was Kemp?

Dave Kemp’s legs jutted from the open door of the unmarked car. He was talking on the radio. Little reached him just as he signed off.

“What’s up?” Little asked, hoping that someone had stumbled on a solution to his dilemma.

Kemp stood up and slammed the car door. The bang reverberated over the silent hillside. “The boss sent a message. He wants to know if we’re about finished up here. Seems some big noise from San Francisco called and wants the group released. To hear him, you’d think we were holding them in solitary confinement.” Kemp’s cobalt eyes had a hurt expression. “One of these bozos must have called out to somebody with connections.”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff,” Little said, realizing that he was trying to sound nonchalant. Another of Sister Immaculata’s
Word Smart Vocabulary
words. Why was she torturing him this afternoon?

“And another thing, Bob. Inspector Kate Murphy from SFPD left you a message.”

Little’s heart leapt. Had she found something?

“Murphy says Johnson’s mother is fine. She knows nothing about any phone call. Another blind alley?” Kemp asked.

“Quite the contrary.” Little put his hand on Kemp’s shoulder. He hoped his partner wouldn’t feel it shaking. At least Kate Murphy’s information wouldn’t hinder his plan. “I’m about ready to make an arrest,” he said.

Kemp frowned. “What?”

“An arrest.”

“Who?” The word came out like a jab.

Little cleared his throat and said with as much conviction as he could muster, “I’m going to arrest Laura Purcell.”

The expression on Kemp’s face told him that his partner did not concur. How much convincing was this going to take? Jeez, he wanted to get it over and done and get home. Maybe at this moment, a thunderbolt wouldn’t be too bad.

As if on cue, Sister Felicita emerged from the kitchen door carrying a covered tray. Her flushed face glowed in the late afternoon sun. Through the open doorway, Little noticed some activity: Sister Eileen at the enormous stove. And was that Sister Mary Helen pushing the stainless-steel cart? He didn’t know why it surprised him. It shouldn’t have. Obviously Beverly was gone. He should have known it would be the nuns who pitched in and got the job done. He figured it had been that way from time immemorial.