The Missing Madonna (26 page)

When Sister Mary Helen awoke on Monday morning the entire college was shrouded in rolling fog. Small halos shone around the campus lights. Bundling up in her heavy sweater, she trudged up the hill toward the chapel for the six-thirty Mass. Wisps of fog clung to the lowest branches of the evergreens. Shivering in the dampness, she kicked at a stone in her path.

“Eighty percent of all people hate Monday morning,” she muttered aloud, then smiled in spite of herself.

It had been years since she had thought of that little-known statistic. As a matter of fact, it had been the conclusion one of her eighth-grade students had arrived at in his rather novel science project more than twenty-five years ago. She couldn’t remember what method the youngster had used to make this judgment or how many people he had surveyed. She wasn’t even sure it was true. But the longer she lived, the more inclined she was to attest to its validity.

As soon as she had finished breakfast, Sister Mary Helen left the dining room. Outside, the wet fog made her face tingle and her nose and eyes run. The sides of the hill were so socked in that, if she hadn’t known better, she might have thought the City had completely disappeared. Like Erma.

Erma’s uncharacteristic disappearance, followed by
her equally uncharacteristic phone call, the apartment, the basement of the bistro, her children—all crowded Mary Helen’s mind. Nothing jibed, and everything reminded her of the missing woman.

Her common sense told her Erma was fine and, although she wanted to help, apparently Erma was dealing with her problems the way she thought best. Not necessarily the way Mary Helen would deal with them. Why even fifty years ago, she remembered with a smile, the two had differed on something as insignificant as how to approach their history project. Ostensibly the current situation was resolved. She would go right over to the convent and call Inspector Honore. But why did she continue to feel so uneasy?

Sister Mary Helen was the first one to reach the convent after breakfast, so the building was deserted. A foghorn bleated in the distance. She used her key to open the heavy front door. She was determined to place her call to the inspector, go straight to her room, make her bed, and then hurry over to the alumnae office and make up for lost time. To put it bluntly, she would strictly adhere to minding her own business.

That would be the sensible thing to do. But as soon as she stepped inside she knew she wouldn’t do the sensible thing. An empty convent, of course, meant an empty phone booth. The temptation was too great. She would contact Inspector Honore, of course, and a phone call or two to the OWLs would certainly be in order and perhaps a short call to Ree. Just to see if they had heard anything more. If they hadn’t, nothing was lost. If they had, how much easier it would be to keep her mind on her own business.

Before any of the other nuns appeared, Mary Helen went into the narrow convent phone booth. The directory was open to B—Boris-Botvin—and Boscacci’s number was underlined.

Poor devil. Something else must be broken, she
thought, glancing at her watch. It was far too early to call Missing Persons. The OWLs, she knew, would be up. She dialed Caroline’s number, letting it ring fourteen times before she admitted to herself that Caroline wasn’t home.

Noelle answered on the second ring. No, she hadn’t heard anything new. Yes, she would let Mary Helen know the moment she did.

Lucy, too, was home and seemed genuinely glad to hear from Mary Helen. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation on Thursday,” she said, “about Ree’s illness. You remember I told you that Erma never said anything directly. Yet there were some things I couldn’t help surmising.”

“Oh?” Mary Helen could feel her heart quicken.

“You were right about Marie, I think. All weekend I’ve been mulling over the things Erma did tell me throughout the years. As I said, she never was specific, but I always had the impression that something had happened to Ree when she was a youngster. Something Erma was reticent to talk about, and that after it—whatever
it
was—the poor kid was never quite the same.” Lucy paused for breath.

“Do you know anything about Mr. Finn?” Maybe there was some truth in what Ree Duran was saying.

After what seemed like a long time, Lucy answered, “Nothing, really, except that he was a good friend of Erma’s husband, and ever since Tommy died he has been very good to her.”

“Good in what way?”

“Oh, he kept her working after she should have been retired; he continued to lease her the apartment at the same rent. It is almost . . .”

“Almost what?” Mary Helen asked as Lucy hesitated.

“Almost as if their relationship is . . .” She hesitated again. “Is more than just that of old family friends.”

Maybe it is, Mary Helen thought, feeling even more
uneasy. “Her children all seem to dislike him, you know. If he’s so good to their mother, I wonder why.”

“I’ve often wondered that myself,” Lucy said, then added cheerfully, “but none of us chooses her offspring!”

“Speaking of offspring, did you remember anything else?” Mary Helen was fishing. “You mentioned the other kids having problems.”

“Oh, the boys? I can’t remember exactly what Erma said, but I knew she was concerned about Junior’s drinking and Buddy’s smoking of funny cigarettes.” Mary Helen could hear the telephone lines clicking while Lucy thought.

“Or was it the other way around?” she said finally.

Although it didn’t make any sense, Mary Helen dialed Erma’s apartment. Suppose we are all worrying about her and she’s decided to come home, she thought, listening to the hollow ring. She nearly dropped the receiver when someone answered.

“Hello,” a groggy voice said. It took her a moment to realize it was Mr. Finn.

“Excuse me, I must have dialed incorrectly,” she said. “I was calling Erma’s apartment.”

“This is Erma’s apartment,” he slurred, without any explanation.

“Is she home?” Mary Helen’s heart raced expectantly.

“No.” There was a long pause. Even in his fuzzy state, Finn must have realized some explanation was due. “I miss her,” he said. “I was just here so I’d be near where she was.” The phone went dead.

From the hallway Mary Helen could hear the quick, unmistakable slap of Sister Therese pacing. She must be waiting to use the line. If Mary Helen dialed while she was at the end of the hallway, Therese would think it was still the same call. Quickly, she dialed Ree’s number, hoping she’d be talking by the time Therese paced
back by the door. Fortunately the woman answered right away.

Feeling as though she had pulled a coup, Mary Helen identified herself. Ree sniffled.

“How are you feeling?” Mary Helen asked, remembering Ree’s cold.

“Terrible!” She blew her nose. Right into the receiver, from the sound of it.

“You did hear the good news about your mother?” Mary Helen asked, determined to cheer up Erma’s daughter.

“What news?”

“That she called Mr. Finn.”

Marie coughed. “I heard it, but I don’t believe it.”

“Pardon me?” Mary Helen wondered if she’d heard correctly.

“I don’t believe it!” Ree shouted without, Mary Helen noticed, a sniffle or a cough. “I’ve been thinking about it since I heard. Mommy would have called me, not him. She would know how upset I am. Yesterday I called Auntie Barbara. She thinks so, too, and she’s worried. She says I should call that policeman and tell him.”

In her mind’s eye, Mary Helen could see Inspector Honore’s face when he received that call. Poor fellow! On the other hand, she didn’t blame Barbara Quinn for being worried. The whole episode was so unlike Erma. Furthermore, if two of them expressed their concern to the inspector, he might give it more credence.

Outside the phone booth, she could hear Therese’s pacing quicken, her circling narrow. Time was limited. Any moment, Therese would pop her head in the booth, smile stiffly, and ask, “How much longer will you be on the line?”

“Why would Mr. Finn lie to us about the call?” Mary Helen asked, hoping Ree wouldn’t have an answer that made any sense. She had called wanting her own uneasiness to be relieved, not heightened.

“I don’t know.” Ree blew her nose. “All I know is Mommy said to look at the picture of the Madonna.”

Replacing the receiver, Mary Helen sat staring at the phone. For a moment she wondered why she’d given in to the temptation to call. To make herself feel better, of course. But if anything, she felt worse. Wasn’t it Mark Twain who had said, “It is easier to stay out than to get out”?

How right you were, old boy, she thought, pushing open the phone-booth door.

“At last!” Sister Therese sniffed and swept past her to the phone. Watching her, Mary Helen smiled. She couldn’t help thinking of that old expression—how did it go?—“She jumped on it like a duck on a June bug.”

Well, if nothing else worthwhile had come of her phone-calling, she had at least given the Boscaccis a twenty-minute reprieve.

“So there you are!” Eileen greeted her in the convent hallway. “You disappeared in a bit of a hurry.”

From the inflection in Eileen’s voice, it could be hard for strangers to tell if that was a statement or a question. Knowing Eileen, however, she knew exactly which it was.

“I wanted to make some phone calls.” Mary Helen shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose and stared for effect. “Private phone calls.”

Opening her gray eyes wide, Eileen stared back. “I can’t get good old Erma Duran off my mind either.”

Mary Helen winced. When would she ever learn? Trying to fool Eileen was hopeless. Trying to intimidate her was hopeless squared.

“Did you find out anything new?” she asked.

“A few things,” Mary Helen admitted. “For instance, Lucy Lyons led me to believe there could be some truth in what Ree told us last week. Mr. Finn was in Erma’s apartment, either asleep or in his cups, or both. And
Marie Duran—Ree—thinks Finn is lying about her mother’s call.”

Eileen pursed her lips and frowned. “Oh, dear!” she said. Suddenly she brightened. “As they say back home, ‘bad news comes in threes.’ ” She counted on her chubby fingers: “Lucy, Finn, and Marie. The next news you hear will be good news!”

“I hope you’re right,” Mary Helen said. A cold draft whipped down the convent hallway. She shivered.

“Someone must be walking on your grave,” Eileen whispered.

Mary Helen scowled. “Someone simply opened the back door. Always-prepared Sister Therese, no doubt, is unlocking it for Allan Boscacci.”

“To each her own,” she said.

The groan of the foghorn echoed through the building, reminding both nuns that the shoreline had vanished beneath the dense blanket of gray. But Mary Helen assured herself that the shore was there under the shifting fog. Just as the answers to Erma’s sudden disappearance were there somewhere under the confusion that surrounded it.

Eileen might be wrong about her shivering, but she hoped her friend was right about the next bit of news being good. Mary Helen had several items on her list of things to do today, but they would just have to wait. Right then and there, she decided to spend the morning in the Hanna Memorial Library. She’d do some research on Erma’s Madonna. If the woman had said to look there for answers, perhaps someone should. But first she must phone Inspector Honore and tell him Erma was at least alive.

*  *  *

Hearing from Don Juan Ron the first thing on Monday morning did nothing to improve Kate Murphy’s disposition. “Hey, you don’t even have a case here!” She knew she sounded short-tempered, but it had been a
bad night. Besides, she was still annoyed with him from last Friday. “And, furthermore, why didn’t you tell me you had heard from the lady before I made a fool of myself—”

“Because I just found out this morning,” Honore interrupted, “when the Sister called me.” She heard him crack his gum. “But the whole thing just doesn’t set right.”

“Why are you calling me? If you don’t have a case, then surely we don’t.”

“Excuse me!” Honore’s mood didn’t sound too terrific either. “I just thought since these nuns are friends of yours . . .”

Kate didn’t like his tone. In fact, much as she hated to face it, this morning she didn’t like anything or anybody. “Listen, Ron,” she said as patiently as she could, “I just got here. I still have my coat on. Let me call you back in an hour or so.”

“Better yet, Kate”—she could tell that Honore, too, was trying to simmer down—“why don’t I get some deli sandwiches and pick you up around noon? We can have lunch out by the Marina. That way we can eat, talk, and envy the way the other half lives.”

Despite herself, Kate laughed. Honore pressed his advantage, “I’ll even spring for some potato chips, those natural ones,” he said, displaying some of the charm that had made him a legend.

“Make them the Hawaiian kind,” Kate said, “and you have a date.”

“Was that our favorite missing person again? Or did I mistake the vibes?” Gallagher asked when she hung up.

“Let me get a cuppa, Denny. Then we’ll talk.” Kate walked slowly to the coffee urn at the back of the detail. Relax, relax, she told herself. You can’t bring your personal life to the job. But it was pretty hard not to.

Last night she’d realized that the honeymoon was definitely over. After they had come home from the
Bay-to-Breakers Race, she and Jack had fought. He’d even raised his voice. Usually patient Jack had hollered at her! She could feel tears sting her eyes.

“You’re taking your goddamn frustration out on me,” he had yelled. “And what’s even worse, you’re making yourself miserable.”

She couldn’t even remember what had started the quarrel. Although if she were perfectly honest, she knew wanting to be pregnant was at the bottom of it. She also knew, even as she shouted back, that he was right. That didn’t make how she felt any easier. If anything, it made it worse. Even this morning there was still a coolness between them.

“Bad weekend?” Gallagher asked when she sat down.

Kate nodded, reluctant to talk about it. The last thing she wanted to do was cry. Careful not to burn her tongue, she took a tiny sip of coffee. She could feel her partner’s eyes riveted on her. Doubtless he was debating whether or not to let it lie. She braced herself, sure of what his decision would be.