Death Goes on Retreat (12 page)

She said that the job was “too pressured” and so she had moved from the city and found work at the retreat house as their cook.

She had never been married, had no immediate family, and didn’t know the victim, other than that he was Laura Purcell’s boyfriend.

Last night, she had stayed home alone watching reruns on television and had gone to sleep early because today the priests’ retreat started and she knew it would be a busy week.

She added, with the first bit of emotion Little had seen her show, that she had no good reason to kill Greg Johnson.

When he asked, “What about a not so good reason?” she had actually smiled. Maybe she even had a sense of humor.

Bob Little felt Mary Helen sag in his arms. “We’re almost there, Sister,” he said.

“If you ask me, she needs something stronger than coffee.” Beverly reappeared with a full snifter. Little caught the distinctive smell of brandy. With surprising gentleness, she held it up to the old nun’s lips. Eileen hovered nearby.

“Sister looks like she’s in good hands,” Little said. He was anxious to get up the hill to check out this latest development. Who the hell kills dogs? “If you think she needs a doctor, just let one of the deputies know.”

Mary Helen’s back stiffened. “A doctor is totally unnecessary.”
She sniffed. “There’s plenty of life left in the old girl yet.” The flint in her eyes left no doubt in his mind that what she said was true.

By the time Little arrived at the new crime scene, Kemp had summoned the forensic team. Carefully they studied the ground around the two animals, searching for anything that might be useful. Deputy Foster, looking as if he had been hit with the flu, stood to one side. “Looks like poison,” he managed.

Loody’s face twisted with disgust. He stared at the two German shepherds. “What kind of a son of a bitch poisons a dog?” he asked, kicking viciously at a rock. It ricocheted off a tree trunk with a
ping,
narrowly missing one of the forensic team.

The man stared up angrily. “Take a hike, will ya?”

Before Loody could answer, Little grabbed his arm. “I need you back at the parking lot,” he said with all the good humor he could dredge up. “With everyone else up in the hills, you never know what kind of nut will wander in.”

Loody hesitated, then, much to Little’s relief, he followed him down the hillside. Little felt he didn’t need any insurrection among the troops.

“What was going on in the kitchen?” Little made sure they were out of earshot before speaking.

Loody’s small eyes became even smaller. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Little shrugged. “When I was running toward the screaming, I saw you barrel out the kitchen door. I was just curious what you were doing there. Maybe you happen to know the cook from somewhere?”

“It was as hot as hell in that grove and I was sweating
like a pig. I needed a glass of water, that’s all,” Loody said, too quickly.

“Just wondering.” Obviously this was not the time or place to get the truth out of Eric Loody. He’d wait. “Make sure no one crosses the line, will you, Sergeant?” he said, pointing to the bright yellow cordon.

Loody scoffed. “Just let ’em try!”

Bob Little paused by the kitchen door. Sister Eileen gave him an “okay” signal. Confident that Mary Helen was in good care, he continued to the gift shop.

Back in the small, airless room, Little closed his eyes, deep-breathing as Terry had taught him, purposely trying to relax. I still have “miles to go before I sleep,” he thought, remembering Sister Immaculata’s penchant for making her students memorize poetry. He usually chose Frost. At least he understood the stuff.

After a few minutes, he ran his finger slowly down the list of names. Monsignor McHugh, Cornelius J. Might as well start with the top banana. Besides, he was the one who knew the victim’s mother. Marva. Little remembered the name because it was so odd. Like naming a baby “Wonder Woman.” If Terry and he ever had a child, he wondered what they’d name it. Something a lot more ordinary than Marva or Cornelius.

Thinking about a child was really far-fetched. Terry and he hadn’t even decided on a permanent commitment. They had their careers. Terry was on the way to
becoming a highly paid architect and he considered himself a successful cop.

True, they had lived together for a little over two years in a small gem of a Victorian built on a short street off East Cliff that dead-ended at the beach. The cottage belonged in Terry’s family and was once undoubtedly the only dwelling on the cliff.

The place reminded him of a gingerbread house, but Terry loved it. Probably had something to do with being an architect. When pushed he had to admit that its location was ideal. The soothing rhythm of the waves, the ever-changing sky, and the long stretch of beach provided a perfect place to forget crime. But—back to work . . .

“Monsignor Cornelius McHugh,” Little called from the doorway. “May I see you next, please?” He wondered absently if the other kids had called him “Corny.”

The monsignor, sitting stiffly in St. Colette’s lounge, rose from a Chinese-red couch. Slowly, almost painfully, he walked the length of the room and crossed the threshold into the stifling gift shop.

“It’s a sorry way to begin a retreat,” he said.

It’s a sorry way to begin anything, Little thought. A trickle of sweat slid down his back. Where the hell was Kemp? Somebody needed to take notes.

He didn’t have to wait long. Kemp, his face red from coming down the hill, threw open the door and pulled the notebook from his breast pocket. “Ready,” he said, clicking his ballpoint pen and waiting for Little to begin.

Two hours and four priests later, Detective Sergeant Little was happy to hear a knock on the door. The room felt like a sauna and his rear end ached from sitting on the small, hard chair. Kemp’s face had an unhealthy glow and not only was his bow tie off, but the first three buttons of his shirt were open. Before long he’d be stripped down to his T-shirt.

“Sorry to disturb you, Sergeant.” Sister Felicita peered at him through her rimless glasses. “There is a lady—Inspector Kate Murphy—on the telephone.”

Little had almost forgotten about Murphy. He checked his watch. Nearly quitting time for her. Maybe she’d gleaned something from the victim’s mother. He sure hoped so. He was getting no place fast with these clerics.

“Take a break, Dave,” Little said, and followed Felicita outside. A breeze was picking up. Thank God. Maybe the night would cool off so he could get some shut-eye. Things always seemed clearer after a good night’s sleep.

Sister Felicita ushered him into a small office, carefully shutting the door as she left.

“Sergeant Little,” he said, picking up the receiver.

“Inspector Murphy here.” Her voice was energetic, especially for the end of the day, Little thought, but then she hasn’t been cooped up for hours in a sweatbox.

Kate Murphy got right down to business. “My partner and I dropped by Marva Johnson’s home and notified her of her son’s death.”

“How did she take it?” Little asked, realizing what a dumb question that was.

“She was shocked, of course, but somehow not surprised.”

“How’s that?”

“She strongly disapproved of his lifestyle.”

“Which was?”

“Promiscuous, from her point of view. She thought his girlfriend Laura Purcell was ‘a tramp.’ Her words.”

Little was surprised. If anything, Laura had seemed to him like the all-American coed type. Somebody that anyone’s mother would approve of. His sure would. “So?”

“So, if Laura didn’t lead him into trouble someone else would.”

“Other women?”

“Not only women, anyone, even priests. He was in the seminary, you know.”

Little did know. He had learned that much, anyway, from his interviews with the clergymen.

“She implied that if he hadn’t met Father Tom Harrington—he’s a prominent priest here in San Francisco—” Kate explained.

“I know who he is. I just spent a half hour talking to him,” Little said.

“He’s there too?” Kate sounded surprised.

“Why do you ask?” Little’s heart sank. Don’t tell me he’s a pedophile or some damn thing, he thought. So much had been in the media lately about the sexual abuse and indiscretions by priests, and even bishops, that the impact was gone. It just left him with a sad, sick feeling.

“I had the impression that it was a nuns’ retreat,” Kate said.

With a sense of relief, Little cleared his throat. “No. There was just a little mix-up with your two nun friends.
Actually, it is, or was supposed to be, a priests’ retreat. It could happen to anybody.”

Kate chuckled. “Things happen to those two that don’t happen to just anybody,” she said.

Oddly annoyed that Murphy seemed to be making fun of the two old ladies, Little shifted gears. “Let me get this straight, Inspector. The mother suspects the girlfriend because she’s a tramp. And/or Father Harrington? Why?”

“Apparently her son worked with him at the Archdiocesan Communications Center. Not too long after, he left the seminary ‘to do the Devil’s work for him,’ direct quote.”

“His mother said that?”

“That isn’t all. She implied that maybe the girl and the priest were in it together. She finished off our conversation by saying that she’d sooner have killed him herself than to let him continue living in sin.”

Little’s mouth went dry. “Is she a nut or what?” he asked bluntly.

“A nut of the worst kind. A religious one!”

“Do you think there’s any truth in what she says?”

“That’s up to you to find out, Sergeant,” Kate said cheerfully, “and good luck!”

“Jeez, Kate, I thought you were going to warn the poor devil about the nuns,” Gallagher said the moment she replaced the receiver.

“I intended to,” Kate said, feeling along her desktop for her earring. She found it under a pile of reports and
clipped it back on her earlobe. “But I got the impression that he didn’t want to hear it.”

Gallagher’s eyebrows shot up. “Why the hell not?”

“I don’t know why. Just something in his tone told me to let it be.”

Gallagher checked the electric clock on the detail wall. “He’s only been with those two, what? Nine, ten hours now? You’re probably right. He still thinks they’re a couple of harmless old sweethearts and you’re a jaded, cynical lady cop.”

Quickly Kate cleared off her desk, pouring the remains of her cold coffee into the plant on its edge. She balanced the paper cup on the mountain of trash in the can. It was Monday, her day to pick up the baby at Sheila’s and her husband’s turn to fix dinner.

She wondered if tonight Jack would actually cook something or would he get takeout? Not that it mattered much, as long as he didn’t bring up moving to Marin County again. She was as set against going as he was set on it. Lately, their discussions were beginning to shed more heat than light on the subject. What she wanted tonight was a peaceful dinner.

Gallagher snatched up his jacket from the back of his chair. “You’re right,” he said, “better to let that guy Little learn about those nuns the hard way.”

“Better for whom?”

“Who cares?” he said, following Kate out of the homicide detail. “As long as it’s no business of ours.”