Death Goes on Retreat (16 page)

“Father Tom, Laura, his mother, are suspects.” Eileen shook her head in disbelief. “That’s what Kate said?”

“Not exactly ‘said,’ but that’s my impression.”

The two old friends sat in perplexed silence, each chewing on her own thoughts. The throb of insects filled the air as the redwood forest settled down for the night. A moth blundered into the vestibule. Drawn to the light, it hit again and again against the heavy glass fixture, unaware that the glass was the only thing saving it from cremation.

All the poor creature is doing is knocking himself senseless, Mary Helen thought. Watching the fluttering moth, she felt much the same. “Why don’t we call it a night?” she suggested.

“I can’t stop thinking about Laura.” Eileen set her chin. “I know she didn’t have anything to do with his death. Nothing whatsoever!” she said in a “that settles that” tone of voice.

“Then, you think it was one of the priests? Father Harrington, perhaps?”

Eileen narrowed her eyes until they were almost slits. “Certainly not!” There was a reproach in her voice. “Just look at those men.”

“I have looked at them,” Mary Helen said, more for the sake of argument than for anything else. “They all appear to be good, dedicated priests.”

“Appear to be?” Eileen was aghast. “You make them
sound like ‘whited sepulchers . . . full of dead men’s bones.’ ”

“I never said a thing about sepulchers and bones. You know as well as I do.” She closed her eyes and dug to remember that complicated discourse. “ ‘Things either are what they appear to be; or they are, and do not appear to be; or they are not, and yet appear to be.’ ” She opened her eyes and smiled, satisfied. “Epictetus,” she said.

Eileen stared at her. “So you are saying that one of the priests is guilty?”

“Of course not! I’m just saying things aren’t necessarily what they appear and that these priests are, after all, only human.”

“Then you should say what you mean,” Eileen snapped. “The March Hare.”

A wild howl from a coyote pierced the still night air. The plaintive wail made Mary Helen shudder. Suddenly she felt an overpowering weariness. Her legs, even her arms, were leaden. It had been a very long day.

“If not Laura or the priests, who then?” Eileen was on a roll. “The mother? That seems too unnatural. Sister Felicita? Of course not. She can’t even fire a cook. How could she possibly kill someone? And Beverly? What reason would she have?”

At this point Mary Helen saw no reason to comment since Eileen was answering her own questions.

“Then, who? Nobody—that’s who.”

“Somebody did,” Mary Helen said with her last bit of energy. “That’s the only thing we are sure of.”

Eileen glanced over and stopped. “You look like death
warmed over, excuse the expression, old dear, and here I am babbling on and on.”

She took Mary Helen’s arm and helped her up. “Will you be able to sleep? Or will you be awake all night stewing?”

“Right now, I feel as if I could sleep for days,” Mary Helen whispered as she followed Eileen.

The narrow hallway was dark and still. Each step creaked on the waxed linoleum as they moved toward their rooms. The single sharp squawk of a quail carried up from the woods. The silence was so profound that even the jiggle of their doorknobs sounded loud.

How could someone have committed murder and not one of us hear anything? Mary Helen slipped into her cotton nightgown. Voices, sounds, magnify at night. She punched up the pillow under her head. It was very odd that nobody heard anything, she thought, stirring to find a cool spot on the sheets. It was the last thing she remembered thinking clearly all night long.

The moment Sister Mary Helen awoke, her mind switched on. That phenomenon was happening less frequently these days, she reflected, her eyes still closed. Most mornings she needed a few seconds to remember what day it was and at least one cup of strong coffee to start her juices flowing.

But not this morning. Laura was on her mind immediately. She needed to talk to the girl before Sergeant Little did.

Opening her eyes, she was amazed to find that the sun, filtering through the evergreens, sent long, bright slashes across the bedclothes. The air, scented with pine, was alive with the chirps and peeps and whistles of birds, all foraging for breakfast.

I must have overslept, she thought, and tried to focus on her watch. Without her glasses, the face was nothing but a blur. Hoping it wasn’t as late as it felt, Mary Helen
groped on the nightstand for her bifocals and was relieved to discover it wasn’t even eight o’clock. Surely the sergeant wouldn’t be here yet!

A small spider in the corner above the closet bounced down the wall on a single thread like a miniature mountain climber. “Get up . . . get up,” a woodpecker called sharply. At least, that’s what it sounded like just before he began his steady tapping on a tree trunk. Despite his injunction, Mary Helen still lay thinking.

Last night her mind was muddled with possible murder suspects: Laura, the monsignor, Greg’s own mother, Father Tom, Beverly, and Sergeant Loody; and yes, even poor flustered Felicita. Yet, no one had a reason.

But this morning it seemed quite clear. At the end of my mind, “beyond the last thought rises . . . a gold-feathered bird” of an idea, she thought crazily, as insistent as those blasted birds making all that racket outside her window.

Her idea was quite simple. If I can’t figure out “who dun it,” I’ll figure out who didn’t. If I can’t find out who had a reason, I’ll find out who didn’t have one. It amounts to exactly the same thing, she thought, swinging her feet out from under the covers. Laura seemed the logical place to begin.

From a police point of view, Mary Helen knew that the girl bore all the earmarks of a chief suspect. She had had opportunity. Undoubtedly, she had been the last person—save one—to see Greg Johnson alive. Means: the weapon, a heavy sharp knife, was not hard to come by. As the dishwasher in a well-equipped institutional kitchen, Laura had easy access to one. And finally, motive. As his fiancée, she was surely more emotionally
involved with him than anyone, except, perhaps, his own mother. Maybe they’d had a bitter lovers’ quarrel. Laura did have a redhead’s temper. Or Greg had found another girlfriend. Father Tom mentioned the young man’s penchant for the ladies and Laura crazed with jealousy . . .

Even as she thought it, Mary Helen did not believe it. She was as convinced as Eileen that Laura Purcell was innocent of murder. Call it intuition or a hunch, but in her bones, Mary Helen knew that Laura genuinely loved Greg and was shocked by his death. No one, not even Sarah Bernhardt, let alone an undergraduate drama major, could have put on such a convincing performance.

Still, there was no denying that Laura was the most likely suspect. If the real murderer was to be found quickly, Laura was the first one who should be eliminated.

After she’d firmly crossed off Laura, Mary Helen would vindicate Greg’s mother. Marva Johnson was also an unlikely suspect. She would hardly have been in the area. Furthermore, if every mother who said she’d like to “kill” her child was up on charges, there’d be increasingly fewer mothers left in circulation.

And after Mrs. Johnson? Well, she’d have to see where the Spirit led.

Sister Mary Helen was nearly dressed when she heard a cautious tapping on the bathroom door. Sister Eileen peeked around its edge. “Up and at ’em, are you?” she said. “And let me guess. It’s off you are to visit Laura?”

Mary Helen could tell by the touch of the brogue that Eileen was upset. “I wasn’t going without you, if that’s what’s bothering you.” She sat on the edge of the bed
and put on her sturdy walking shoes. “I was going to ask you—actually beg you, if necessary—to come along.”

“And what if I wasn’t dressed?”

“I’d wait, of course,” Mary Helen said, wondering why she hadn’t thought to wake Eileen. She really did want her friend along. Unreasonable as it seemed, Felicita was counting on her to clear up this mess. Mary Helen needed all the help she could get.

Without another word, Eileen disappeared and returned, obviously mollified, with two cups of steaming black coffee. “What’s our plan?” she asked. And Mary Helen told her.

The two nuns stopped outside Laura Purcell’s bedroom and listened. Nothing! Mary Helen opened the door a crack. If Laura was still asleep, she wouldn’t waken her. Poor girl was going to need all the rest she could get to face the day.

“Who’s there?” a flat voice asked.

Without any further invitation, they entered. Laura, propped up in bed by two large pillows, stared glassy-eyed. A white sheet pulled tight across her breast and tucked under her armpits left her thin tan shoulders bare. Waves of tousled auburn hair spread across the pillowcases. Her face, wrinkled from sleep, was puffy and pink from weeping.

The moment she saw them, Laura’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “Why did they kill my Greg?” Her soggy face pleaded with them to give her a reason, and her
voice teetered before she broke into wild, uncontrollable sobs.

Good night nurse! Mary Helen sighed. This is no time for hysterics. What we need is answers. The girl must “tough up.”

Mary Helen was relieved when Eileen stepped into the bathroom and returned with a damp washcloth. She vaguely remembered reading that a cold, wet washcloth across the face shocks a person out of hysteria. Or was it out of a temper tantrum?

Whichever, Eileen applied the cloth across Laura’s swollen eyes more like a compress than a shock treatment.

“Quite frankly, I am afraid you make the best suspect,” Mary Helen said, hoping her remark would have the effect of a cold cloth.

Laura gasped.

Direct hit! “But I don’t think you did it,” Mary Helen added quickly.

Once bitten, twice shy, Laura peeked out from the end of the compress. “Why don’t you?”

“Because I believe that you were genuinely shocked and disconsolate when you heard the news.”

Slowly, Laura removed the cloth. Tears ran unheeded down her face. “I am so scared.” She sounded like a bewildered child. “And my heart hurts. I love Greg. We love one another.”

With as much compassion as possible, Mary Helen began the questions she knew Sergeant Little would ask. “When you left St. Colette’s Sunday night, Laura, where did you and Greg go?”

“To the late show. Actually, the last show.” Dully,
Laura gave the names of the theater and the movie, as well as the time it showed.

All easily checked, Mary Helen thought, and easily fabricated. “Did anyone you know, actually either of you knew, see you there?”

Laura was silent for what seemed much too long. “The kid at the candy counter might remember us. Greg argued with him about getting more butter on his popcorn.”

“He might,” Mary Helen said, although she doubted it. Half the people who buy popcorn at a show must complain about the little squirt of melted margarine that sits right on the top of the box.

“What did you do after the show?” she asked.

“We went home to our apartment.” Realizing what she had said, Laura’s lips began to quiver.

Mary Helen pretended not to notice. “Did anyone see you going in?”