Death Goes on Retreat (19 page)

“What do you think, Dave?” Bob Little asked, once the two men were outside the building.

“You got what you asked for, all right. And then some!”

Even through his tan, Little felt his face burn red. Terry thought that this blushing business was sweet. He thought it was a damn pain in the butt and he had no desire to find out what Kemp thought.

“Well, she pinned down the time. Right on the mark with the coroner,” he said, pretending that was what Kemp meant. “And the phone call. What do you think about that?”

“It sounds to me like a ploy to get him away from Laura’s house.” Kemp wiped his forehead with a clean handkerchief. “Let’s get the hell out of this heat.”

“Unless his mother really was in some kind of an accident.” Little thought he smelled the aroma of sizzling bacon coming from St. Jude’s.

“Which can be easily proven with a couple of phone calls.”

Little nodded. “I’m starving,” he said, hoping Kemp hadn’t heard his stomach growling again.

In silent agreement, the two men started toward the air-conditioned dining room. “One thing for sure,” Kemp said, “whoever placed that call is our killer.”

“Unless, of course . . .” Little paused and pulled
back the heavy dining room door. “Our Miss Laura made up the whole damn thing.”

When the nuns stepped out of St. Agnes’ Hall, Sister Mary Helen spotted Sergeant Little as he and Deputy Kemp strode across the parking lot. She froze. They were headed for the dining room; exactly where she intended to go. She could not investigate with them hanging about, listening. How could she ask her next “unsuspect” questions in front of two detectives? They’d surely never stand for that.

“What’s the matter, old dear?” Eileen asked.

“Our plan has been foiled.”

“Which plan?”

“To go through the list of the least likely suspects.”

“Whom were we considering next, Felicita or the monsignor?”

“Exactly,” Mary Helen said.

Eileen’s bushy gray eyebrows shot up. “Are you listening to me?”

“Of course I am listening.” Mary Helen hoped she looked offended. “It’s just that to my mind those two are neck and neck. I’m not sure which I’d consider first. I was going to let the Spirit lead where She will. But if they’re both in the dining room . . .”

Eileen sniffed. “Do you smell it?”

“Of course!” Mary Helen said with a sudden surge of high, if not holy, spirit. “It’s Yardley’s Lavender.”

Just then, an unsuspecting Sister Felicita rounded the corner.

Even in the dim hall light, Felicita’s face shone red. From her glare, which easily could have singed them, Mary Helen guessed that the high color was a mixture of anger and frustration.

“What is it you want?” she snapped, proving Mary Helen’s theory.

“Nothing, really.” Mary Helen tried not to sound too calm. She knew from experience that when you are in a dither, there is nothing like saintly serenity to send you right over the top.

“How are you doing, Sister?” Eileen asked gently.

“Terribly, if you want to know.” Felicita, eyes blinking furiously behind her rimless glasses, dared either of them to say something pious.

Both nuns knew better.

“My phone has not stopped ringing since it woke me up at six,” she said. “I’m lucky I even had a chance to get dressed.”

Wisps of ash-blond angel hair sprang over the rim of her coif as if the whole headpiece had been hurriedly set in place. Even her scapular hung a little crookedly, bearing out the truth of her statement.

“Sister Timothy is calling every few minutes, acting as if it’s my fault that they’re all stranded. From what she says, Mother Superior is about ready for apoplexy over the scandal this incident will cause. She can’t even bring herself to say the word
murder.
”

Mary Helen doubted that any mother superior worth her salt was that delicate and was about to say so, but she wasn’t given the chance.

“According to Timothy, I am to avoid all contact with the press. Do you know how difficult that is to do?” Felicita’s eyes leveled on Mary Helen.

Mary Helen nodded. If anyone does, I do, she thought, remembering her own uncomfortable notoriety.

“Have you any idea how many reporters have called?” The question was obviously rhetorical. “If that big Sergeant Loody wasn’t at the entrance, the place would be swarming with them. Every time I hear an airplane, I’m afraid they’re taking aerial photos.”

“No one could blame you for that,” Eileen said reasonably.

Felicita gave her a decided “it shows what you know” look.

Eileen refused to be put off that easily. “The best thing to do is forget about Sister Timothy and Mother Superior, in fact all the nuns at St. Anthony’s.” She waved her chubby hand as if to encompass all the nuns in the entire world. “Forget about the press. There is nothing you can do about any of them. Deal with what’s going on here and now.”

“Here and now?” Felicita winced as if Eileen had hit an exposed nerve. “Here and now?” She pointed to the parking lot, where an official-looking car and three equally official-looking men stood with satchels and brown bags. Sergeant Little must have ordered some further investigation, Mary Helen thought, momentarily distracted from Felicita’s ravings.

“Those men are going to search the priests’ cars,” Felicita said in the same tone she might use to denounce a sacrilege. “And the young officer, that Kemp with the
bow tie, came to my room. I didn’t even have my coif on yet.”

Deputy Kemp has seen much worse sights, Mary Helen thought but knew better than to say.

“He asked me to get their keys! As if I don’t have enough to do, I have to do his job, too!”

That was puzzling! What was he looking for? “Did you?” Mary Helen asked.

“Did I what?”

“Get the keys?”

“Indeed I did. Although I must admit Father Tom was a little short when I asked him for his.”

Mary Helen perked up. Could his reluctance to part with the keys to his new Mazda be significant?

Felicita let out a noisy breath. “From the looks of him, I woke him up. Although I don’t know how anyone could sleep with the phone ringing and the doors slamming.

“And on top all this, as if I need another thing, the man from D-Pest Control called.” Felicita’s apple face blazed. “It’s time for our monthly spray. If Detective Sergeant Little allows it, we are scheduled for tomorrow morning.” She stared, waiting for the two nuns to get the full impact.

Whatever it was, it completely skimmed past Mary Helen. This morning she’d noticed one tiny spider in the corner of her bedroom, which seemed pretty normal for a mountain retreat.

“Have you a serious bug problem?” Obviously Eileen drew a blank too.

“Actually, it may be fairer to say that the bugs are
having a human problem, since they were here first.” Felicita’s blue eyes sparked.

A novel approach, Mary Helen thought, waiting for Felicita to continue. It didn’t take long. The bug man really stuck in her craw.

“Do you have any idea how much time it takes to go with the bug man from building to building showing him every new problem area?”

Both Mary Helen and Eileen readily admitted that they didn’t. If Mary Helen remembered correctly, the pest control company at Mount St. Francis College simply sent out a fellow holding a cylinder with a long, thin pipelike squirter attached to it. He walked around the buildings’ foundations and did just that, squirted. Next time she saw him, she’d have to look more carefully. Obviously, she was missing something.

“It’s an all-morning job!” Felicita’s lips stretched in a thin, angry line. “Sister Timothy’s all-morning job! That was her last message. She had a list of trouble spots on her desk.”

She pulled one hand from beneath her black scapular and waved the offending paper at them.

“And as if I didn’t have enough to worry about!” By now Felicita had a full head of steam and apparently no complaint whatsoever was to be left unstated. “Beverly just phoned!”

Beverly! Mary Helen had completely forgotten about Beverly.

“Do you know where she is?” Felicita’s voice was trembling. “Here! She is here in our very own kitchen demanding that I get over there. She shouted something
about needing more supplies if she’s expected to feed the Sheriff’s Department as well as the priests and nuns.

“That woman!” Felicita strained the words through her teeth.

“Calm down, Felicita,” Eileen said. “You’re wearing yourself to a frazzle!”

Mary Helen held her breath. If anything could really agitate her, it was being told to calm down. Much to her surprise, Felicita did.

Deliberately she let her stiff shoulders sag, and glanced down at her wristwatch. “You’re right. It’s not even ten o’clock in the morning and I’m ready to go back to bed and stay there.”

“How about a cup of coffee?” Eileen’s gray eyebrows shot up. “I bet you haven’t eaten a bite yet. We’ve an old saying back home,” she began with a bit of a brogue. “There’s no tragedy that doesn’t seem worse on an empty stomach.”

Mary Helen was almost certain that Eileen had made that up to fit the moment, but her point was well taken. Furthermore, Mary Helen herself was hungry.

Whatever its origin, Eileen’s “old saying” seemed to be working. Together the nuns crossed the parking lot. The whole place was so idyllic, so tranquil. The sword fern and bracken cast lacy shadows along the edges of the blacktop. Mary Helen stopped and took a deep breath. Fragrant yellow scotch broom gave the air a sweetness. Violets grew in wild clumps and bright blue periwinkle spread up the hillside where chattering birds swooped between the tall trees and bounced on the branches of the oleander. The statue of St. Philomena
with her anchor and her martyr’s palm watched over it all with blank plaster eyes.

The crime team, absorbed in picking, dusting, measuring, and bagging things, was the only reminder that a grisly murder had taken place.

The sudden slam of a car trunk sent Felicita’s roller-coaster emotions soaring again. “What will Mother Superior say when she finds out they went through trunks?” she wailed. “We’ll lose all of our clients!” Frustration was driving her close to tears.

“If Mother Superior has any sense at all,” Eileen said gently, “she’ll know you are doing the very best that you can. Even angels can’t do better than their very best!”

That quick dip into seraphic theology mollified Felicita for the moment. Mary Helen was grateful. They were nearing the dining room door. If she wanted a chance to proceed with her “unsuspect” plan, she’d have to ask Felicita a few questions, cross her off the list. Considering the state of Felicita’s nerves, this was probably the best chance she’d have.

“Sister, I was wondering,” Mary Helen began, hoping she sounded as if the idea had just occurred to her. “Early Monday morning, did you hear anything or see anyone?”

Felicita looked piqued. “You mean the morning that you found the body?”

Was she just sensitive or did that sound like an accusation? Whichever, Mary Helen chose to ignore it. “Yes,” she said a little crisply, “that morning.”

“I was asleep. Sound asleep. I heard nothing. I told Sergeant Little that.” Felicita hesitated. The color drained from her face, leaving two round red circles high
on her cheekbones. “You don’t think for one minute that I had anything to do with . . .”

Raggedy Ann in a coif, Mary Helen thought crazily, surer than ever that it was Felicita and not Mother Superior who could not bring herself to say the word
murder.

Before Felicita uttered another sound, Beverly slammed out of the kitchen door. She held a pancake turner like a scepter in her right hand. “Get that man out of my kitchen,” she shrieked at the three of them.

Felicita gulped.

“What man?” Mary Helen asked.

“That priest! That Father Ed!” The rage emanating from her coffee-brown eyes made them look as if they were “perking.”

Felicita caught her breath. “What in the world did he do?”

“I know what he calls me,” Beverly hissed. The yellow haystack of hair wobbled uncertainly under her hairnet.

Prudently, Felicita did not ask for specifics. “I’m sure he’s just joking.”

“Well, he can keep his jokes to himself.” Beverly’s blazing eyes narrowed. “A little of that bastard goes a long way.” She faced Felicita with a fury turning cold and dangerous. “Are you going to tell him or am I?”