Murder Makes a Pilgrimage (10 page)

Delighted with his freedom, John babbled, “Dah-dah-dah,” and banged the keys on the floor. Smiling up at Kate, he threw them across the waiting room. Apologizing to the woman they hit, Kate retrieved the toy and pulled a soft rabbit from her carryall for him to play with. John gurgled happily and threw it across the room.

“They do that,” a haggard-looking woman next to her said, wiping her toddler’s runny nose. “They think it’s a game. Don’t make the mistake of looking like you are enjoying it,” she warned. “He’ll keep it up.”

Smiling, Kate picked up the baby and rocked him in her lap. How could she look as if she weren’t enjoying it when she was frankly delighted by everything that the baby did? His slightest new discovery, his attempts at sounds, his unexpected smiles all gave her joy.

The only thing that she did not enjoy about him was the prospect of leaving him to go back to work. And that was coming all too soon. She banished the thought from her mind, but not before she’d experienced the heavy, empty lump that began in the bottom of her stomach and grew until it filled her whole body.

“This is my fourth daughter, Stephanie,” the woman next to her confided. “She is two. All my girls are two years apart,” she whispered as if the baby might overhear. “The three older ones have the measles. My husband’s home with them. Steffie has been real cranky lately, and I’m afraid that she’s coming down with them, too.” Automatically she felt
the child’s forehead and raised her little blouse top to peek at the rash on her stomach.

As if to prove her mother’s point, Steffie dropped the cloth book that she was playing with and let out an earsplitting wail.

As the little girl moved from a wail to a screech, John’s lips curved down, his chin quivered, and despite Kate’s bouncing, he joined in. Soon, as if in solidarity, every baby in the waiting room was howling.

“Good night, what happened?” Dr. Trotter’s nurse swung open the inner office door and stood there in her stiff white uniform, frowning at the mothers as though somehow they were responsible.

Without another word, she flipped the light switch, once, twice, three times. Magically the crying stopped and the babies blinked up, fascinated by the long tubes of light.

“The doctor will see John now,” the nurse announced, much to Kate’s relief. There was no telling just how long the light trick would last.

Dr. Trotter had pronounced John in A-one condition. “You, on the other hand, Kate, are looking a bit peaked,” he said. “Are you getting enough rest?”

Kate was taken aback. Actually, until he mentioned it, she hadn’t thought about it. When she did, she realized that for the past few days she had been feeling unusually tired.

“When John goes down for his nap this afternoon, you take one, too,” he suggested, and Kate had followed the doctor’s orders.

Maybe that’s why I can’t sleep now, she thought, listening to the rustle of the bedroom curtains in front of the open window. Although San Francisco had been unseasonably warm today, almost hot, now a cool night breeze blew in from the Pacific. A full moon shone into the room, silhouetting the bedpost and the chest of drawers. Next to her Jack’s
breathing was deep and steady. Across the hall she heard the baby whimper. Baby dreams, she thought, wondering, for maybe the millionth time, what babies dream about.

Twelve forty-five and she was still wide-awake! Kate closed her eyes and tried to wipe everything out of her mind. What was the matter with her?

As if to answer, the dry, empty lump returned larger than ever. It filled her whole body and made it ache. She counted the months. Nine. John was nine months old. She had stretched and juggled her maternity leave as far as was possible. Within days she must make her decision about whether or not to return to the San Francisco Police Department. Tears stung her eyes. Kate forced them back. She loved her work. She enjoyed being a homicide detective. She missed the guys, but not as much as she was going to miss little John.

Sniffling, Kate wondered where that police chief was now. The pregnant one in Texas that she had read about who could hold down her job and be a mother as well. She’d like to call her and ask what she did about that horrible empty feeling.

Kate rolled back toward her husband. Should she go back to work or take an extended leave? Jack had left it up to her. He would be happy with whatever she decided, she knew that. It was she who had to make up her mind, and soon.

The shrill ring of the telephone cracked through the silent room. Kate tensed, the way she instinctively did when the phone rang in the middle of the night. Jack and John were safe. Could it be Jack’s mother? No one ever calls at this hour with good news.

Quickly she reached over her husband and picked up the receiver. “Hello,” she whispered, but Jack was already awake. He perched himself up on his elbows to listen.

“Kate, I’m so sorry to wake you up this way. In the confusion I had forgotten about the time difference.”

It took Kate a few seconds to recognize the voice. “Sister Mary Helen.” She sank back to her side of the bed. “Confusion? What confusion? Where are you? Didn’t you tell me just last week that you and Sister Eileen were going to Spain?”

“Yes, dear. I did, and we are. In Spain, that is. But something unfortunate has happened.”

“Something unfortunate? In Spain?” Kate Murphy was incredulous. Sister Mary Helen had a knack for being in the right place at the wrong time. Or was it the wrong place at the right time? From the San Francisco Police Department’s point of view, in the wrong place most of the time. Over the years this phenomenon had led to Kate Murphy and Sister Mary Helen collaborating on four different homicide cases, with Sister Eileen never far away. In the process they had become fast friends.

In Kate’s opinion, this trip to Spain was a much-needed vacation for the two nuns, and she had sincerely hoped that they would come home well rested, particularly if she decided to get a nanny for John. She intended to pick their brains for the proper person. For this important task she wanted both of them at their best.

“Yes, dear. Are you there? I am still in Spain, Santiago de Compostela, to be exact. The most dreadful thing just happened.”

“What’s that, Sister?” Kate sighed, hoping against hope that she didn’t know the answer.

“Well, Kate, I decided to visit the tomb of St. James the Apostle on my own. And when I did, there in the crypt was Lisa Springer. There was an enormous gash on her head and across her throat. . . . Well, Kate, it looks as if she has been . . . as if she was . . .” Apparently Sister Mary Helen was having a difficult time getting her mouth around the words.

“Murdered?” Kate said.

“I’m afraid so.”

“And who is Lisa Springer, Sister? One of the members of your tour?”

“Yes.” Suddenly the voice sounded so faint and far away that Kate wondered if something had happened to the connection.

“Can you hear me, Sister?”

“Yes, dear.”

Still weak. Shock, Kate thought. “Have you notified anyone?” she asked gently.

“Of course I have.” From the tone Kate knew that some of the old starch was coming back. Good.

“Just before I called you, I called Señor Nunez, our tour guide, and he in turn will notify the police, I’m sure.”

Then why in the hell did you call me? Kate wanted to blurt out, but there was no need.

“What I want to ask you, Kate, is what should we do next?”

“Nothing, Sister. Do nothing! As I’ve tried to tell you so often, murder is police business. Furthermore, you are in a foreign country. You don’t even speak the language. The best thing that you can do is stay out of it.”

When Mary Helen did not respond, Kate realized that she had been shouting. Perhaps she was coming on a little too strongly. She softened her tone.

“It really is better, Sister. You should cooperate with the local police, of course, but really it is wiser to let them handle it.”

Still, Sister Mary Helen said nothing. The phone lines crackled. Kate wanted to bite her tongue. “Not that I mean you aren’t wise,” she added lamely. Then after a pause, “Of course, you can always call me if you need me, Sister,” she said. The instant she heard Mary Helen’s “Thank you, dear,” she wished that she had bitten her tongue.

Replacing the receiver, Kate snuggled down under the
covers and moved closer to Jack. He put his arm around her, and, with a shiver, Kate nestled comfortably into his familiar hollows. She closed her eyes, ready, at last, for sleep.

Jack began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking about Sister Mary Helen.”

“What about her?”

“She gets herself into such messes in English. Can you imagine what she is capable of in Spanish?”

“I don’t want to imagine it,” she said, “especially since I told her to call me if she needs me. What in the world got into me?”

“You can’t help yourself, hon.” Jack pulled her closer. She felt his warm breath in her hair. His lips touched her cheek, her throat. “What you’ve got is a bad case of the motherly instinct.” His whisper tickled her ear.

Even as his lips moved down her neck, she felt that dull pain start all over again. It began in the pit of her stomach.

The two nuns did not have to wait long to find out what action the local police would take. As Mary Helen replaced the telephone receiver, a sharp rap sounded on their bedroom door.

Eileen jumped. “Who is it?” she called out.

“
Policía. Por favor
, to come,” a deep voice answered.

Cautiously Mary Helen, her knees still wobbly, cracked open the door and peeked out. A tall, muscular fellow with a small, neatly trimmed mustache stood in the hallway. His navy blue uniform, leather holster, and gun looked official enough, but Mary Helen was taking no chances. “Please may I see your credentials, seíor?” she asked.

The man stared blankly at her. “
Por favor
, to come,” he said louder.

“Your credentials, seíor?” Mary Helen tried a pleasant smile.

Obviously bewildered, the man frowned. “To come,” he said, omitting the
por favor
.

Mary Helen felt Eileen at her side. She held a pocket-size Spanish/English traveler’s dictionary.
“Habla usted inglés, señor?”
Eileen asked with a touch of the brogue.

The dark eyes brightened. “No, no, no!” He shook his head emphatically, then began a volley of Spanish aimed directly at Eileen, who stood there looking blank.

“Now see what you’ve done,” Mary Helen hissed. “Put that thing away. It’s better to say nothing than to say the wrong thing.”

“Señor, please.” Undeterred, Eileen put up her pudgy hands, trying to stop him while she searched for the appropriate phrase, but it was too late.

“Señor Esteban Zaldo y Arana,” the policeman, or at least Mary Helen supposed that was who he was, announced finally. Rolling his eyes, he gestured toward the hallway and pointed to his holster.

“That’s credentials enough for me, old dear,” Eileen said. Mary Helen agreed.

Silently the pair followed the man through the magnificent vaulted hallways hung with tapestries and works of art. They followed his clicking heels down a flight of marble stairs.

“Do you feel like a heretic on your way to the Inquisitor?” Eileen whispered as they turned a corner.

Mary Helen nodded. “I should of stood in bed,” she said, and Eileen giggled with nervousness.

Abruptly Señor Zaldo stopped before a closed door, knocked, and, without waiting for a reply, flung it open. “To come,” he said. With a nod of his head, he left his two captives standing in the doorway of a small, dim room, where the
rest of the tour members, all talking at once, were corralled. Their voices rose, each one outblustering the last, with Cora shrilling above the rest.

“That’s everyone,” Cora announced, but no one seemed to notice.

In the confusion Mary Helen glanced around. Heavy draperies covered the windows, and the room had the musty smell of little use. Along one wall bookshelves stretched to the ceiling. An ornate desk dominated the far corner, and bulky velvet-covered chairs bordered the worn carpet.

The room once might have been a library. Right now it looked to Mary Helen more like a catchall room, one that was used to store extra furniture or to fill whatever need arose. Every large institution had one, she knew, like the old priests’ dining room at Mount St. Francis. At the very thought of the college her stomach somersaulted. Please God, no word of what had happened would reach there, at least until she did.

Pepe and his “assistant,” María José, stood in the center of the fray. María José, black eyes flashing, was attempting with little apparent success to calm the group.

Only Heidi, red-eyed and pale, sat on one of the heavy chairs. Dr. Fong stood over her, an empty glass in his hand and a worried expression on his round face.

“Silencio, por favor!”
the deep voice boomed from the doorway. Señor Zaldo had returned.

Eyes shifted uncertainly toward him as a tense silence settled over the group.

“Gracias.”
He smiled, justifiably proud of what he’d accomplished. Another volley of Spanish preceded a name. “Comisario Ángel Serrano y Cobas,” he announced with great respect. Obviously they were about to meet the top dog. Stepping aside, Zaldo made room for the gentleman in question.

Sister Mary Helen didn’t really know what she’d expected,
but it certainly was not what she saw. At first glance Comisario Serrano looked like a statue that she had spied in one of the gift shops at the Madrid airport, a statue of Sancho Panza. Like Don Quixote’s legendary squire, he was short and squat with a round little belly. In Comisario Serrano’s case his paunch pulled against the buttons on his shirt and caused his belt buckle to dip slightly south. The legs of his gray suit sagged and formed pleats over the tops of his shoes.

A tonsure of gray hair in need of a trim circled his head and seemed to fit the cherubic face. Not that Ángel Serrano reminded Mary Helen so much of an angel as he did of an aging and harmless gnome.

That is, until their eyes met, and Mary Helen knew that this was a man to be reckoned with. She watched him take in the group with eyes “as bold as lions, roving, running, leaping here and there.” The long-forgotten simile jumped into her mind, although the name of its author did not. How did the rest of that passage go? Eyes that “speak all languages.”