Murder Makes a Pilgrimage (3 page)

“I feel as if we’re two moles in a tunnel,” Eileen groused, and Mary Helen was about to agree when the rapid clicking of the tiles warned them that someone was approaching in a hurry.

Eileen squinted down the dim corridor. “Whoever that is, the devil himself must be in pursuit,” she whispered.

Or the place is on fire, Mary Helen thought, hoping that if that were the case, someone had rescued the coffeepot and a couple of Ramon’s fresh glazed doughnuts.

“Is one of you, by any possibility, Seester Mary Helen?” They heard the voice almost before they saw the short, stout man. His dark eyes darted from one to the other.

“I am.” Although Mary Helen had never seen the face before, she recognized the voice.

“Seester, I am Señor Fraga from the Patio Español,” the man said with a stiff, formal bow. When he straightened up, Mary Helen noticed that his mouth pulled into a thin, tense line.

“We just spoke on the telephone.” He was checking, no doubt, to see if she remembered.

“Yes, of course, señor,” Mary Helen answered quickly, eager to show him that despite their recent conversation, she did have all of her senses and most of her wits intact.

“Because of our earlier mix-up, Seester, I was anxious to
present this to you in person.” Señor Fraga thrust out his hand which held a thick white envelope. “Pulmantur” was typed across its front.

“This contains your information,” he said, speaking a bit more quickly than he had on the phone. “There is a pamphlet about the tour, your luggage tags, a list of the documents you will need, and your itinerary. Your tickets, of course, await you at the airport. That is, Seester, if you accept the prize.” He paused, studying her face. Obviously he was still not sure whom and what he was dealing with.

“We accept,” Eileen announced brightly.

With a look of relief Señor Fraga thrust the envelope toward her.

“Wait just a minute, señor,” Mary Helen blurted out.

Señor Fraga looked stricken. “You do not accept?”

“Yes, yes, of course, I do. Thank you. But I do have a few questions.”

It took a little convincing, but Mary Helen persuaded Señor Fraga to join them in the Sisters’ dining room. After a sprinkling of preliminary chitchat, a cup of coffee, and one of Ramon’s fresh doughnuts, Mary Helen could see the man begin to relax.

“As I mentioned in the hall, señor,” she began, “I do have a few questions about our trip. I am curious about how many people won your contest. Just I, or are there more?”

“Ten, Seester.” He spread both his hands on the table top. “Five winners and five companions.”

“The Patio Español is sending ten people to the Holy Year in Santiago?” Mentally she calculated the cost. Roughly it was what Shirley and she had hoped to net on the alumnae fashion show.

Mary Helen noted a melancholy look on Señor Fraga’s face when he nodded his head. “Yes, Seester,” he said, accepting another doughnut from Eileen.

“The Patio Español is sending ten people to a Holy Year in Santiago in October when, from what I understand, it began in January and its main day of celebration was held on July twenty-fifth. I’ve given it some thought, señor, and at the risk of sounding crass, I am wondering why.”

“Why? Why? Because,” he began with a touch of bravado, “Galicia is my province. Santiago is my home.”

Their eyes met and held. He took a fierce bite of his doughnut. As he chewed, Mary Helen could almost see his mental cranes turning, appraising her, deciding just how much to tell. When he finally swallowed, Ramon’s doughnut seemed to act like truth serum.

“Why? I will tell you why, Seester.” His shoulders sagged a little. “To be quite frank, it is because my nephew, my wife’s sister’s only boy, is a—how you call it?—he is a bum. Thirty years old and no job!” Señor Fraga narrowed his eyes as he picked up momentum. “But always the angle.
Sí
, always the angle. Now he thinks he will be a travel agent.”

The corners of his mouth turned down as if he had just tasted something sour. “A travel agent,” he repeated, pausing to let the nuns savor the foolishness of such an ambition. “So what does he do? He sets up an
año santo
trip to Santiago with Pulmantur in Madrid. Promises them ten people. A big man.” He stuck his thumbs behind the lapels of his suit jacket. “Not two or even five or six. No. My nephew is a big man. He will find ten. He will run the trip, be the guide. He signs the contract, takes the advance.

“Now, it is getting onto October. The
año santo
is almost over. Pulmantur wants its money.” Señor Fraga’s face was flushed. Clearly he had worked himself up to a full head of steam. “And the big man? He has no money. He has no pilgrims. His mother, she comes to me.”

His voice shifted into a falsetto to imitate his sister-in-law. “ ‘Carlos, please help my Pepe.’ Can you imagine, Seesters,
a thirty-year-old still called Pepe? ‘I am afraid he will go to jail!’ she says. ‘Good place for him,’ I say. She cries. She goes to my wife, who says that I am a heartless man.” Incredulous, Señor Fraga shrugged and stared at the nuns. “Me, a heartless man!

“ ‘Maybe this is Pepe’s big chance,’ my wife says. I say, ‘Pepe has had enough chances from me.’ ” He slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the cups. “ ‘Enough, no more,’ I say. But my wife, she begs me, and when I say, ‘No,’ she cries, and then she stops speaking.”

A frustrated and spent Señor Fraga leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “It costs me a fortune, but maybe it is worth it after all. At least, my wife is speaking, her sister is out of my hair, and Pepe, he is out of the country for a while. There are nice girls at Pulmantur. Maybe he will meet one, marry her, and stay in Spain.

“But enough of my troubles.” He pushed the last bit of glazed doughnut into his mouth and drained his cup. “I must get back to my restaurant.” Señor Fraga rose.
“Adios
, for now,” he said, bowing formally to each of them. “I will see you on Thursday, October seventh. A driver will pick you up here and bring you to the airport. The time is on your itinerary.” He pointed to the envelope that Eileen was still clutching.

“Perhaps you would just as soon we didn’t accept the trip,” Mary Helen said, feeling a certain sympathy for the man.

Eileen’s face fell, but Señor Fraga’s fell farther. “No, Seester, we must send ten people to Santiago. I am happy that two of them are religious. I have already given all the information to my accountant.”

Accountant? Mary Helen wondered, watching Señor Fraga disappear. With short, quick steps he sailed down the
darkened hallway, leaving nothing but the staccato clicking in his wake.

“He surely answered all your questions,” Eileen said cheerfully.

And raised a few, too, Mary Helen thought, wondering just how wise it was to go on a tour led by someone who sounded as irresponsible as Pepe.

Eileen suffered from no such qualms. “Our winning was even lucky for Señor Fraga,” she noted. “He seems genuinely pleased to have picked out two religious.”

Suddenly something that the señor had said and that had puzzled her became crystal clear. “Picked is right!” Mary Helen stared at her friend. Of course, he had “picked” them. He would have picked as many religious as were in the box.

“We are a charitable tax deduction, Eileen,” she announced triumphantly. “That’s why he is so anxious for us to go, and that is why he said ‘accountant.’ He may have to pay full fare for eight, but not us. Us he has declared a donation.”

At first Eileen stared at her with wide, unbelieving eyes. Finally she dismissed the suggestion with a wave of her pudgy hand. “This fund-raising business is beginning to affect you, Mary Helen. You see tax deductions everywhere.” She wagged her head. “Not to press a point, old dear, but I honestly do think it was a stroke of very good luck that I saw that box and that you won this trip. You know, Mary Helen, you really do need a vacation, a chance to get away from everything and just relax.”

And what better place to do it, Mary Helen thought, than in sunny Spain?

The shrill ring of the convent doorbell cut through the chatter in the Community Room. Much to Mary Helen’s surprise, the nuns had gathered there after the last class for an impromptu party to wish the travelers well.

Sister Agnes had prepared her famous spinach dip, Sister Marta had arrived with a steaming platter of buffalo wings, and Anne, with a few of the other young nuns, had seen to the liquid refreshments.

“
Vaya con Dios
. Go with God.” Tall, slim Cecilia raised her glass in a toast.

If we’re going with Pepe, God had better not be too far away, Mary Helen thought, raising her own glass in return.

“And have a treat on us.” Looking over her rimless glasses, Cecilia handed Eileen an envelope with a slight bulge.

Mary Helen was genuinely touched and was about to say so when Sister Therese (who insisted her name be pronounced “trays”) burst into the room.

“Your carriage awaits without,” she announced to one and all.

“Without a what?” old Sister Donata, her perpetual straight woman, asked.

“Without these two.” She pointed to Eileen and Mary Helen.

In the ripple of polite laughter and predictable groans that followed, Mary Helen and Eileen headed toward the front door. Their suitcases were already in the parlor, awaiting the arrival of the driver who would take them to the San Francisco Airport. It turned out to be Señor Fraga himself.

“Good afternoon, Seesters,” he greeted them. “You are ready, I see.
Muy bien!
” After snatching up the two suitcases, he carried them to the car, opened the trunk, and put them in. With a flourish he flung open the door to the backseat and held it.

As if it were a chauffeured limo, Mary Helen thought, except, of course, Señor Fraga drove a Toyota, not a limousine.

“You two can’t leave without a good-bye hug.” Young Sister Anne followed them down the hall.

Inwardly Mary Helen groaned. Why a hug? Why not just a nice, cheerful good-bye with maybe a peck on the cheek? Not that she was against hugs per se, but she’d been noticing of late that it was always the thin young nuns like Anne who were the huggers. When you formed a few rolls in the wrong places, you became a little more circumspect.

None of this seemed to bother Sister Eileen, who was squeezing Anne and looking pleased to do so.

“I brought you each a little gift.” Anne reached into her apron pocket.

“You shouldn’t have,” Eileen protested as Anne handed each a small travel diary. A thin pencil was attached to its back cover.

“Thank you, Anne.” Sister Mary Helen was moved by the young nun’s thoughtfulness, although she had no intention of using the diary. When she traveled, she was usually too tired at the end of the day to write anything at all. Furthermore,
she knew that when she returned home, she’d be entirely too busy to reread it.

“This is such a very special trip”—Anne beamed—“that I thought you might want to capture some of your most exciting moments.”

Mary Helen felt a little chagrined. Anne was right. This was a special trip. She should try to jot down something about it, although she rather doubted that a semireligious pilgrimage to a little-known shrine in an out-of-the-way corner of Spain would hold too many exciting moments. She dropped the thin diary into her pocketbook and gave Anne a quick goodbye hug.

“Don’t forget these!” Therese’s nasal voice echoed down the convent hallway and out onto the porch. In each hand she held a fold-up umbrella. “We wanted to get you a little something you could use on your trip, and I thought of these,” she declared proudly, thrusting an umbrella at each of them.

Mary Helen frowned. “Spain is sunny!” she blurted out unthinkingly.

At first Therese looked hurt, and Mary Helen felt like an ingrate. She was just about to apologize when Therese recovered with a sniff. “We’ll see!” she said smugly. “We will just see!”

Shoving the second unwanted gift into her carryon bag, Mary Helen stepped into the waiting car.

Wordlessly Señor Fraga zipped along the 280 Freeway toward the San Francisco Airport, just ahead of the evening commuter traffic. Mary Helen’s eyes burned, yet she was afraid to close them lest she drop off to sleep. The bump of the tires along the road, the hum of the engine, and the warmth of the October sun filling the car were so soothing that she was sure to fall right off.

And no wonder! Eileen and she had scurried around for the last two weeks, making the necessary arrangements at the college, digging out their passports, purchasing a few traveler’s checks, and packing and repacking their suitcases, trying not to forget anything essential yet keep them light enough to carry.

Of course, Mary Helen had checked out a couple of new paperback murder mysteries from the library and stashed them in her pocketbook. She was careful to slip the one she intended to read first into her plastic prayer book cover. After all, there was no sense scandalizing the other “pilgrims” unnecessarily.

There would be plenty of time both to sleep and to read once they boarded the plane. According to the itinerary, Mary Helen figured that the trip to Madrid, their first stop, would take about eleven hours.

A blazing red-orange yolk of sun was sinking quickly and turning the sky into a study of lavender and pink. They passed the National Cemetery; Señor Fraga exited 280 and sped along the Portola Freeway toward San Francisco International.

The airport was a maze of traffic and blinking lights. Hunched over the steering wheel, Señor Fraga maneuvered the lanes for departing and arriving flights, for domestic and international airlines.

With an air of relief, he pulled up in front of their terminal and spoke at last. “Seesters, not to worry. We are here in plenty of time.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “In fact, we are early. I will give you to my nephew if I can find him. And then I will see personally to your luggage.” He hustled them out of the Toyota and into the terminal.

Mary Helen was curious to meet the much-maligned Pepe.

“Ah, Seesters, here comes the big man now.” Señor
Fraga frowned toward a young fellow pushing his way through the crowd.