Murder Makes a Pilgrimage (7 page)

“There’s even a seashell for a basin in there.” Heidi burst out the door of the rest room.

“Ah, another of my lovely ladies.” Pepe bowed, and Mary Helen watched the color rise from Heidi’s jaw right to her hairline. “I was telling the Sisters that dinner will be served in the Salón Real.”

“Where is that?” Heidi asked, wide-eyed.

“Just off the courtyard to your—” Seeing the puzzled look on her face, he stopped. “But never mind your pretty head. I will call for you in your room myself, Señorita Heidi.

“Sisters”—he turned toward them—“María José, my wonderful assistant, has arranged for a group of bagpipers to entertain us during our aperitif.” Pepe winked. “You need only follow your ears to find the dining room.”

Eileen’s eyes glowed. “Bagpipers, is it?”

“Yes, indeed, Sister. And since you seem to have a touch of the Celt in you, would you honor us by pronouncing the benediction before our meal?”

“Assistant?” Mary Helen watched Pepe disappear down the hallway. “I ask you, Eileen, how in the world did María José go from consultant to assistant in a few short hours?”

Eileen didn’t seem to be listening.

Back in their bedroom, as they tidied up for dinner, it was obvious that Eileen was stewing. “Benediction! No one ever asks me to give the benediction, Mary Helen. You are the one who usually says grace on these kinds of occasions. What in the name of all that’s good and holy shall I say?”

Mary Helen turned from the mirror, where she was
straightening the bow tie on her blouse. “In over fifty years of friendship I have never known you to be at a loss for words. I seriously doubt if tonight will be the first time.”

“Let me think.” Eileen brushed imaginary lint from her suit jacket. “Something Celtic. Perhaps from one of the saints.” A mischievous glint shone in her gray eyes.

Mary Helen groaned. “Not that prayer of St. Bridget.”

“Why not? Now, how does it go?” She paused, although she didn’t fool Mary Helen for a second. Eileen had proved time and again that she had a wonderful memory. Mary Helen knew it was especially keen on nonsense.

“I’d like to give a lake of beer to God.” Her brogue thickened, and she sounded as pious as St. Bridget herself. “Because the happy heart is true . . . . /I’d sit with the men, the women and God,/There by the lake of beer. We’d be drinking good health forever,/And every drop would be a prayer.”

Mercifully the bagpipers will be on hand, Mary Helen thought, closing the heavy bedroom door behind them. If she does really start that thing, with any luck at all I can signal them to drown her out.

By the time the two nuns arrived for dinner at the Salón Real, most of the tour members were assembled. The promised bagpipers played loudly and, if Mary Helen could judge by the smile on Eileen’s face, extremely well.

From just inside the door she surveyed the long room. As its name promised, the
salón
was indeed
real
. Chandeliers with tassels and tiers of electric candles hung from the carved wooden ceiling. Tall-back chairs surrounded lavishly set tables. With regal detachment, the monarchs in dark, stiff portraits presided over the gathering from their places of honor on the side wall.

Formally dressed waiters milled around with trays, offering flutes of the local white wine. At least Mary Helen assumed it was local because Professor DeAngelo kept sniffing his glass and commenting for all to hear on the “hardy Galician bouquet.”

Next to him, Bud Bowman rolled his eyes and muttered something about nothing hitting the spot like a cold beer.

Cora glared.

“You look lovely this evening, Cora,” Eileen said, hoping no doubt to avert another Bowman spat. To Mary Helen’s surprise Cora’s face became even rosier. She was blushing!

Nervously Cora touched her waxy yellow hair, which was tightly curled. “I was afraid I had left the hot rollers in too long,” she whispered to Sister Eileen.

“Not at all! Your hair is lovely. And your dress is stunning. It is a perfect color for you.”

Self-consciously Cora swished the emerald green silk skirt that was draped softly over her broad hips. “Thank you,” she said.

In Mary Helen’s opinion, the thing that was really stunning was the diamond and emerald necklace hanging in Cora’s open neckline, not to mention the enormous diamond ring on her finger.

“I thought that I’d dress up a little for the occasion,” Cora said, accepting a second flute of wine. “How often do you win a trip to Spain?”

Straightening the bow tie of her own new pink blouse, Mary Helen surveyed the room. Actually every one of the women had dressed up quite a bit for the occasion. Rita Fong, who stood next to her husband, if you considered a yard apart “next to,” wore a voile outfit of the softest periwinkle blue. It gathered dramatically at her waist, proving for all who had eyes to see, the value of regular aerobics.

Bootsie DeAngelo was sheathed in a burgundy crepe
dress that draped her tall, slim body in all the places that crepe should drape. Wine in hand, Bootsie wandered away from her husband toward the Fongs, who seemed happy for a distraction.

As soon as he could do it politely, Dr. Fong left the ladies and sidled up to Sister Mary Helen. “Let me apologize again for disturbing you this afternoon,” he said, his words barely audible.

Why is he whispering? Mary Helen wondered as she assured him that he had caused no disturbance at all. Was there someone he didn’t want to overhear him? Who? Quickly she dismissed the idea, chiding herself for being suspicious. The man is simply reserved. They smiled at each other in awkward silence. Mary Helen was relieved when Bud joined them.

“Did you two happen to get a gander at the cathedral yet?” Bud asked. “While Cora was fussing with her hair, I went over and took a peek. Now, that is really some church,” he said, in what Mary Helen considered would be undoubtedly the understatement of the trip.

“Did you get a chance to see it yet, Doc?”

Neil Fong blinked as if he were trying to remember, then flashed a look toward his wife, who was totally ignoring him.

You either saw it or you didn’t, Mary Helen thought impatiently. So what is all that blinking about? She adjusted her glasses and focused on Dr. Fong’s face, which to her surprise had drained of color. Neil was spared by Bud Bowman’s low whistle.

“Speaking of ganders, get a gander at what’s coming,” he said.

Mary Helen turned to watch Pepe glide into the
salón
. Lisa Springer clung to his right arm. She was ablaze in a raspberry lamé chemise which did outstanding things to her flaming hair. On his left arm was Heidi, again looking, Mary Helen thought sadly, very much like a butterscotch drop.

Smoothly detaching himself from both women, Pepe moved about the room, slapping backs and kissing hands. Mary Helen was thankful that she held her wine in one hand and her pocketbook in the other. Furthermore, she had no intention of doing any juggling.

Pepe took in the room. “Aha! I see we are all here.
Bueno! Bueno
!”

All but María José. Mary Helen wondered where she was. Before she could ask, the tiny woman, strikingly glamorous in a strapless gown of black velvet and silver lace, slid in through a side door. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face and held in place by an ornate comb. Even from across the room, Mary Helen saw that her eyes were blazing. She could almost feel the heat emanating from the small, angry body.

Like a polished host, Pepe ushered each guest to a seat at the round banquet table. Cleverly he placed himself between Lisa and Heidi with María José directly across from him, as far away as one could get at a round table.

Tapping a crystal goblet, he called upon Sister Eileen to pronounce a blessing. Mary Helen held her breath. She need not have worried. Eileen’s prayer was short, sweet, and, much to Mary Helen’s relief, considerably duller than the one that she had threatened.

Once they were seated, the waiters immediately began to serve oysters on large half shells. Conversation bubbled like the white wine that the steward poured into the glasses.

Pepe, avoiding María José’s eyes, raised his glass and toasted the health of the group. Not to be outdone, Bud Bowman toasted Pepe. Cora looked so pleased that her husband toasted María José as well.

Directly across the table from Mary Helen the De-Angelos sat tight-lipped, the way people do when they’ve had
words. Creases like small spokes formed around Bootsie’s set mouth.

Perhaps they’re tired. Mary Helen gave them the benefit of the doubt and speared an oyster. She might have believed it, too, if Bootsie, with a swish of her long dark hair, hadn’t deliberately turned her back on her husband and focused her frosty blue eyes on Cora, who sat to her left. “You look lovely in green,” Bootsie said loudly.

Startled by the unexpected attention, Cora sputtered but not for long. Within seconds the two women had lowered their voices and were carrying on an animated conversation. They were so absorbed, in fact, that they hardly seemed to notice that the waiter served a delicious plate of what looked to Mary Helen like potatoes and peppers mixed with giant sardines. Nor did they pay much attention to the wine steward refilling their glasses.

Sister Mary Helen wished that she could hear what they were saying. To be honest, she wished that she could hear what anyone was saying. As is sometimes the way with round tables, everyone was talking to someone, but no one was talking to her.

To her right, Sister Eileen and Dr. Fong were engrossed. Whatever the topic, Eileen carried most of the conversation. To the right of her husband, Rita Fong was giving María José and Bud Bowman a lesson in reducing muscle stress. Or at least it appeared that way from the places she was pointing out on her neck and shoulders. From the look on María José’s face she wasn’t profiting much from the lesson.

Heidi listened intently to whatever Pepe whispered to her, giggling softly, now and again, before taking a sip of wine. Directly across the table Roger DeAngleo was pontificating.

It is just as well his wife’s back was to him, Mary Helen thought, watching Lisa Springer, her full mouth set in a little
pout, pretending to vacuum in every syllable. Wordlessly she stoked his male ego—and from the look of it, that wasn’t all she was stoking—into a roaring flame.

The professor, seemingly enamored by her flattering attention, hardly stopped for breath. Watching them, Mary Helen recalled a stanza from an old poem of Swift’s:

’Tis an old maxim in the schools,
That flattery’s the food of fools;
Yet now and then your men of wit
Will condescend to take a bit.

From where she sat, Roger DeAngleo seemed to be sucking in considerably more than a bit.

Sipping her wine, Sister Mary Helen settled back, resigned to observing her fellow pilgrims. Actually she rather enjoyed it. She was constantly amazed at how much one can learn about people by merely watching them.

For example, although the friction between María José and Pepe was overt, there was also something definitely amiss with the DeAngelos. And she suspected as much about the Fongs. They, however, were the hardest to read. On the other hand, the bickering Bowmans were having a wonderful time, and Lisa and Heidi seemed to have made up whatever differences they had had.

And differences do occur when you’re traveling with someone, married or no. It is not easy. Even Eileen and she had their moments. Glory be to God! she thought facetiously. We’ve been on this jaunt for only two days. We’ll be killing each other before the week is out!

Heidi giggled, and from across the table Lisa and Roger DeAngelo mouthed in
simpatía
, to put it “Spanishly.” Another fascinating phenomenon, Mary Helen mused, is how quickly relationships develop on tours. Perchance it was the
being thrown together in a kind of time warp. The unfamiliar places, the strange customs, and the foreign language set a stage for instant intimacy.

Whatever the cause, one minute we’re perfect strangers; the next we’re regaling each other with the most personal details of our lives, much as Heidi had done this afternoon.

Heidi wriggled in her seat. Although her afternoon had gone poorly, her evening was more than making up for it. In fact, as the center of Señor Nunez’s attention, Heidi was positively glowing and paying no heed to Lisa Springer, who, with sparkling eyes, kept looking at Roger DeAngelo.

Watching them, Sister Mary Helen suspected that these two girls could go on indefinitely. She, on the other hand, hoped to call it a night soon. The combination of rich food and mellow wine made her eyelids heavy. She glanced hopefully toward her host.

Checking his watch, Pepe pulled himself away from Heidi’s adoring gaze long enough to signal the maître. Within moments, the bevy of waiters appeared to remove the entrée and to replace it with small dishes of carmelized custard.

“Our dessert,
leche frita
,” Pepe announced. “Fried milk.”

Thanks be to God, Mary Helen thought, placing her hand over her wineglass. She didn’t know how much longer she could remain upright at the table.

“How are you doing, Sister?” Heidi, momentarily alone while their host again conferred with the headwaiter, turned toward her.

“Fine, dear. But more to the point, how are you feeling?” Mary Helen asked as if she didn’t know.

Heidi beamed. “Fine, now.” She giggled. “I guess I was just being silly this afternoon. I hope I wasn’t a pain.”

“Never,” Mary Helen said, and, with her final spoon, attacked the thick dessert, a first cousin to flan.

“You’ll never guess who Lisa was with . . .” Heidi began.
Much to Mary Helen’s chagrin, Pepe tapped his goblet for attention.

“My dear pilgrims.” He rose, waiting for everyone to abandon all conversation before he continued.

“Who was she with?” Mary Helen whispered, but butterscotch Heidi was once again enthralled.

“Did you enjoy your first banquet in España?” Pepe asked.

The group clapped appreciatively. Bud Bowman put his baby fingers in his mouth and gave a loud whistle.

“Hear! Hear!” Lisa Springer raised her glass and winked at Bud.

Cora scowled at her husband, who whistled a second time. Mary Helen wasn’t sure if the glare was for the whistle or the wink.