The Corporal Works of Murder (20 page)

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Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie

BOOK: The Corporal Works of Murder
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“What do you figure that's about?” Gallagher whispered.
“Beats me,” Kate said. “Maybe we ought to get back to the city and see if we can find out.” Turning on her heel, she made her way to their parked car.
“Jeez, Kate,” she heard Gallagher muttering behind her, “that's all we need—a case where the city's big kahunas are involved.”
Little shivers skittered over her skin. “But you know, Denny, it does make sense.”
“Whoa!” Gallagher's voice rose. “Don't even go there! Or if you do let's make sure we've checked out every other possibility. Right?”
“Right,” Kate agreed. “Where do you think we should start?” Car doors slapped along the curb.
“My gut's telling me Tim Moran is as good a place as any,” Gallagher turned the key in the ignition. “Let's try the tattoo parlor and see if he's there.”
“Good idea,” Kate said, wondering just how happy Moran would be to see them. Well, they'd soon find out.
Gallagher pulled away from the curb. “And let's hope that there's a logical explanation for the missing pages in the surveillance log and that there's no connection between the alleged brothel and the San Francisco bigwigs.”
“That's a lot of hope,” Kate mumbled as her partner merged onto El Camino Real.
“Isn't that damn stuff supposed to spring eternal?” he asked.
When Sister Mary Helen and Sister Anne pulled up in front of the Refuge, a small crowd of women was already gathered at the front door. “If I didn't know better, I'd say we were being picketed,” Mary Helen remarked, taking in all the unhappy faces.
Anne smiled and pulled into the parking lot. “You're right. The only things that seem to be missing are the placards,” she said.
“Where you been?” Venus demanded as the two nuns rounded the corner. Her dark eyes narrowed as she waited for an answer.
“Have you been waiting long?” Anne asked sweetly.
With a look of disgust, Venus ran her long fingers through her hair which, crazily, always reminded Mary Helen of black broccoli. “Yeah, we all been waiting long.” She stomped her feet trying to get warm.
“Didn't you see our sign?” Anne turned the key in the front door and pulled it open.
“I seen it,” Venus said. “It say you going to a funeral. It be nearly lunchtime. How long a funeral take?” she asked accusingly.
“Oh, hush your mouth, girl,” Sonia said grinning at Mary Helen.
Poor Sonia looked especially pale this morning. Her sickle cell anemia must acting up again.
“Who you telling to hush, girl?” Venus challenged.
For a moment, Sonia looked as if she might pick up the gauntlet.
“Don't be acting the fool,” Miss Bobbie said. The scar around her right eye twitched dangerously.
Venus whirled to face her. “You calling me a fool?” she asked, her voice low and threatening.
“If I is, it's'cause you are.” Miss Bobbie didn't seem as if she was going to back down.
Mary Helen felt the muscles in the back of her neck tense. Where was this going?
“I'll get the coffee on as quickly as I can,” Sister Anne said loudly, obviously trying to distract the two women.
“And I'll put out the doughnuts,” Mary Helen added. “I think I saw some apple fritters in the box.”
Thankfully, the mention of food worked. Without any further fussing, the women filed into the Refuge, wrote their names on the sign-up sheet, and found places at the tables.
“Bring me a doughnut, Peanuts,” Miss Bobbie commanded as soon as Mary Helen had set the tray on the serving table.
The diminutive woman pulled herself up to her full height. “If you asks a little sweeter, I may bring it,” she said.
“Then I guess I be getting it myself,” Miss Bobbie shot back and the room burst into laughter.
“Thank goodness,” Mary Helen thought. They needed some comic relief.
Once she had seen to it that everyone had coffee and doughnuts, Mary Helen sat down across the table from Miss Bobbie.
“How you doing, girlfriend?” the old woman asked, although she didn't look up from her chocolate cake doughnut. “How be the funeral?”
“Sad,” Mary Helen admitted. “It is always sad when someone so young dies. They say that only the good die young, but that doesn't help very much.”
Miss Bobbie pursed her lips. “Not always,” she said.
“Not always what?”
“Not always the good die young,” she hissed. “Look at Junior Johnson. He be young, but he be a bad one.”
How do I reply to that?
Mary Helen wondered. “He must have some redeeming qualities,” she suggested.
“Say what?” Miss Bobbie stared at her.
“There must be something good about him. Nobody is all bad.”
The old nun felt Miss Bobbie's brown eyes studying her while she, no doubt, decided how to respond. “You better wise up some, girlfriend,” the woman finally said, not unkindly, “or you not going to make it in this neighborhood.”
At first Mary Helen was taken aback. It had been years since anyone suggested that she wise up. She wasn't sure just how to react. What was it Eileen always said? “The wise one keeps a shut mouth.” Meeting Miss Bobbie's gaze, it seemed, indeed, the wisest thing was to keep still.
Without warning, the front door flew open and Crazy Alice's high giggle floated above the conversation in the room.
Miss Bobbie rolled her eyes heavenward. “That all we needing! Don't we got enough on our nerves without Crazy Alice playing the fool?” she asked, her question addressed to no one in particular.
Although Mary Helen doubted if the woman heard Miss Bobbie's remark, her giggling stopped abruptly. With a sweeping glare she took in the whole room. Her eyes narrowed and Mary Helen held her breath, anxious about what was coming.
“Hello, Alice,” Mary Helen heard Anne greet the woman. “You look as if you could use a cup of coffee.”
Before Crazy Alice could answer, the door swung open behind her, almost hitting her. Unaware that she'd had a near accident, Geraldine stormed into the Refuge.
Startled, Alice studied her without speaking. Then for no apparent reason, she began in a singsong tone of voice,
It's like a lion at the door;
And when the door begins to crack,
It's like a stick across your back;
And when your back begins to smart,
It's like a penknife in your heart;
And when your heart begins to bleed,
You're dead and dead and dead, indeed.
Geraldine's face lost all its color. The room was so still that Mary Helen could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights. She felt the hair on her arms stand up.
“What you talking about, you crazy fool?” Geraldine asked, her voice shaking.
Without answering Alice turned and left as quickly as she had come in. To be honest, Mary Helen was glad. Emotions were running high enough today. They didn't need Crazy Alice in the mix.
Without another word, Geraldine settled at a table in the corner of the room, her back to the crowd.
Greta Garbo couldn't have made it any more clear that she wanted to be alone,
Mary Helen thought, going to the kitchen for more napkins.
Sometimes we're not the best judges of what we need,
she reasoned. Although she had to admit, Geraldine looked terrible. In fact, Mary Helen could not remember ever seeing her look this bad. Her gray hair was tangled, almost matted. Deep lines cut into her face as if she hadn't slept. Dark half-moons had formed under her eyes and her shoulders were hunched with sadness. She'd let Geraldine relax for a while, sip her coffee, think her thoughts, and then she'd approach her and find out if there was anything she could do to help.
Surely Geraldine must still be in shock from finding her beloved nephew in the park. Mary Helen expected to have nightmares herself about Junior for a long time.
“Sister, it's my shower time. Can I have my towel and stuff?” Peanuts's voice brought her back to reality.
“I need a toothbrush and some toothpaste,” Venus said, pointing to her missing front tooth.
“Do you have a plastic bag?” someone else asked and Mary Helen was off and running.
A little past one o'clock, Louise, the volunteer for Wednesday afternoon, arrived. Mary Helen was very glad to see her. Frankly she was bone tired. And who wouldn't be at her age? After all, she was seventy-eight—or was she seventy-nine? Not that it mattered.
Discovering a dead body, dealing with the police and the nuns, and attending a funeral—all within twenty-four hours—would weary the heartiest of souls at any age.
By two o'clock, she was even toying with the idea of asking Sister Anne if she could have the rest of the day off. A nap sounded so tempting. She could hop the Muni and be in her bedroom at the convent in thirty minutes.
She had all but made up her mind when she noticed Geraldine, a half-full cup of coffee and a half-eaten doughnut on the table in front of her. Poor thing had fallen asleep. Although it seemed too cruel to wake her up, Mary Helen wanted to offer her assistance if Geraldine needed it. She'd leave a note.
Quietly, so as not to startle the dozing woman, Mary Helen put the slip of scratch paper beside her arm. Despite her best efforts at being quiet, Geraldine started awake. “Oh, it's you,” she said in a groggy voice. “What you want?”
“I was just leaving you a note.” Mary Helen adjusted her bifocals on the bridge of her nose and slid the paper toward Geraldine. “If there is anything I can do for you …”
Geraldine's brown eyes filled with tears. Mary Helen watched one slide unheeded down her cheek. “Nobody can do what I need. Nobody can bring back Junior.” She fumbled in her pocket and finally found a tissue.
“Maybe we can help the police find the person who took his life,” Mary Helen said gently. “Tell me honestly, Geraldine, do you have any ideas?”
Geraldine's face hardened and her eyes snapped angrily. “All night I be talking to Junior's friends. They be telling me that it ain't nobody they knows who killed Junior.”
“Are you saying they have no suspects?”
Geraldine gave a hollow laugh. “Oh, yeah. They got suspects. But they be the kind nobody can touch.”
Mary Helen was puzzled.
What kind of suspects can no one touch?
she wondered, thinking of all the mystery novels she had read and all the crime television programs she had seen. International agents, spies, the Mafia, high government officials—surely none of these would have much reason to murder Junior Johnson, a petty criminal from San Francisco's Tenderloin. “And do you know who these untouchables are?”
Geraldine stared at her, her jaw stubbornly set. “Better I don't say nothing to you or to anybody. No, ma'am, Sister.” She wagged her head sadly. “Don't want nobody finding us in the park with a bullet in our head. No way!”
Sister Mary Helen knew by the intensity of her voice that Geraldine was deadly serious. “If you want, I can talk to Inspector Kate Murphy. She's a friend of mine,” she began, hoping to make Geraldine feel better.
The palm of Geraldine's hand shot up. “No,” she said as if she were speaking around a lump of fear in her throat. “Don't be talking to no police!” She rose so quickly that her chair clattered backwards onto the floor. Several women turned to see what was going on.
“What's happening, Genie?” Miss Bobbie asked, using Geraldine's street name.
Ignoring her question, Geraldine stiffened, gathered up her purse and her plastic bags and nearly ran from the room.
“Look like the devil himself be chasing her,” Peanuts quipped, “and she giving him a run.”
Several women gave a halfhearted laugh. All at once, any thought of a nap left Sister Mary Helen's mind. The woman was scared—scared to death. Of the police? Mary Helen couldn't believe it. Why? Why would she think that the police were involved in Junior's murder?
Geraldine had mentioned a house of prostitution in the neighborhood and indicated that the police knew about it. At the time she had even hinted that they might be looking the other way. What was it she'd said? “For a smart woman, you be awful dumb.”
Well, Mary Helen didn't intend to be dumb anymore. If the police were involved in any way, she wanted to know it and then pass on the information to Kate Murphy and Inspector Gallagher.
Where to start?
she wondered. Where better than with the undercover policeman down the street—Tim Moran. She hadn't seen him at Sarah Spencer's funeral. He had probably been on duty at the tattoo parlor. She'd go down there this minute.

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