Death Goes on Retreat (31 page)

“Because I’m gay!” he blurted out. His eyes blazed, daring her to say something, anything, that would let him vent his anger.

A swirl of disbelief washed over her. Only the buzz of a horsefly broke the quiet of the small room. She hoped her surprise didn’t show on her face. Still, that was no answer. Why would he allow an innocent girl to take the blame for a murder she didn’t commit just to cover up his sexual preference. It made no sense to her.

“What does that have to do with anything?” she asked as evenly as she could.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said, I’m gay!”

“I heard you and I’m asking you again, what does that have to do with anything?”

“You really don’t know, do you?” he said, his brown eyes hawk-sharp. “I’m gay and Beverly knows it.”

“How would she know that?”

Little gave a nervous laugh. “She saw me a couple of
weeks ago at the Gay Pride Week celebration here in Santa Cruz. It was a risk going, I guess, but it was a lot of fun. Terry and I went to the Blue Lagoon and Beverly must have seen us there. Over the weekend we went for salsa lessons at the Methodist Church hall, and that’s where I remember noticing her.

“When I first saw her at the retreat center, I realized that I knew her from somewhere. You know how you do?” He was almost talking to himself. “It really bugged me, but when someone is out of context . . .”

Mary Helen sympathized. She had that trouble all the time.

“Then when I heard her laugh while I was with Loody, it all came back to me. I guess I recognized that laugh from the dancing lessons. I couldn’t believe it.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t arrest her if you suspected that she was guilty.”

“You really don’t get it, do you, Sister?” His tone begged her to understand, but she didn’t. He sat forward with a thud that startled Mary Helen. “If I made the arrest, Beverly had threatened to blow open my secret. ‘To explode your queer ass right out of the closet,’ as she sweetly put it! Already she’s dropped subtle hints to Loody that she has something on me, although he’s not sure exactly what. I can tell by the insolent way he looks at me. That guy is an obnoxious, bigoted bastard on his best day. I wouldn’t want to give him any ammunition. I just couldn’t risk him knowing that I’m a gay cop. At first, I thought I’d do anything to keep it from him.”

Maybe twenty years ago, but still? Mary Helen wanted to ask, but the misery on Little’s face stopped her.

“Do you have any idea what it means if it gets out that
I’m gay, Sister?” Little’s question reverberated through the small room. “It means that I’ll be the butt of hundreds of jokes, the object of thousands of double-meaning witticisms. I will be looked upon with disgust and hatred and suspicion. My judgment will be questioned. No one will want to have a beer with me in case they get contaminated by association. I will be distrusted, snubbed, humiliated, debased, disenfranchised, and we are not even talking about anyone thinking I have AIDS. Then, someday, I may even get a bullet in my back, a friendly bullet, of course, by accident!”

Despite the heat in the room, Mary Helen shivered. “But you are a very successful homicide detective,” she said softly, trying to reason with his terror. “I can tell that you are well liked by the other officers. It’s obvious that Deputy Kemp tries to emulate you. You are a good, kind person and an insightful detective. Wouldn’t that count for something?”

Little’s face contorted in anguish. He stared at her. His eyes narrowed. “That wouldn’t count for shit, Sister!” he shouted. “Not for shit!”

Unexpectedly his bottom lip quivered. “What am I going to do?” he pleaded. “I haven’t been able to sleep and when I do, I dream of that innocent girl being murdered with me watching it happen. I can’t let Beverly go free.” He smiled wryly. “I guess I absorbed too much of that Catholic guilt at Holy Cross. And I can’t arrest her.” His eyes searched Mary Helen’s face for help, but she couldn’t give any. There was really only one thing for him to do.

“What will I do? What? What?” he chanted, slumping
forward in his chair. Suddenly, he covered his face and wept.

Sister Mary Helen reached over and touched his thick brown hair. She ached for this lovely young man and wished she could think of something to say to console him. . . . Some way she could make doing the right thing, the just thing, easy for him. Even as she wished that she could remove this suffering, she knew that it was part of life, everyone’s life.

It belonged to the mystery of the Cross. Jesus’ own suffering raised questions about all the suffering in our world. Why must innocent people be hurt? Why do the young die? How can a loving God permit so much prejudice and violence and abuse?

And the Cross would always remain a mystery, as does God’s plan for each of us. The only thing we can do is embrace it with courage and with faith.

“Do what you know is right, Bob,” she whispered around the lump in her own throat. “Just do what you know is right!”

Sergeant Bob Little hadn’t been gone five minutes when Mary Helen ran into Sister Eileen.

“I’ve been looking all over for you! I was beginning to worry, although I don’t know what could possibly have happened to you, unless you fell or something. Which you obviously didn’t.” Eileen was dithering. “When I couldn’t find you, I went ahead and called Sister Anne, God love her, and she says she’ll start right now and be here to pick us up in about an hour. I was on my way to
fix us some lunch. I met Felicita, who’d just finished with the bug man—woman—person. . . .” She corrected herself. “And Felicita looks as if she could use a pick-me-up.”

“Do you want some help?” Mary Helen offered half-heartedly. “Not that you need any.”

For the first time since they’d run into each other, Eileen actually looked at her. “You’re exhausted,” she said. “I thought you slept in. Where have you been?”

Sister Mary Helen was still too shaken to explain. There’d be plenty of time once they got back to the college. She’d tell Eileen all about her conversation with both the bug person and Sergeant Little, but not before she’d digested it all herself.

Fortunately Eileen was too preoccupied to insist on an answer. Instead, she rushed on. “Maybe it’s the heat, but whatever it is, you look as if you need a rest. And I’d suggest getting all the rest you can. According to Anne, everyone at home is anxious for us to get there. No one wants to believe the rumors that are flying around the hill.”

Mary Helen felt her stomach drop. “Which are?”

“That we actually stumbled on another murder.”

“And how are we going to answer that?” Mary Helen asked, hoping Eileen would pull a good offense from somewhere.

“I say let’s not shake hands with the Devil till we meet her.” She rolled her gray eyes heavenward. “And we’ve got at least two hours’ grace before we have to, so let’s enjoy. Why don’t you find a nice cool place and I’ll be with you in no time flat. Will tuna salad be okay?”
Eileen threw the words over her shoulder like spilled salt.

“Anything at all,” Mary Helen called, watching her friend bustle toward the kitchen.

Mary Helen pulled open the door of the deserted chapel, genuflected, and slid into the cool back pew. The late morning sun struck the flame in the stained-glass window and shot fiery reds and blues across the sanctuary and over the front pews. The enormous dove leapt from the core of the flame like Hopkins’s “. . . Holy Ghost over the bent / World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.”

She repeated the words over and over. It brought her comfort to remember that God’s love hovers over us all, embraces us all.

Silently, she prayed for Bob Little, for the strength to do what he knew he should. She wished there were something more she could do for him, but she knew it was best to place him in God’s loving care.

She prayed to St. John the Baptist, whose vigil was being celebrated today, and asked him to touch Bob Little with his own lionhearted courage. If what the young man says is true, she thought sadly, he’ll need every bit of it.

She gazed through the glass chapel wall, contemplating the trees beyond. Although the panorama was breathtaking, Mary Helen was even more certain than she’d been earlier this morning that she’d never come back to St. Colette’s. Disturbing memories lurked at every turn. In fact, she’d probably never make another annual retreat without being haunted by this one.

Mary Helen was so absorbed in her own thoughts that she jumped when Felicita tapped her on the shoulder.

“The telephone for you. Take it in the office,” Felicita whispered. “It’s Sergeant Little.”

With a feeling of dread, Mary Helen picked up the receiver. “Yes, Bob?” she said.

“I did it.” His voice was low with emotion. “I arrested Beverly. When I realized she was at the rally, well, that put me on the right track. I was able to figure that she might have a motive. . . .” His words were stop and go. “I don’t know who was more surprised when I arrested her, she or I.”

Relief made Mary Helen’s knees melt and she buckled into the desk chair. “For Greg’s murder and Laura’s death, too?”

“Affirmative,” he said, all at once more businesslike. “When I first read her her rights, she raged like a madwoman, which she well may be, accusing Monsignor McHugh of the crime.”

Mary Helen was stunned. “Why the monsignor?”

“Seems she had a bad experience with his temper as a child in San Francisco. Something about losing his temper in the confessional and it made her hate all priests. The monsignor, of course, didn’t have a clue who she was.

“When the first heat was over and she knew I wasn’t going to change my mind, she broke. I think even she was shocked by what she had done, especially, if you can believe it, about killing the dogs.”

“Did she tell you why she murdered them?”

“She didn’t mean to. She only wanted to sedate them
because she knew they would bark and chase her car when she drove away.”

“No.” Mary Helen dismissed the answer impatiently. “Greg and Laura! Did she tell you why she killed them?”

“With Greg it was flat-out jealousy. As I think I indicated earlier, Beverly is a lesbian. She wanted all of Laura’s attention and affection. She thought that if she did away with Greg . . .” He let the sentence dangle.

Each of Little’s answers raised another question in Mary Helen’s mind. “How did Beverly persuade Greg to go to the grotto without making any commotion?” she asked. “If any one of us had heard him . . .”

“Let me tell you what she told me.” He sounded eager to get through with her questions. “Beverly called Laura’s number, which she, of course, knew. She pretended to be from Dominican Hospital and told Greg his mother was in Emergency.”

“Why would he believe her?” Mary Helen wondered.

“I don’t know, Sister, but when they are awakened in the middle of the night, most people aren’t thinking too clearly. Remember, this guy was also full of bubbly, which didn’t help make him any more logical. Anyway, by the time he arrived, he was probably beginning to have some doubts and when he saw Beverly, they struggled.”

Little cleared his throat. “Beverly’s a strong woman and he fell and hit his head against the car door. She shoved him into the car and drove him to the entrance. When he came to, he didn’t have any idea how long he’d been out. Anyway, she took advantage of that. Beverly had the knife at his throat and told him that she had
Laura at the grotto and if he made any sound she’d kill him first and then kill Laura.

“You can imagine how quickly and how quietly the guy got up there. When he saw the place was empty, he turned, but she was on him. You saw the results.”

Mary Helen’s stomach roiled. “Why did she murder Laura?” she asked softly.

“Because Laura wanted no part of her. Their meeting in the bedroom must have been brutal. Enraged that she had killed for no reason, Beverly dissolved sleeping pills in Laura’s soup and sent an unsuspecting Sister Felicita over with it on a tray. Later she slipped into the room, put the overturned vial on the bedstand, and figured I’d call it suicide!”

“How do you account for Greg getting the acorn stuck in the sole of his shoe?” she asked quickly, sensing Little’s growing impatience to get off the phone. “Did she take him to Bonny Doon?”

Little gave a dry cough. “The acorn that gave you the break, you mean? As far as I can figure, Beverly never went near Bonny Doon, but the carpet of her car was full of stuff from living in the country. You know what I mean?”

Mary Helen did. Sister Therese was always complaining about the twigs and leaves that appeared on the carpet of the convent’s Nova from just getting in and out at the Mount.

“Somehow, he must have stepped on it when he was getting out,” Little said.

An awkward silence filled the line while Mary Helen searched for a way to frame the next question tactfully.
There was none. “Did Beverly threaten to expose you?” Mary Helen asked, dreading the answer.

“Yeah, she did. But don’t worry.” Little’s voice was thick. “I talked to Terry and regardless of what happens, he’ll stick by me. With him I’ll get through this. I’m a survivor!” The old good humor was slowly returning.

“And you know what, Sister?”