Murder Makes a Pilgrimage (2 page)

“Don’t give me that malarkey.” She followed Eileen toward a side table in the spacious dining room which the Sisters shared at lunchtime with the faculty. “Just tell me why you entered
my
name in that contest and not your own.”

“I was planning it as a surprise.”

“A surprise for what?”

“For Christmas.” With a sanctimonious sniff, Eileen cut the juicy pear into quarters and offered Mary Helen one, which she refused.

“Eileen, it is only September. It’s not even Advent yet. Furthermore, you have not given me a Christmas present in over fifty years. In fact, you know perfectly well that we never give each other Christmas presents, which, we agreed years ago, simplifies both our lives. What’s more, if you intend to start at this late date, what is wrong with a blouse? I can always use another blouse. Or slippers. Or a paperback mystery. I’d love a brand-new mystery.”

Sister Eileen began to dust nonexistent crumbs from the edge of the table. The real reason was coming.

“You may find this a little difficult to believe,” she began, “but when I spotted the box, I had a very lucky feeling.”

“If you were feeling lucky, why in the name of common sense didn’t you enter your own name?”

Eileen’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “We are talking luck here, Mary Helen, not common sense! I wasn’t feeling lucky for me. I was feeling lucky for you.”

Without waiting for a comment she went on. “So, following my hunch, I entered your name. I just knew you would
win that contest.” Her face broke into a wrinkled smile. “And you see? I was right!”

Sister Mary Helen opened her mouth, then closed it again. Although the logic made no sense at all to her, she knew better than to argue. Eileen, the consummate authority on Irish luck, had spoken.

“And so,” Mary Helen said, finally accepting a slice of Eileen’s pear, “now that I have won this trip, what do you suggest I do with it?”

“Go on it, of course!” Eileen had a determined tilt to her chin and a hint of excitement in her voice. “And I will go with you! Life is too short not to enjoy it,” she said with as much infallibility as any Pope could have managed. “Ex cathedra” it was called when the Pope did it: “From the chair of Peter.” When Eileen did it, it was called “annoying.”

“You and I are going on a pilgrimage to Santiago?” Mary Helen’s voice was strained. Several faculty members at other tables were beginning to glance their way. “We don’t know a thing about Santiago. Or about making a pilgrimage, for that matter,” she said, although that was not completely true.

She remembered reading a recent news story in the
San Francisco Catholic
about Santiago de Compostela, the birthplace of Christianity in Spain, celebrating some sort of Holy Year, although she thought the article had said that the main celebration took place in July. And from her long-ago studies of medieval history, she recalled that Compostela, the oldest shrine in the Western world, had once rivaled Rome and Jerusalem as a center of pilgrimage, although she couldn’t remember why.

“Furthermore, this Señor Fraga mentioned something about an
año santo
,” she said.

“Holy Year,” Eileen translated.

“I know that much!” Mary Helen glared. “What I don’t know is why it is a Holy Year in Compostela and not in the
entire rest of the universal church? Isn’t it the Pope who declares a Holy Year and not the Patio Español? Every twenty-five years in modern times, if my memory serves me correctly. And don’t Holy Years generally begin in January, not in October?”

“We’ll just have to be finding that out, now, won’t we?” Eileen wiped pear juice from her fingers. “And Hanna Memorial Library is full of books that will help us with everything we need to know.”

Spoken like a true, if semiretired, librarian, Mary Helen was about to quip, but Eileen rushed on.

“And the sooner the better. What about right after we finish lunch?”

“Right after lunch? I’m working on the alumnae fashion show after lunch.”

“Certainly Shirley can do that without you.”

“Shirley! I completely forgot about her. I told her that I’d meet her here.”

“She doesn’t look like she missed you.” Eileen nodded toward Shirley, who sat chatting happily with several of the other secretaries. “And I’ll wager she will continue to do just as well without you this afternoon.”

Eileen was probably right. A fashion show was much more Shirley’s cup of tea than hers. As a matter of fact, fashion was Shirley’s forte. Mary Helen continually marveled at how everything her secretary wore, including shoes and jewelry, matched. The hues she chose magically picked up and changed the color in her eyes. Today they looked almost emerald, the color of her silk blouse.

Mary Helen pulled at her own pin-striped blouse. The stripe matched her skirt exactly. But then, you can’t go too far astray with basic navy blue. As for her eyes, what picks up a muddy hazel?

“Are you nearly finished eating, old dear?” Clearly, Eileen was eager to get their research started.

Feeling a bit like the Devil’s Advocate, Mary Helen introduced another problem. “Sister Cecilia. Have you forgotten about Sister President? How are we going to tell her that we are about to take a vacation when we just had one? And don’t tell me ‘very carefully.’ ” For a moment Mary Helen thought that she had stumped Eileen. She should have known better.

“What is the sense of being semiretired if we don’t skip work once in a while?” Eileen demanded. “And what’s more, her world won’t end.” She winked. “We have an old saying back home.”

Sister Mary Helen groaned. Although Eileen had left Ireland more than fifty years ago, she still referred to it as “back home” and could always be counted upon to dredge up an “old saying” to fit the occasion. Quite frankly Mary Helen suspected that she made up half of them. Eileen’s next remark confirmed her suspicions.

“Don’t worry about the world coming to an end today,” she announced. “It is already tomorrow in Australia.”

“Since when is Charlie Brown, who, I remember, said that, an Irishman?” Mary Helen asked, but her question fell on deaf ears. Eileen had already deposited her lunch tray on the revolving belt that swallowed up all of the college’s dirty dishes. For all her talk about luck, Mary Helen realized as she followed her friend, Eileen seemed as surprised as she that they had won the trip. And, to judge from the speed of her exit, a great deal more thrilled.

After settling things with Shirley, who was happy to carry on alone, at least for one afternoon, Sister Mary Helen went in search of her friend. Outside, the sky was brilliant, and the
hedge of cobalt blue hydrangea bushes that ran alongside the main building reflected its color. The building itself glistened in the Indian summer sun. A friendly wind set the leaves of the eucalyptus trees quivering, and the pink-rimmed petals of the lemon-cream Peace Roses still held drops of moisture from the morning’s sprinklers.

Mary Helen closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The salty smell of the Pacific was in the air. She heard the college flags snapping atop their pole and from somewhere the
caw-caw
of a sea gull. It must have been a day much like today in Galilee, she thought, when Jesus called Matthew. In the Gospel story for this morning’s liturgy Jesus had said, “Follow me.” And Matthew, the tax collector, by his own admission had left all, “got up,” and followed Him.

God works in mysterious ways, Mary Helen mused, feeling the warmth of the sun on her shoulders and back. For the most part she had stopped years ago trying to figure out the inscrutable whys and hows. Maybe this pilgrimage to Spain was where He was calling her. Who knew? Why, then, was she so hesitant to follow? No reason that made any sense really.

Satisfied that Eileen had headed for the library, Mary Helen ducked back into the building. Eileen was right, of course. Life was too short. The more she thought about it, the more a week in sunny Spain sounded like “just what the doctor ordered,” so to speak. Actually she had not been to the doctor since her yearly checkup last January, at which time he had pronounced her “Amazing!”

Her feet clicked along on the red tile hallway toward the Hanna Memorial Library. Just like castanets, she thought, getting more and more into the spirit of the adventure. By the time she pushed open the doors of the hallowed Hanna, she was softly humming the chorus of “Lady of Spain, I Adore You.”

Sister Mary Helen found Eileen in the small workroom off the main librarian’s office. She was surrounded by black leather-covered tomes.

“We really don’t have too much information on Santiago de Compostela,” Eileen muttered without even looking up. “ ‘Galicia is in the extreme northwest corner of Spain. Its climate is generally wet, much like that of Ireland,’ ” she read aloud.

“Spain is sunny,” Mary Helen said stubbornly, unwilling to give up her illusion.

“All I know is that if it’s like back home, we had better be prepared and pack our Aran sweaters.” She shoved a volume of the 1910
Catholic Encyclopedia
toward Sister Mary Helen, who skimmed through the statistics of the shrine and the metropolitan see of Compostela, its etymology, and its history.

“Here’s something about a Holy Year,” she read. “ ‘Jubilee years (Holy Years) are held when the feast of St. James, July 25, falls on a Sunday. The years come at odd intervals of 6-5-6-11 years apart.’ ”

Eileen counted on her fingers. “We really are very lucky to be going,” she said. “Do you realize what our chances are of being able to celebrate another
año santo
?”

“Very slim-o,” Mary Helen grunted, pulling yet another book from the pile. “Listen to this, Eileen. ‘Tradition says that the disciples of St. James spirited away his dead body from Spain and set sail for Jaffa. Seven days later the ship, propelled by wind and waves, arrived on the coast of Galicia. A man was riding his horse beside the sea. As the ship neared, the horse bolted and the man was carried out by the waves. Instead of drowning, the rider surfaced covered with cockleshells. Since then the cockleshell has been the symbol of St. James and the badge of a pilgrim to Compostela.’ ” Mary Helen paused. “Now what do you think of that?”

“It works for me.” Eileen looked up from the book that she was perusing.

“How did I know it would?” Mary Helen muttered. “Shall I go on?”

“By all means, old dear. My books just have the facts. You seem to have stumbled on all the good stuff.”

“ ‘The saint’s tomb was lost, then rediscovered in 813 by a shepherd who saw little starlike lights over an oak grove. It is sometimes called “St. James of the Field of Stars.” ’ ”

Sister Mary Helen glanced up to see if Eileen was still listening. She was mesmerized. “Do you want to hear the names of some of the famous people who have visited the shrine?”

Eileen nodded.

“St. Francis of Assisi on his way to found his first monastery in Spain; St. Dominic; William of Aquitaine; Louis the Seventh of France; Don Juan of Austria; Marshal Pétain; Angelo Giuseppe Roncalli before he became Pope John the Twenty-third—”

“And us,” Eileen added dreamily. “You do have your passport, don’t you?”

“You know I do,” Mary Helen answered. She renewed her passport and her driver’s license religiously, not as religiously as she renewed her three vows, of course, although some convent wag had once remarked that it was close.

“Then what is it that is still bothering you?” Eileen studied Mary Helen’s face. “I can tell that something is.”

“Several things,” Mary Helen admitted. “From all we’ve read here and what I remember from the article in the
San Francisco Catholic
, the Holy Year starts in January. The Feast of St. James and the culminating celebration are in July. Why, then, are we going in October? And why would the Patio Español sponsor such a trip? To make any sense, it has to be a promotional of some sort. Why would you promote an
event when it is almost over?” She paused to let that much sink in. “And then there’s still the problem of Cecilia.”

Eileen raised her hand. “Whoa! You can ask Señor Fraga about his reasons when you call to accept. I’m sure he has a satisfactory explanation. I have already taken care of Sister Cecilia.” She grinned. “I simply left her a note.”

The phone in the workroom rang before Mary Helen could squeal at Eileen’s news. Even with the receiver pressed against Eileen’s ear, she could hear the cold, clear tone in the college president’s voice.

“I know how busy you are at this time, Sister dear,” Eileen said, her brogue lilting. “I didn’t want to take up an appointment space, so I knew you’d appreciate a note instead. Much quicker for you,” she rushed on. “Mary Helen is here with me, and we have been reading the most wonderful things about this shrine. It should be a very worthwhile religious experience for the two of us. And it is so steeped in history and tradition. The college, I know, will benefit from our having been. Why, one of us can speak about it to a history class and one to a religion class. It is a small part of the medieval church still left in today’s world. Then there is the foreign language department—I beg your pardon?” Eileen paused to listen. “Oh, we will and thank you.”

“What did she say?” Mary Helen asked.

“She said, ‘Have a good time.’ ”

“Poor devil, what else could she say?” Mary Helen shrugged, staring with new admiration at her dear old friend, already returning to her stack of books. “What chance did she stand against you?”

Mary Helen checked her wristwatch. “Let’s stop for a coffee break,” she said. She needed one. The two nuns had been reading silently and to each other for well over an hour.

“Thank goodness you can’t find more books on the subject.” Mary Helen pushed back a piece of gray hair that per
in falling over her glasses. “We probably know more about Santiago de Compostela than most of the natives. Let’s leave something to the tour guide.”

“Right you are.” Eileen stretched. “Let’s just put these books back on the table to be reshelved, and we’ll call it a day.”

The two nuns started down the long hallway toward the Sisters’ dining room in companionable silence. At this time of day the passageway was deserted. In the name of ecology, someone had flipped off the overhead lights.