Murder Makes a Pilgrimage (21 page)

Finally letting the waiter refill her wineglass, she carried it with her upstairs.

Sister Mary Helen was surprised to hear the bath water running. “Eileen, it’s I,” she called, closing their bedroom door behind her.

The door to the bathroom opened a crack, and a billow of steam softly scented with lavender poured out into the room. “I’m just out of the tub.” Eileen’s voice rose above the sound of running water. “I took a chance you’d be right behind me, so I ran one for you.” The faucets screeched off, and Eileen came out of the bathroom. “Why don’t you jump into the tub and I’ll order us room service, and when we’ve settled, we can—”

“I am not an invalid, you know!” Mary Helen snapped. Despite the soreness in her back, she had no intention of giving in.

Eileen’s eyebrows and shoulders shot up simultaneously. “Invalid? Who said anything about an invalid? Did I say, ‘hobble or crawl to the tub’? Did I say, ‘I’ll help you to the tub’? If I remember correctly, I said, ‘jump into the tub.’ Does that sound like I think you’re an invalid? I don’t know about you, old dear, but I’ve had a long and nerveracking day, and I am bushed. So you do whatever you want.” Tired, angry tears welled up in Eileen’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Mary Helen said, regretting her impatience. She smiled meekly at Eileen, who refused for the moment to
smile back. “Thank you for thinking of me,” Mary Helen said, and for the first time since lunch she really looked at her friend. With a stab of guilt, she noticed that beneath the flush from the tub, Eileen’s face was pale and small pouches had formed under her eyes. She looked absolutely exhausted.

“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” Mary Helen mumbled, and made her way like a medieval penitent to soak in the hot tub.

After a few prickly moments, smoothed over by steaming bowls of
sopa de crema de espárrago
, crusty bread, assorted pastries, and a bottle of aromatic white wine, the two old nuns settled down peacefully to work.

“Neither Bowman holds much promise as our murderer.” Eileen tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. “They are your ordinary run-of-the-mill ‘small-business-makes-good’ story. Bud never went to college, worked as an electrician, bought his own shop in Daly City, invested wisely, and now buys Cora, who is, by the way, his first and only wife, expensive jewelry.”

“So that’s why she was wearing emeralds and diamonds on Friday night.”

Eileen nodded. “Fortieth wedding anniversary gift, Cora told me. She worked as his bookkeeper for years. They have one son, and now that he can easily take over the business, Bud wants to travel.

“They are nodding acquaintances of Carlos Fraga because they eat at the Patio Español once or twice a month. They never heard of any of the others before they won the prize, and if Cora is to be believed, they never want to hear of them again once it’s over. Maybe they’ll even give up the Patio Español.

“Bud told me they should have started with Club Med,
but Cora couldn’t pass up the free trip.” Eileen yawned again. “Dead end number one,” she said.

“Did you learn any more about Heidi?”

Eileen shook her head. “If you ask me, the girl is becoming a bit unglued. She’s very distressed about Lisa’s murder, I’m sure, but to hear her talk tonight, she was more concerned about how angry her mother will be. Why would her own mother be so angry?”

Mary Helen had no idea.

“She makes no pretense about liking Lisa and is very relieved that a police matron packed all her belongings and took them away.”

“Do you think by some remote chance she could be our murderer?” Mary Helen wondered aloud.

Eileen closed her eyes, apparently deep in thought. She looked so drained that Mary Helen wondered if she’d dropped off to sleep.

“No.” She paused. “Although I have no reason to say that. She is just not enough.”

“Not enough?” Mary Helen was genuinely puzzled.

“You know, angry, but not angry enough. Jealous, but not jealous enough. Shrewd, but not shrewd enough. Crazy, but not—”

“Enough! You’ve made your point. To your way of thinking, she’s dead end number two. What about Pepe?”

“As I told you on the bus, I’d never cast Pepe in the murderer’s role, yet he does put a new spin on the word
enigma
. Charming, with a scoundrel of sorts hidden not far below the surface. The well-traveled man of the world with that touch of a Spanish accent.”

“Could be a combination of listening to his uncle and to
I Love Lucy
reruns on the tube.” Mary Helen refilled both wineglasses.

Eileen smiled. “I’ll wager he’s gone no farther from home
than Yosemite.” She sipped her wine. “He did attend college. Even though he wears that ostentatious signet ring, I doubt if he graduated. ‘All show and no go,’ as the girls say. He admires and appreciates his uncle, but we both are well aware of the other side of that story.

“Yet after all I’ve just said, he really has no apparent motive. He claims that he never met Lisa before this trip, and I believe him. So although he may not be a complete dead end, he is, at best, a cul-de-sac.”

Mary Helen agreed. “Do you know who else he never met before?” she asked.

Eileen shook her head.

“María José!” Wasting no time, Mary Helen told Eileen about the Fongs, most likely dead end four, the disappearing DeAngelos, and, saving the best until last, the deadest end of all, María José.

Relief washed over Eileen’s tired face. “I don’t know why, but having someone even remotely connected with the police along on that bus with us makes me feel better.” She yawned so hard that her eyes watered. “Let’s call it a night,” she said.

Mary Helen pushed herself up from the chair. Her knees were stiff, and a spot on her left shoulder felt sore to the touch. “I don’t know why it makes you feel better after what happened today.” She grinned at Eileen. Still contrite for her earlier peevishness, she added, “But there must be an old saying back home to cover it.”

“Indeed, there is,” said Eileen, who recognized true repentance when she heard it. “A trout in the pot is better than a salmon in the sea.”

Not ten blocks away Comisario Ángel Serrano was having a sleepless night. A sliver of moonlight cut through a small
opening in the heavy drapes and lay across the bedcovers. Beside him in the light, he watched Julietta’s stomach move up and down, up and down, in deep, contented sleep. He tried to match his breathing to hers but failed.

Frustrated, he rolled onto his side. Despite his best efforts he kept replaying the account of the Americans’ trip to La Coruña. He could not block it from his mind.

María José was so certain that the old nun had been accosted. Maybe she was exaggerating. First thing tomorrow he would check with the Sister. If his niece had embellished the story, he would personally go over to his sister’s home and throttle María José. And his sister, Pilar, too, if she objected. The pleasure of the thought embarrassed him. What violence for a peace-loving man! But Pilar did that to him.

If he were honest, María José’s observations were helpful, if one considered knowing that a killer was on the loose and disposed to kill again helpful. He, Ángel Serrano, must prevent it. One murder in Santiago, American or no, was quite enough.

To find the murderer, he must first find the motive. That was obvious, yet he knew so little about this group of Americans. That was what made it difficult.

The clock in the downstairs hallway chimed two. The time difference was driving him crazy. It was still Sunday in San Francisco. He must wait for Monday to arrive there. He must wait until this Kate Murphy had an opportunity to pull up information. Wait, while a murderer was on the prowl. He was not good at waiting.

Ángel kicked his feet out of the bedcovers. Sleep! He needed sleep. Tomorrow he had a whole day to get through.

His stomach complained. Pilar never serves enough food, he thought testily. Maybe he was hungry. Maybe that was why he could not sleep.

Cautiously Ángel tiptoed down the stairs, avoiding the
steps that creaked. No sense waking up Julietta, too. He opened the refrigerator door and peered into the covered bowls, hoping to find some leftover soup.

“What in the world is worrying you?”

Ángel jumped and waited until his breath caught up.

Silent as a spider, Julietta had followed him downstairs and now, in only her nightgown, stood in the door frame of the kitchen. Her long dark hair flowed freely over her shoulders and covered her breasts.

“It’s this American murder case and María José,” he said. “I cannot sleep.”

“Sit down,” Julietta said, and bustled past him.

He watched her deftly heat his soup to a perfect sipping temperature, butter a slab of soft bread, and pour him a tall glass of milk.

While Ángel ate and talked, Julietta listened and nodded encouragingly. When he finished, Ángel felt much better.

It was only as Julietta, holding firmly to his hand, led him back up the creaky stairs that he realized that once again she had simply agreed with him. How wise this wife of his was and how fortunate he was to have her.

With a surge of love, he grabbed her full hips. Moving her hair, he kissed the nape of her neck and smelled the fresh, clean scent of lilac.

Clenching her teeth, Sister Mary Helen eased out of the high, canopied bed. Her legs were stiff, her shoulder and back ached, and there was a purple bruise the size of a fist on her hip.

“How are you doing this morning, old dear?” Eileen sat in one of the velvet chairs studying the room service menu. “They say you will feel better if you move your sore spots, you know.”

“Who says?” Mary Helen groused.

“Undoubtedly someone who never bounced off the walls at the Tower of Hercules.”

Mary Helen, her whole body tense, sat on the edge of the bed, examining her hands. “I look—and feel—more like I played for the Forty-niners yesterday,” she said with a twinge of homesickness. Why in the world had they ever decided to take this blasted trip?

No sooner had Eileen ordered room service than someone rapped sharply on their door.

“That was surely speedy.” Eileen moved toward it.

Mary Helen’s heart jolted. Too speedy. She slipped into her bathrobe. “Who’s there?” she demanded, and was relieved to hear the clipped British tones of Comisario Ángel Serrano.

With perfect courtesy, the
comisario
excused himself for
disturbing them, asked a few perfunctory questions about their comfort, and then, refusing a seat, zeroed in like an expert marksman on the reason for his call.

“I am here because I am concerned about your safety,” he said. His sharp black eyes roamed the room as if they expected to find danger lurking under their unmade beds. “My niece, María José, tells me that you are aware of her identity. She also reported to me that you were hurt during yesterday’s outing.”

Mary Helen held out both her hands, determined not to show him any more.

“Heaven knows what might have happened if Pepe hadn’t been there to catch her,” Eileen added.

“Where were you, Sister?” He focused on Eileen. She blinked at his unexpected question.

“I was ahead of Sister Mary Helen—on the way down, that is. I had turned a corner and momentarily lost sight of her. All I heard was her cry out.”

“Did Pepe pass you on his way up?”

Eileen shook her head. “No one passed me,” she said. “Sister and I were the cow’s tail of the group.”

“Then how did Pepe happen to stop Sister’s fall? Did he grab you from behind?” Ángel’s eyes leaped to Mary Helen.

“I think so,” she stammered, remembering the terrifying sensation of free-falling. “I fell forward. I had my eyes covered. Instinct,” she added deliberately. She didn’t want him to imagine for a moment that it was cowardice. “I felt hands grab me. Pepe must have spun me around. It happened so fast, so unexpectedly, that I wasn’t aware of anything except the faint musky smell and two strong hands grabbing me.”

A sharp knock at the door startled her.

“That must be room service,” Eileen told the
comisario
, who was suddenly alert.

The waiter wheeled in a table and miraculously produced
three chairs. It took some doing, but Ángel was finally induced to join them.

“Only café!” he said, pouring about an inch of coffee into his cup, then filling it up with hot milk. “My wife is after me to reduce.” Inhaling, he tried with no apparent success to pull in his little round belly.

After two deep swallows he placed the empty cup back on the saucer. “Today, Sisters”—he was back to business—“you go to La Toja with your tour. It is about fifty-six kilometers to the south. I will once again send María José on the bus. Do not take any chances. If you sense anything out of the ordinary, you are to notify her. Officer Zaldo will drive behind the bus as a backup.”

Mary Helen’s mouth went dry. “Am I to assume that you think we are in some sort of danger?” she asked, having trouble getting her tongue around the words.

“Not at all, Sister. I am assuming that yesterday was a freak accident. I am, however, taking no chances. I was going to cancel this trip, but since I have no way of knowing that the murderer is one of your group, I have decided to let it go on as scheduled.”

After the
comisario
had left, Mary Helen and Eileen sat for a few moments in an uneasy silence. Even after a night’s rest, Eileen’s face was pale and strained. “Do you think one of our group is the murderer?”

“I don’t know.” Mary Helen tried not to let her own panic show. “Who had a reason to kill Lisa? When we know that, we’ll know—”

Eileen studied her pensively. “Something is bothering me, rather like an itch that I can’t reach,” she said.

“What is it?” Mary Helen broke off the corner of a croissant, piled it with berry jam, and popped it into her mouth.

“It’s Lisa herself. We know very little about poor, dead Lisa. Heidi told us that she’d changed in college. But we are
not sure from what to what. Where did she go to college? Another thing, don’t you think that picture business is odd?”

“What picture business?”