Murder Makes a Pilgrimage (30 page)

“Lisa tore it up and flushed it,” she said.

Studying the girl, Ángel wished he could delve into her mind. Was she as naïve and simple as she appeared or was she as devious as a winding road? The room was quiet save for the cracking of her gum and the steady drumming of rain against the window.

“Did you like Lisa?” Ángel asked at last.

Heidi shrugged. “She was okay. We were best friends when we were little and when we were growing up. In our senior year she won a scholarship, and after high school she went away to college.”

“What college?” Ángel couldn’t remember having asked that question before. It didn’t seem relevant, but it would keep her talking.

“A college in the South. Belmont College it’s called.”

“Did she like it?”

“I guess. We didn’t talk much after she started college.”

“Did you go to college, Heidi?”

She snapped her gum. “My mom wanted me to go away to college. My dad thought I should stay closer to home for a year or so. I didn’t have the grades to go away anyway, so my dad won, and I went to the junior college. Usually my mom wins.”

Odd, no mention of what she wanted to do, Ángel thought.

“My mom nearly always wins,” Heidi said dreamily. “She wanted me to take Lisa with me on this trip. My dad didn’t want me to go at all. I wanted to take my cousin Doreen. But my mom won again. If she hadn’t won, Lisa would still be alive, wouldn’t she? So did she win?

“When I get home, my mom will blame it on me. I know that. She’ll be real mad at me.” Tears flooded the hazel eyes. “But I couldn’t help it. I really couldn’t.”

Ángel fumbled through the manager’s desk drawer for a box of tissues. “Why do you think your mother will blame you?” He felt sympathy for the woman-child weeping before him.

“Because she blames me for everything.” Heidi sniffed. “She says I screw up everything. But I didn’t screw this up,” she said, then let out a wail that brought Officer Zaldo running.

Even after she was escorted from the room, Ángel couldn’t get Heidi Williams out of his mind. She was surely sick, but how sick? he wondered. Sick enough to kill a childhood friend? Maybe. Maybe not. Mentally he put her above Rita Fong on his suspect list.

“Comisario.” Zaldo reentered the room and stood stiffly at attention. Wet half-moons had formed under his arms.
“The two nuns are asking to see you, and I have brought in Señora Bootsie.” Straight-backed, he waited for instruction.

“Send in the nuns first, Esteban. Let’s see what they want.”

After a few perfunctory courtesies, Mary Helen got right to the point. The two top buttons of the
comisario
’s shirt were open, his gray tonsure was mussed, and he was beginning to look wilted at the edges. No sense prolonging his agony with another long conversation, she thought.

“I forgot to mention that on Friday night, the night I thought I saw someone on the cathedral steps, another person was also looking out a hotel window.”

Ángel straightened up and leaned forward in his chair. “How do you know, Sister?”

“I heard someone cough. From the sound I knew it came from a window. I remember thinking that someone else was having trouble sleeping and was gazing out into the plaza.

“This afternoon I heard the same cough. And Sister Eileen”—she turned to her friend, who nodded at Ángel—“identified it as Bootsie DeAngelo’s cough. Since she is waiting outside for you, we will be on our way.”

“Way to where?” Ángel asked warily, but he was too late. Wherever it was, the nuns were already gone.

The
comisario
was shocked by Bootsie DeAngelo’s appearance. Blue-black rings circled her eyes like bruises. Her hair was pulled back and tied with a large silk scarf; the tails hung over her bony shoulders. Bootsie looked thinner, if possible, than she had when Ángel first saw her, and it was not becoming.

Chicken bones, picked clean, he thought, watching her
perch on the corner of the chair. “Have you thought of anything you didn’t mention the first time we spoke?” Ángel gave her the opening.

Bootsie’s false eyelashes fluttered like two black spiders against her pale face. Then she fixed him with an icy glare. “No, Comisario, I have not. And if I had, I surely would have sought you out and told you. This entire incident is most upsetting.”

“I couldn’t agree more, señora,” Ángel said with a practiced courtesy calculated to annoy her. “But I have reason to believe that you were standing by the window of your hotel room late Friday night. Is that correct?”

Bootsie let out an exaggerated sigh. “No wonder you are getting nowhere with this investigation if that is the kind of fact you’re going after.”

“Perhaps you are correct, señora. Do you remember if you were at your window that night?”

“I may have been. I’ve been up late on several occasions this week. I have not been sleeping well, Comisario. I’m sure that is not so hard even for you to understand.”

Behind the desk Ángel clenched and unclenched his fists. It is a wonder someone hasn’t gone for her little chicken neck, he thought, watching her drum her red fingernails on the arm of the chair.

“Do you remember Friday night specifically? The night you arrived here from San Francisco. Do you remember if you were by your window that night?”

Bootsie gave his question some thought. “After dinner Roger and I joined the others in the lounge. We left shortly after the other couples did. At first I had difficulty falling asleep because of the strange bed and the rain, but once I did, I slept well.”

“Then you don’t remember standing by the open window?”

“When I think about it, I’m sure I did not, Comisario. I have more sense than to stand in front of an open window on a rainy night.”

“Are you sure?” Ángel gave her the final bait.

“I’m sure,” she said, her smile rigid. “As I said, I’m far too sensible for that.”

But not sensible enough to tell the truth, he thought. Why? he wondered, watching her thin back leave the manager’s office. Why would the woman choose to lie about something like that?

Officer Zaldo reappeared in the doorway. “Comisario, do you want another American?” he asked briskly. “Or will you wait until after dinner?”

The peal of the bells in the cathedral’s lordly tower filled the manager’s office. Church bells in the steeples all over Santiago rang out the Angelus.

“It’s noon!” Ángel pushed himself up from the padded chair. “We will both think clearer, Esteban, after dinner and a little break!”

“Sí
, Comisario,” Zaldo snapped, and with a click of his heels he was gone.

Whether it was the hour or Bootsie DeAngelo’s emaciated look, Ángel did not know, but suddenly he was ravenous. He gathered up his raincoat and umbrella. Julietta would be busy in the kitchen by now, fussing over bubbling pots, peeking into steaming pans with delicious smells, just waiting for him to taste. He wondered what she was preparing. For once he hoped it wasn’t chicken.

Kate Murphy lay in bed with her eyes closed. Her head pounded, and she was burning up. Her stomach itched. In fact, she itched all over, but her head hurt too much to open her eyes to investigate the reason.

Her husband grunted, and the alarm clock went off. Kate waited for a few seconds while Jack made his usual waking-up noises. When he finally sat up on the edge of their bed, she opened her eyes. Her eyeballs felt as if they had been rolled in sand. Jack put his fingers into his thick, curly hair and scratched, and she knew he was awake enough to hear what she said.

“Pal.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. She didn’t want to alarm him. “I don’t think I feel very good.”

Jack spun around. “What is it, hon?” His cool hand touched her forehead, and she could tell by his expression that she was on fire. “What hurts?” He scrutinized her face.

“My head is throbbing, and I feel hot and sticky.”

“What did you have to eat yesterday?”

Kate groaned and closed her eyes. Had she married her mother? A good meal or a good physic had been her mother’s solution to all illnesses.

“Where the hell did we put the thermometer?” He shuffled through the drawer of the nightstand.

“Try the medicine chest in the bathroom.”

Jack left the room to do just that. The phone rang. Eyes still closed, Kate fumbled for the receiver and was surprised to hear the voice of Comisario Ángel Serrano.

“I apologize, Inspector Murphy, for disturbing you again,” he said, sounding as if he were calling from a cave, “I was wondering if you have any more information on the American tourists.”

Kate felt much too sick to get angry. “Comisario,” she said, her throat raw, “it’s only seven in the morning here in San Francisco. I’m sure my friend has not yet been able to get to Redwood College, let alone to interview the dean or anyone else. As for the others, none of the offices or businesses are open yet.”

Kate heard him moan. “Of course, it is seven in the
morning!” He sputtered, “I am so sorry, Inspector Murphy, I don’t know what I was thinking of. I should not have been so impatient. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, no,” Kate said, craving a glass of water. “I understand.” And she did. Sometimes when you are on a case, you become so absorbed that you lose all track of time, let alone time in another country. “As soon as I hear from my friend, I’ll call you.”

Jack stood over her. “I can’t find the damn thermometer,” he said. “Only the baby’s, which is . . .” He held it up.

“Don’t even think of it.” Kate was not that sick.

“I’ll call the doctor?”

She tried to think sensibly, but all she wanted to do was sleep. “No,” she said. “We don’t even know if I have a fever. I’m probably just tired. But what about John?” She tried to struggle up.

Jack’s thick hand stopped her. “Don’t worry. I’ll get him up. Then maybe my mother will watch him.”

“Only for the day.”

Jack nodded and handed Kate some aspirin and a glass of cold water, which felt heavenly going down.

Later—Kate had no idea of how much later—she heard her mother-in-law’s voice in the distance. She felt a cool compress on her head. Waking from a restless sleep, Kate swallowed the warm soup Mama Bassetti spooned into her mouth.

Suddenly she was conscious of the quiet in the house. “Where’s my baby?” she asked in alarm.

“He is napping.” Mama Bassetti gave Kate some juice. “You should nap, too, Kate,” she said. “You’ll feel much better when you wake up.”

“But little John.” Kate felt tears sting her eyes.

“He’s just fine.” Mama Bassetti’s voice was soothing. “After his nap I’ll take him for a walk to the park. Then I’ll
bring him in. He’s been in to see you three times already. I think the poor little angel is worried about you. Go back to sleep now, so you can wake up feeling better.”

“What’s wrong with me?” Kate asked, her eyelids heavy.

“I’m not too sure.” Her mother-in-law sounded almost amused. “But I think we should know by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Kate was drowsy. Why tomorrow? she wondered, and was asleep as soon as she formed the question.

Ángel Serrano was embarrassed. How could he have forgotten the time difference? Somehow the days seemed to have run together. Of course, Inspector Murphy’s friend had not yet had the opportunity to interrogate anyone else! She must think him a half-wit, although from her voice, she sounded too sleepy to think much at all. Maybe he should have stopped at two glasses of
vino
at dinner.

It was not the
vino
, he thought, making his way back through the narrow arcade of streets to the police station. It was this murder case that was driving him crazy.

He crossed the streets carefully. They were still slick from the rain. It would not do to fall. Ángel avoided the puddles. So far today he had also avoided the mayor, the clergy, and that infernal Héctor Luna from
La Voca de Galicia
. How long would his luck hold?

The newspaper would have a field day with him if he were unable to solve the case before those blasted pilgrims returned to San Francisco. That gave him only two days.

What if he needed to detain them? What would the American Embassy say to that? He didn’t know. He’d never had a case like this before. Tourists in Santiago usually lost their belongings, or bumped into things, or thought that they had been cheated. But murdered? Never!

“I do not want to be disturbed,” Ángel shouted, and
slammed the door of his small office. He waited until the glass stopped shaking to open it again. “By anyone,” he roared. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, Comisario,” a small voice answered. It was the telephone operator. She seemed to be the only person left in the building.

Ángel pushed back in his chair, propped his feet on the edge of his desk, closed his eyes, and tried to think. After this morning’s interviews, every instinct told him that his suspects narrowed down to Rita Fong, Heidi Williams, or one of the DeAngelos. How could he prove it? None of them had a real alibi, so all of them had had the opportunity.

The key to motive might be with the information Kate Murphy’s friend uncovered. For that he must wait until she called him tomorrow.

The weapon! Could he find the weapon? After dinner, he had told María José that tomorrow afternoon she could help Zaldo search the Americans’ belongings. When he thought about it, the hair on his neck stood up. Did he need someone’s permission to do that? As
comisario
of Santiago he was within his rights. The murder was in his jurisdiction. Or was there some international law governing the situation? He didn’t need any more trouble with bureaucrats.

Ángel Serrano spent the rest of the evening searching for a book that would give him the laws for dealing with tourists.

All morning Sister Mary Helen was conscious of a strange foreboding. An unnamed dread hung in the back of her mind like fog over the Golden Gate, waiting for a chance to roll in.

Her three “accidents” were at the root of it, she knew. Three is a charm—she tried to bolster her courage—and if I wasn’t harmed in three attempts, surely I’m safe. Perhaps the incidents were coincidences after all.