Murder Makes a Pilgrimage (6 page)

“I may just as well begin our tour now,” he said, balancing himself in the middle aisle. “Right?” He waited expectantly.

The group was apparently too sleepy to respond one way or the other.

Undaunted, Pepe continued. “First let me introduce you to Señorita María José Gómez. She has agreed to come on this tour with us as my special consultant.”

Bud Bowman let out a snort, which Pepe ignored. “Now about the
hórreo
. You will see many of them in Galicia. They are peculiar to this area of Spain and are used for the safe storage of grain and corn.

“The Galicians are a superstitious people”—he paused, his showmanship at its best—“so they put both the Christian symbol and the pagan symbol on the roof. They are taking no chances.”

There was an appreciative chuckle.

“And Galician women”—he smiled meaningfully at María José—“are said to practice white magic.”

Cora, who was directly in front of Mary Helen, turned around in her seat. “That’s all I need,” she said to no one in particular. “First the redhead, now white magic. My Bud’s a goner!”

Sister Mary Helen, wondering what Señor Fraga knew about there being a consultant on the trip, craned to get a better look at María José. The small woman knelt on a front seat of the bus facing them. She wore her coarse dark hair shoulder length, and in a certain light it looked as if it had been rinsed with magenta. A horseshoe headband held it off her face, which was round and clear with a nose a little too flat and too wide to make her beautiful. Her age was hard to pinpoint. Probably mid-twenties, Mary Helen thought.

María José put her hand out for the microphone. Her dark eyes darted playfully from Pepe to the tour members. “White magic is good magic,” she said in a low, gravelly voice. Again, everyone chuckled.

Eileen nudged Mary Helen and pointed to a woman walking along the roadside with a large wicker basket of wet
laundry on her head. “Talk about carrying a heavy work load,” she said.

Out of habit Mary Helen groaned at the pun.

In the distance, above the softly rolling hills, the sky was a study in white and brilliant blue. As the bus wound its way toward town, Sister Mary Helen watched the mobile clouds gathering, dispersing, suddenly piling into great darkening mountains. There was an energy in the sky that gave the rugged landscape a special beauty and made her wonder, uneasily, if Sister Therese had been right about the umbrellas.

“Do you think it’s going to rain?” She nodded toward the clouds.

“It always rains in Galicia.” Eileen looked puzzled. “You know that.”

“How would I know that?”

“I read it to you in the library. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember no such thing,” Mary Helen said with more conviction than she felt.

Eileen yawned. “That’s why we wore these heavy sweaters”—she tugged at her Aran knit—“and why the pilgrims to Santiago dressed in broad-brimmed felt hats, heavy capes, and the thickest of sandals. You do remember that?”

Before Mary Helen was forced to any admission, Heidi Williams shot out of her seat.

“There it is!” she shouted, pointing out the window. They all strained to see where she was pointing and were rewarded with the sight of the magnificent cathedral spires looming in the distance.

“
Mon joie
, Heidi.” María José stood in the middle aisle. “It is an ancient custom,” she said, “that the first one in a group of pilgrims who spies the towers shouts, ‘
Mon joie
, I am the king.’ That person becomes the king of the group, or, in your case, the queen.”

“Attagirl!” Bud called out. Pepe clapped, and Heidi let
out an embarrassed giggle. María José went on to explain the legend of St. James, the symbolism of the cockleshells, and several other things that Mary Helen did remember reading in the old
Catholic Encyclopedia
.

Feeling a bit smug, she scanned the buildings on either side of the narrow streets, searching for the cockleshells over the doorways. To her amazement, the streets and doorways were crowded with hundreds of young people walking, bicycling, talking in groups.

“You will feel right at home here, Professor,” Pepe said when the bus stopped to let a group of hooting young men cross. “This is a university town. There are one hundred thousand people; fifty thousand are students.”

Mary Helen wondered if Pepe made up those statistics, although from where she sat, they seemed correct.

Within minutes the bus turned into Santiago’s central plaza. Sister Mary Helen sucked in her breath. It was as if she had been catapulted back several centuries. The glorious baroque cathedral, the ornate buildings surrounding the plaza had the undiluted ambience of a medieval town. It would not have surprised her in the least to see Chaucer’s long line of mounted pilgrims riding up to the
hostal
and dismounting for a night’s lodging.

What she saw instead were several bellboys clad in gray and Kelly green uniforms hurrying out of the hotel with carts to collect their luggage. Before they all left the bus, Pepe gave them detailed instructions on how to register at the hotel, where to exchange their money, and the time and place of dinner. He suggested that until then they take a nap or explore the town.

“Whichever suits your fancy,” he said with a flourish. After leaving the bus, he disappeared into the hotel with María José, undoubtedly to “consult,” Mary Helen thought wryly.

Like two zombies, Eileen and she followed the bellboy, who could more accurately have been called a “bell grandfather,” through a courtyard and down a hallway lined with copies of the works of Goya and El Greco toward their assigned room.

“This place is absolutely gorgeous,” Eileen whispered, but Mary Helen was too tired to appreciate their palatial surroundings. Once they had tipped the man, both nuns shed their shoes, removed their glasses, slid into their canopied beds, and fell into a deep sleep.

A gentle yet persistent tapping woke Sister Mary Helen. At first she feared it might be rain. When she was a little more awake, she realized that someone was knocking on the heavy wooden door of their bedroom. She glanced at her watch. Without her glasses she could not make out the time. No matter; it was still set on San Francisco time, and at the moment she was too groggy to calculate the difference.

“Yes,” she said, opening the door a crack. Her eyes met the eyes of Dr. Neil Fong.

For a moment he looked confused. “I’m so sorry, Sister,” he said, blinking and fussing with his half glasses. “I hope I didn’t disturb you. I thought this was Lisa’s room.” His face paled. “I just wanted to show her the Polaroid my wife took in Madrid.” He fumbled in his jacket pocket, pulled out the photo, and held it up for Mary Helen to see.

Without her glasses, the figures were simply a blur, yet she smiled and muttered, “That came out very nicely.”

“I am sorry if I disturbed you.”

“It is high time we were up anyway.” Eileen stood behind her. “What time do you have, Doctor?”

“Six. Just six o’clock,” the dentist answered, and, apologizing again, hurried down the thickly carpeted hall. Mary Helen watched until he turned the corner.

“Only six o’clock.” Eileen yawned and sat back down on
the high bed. “And dinner is not until nine. I will never make it. My stomach is still on San Francisco time.”

“That’s odd,” Mary Helen mused.

“I think it’s quite normal. And you don’t mean to tell me that you’re not a wee bit hungry, too.”

“Not your stomach, Eileen! Dr. Fong. Don’t you think it is a bit odd that he’d drop by the room to show Lisa Springer a Polaroid picture when he is going to see her at dinner in a very few hours? You don’t suppose he is smitten with her, do you? She is a beautiful girl, you know, and really quite a flirt.”

“How do you know that?”

“Didn’t you watch her on the plane last night?”

Eileen let out an exaggerated sigh. “Now don’t be making up situations where none exists.” She slipped on her shoes. “His wife may be asleep, and he’s wanting some company. Or he’s restless after the long flight and just wanted a reason to roam around.”

“Why roam in a hotel when there’s a whole lovely, quaint little town at your doorstep?” Mary Helen put on her glasses and pulled back the heavy drapes. In the twilight she spotted a gray-headed man crossing the patio. “There goes Professor DeAngelo. See?” She hung out the open, screenless window. “He’s going for a walk. Why didn’t Dr. Fong go with him?”

“Perhaps they didn’t run into each other.” Eileen pushed herself off the high bed. “Now, I’m starving! For all your noticing of things, did you happen to notice a place in this hotel where we could get a cup of tea? Maybe hunger is what’s making your imagination work overtime.”

Sister Mary Helen let the drapes fall. Eileen was probably right. She was imagining things. No wonder! During her years at Mount St. Francis College, she had been involved with several murders. She shivered. Was she beginning to
view all events with a jaundiced eye? This trip was to be a pilgrimage, a holy journey, a time to relax and be rejuvenated.

Mary Helen straightened her skirt and ran a comb through her hair. “Not only did I spot a little room with wooden tables,” she said, “but before we left home, I stuck a couple of packages of shortbread cookies in my pocketbook.”

Without further delay the two nuns went in search of a cup of tea. The little room with wooden tables turned out to be the hotel bar. Save for the bartender, who was busy lighting candles in the center of each table, the place was deserted. The pair moved quickly to an unobtrusive table, sat on the red cushioned chairs, ordered their tea, and broke open a package of cookies.

They had just asked for refills when Heidi Williams appeared in the doorway. “Thank goodness there’s someone I recognize here,” she said, joining them. “I can’t find anyone.”

The flicker of light from the candle on the table caught a strand of gold in her butterscotch hair. Mary Helen noticed that her eyes were red and puffy. She had either suffered a severe attack of hay fever or been crying.

“Is everything all right, Heidi?” Mary Helen asked softly.

Heidi reached in her pocket for a tissue. “Yeah,” she said, swiping at her eyes. “I’m okay. I was just feeling a little lonely, I guess. I couldn’t find anyone around, and this whole place is so—so spooky.”

With a wave of her chubby hand, she dismissed centuries of Spanish Romanesque architecture and a vast collection of priceless works of art.

“We’re glad you found us.” Eileen offered her a cookie. “But where is your friend Lisa?”

“I never should have asked Lisa,” Heidi mumbled through a mouthful of shortbread. “It was my trip, you know. I won it.”

“Isn’t Lisa your friend?” Sister Mary Helen had wondered
about the pair since she’d met them. Even on first appearance, they presented a very odd couple.

“We used to be real close,” Heidi said, swallowing, then clearing her throat. “We’re next-door neighbors, and we’ve known each other since we were babies. Lisa and I were like this in grammar school and high school.” She crossed her index and middle fingers.

“But then in our senior year she got a scholarship and went away to college. In college she changed. A lot!” Heidi bit emphatically into her cookie, leaving Mary Helen to guess what she meant by change.

“When I won the trip, I was going to ask my cousin Doreen, but my mom said, ‘Why not ask Lisa next door? You two used to be such good friends.’ ”

Heidi’s puffy eyes narrowed. “So I asked her, and sure enough she said yes. My mom and her mom were glad, but I should have known better. ‘You’ll have fun,’ my mom said. My dad’d kill me if I had fun the way Lisa does.”

“Where is Lisa now?” Mary Helen asked. What she really wanted to ask was “How did college change Lisa, and what in the world does she do for fun that is worthy of murder?” Certainly it couldn’t be that rather amateurish flirting she had noticed on the plane.

Heidi shrugged. “I really don’t know where Lisa is now. I was getting out of the shower when I heard someone knocking on our bedroom door. Lisa must have answered because I heard muffled voices. Then she hollered, ‘I’ll see you at dinner,’ and I heard the door slam.” Heidi’s eyes began to fill again.

“We are just about to take a little look-see around the hotel ourselves. Get our bearings, so to speak, before dinner,” Eileen said brightly, “weren’t we, Sister Mary Helen?”

It was news to Mary Helen, but she nodded in agreement.

“Why don’t you come with us?” Eileen patted the girl’s plump hand.

“If you won’t mind.” Heidi’s chin quivered.

“Mind? Don’t be silly. We would love having you. . . .” Eileen let her voice trail off.

Slowly the threesome made their way through the sumptuous hotel. They wandered into the Gothic chapel with its filigreed columns and its magnificent iron screen, which Ferdinand and Isabella had built for the medieval pilgrims. Mary Helen wondered what the royal couple would think of its modern-day use as a concert hall and gallery.

They strolled through the four patios built by the monarchs as refuges for the exhausted pilgrims. In its heyday the Hostal de los Reyes Católicos had been the foremost hostel in the world. So many came that the enormous
hostal
could not accommodate them.

The trio stopped to admire the magnificent paintings on the walls and to peek into spacious lounges with overstuffed furniture, ornate fireplaces, and exquisite flower arrangements.

For all their meandering through the hotel, they did not come across one other member of their tour group. In fact, except for two or three uniformed maids, they did not run into another living being. Spooky, Mary Helen thought, using Heidi’s word to describe her own feeling.

They paused momentarily and waited in the hallway while Heidi went in to use the rest room.

“Where do you think everyone else is?” Mary Helen asked, glad that they were alone for a minute.

“If they have any sense at all, they are resting in their rooms.” Eileen sagged down into an antique velvet-covered chair in the hallway.

“Here you are!” Pepe’s voice roared down the empty hallway. “I am glad I found you,” he said, waving a list of
names and room numbers. A tousled-looking María José followed in his wake. “I was just making sure that all my
peregrinos
remember that dinner will be served at nine o’clock in the Salón Real.”