Murder Makes a Pilgrimage (9 page)

Bootsie DeAngelo hesitated in the doorway. Her eyes darted around the room until she spotted the two of them.

“You didn’t sleep either, I see,” Cora said when Bootsie was seated.

At least, she has the good grace not to mention how she knows, Mary Helen thought. Bootsie’s face was as white and taut as rice paper. Overnight the lines around her mouth and eyes had sprung into deep wrinkles. Her hair, blue-black and limp, was pulled back with a youthful padded cloth headband that only made her look older.

“Café con leche, señora?”
The waiter was at her elbow.

Bootsie put her hand over her cup. “Tea, if you please,” she said in a slow, hoarse drawl.

Cora and Sister Mary Helen both had refills. “Are you feeling all right?” Cora frowned. “I hope you’re not getting a cold.”

Bootsie shook her head. “Strange food, strange bed, a little jet lag,” she said, staring into her teacup. “And the rain! Did you-all hear it pouring? Then, early this morning, that giggling in the hallway.” She gave an involuntary shudder. “But nothing bothers my Roger. He’s upstairs, dead to the world.”

“Bud, too!” Cora, rejoicing with a fellow sufferer, bent forward and began to berate her husband’s sleeping habits. Bootsie, too exhausted to do anything but listen, agreed; that suited Cora fine.

With no experience to add to the conversation, Mary Helen drained her cup. Wondering how to escape politely, she fumbled in her pocketbook. There was Anne’s travel diary. If she didn’t write something now, she’d probably take it home empty.

Since neither Cora nor Bootsie needed her attention, she opened it. “October 9,” she wrote on the top of the first
page. “Saturday. Going to see St. James.” Enough! She’d fill in the details later.

Mumbling excuses about prayers and Mass, which her companions neither seemed to hear nor to care about, Mary Helen made a hasty exit.

Once outside the
hostal
, she paused, still unable to believe that she was actually in Santiago de Compostela. Overhead the bowl of sky was an after-the-rain blue, and the air was fresh and crisp. The Plaza del Obradoiro itself was nearly deserted. The few people who were in the flagstone square seemed in a hurry to be on their way. Pigeons, their necks ringed in rainbows, bobbed along, picking at crumbs and drinking from puddles.

One enterprising young man, probably a student, was already setting out his wares. From where Mary Helen stood they looked like windup plastic birds. She wondered idly how the pigeons would take to their intrusion.

Midway across the huge plaza she stopped to drink in the magnificent cathedral. Moss and lichen streaked the granite facade, giving it a greenish tinge. Two towers soared into the sky, framing a shorter central one with St. James the Apostle atop it. Mary Helen craned her neck. James, dressed in flowing cape and wide-brimmed, cockleshelled hat, with a pilgrim staff in his hand, looked ready to step right out of his niche and into the plaza below.

She started up the long flight of stairs, the stone worn with the feet of centuries. Kings and saints, rogues and beggars and poets all used these same steps, she reflected, planting her foot firmly on each one.

Maybe even St. John Leonardi, she thought, remembering the medieval pharmacist whose feast the Church celebrated today. Maybe he walked this way, and in time unknown saints, saints yet to be born, will use the same stairs that I now touch.

Mary Helen paused just inside the main entrance of the cathedral under the Pórtico de la Gloria—the Door of Glory—to let her eyes adjust to the sudden dimness. She drew in her breath. The triple-arched masterpiece was magnificent, rampant with hundreds of figures. Fascinated, Mary Helen found prophets and saints, angels and children, all carved by Maestro Mateo in the twelfth century, still relaxing against the pillars and along the arches. Smiling and winking, lounging or chatting, they awaited the Last Judgment.

Their joy was contagious. Mary Helen smiled. In fact, she might have laughed aloud if the cathedral hadn’t been so silent. This was her idea of the dreaded Last Judgment, too, an upbeat affair where God, in His unconditional love, invites each one of us to enjoy a paradise of music and laughter and winking saints.

The cathedral, like most cathedrals, was built in the form of a Latin cross with long, narrow aisles and soaring arches. The hushed interior was nearly empty. A woman in a blue smock was dusting, and here and there a lone worshiper hunched over a pew, obviously deep in prayer. Mary Helen tiptoed, hoping not to disturb anyone.

Before her, the sanctuary was dominated by the ornate silver repoussé on the wall and on the altar. Above it all sat St. James himself, glittering in silver and gold, surrounded by angels. Eight enormous cherubim held a massive carved and gilded canopy. As startling as the baroque sanctuary was, especially in contrast with the quiet elegance of the arches, the two were somehow harmonious.

The high altar was empty, but a faint aroma of incense hung on the air. Obviously Mary Helen had missed the early Mass.

Before I settle down to morning prayer, I’ll just pop in for a quick visit to the shrine of St. James, she thought, tiptoeing around the side of the sanctuary. It seems only polite.

According to the guidebooks, the apostle’s remains were kept in a crypt below the main altar. A narrow door to the left of the sanctuary led the pilgrims down to it.

Carefully she squeezed through the door marked
“Entrada”
and followed the narrow, worn steps down to a stone chamber hardly large enough to hold four or five people. It was as quiet as a tomb! No wonder, Mary Helen thought, suppressing a nervous urge to laugh, it is a tomb!

A bronze plaque on one wall proclaimed Pope John Paul II’s visit to the shrine, where the pontiff had celebrated Mass. Across from it a heavy, wrought-iron gate closed off the tunnellike hallway leading to the silver coffin which was adorned with figures of Christ and the twelve apostles. The now-familiar cockleshell pattern decorated its lid. A single light shone down, and hammered silver absorbed the glow.

A tattered purple velvet prie-dieu stood in front of the gate like a double guard to protect the saint from his visitors. Slipping behind the kneeler, Mary Helen moved up to the gate. It was locked. She peered at the crypt from every angle and caught a glimpse of the edge of an altar and a bouquet of flowers.

That altar was probably where the Pope said Mass, she thought, and the flowers looked perky and fresh. People must go into the enclosure. She shook the gate, but it was so securely fastened that it didn’t even rattle.

There has to be another entrance, she thought, feeling a sudden inexplicable urge to touch the casket, which tradition held contained the remains of St. James and two of his disciples. Perhaps the gate–prie-dieu barrier fanned her desire. Perhaps it was the realization that both the Pope and the florist had been inside. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander! Whatever spurred her on, she was determined to have some physical contact, however slight, with a man who had known and loved and touched Christ Himself.

Glad that the cathedral was nearly deserted, Mary Helen hastily climbed up the steps. In the shadows behind the main altar, she opened a carved wooden gate and crept into the chancel. Groping in the semidarkness, she felt her shin hit a kneeler. The harsh scrape of wood against granite reverberated up through the stone arches.

Mary Helen froze, waiting for the sacristan or a guard or even the woman in the blue smock to investigate. When no one appeared, she edged her way toward another small door with a set of steps.

Blindly she touched the stone wall and, testing each step with her toe, felt her way down. As she descended, the strange musty odor became stronger.

Once she reached the bottom, the small light drew her toward the casket. Mary Helen squeezed around the altar, careful not to upset the vase. Her foot caught on something. The edge of the linen altar cloth, no doubt. She looked down, hoping that she hadn’t pulled the whole thing awry.

But it wasn’t the altar linen at all. It wasn’t even white. Whatever had tripped her was shiny and red. Raspberry red. Even in the dim light, it shimmered. Wondering what it could be, Mary Helen freed her toe and squeezed around the marble pillar.

She must be quick. Someone else was sure to come down into the crypt soon, someone who was bound to realize that she was neither the Pope nor the florist. Not even the cleaning lady. She didn’t want to be caught on the wrong side of the gate. Too hard to explain. Somehow she knew that her “goose and gander” theory wouldn’t cut it.

Eyes closed, Sister Mary Helen whispered a prayer, stretched out her hand, and touched the silver lid. She expected it to feel cold, not wet and sticky. Distracted, she opened her eyes and fished in her pocket for a tissue. What in
heaven’s name could be leaking down here? Mary Helen glanced up at the ceiling, then down.

Her heart gave a sickening jolt. She stared disbelieving at her open palm where the flickering light played on a clot of bright red, sticky blood.

Steadying herself, she stretched forward to examine the side of the casket. A streak of red was smeared from the corner of the lid down one side—as though a bloody rag had been dragged over it. Then she saw it . . . on the marble floor below, awkwardly stuffed behind the ornate casket. It was not a rag at all. It was a body. Rivulets of blood snaked down from a gaping head wound onto the shimmering evening dress. They ran like scratches across the raspberry lamé.

Mary Helen crouched beside the casket and peered at the face, half covered with strands of auburn hair. Vacant blue eyes stared back at her. The tip of a tongue protruded from swollen purple lips. Across the throat was a thick, cruel welt. Someone had strangled her. Someone had strangled Lisa Springer.

The room moved around her. Mary Helen grabbed a cold pillar to keep from moving with it. A scream—her own?—ricocheted off the stone walls, echoing and reechoing until it faded into a whisper.

She leaned heavily against the marble altar. The musty smell mingled with the sickening odor of blood. She fought back the nausea rising in her throat. What now?

A creak overhead startled her. Was someone coming? An unsuspecting worshiper? Another tourist? The murderer?

Sister Mary Helen stumbled up the narrow stairs. She must tell someone, anyone, quickly. She ran past startled worshipers and frowning cleaning ladies in blue smocks, past a priest on his way into the confessional.

Still shaking, she exploded into the blinding light of the Plaza del Obradoiro. Temples pounding, she hurried across
the huge flagstone square, unaware of the straggle of tourists and unsuspecting townsfolk preparing for the start of a brand-new day.

Breathlessly Sister Mary Helen flung open the bedroom door and burst in on a startled Eileen.

“Where in heaven’s name have you been?” Eileen’s face was still pink and wrinkled from sleep. “I woke up, and you were—” She stopped in mid-sentence. “What is it, Mary Helen? Your cheeks are flaming. And the rest of your face is as pale as if you just shook hands with the devil or stumbled upon the dead.” Staring, she sat down heavily on the edge of her bed. “Oh, no! It can’t be. Tell me you didn’t.”

Mary Helen made straight for the room phone. While she waited for an operator to answer, she took deep breaths, hoping to quell the sick throb pulsating through her whole body.

“Drink this.” Eileen offered her a chunky glass filled with water.

Mary Helen pushed it away and listened intently. “Señor Nunez,
pox favor
,” she ventured, hoping that was what the operator had asked. Apparently it was.

“Good morning. This is Pepe,” he announced cheerfully.

“Pepe, this is Sister Mary Helen,” she said, wondering crazily why his cheerfulness irked her so.

“Ah, Sister, may I be of some assistance?”

You’d better believe it, Mary Helen wanted to snap. Instead she cleared her throat, steadied her voice, and, without preamble, told him of her discovery.

By the time Mary Helen replaced the receiver, Eileen’s face had gone gray. She drained the glass of water herself. “What did he say?” she asked hoarsely.

“I’m not sure. I know it started with
Dios mío!
”

“What do you mean, you are not sure? You were just on the horn with him.”

“After his first horrified gasp, he rattled away in Spanish. I haven’t the foggiest notion what he was saying. The only words that I could make out clearly were God’s name, Lisa’s, and
policía
.”

Mary Helen sank down on the edge of the bed next to her friend. They sat in uneasy silence, each one lost in the whirling of her own imaginings.

“What do you suppose we should do now?” Eileen asked.

Without warning, Mary Helen launched herself off the bed and went for the phone. “I have no idea, but I know who will.” She gave the operator an overseas number.

“You
cannot
call Kate Murphy now. Do you know what time it is in San Francisco?” Eileen counted backward on her fingers just to make sure. “Mary Helen, it is nearly one o’clock in the morning. Hang up!”

Even if Mary Helen had wanted to, it was too late. The phone was already ringing. The only thing worse than a late-night call is one whose caller hangs up.

Kate Murphy was dead tired, yet she could not seem to fall asleep. “Twelve-thirty,” the luminous dial on the alarm clock read. She snuggled near her husband and flung her arm around his waist. Maybe Jack’s steady, deep breathing would calm her down, put her to sleep, too. She tried to imitate his rhythm but couldn’t.

Frustrated, she rolled away. She felt hot, almost feverish. What was the matter with her?

The day had started out all right. Little John had his regular appointment with Dr. Trotter. Kate spent all morning in the pediatrician’s crowded waiting room. At least it felt as
if she had been sitting for an entire morning in that hard plastic chair.

Baby John, eager to explore, squirmed in her lap and banged his set of bright plastic keys against her knees. Kate, wishing that she’d brought his blanket, finally let him creep around on the dirty carpet.