The Corporal Works of Murder (21 page)

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Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie

BOOK: The Corporal Works of Murder
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She wasn't sure Sister Anne saw her wave as she went out the front door of the Refuge. No problem. She'd be back before Anne even missed her.
Officer Mark Wong turned the key in the ignition of his car and listened to the motor rev. It was almost as if he, too, was revving up. During Sarah Spencer's funeral he had felt as if, without toothpicks to hold them open, any minute his eyes would shut. Then he had run into Susie Chang. When she had suggested that they meet for lunch at Joe's of Westlake on John Daly Boulevard his adrenaline had started to pump again. He definitely had his second wind.
Surprisingly, he found a parking space in the nearly full lot. When he walked into the crowded foyer, Susie had already given her name to the maitre d'. She was perched gracefully like a tiny sparrow on the edge of a padded bench waiting for him.
“It's about a ten-minute wait,” she said, motioning him to sit next to her.
“Not bad,” he said, and it wasn't. Day or night, no matter what the time, there was always a wait at Joe's of Westlake. Sometimes it was the better part of an hour but the delicious aroma of Joe's Italian sauces was reason enough to endure it.
Mark sat beside Susie on the bench. “How about a drink?” he asked, checking to see how crowded the bar was.
“No, thanks,” she replied. “I have to get back to work. But you have one if you'd like.”
“If I have one I'm afraid I'll go right to sleep,” Mark said, and then stopped.
“Oh?” Susie's eyes danced with humor.
“I didn't mean the company,” he sputtered.
Listening to her tinkling laughter, he felt the heat move up his neck. How was he going to get his foot out of his mouth this time?
“Chang,” the maitre d' called, “party of two.”
Saved, Mark thought, jumping up without ever considering that there might be another Chang in the place.
Comfortably seated across from him, Susie perused the menu. Trying not to stare, Mark studied her round cheerful face and the way her eyelashes played against her cheeks. He watched her mouth form a small red “O” as she silently read through the selections. He noticed the light from the west window touch her raven black hair and through some trick fill it with sunshine.
“What are you having?” she asked, looking up so quickly that she caught his eye. Mark felt his face flush. Had she felt his eyes on her? Did she mind? “Veal scaloppini,” he said without thinking. He always ordered the scaloppini at Joe's.
“Me, too,” she said.
Mark gave their order to the waiter. Once again, he was glad that even though she probably weighed less than ninety-eight pounds soaking wet, Susie had a hearty appetite. He hated to eat with women who ordered a toothpick and a glass of water and couldn't finish either.
“That was so sad this morning,” Susie said, playing with the edge of her napkin.
Mark nodded and slowly they began to talk about Sarah Spencer's funeral and the circumstances leading up to it. Mark admitted that Dineen and he had tried all night without much success to find someone who could give them a lead.
“Nobody?” Susie's almond eyes were wide.
Mark shook his head. “And we don't seem to be the only ones who are banging against the brick wall.” He told her about Dineen and himself picking up a distraught Tim Moran.
At the mention of Moran's name, Wong notice Susie frowning. “You know, the oddest thing happened yesterday,” she said. “Your mentioning Tim Moran made me think of it.”
Although he wasn't sure why, Wong's shoulders stiffened. “What odd thing?” he asked, hoping not to sound as if he was interrogating her.
Susie laughed that tinkly laugh again. “It was just something silly,” she said.
Wong waited, watching her decide just how much to tell him.
“I was at my desk when I looked up and saw Lieutenant Donaldson.” She glanced at Wong checking his reaction to the mention of his boss's name. When he gave none, she went on. “He said that he was playing a little joke on Moran and he asked me to put on a Chinese accent and to pretend that I was from the Asian Market up the street from the building where Moran is on stakeout.”
Wong felt his jaw tighten. “What did he want you to say?”
Susie shrugged and waited while the server put down their
salads. “Nothing much,” she said. “He just wanted me to act as if we had prepared Moran some lunch and we wondered if he could come up the street and get it because we were busy.” She started to eat.
“That was a joke?” Wong asked, wondering if that was what had upset Moran.
“I guess so. The Lieutenant mumbled something about getting back at him for pulling a dirty trick on him. I wasn't really listening. I just called the number he gave me and hoped that the Chief wouldn't come in and catch us. I have the feeling he wouldn't think that it was very funny, especially coming from his office during working hours.”
“So, I take it that Donaldson had never asked you to do anything like that before.” A vague uneasiness rolled through Wong.
“No,” she said, her eyes dancing as the waiter put down large, hot plates in front of them. “And I hope he doesn't again. It was all I could do not to tell him how juvenile I felt it was.”
Let's hope it was only juvenile, Wong thought, studying Susie, whose eyes were already devouring her scaloppini. Without another word she began to eat.
“Delicious,” she said, buttering a crusty piece of sourdough French bread. “This will be lunch and dinner.”
Wong nodded his agreement. “Delicious,” he said, although at the moment his thoughts were miles away from Susie Chang and veal scaloppini.
Stepping out of the Refuge onto Eighth Street, Sister Mary Helen was surprised to see that the day had turned warm. Sunshine and the cloudless blue sky made everything sparkle, she noticed. Even the neglected buildings along the street looked better in this light.
People, too, seemed to relax and open up when the sun shone. Several passersby smiled. One or two nodded and said hello. And the homeless folks shuffling along the sidewalks? Was it her imagination or did some of them lift their chins a little higher and grasp their coats a little less tightly?
Mary Helen felt the tension in her own shoulders ease as she strolled down the block. A line from a long forgotten poem jumped into her mind. “‘And young and old come forth to play, on a sunshine holiday.'”
Milton, she thought, was the poet but somehow it didn't seem gloomy enough for Milton. She would have to get old Donata on that one, too.
Approaching the New You Tattoo Parlor, Mary Helen wondered if it was open. The lights were on but there didn't seem to be much activity inside. Cupping her hands against the glass, she peered inside. From what she could see, it looked deserted. Maybe Officer Moran had gone home and forgotten to turn off the lights. It happens, she thought, testing the door.
Surprisingly it was unlocked. She pushed it and was startled by the tinkle of the small bell at the top of the door jamb. “How do?” she called, cautiously stepping inside. Her voice echoed in the stillness. Could it be that he had forgotten both the light and the lock?
Unlikely,
a small voice inside her challenged. Mary Helen ignored it.
“Officer Moran?” she called again. Again she was greeted with absolute silence. Carefully she moved around the counter. The cash register was closed and seemed undisturbed. Good sign, she thought, edging toward the back of the shop. “How do?” she called louder this time. Again, nothing.
Her mouth went dry as a vague uneasiness began to grip her. Don't be foolish, she thought gulping in a few short breaths of air to calm herself.
Surely Officer Moran had simply left without remembering to turn off the overhead lights.
I've done that myself,
she thought.
And the door? What about the front door?
the nagging voice continued
. Not likely that he'd forget to lock it after what just happened to his shop.
Thank goodness he had left the place lit,
Mary Helen thought
,
avoiding a chair that was pulled away from the wall
. I'd be bumping into things all over the place
.
Slowly she moved forward.
The office is on my right,
she thought, trying a final “How do?” When no one answered she eased open the partially shut office door. Its squeak startled her. The muscles in her arms tightened. Uncertainly she peered in. The small room, which was a mess the last time she'd seen it, was back in order. The lamp and the window shades had been replaced and even the philodendron, looking none the worse for wear, replanted.
Good for him!
she thought.
Taking in the room, everything seemed in order. It had just been a careless mistake. She would turn off the lights, lock up for him, and go. Nothing was wrong, nothing that she could see. She sniffed. Except … She sniffed again—that odor—that unmistakable sweet odor.
Her stomach jumped as she quickly took a clean handkerchief from her pocket and covered her mouth.
It couldn't be
, she thought. Warily she peeked behind the wooden desk. “No!” she said, feeling lightheaded. “No! No! No!” She leaned against the wall to keep from falling, and then forced herself to look again.
Crumpled on the floor, frozen in a fetal position, lay Tim Moran. His blue jeans and wool shirt were soaked in blood. His left arm, the one that had
MOTHER
tattooed across the knuckles, was flung out to his side.
Using all her will power, Mary Helen crouched down beside the man. “Let him be alive,” she chanted over and over, feeling for his pulse. The moment her fingers touched his wrist, she knew she was too late. Her heart sank. “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord,” the ancient prayer sprang to her lips and she fought back a sob. “Let perpetual light shine upon him.”
Like a sleepwalker, Mary Helen studied Tim's face, at least, the half of it that she could see. Milky blue eyes stared at her vacantly. His straggly beard was stained with blood.
In fact, the entire area behind the desk was puddled with blood. It was as if Tim had not died instantly, as if he had moved. Toward the phone? Toward the door? It was hard to tell. There were smears of his blood everywhere.
Noticing her own footprint in the sticky blood, Mary Helen backed up quickly. As she did, she saw something primitively drawn on a small relatively clean patch of the linoleum over Moran's head.
With the last of his strength he reached up
, she thought with a shudder.
Shoving her bifocals up the bridge of her nose, she moved forward, avoiding the blood.
Don't disturb the evidence,
she reminded herself.
Careful, do not touch anything.
Pensively she studied the floor. It looked as if Moran had drawn something—were they letters?—with his finger dipped in his own blood. What was he trying to say? Could he be naming his killer? Mary Helen moved around trying to make some sense of the scrawl.
Her heart roared in her ears. Were they letters? Taking a deep breath, she focused on them. A “d.” An “I” or was it a “I”? An “L” with a long leg or maybe an upside down “T”? And then a stick figure or a wobbly, upside-down “Y.”
The scream of the telephone jarred her into reality. Backing away from the body, she began to shiver uncontrollably. Was that a noise she heard in the front of the shop or was it outside? All at once the hum of the fluorescent lights in the hallway sounded ominous. Had someone moved the chair or had it been there when she passed?
With a cold, shaky hand, she picked up the telephone receiver. Without saying a word, she hung it up again. Then quickly before whomever it was could call back, she dialed 911.
Still shivering, she chose to wait for the police outside the
tattoo parlor. Eyes closed, Mary Helen leaned against the building. Although she felt the sun on her face and shoulders, she realized sadly that all the sunshine in the sky would not be able to warm her today. The cold she felt was a cold no fire could warm. It was the penetrating icy cold of absolute horror.
All at once, Sister Anne realized that she had not seen Sister Mary Helen for at least ten or fifteen minutes. Strange! Could she be in the kitchen? “Sister Mary Helen,” she called from the doorway, but the kitchen was empty.
Quickly she checked the supply cupboard, the office, then tapped on the bathroom door. No answer.
Although she knew better, she began to feel a little anxious. Maybe Mary Helen had gone to the basement for supplies.
“Mary Helen,” she called down the stairs, but there was no answer. Remembering that the old nun was getting a little hard of hearing, Anne walked halfway down, then realized that the basement was dark. She surely wouldn't be in a darkened basement.
Back in the gathering room, she sidled up to Miss Bobbie. If anyone in the room knew where Sister Mary Helen was, she did. Miss Bobbie's dark eyes never missed a trick.

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