Read The Corporal Works of Murder Online
Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie
The Corporal Works of Murder (14 page)
Cautiously Anne pulled out of the parking lot and slipped into the traffic speeding along Eighth Street. Hearing Geraldine
suck in air, Sister Mary Helen turned to look at their passenger. The woman's round face had lost some of its color, her eyes were squeezed shut, and her jaw was rigid. The knuckles on her left hand were white from clenching the door handle.
The poor woman is scared to death,
Mary Helen thought. “Are you all right?” she asked.
suck in air, Sister Mary Helen turned to look at their passenger. The woman's round face had lost some of its color, her eyes were squeezed shut, and her jaw was rigid. The knuckles on her left hand were white from clenching the door handle.
The poor woman is scared to death,
Mary Helen thought. “Are you all right?” she asked.
Geraldine did not speak, only nodded her head.
Anne must have seen the same thing in her rearview mirror. “Great,” she said just loud enough for Mary Helen to hear, “not only are we driving Miss Daisy, but we are driving Miss Daisy with amaxophobia!”
It took Mary Helen a moment to remember that amaxophobia was what experts called a fear of driving.
“Now where?” Anne asked. They were streaming toward the Bay Bridge and she must be wondering, as was Mary Helen, if that was the direction Geraldine intended them to go. Once they'd hit the bridge there was no turning back until Treasure Island.
“Turn here!” Geraldine called out.
“Left or right?” Anne demanded.
“Left,” Geraldine shouted, giving Anne just enough of an opening to do it.
This time it was Mary Helen who had her eyes shut. All she heard was the squealing of car tires and the blasting of several horns.
“Be careful,” Geraldine hissed.
To Anne's credit, Mary Helen noted that she didn't say anything. She simply pressed her lips together in a straight line.
“You have to give her a little more warning, Geraldine,” Mary Helen suggested. As soon as she did, she knew she'd made a mistake.
Geraldine pulled herself forward in the seat. “If you all are having problems with my directions, you can just pull right on over and I can take me the bus.”
“Your directions are fine,” Mary Helen said, trying to soothe feathers. “They just need to be given a little sooner.”
Geraldine's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.
“Where do you want us to turn next?” Anne asked. It was clear from the way Geraldine's eyes darted around that she did not know.
The reason for her confusion hit Mary Helen like a shot. Of course! She goes everywhere by bus! She simply gets on at a stop with which she is familiar and gets off at another that she knows. Riding in a car disorients her.
“Why don't you just tell us where you are supposed to meet Junior and let Anne figure out how to get there,” Mary Helen suggested diplomatically. “She's a whiz at directions.”
Geraldine made a “humphing” noise while she considered the idea. Mary Helen felt sure she'd give in eventually. What she needed was a little face-saving time.
Meanwhile poor Anne, her cheeks becoming more flushed every minute, wove in and out of trafficâup one-way streets and down crowded alleys. Obviously she didn't want to leave the area until she knew their destination for fear that she'd have to double back. The streets were already packed with commuters. In the next few hours it would only get worse.
Skillfully Anne maneuvered down a narrow alley which ran between newly converted work-live lofts, renovated Italian Gothics with stained glass windows and low pitched roofs, small factories, and parking lots. She slowed down to avoid a swarm of women exploding from one of the unmarked buildings. A sweatshop, Mary Helen thought, watching them stretch and blink in the light. It was after four o'clock. These women must have started sewing at seven this morning. Undoubtedly a night shift would replace them.
Already several peopleâMary Helen couldn't tell if they were men or womenâlay in the alley's sidewalk covered in dirty, drab blankets. They had wedged themselves like caterpillars
against the sides of the buildings preparing to sleep through the night. Her heart ached to see them.
against the sides of the buildings preparing to sleep through the night. Her heart ached to see them.
“Where to, Geraldine?” Anne asked, now a slight edge on her voice. Mary Helen wondered if Anne was regretting her offer to come along.
“You know the Dutch Windmill?” Geraldine asked.
Mary Helen thought for minute. “You mean the windmill in Golden Gate Park?”
Looking relieved Geraldine nodded. The Dutch Windmill, as Mary Helen remembered it, was an enormous windmill at the north end of the park. Surrounded by wind-bent trees, it towered above Queen Wilhelmina's Garden, an oasis of green lawn and brightly colored flowerbeds. It was only a few yards from the wide pavement of the Great Highway and the blowing sand of Ocean Beach. In mid-April, when the tulips bloomed, the sight was breathtaking.
“The Dutch Windmill it is,” Anne said, leaving downtown San Francisco with the kind of skill and steady nerves that even Mario Andretti would admire.
When Sister Anne turned the convent car onto Fulton Street, Mary Helen noticed that Geraldine's face relaxed. Undoubtedly this was the way her bus went to the beach. She was on familiar ground.
Following the route of the Number 5 Muni bus, the convent Nova slipped along Fulton Street where the traffic was still flowing smoothly. To their left the broad avenue bordered Golden Gate Park. To their right it was a mixture of flats, apartment houses, and single-family dwellings.
Quickly the numbers of the Avenues mountedâTwelfth, Fifteenth, Thirty-second, Fortieth. Without speaking they passed several ornate park entrances and the Senior Citizen Center that once had served as the San Francisco Police Academy. Between the entrances great pools of flat, green nasturtium leaves filled with sharp orange and red blossoms covered the ground.
Nearing the end of Fulton, Mary Helen smelled salt in the air. On the horizon, the afternoon fog lay in a roll waiting to shift in from the Pacific. Before long it would cover the Avenues. The beach would be freezing.
With any Luck we won't have to stay here that long,
Mary Helen thought. Simply find Junior and drop Geraldine. Surely she'd be in good hands with her nephew.
With any Luck we won't have to stay here that long,
Mary Helen thought. Simply find Junior and drop Geraldine. Surely she'd be in good hands with her nephew.
At Forty-seventh Avenue Sister Anne made a left turn into Golden Gate Park and wound her way past the Archery Field, deserted at this time of day, and a nine-hole golf course, which, if the number of cars in the parking lot could be believed, was crowded.
“There be Junior's car,” Geraldine said as they pulled onto John F. Kennedy Drive. She pointed to a large pink Cadillac convertible with its top down. It was parked a few feet from the entrance to Queen Wilhelmina's Garden. Its angle and the fact that he had neglected to put up the top made Mary Helen think that Junior had parked in a hurry.
Sister Anne pulled in behind the Cadillac. She had scarcely turned off the ignition when Geraldine was out of the back seat. “He be waiting for me in our secret place,” she said cheerfully. “I be right back.” She turned toward the dirt road that ran behind the windmill.
“Would you like us to go with you?” Mary Helen asked, still hoping to talk to Junior. Besides, who knew what might be lurking in the bushes?
“I be fine,” Geraldine said, her confidence apparently completely restored.
“Are you sure?” Anne asked.
In exasperation Geraldine raised her shoulders and her eyebrows. “I be sure, Sister Anne. Junior in our secret place. If you come, now how could it still be secret?” she asked logically.
“True,” Anne conceded.
“I won't be long,” Geraldine called, disappearing behind a clump of brush.
Mary Helen turned toward Anne. “I thought I might get a chance to talk to Junior,” she said, feeling rather helpless.
“I imagine that when she finds him, they'll hook up and tell us to go. Maybe then you'd have a couple of minutes.” Anne said. “In the meantime, let's sit. This is beautiful!”
“There's a comfortable looking bench,” Mary Helen said, pointing to one close to them. In fact, the spot was full of comfortable wooden benches and vibrant flowers. Settled beside Anne facing the gigantic windmill, Mary Helen drank in the scene. Anne was right. It was beautiful. The tulips had been replaced with dahlias of bright orange, yellow, and red, with a few white blossoms scattered here and there. The geometric garden in the center of the green lawn was alive with red foxtails, orange, red, and pink impatiens, with a star-shaped bed of white petunias.
Above it all, like a giant salt shaker, towered the Dutch Windmill. A tour bus passed and slowed down for a quick look. Several bicyclists in helmets zipped along the road. A jogger pushing a jogger's baby stroller ran by. Overhead the four sails of the windmill moved slowly in the ocean breeze making a gentle
thunk
as they turned. An elderly couple sat silently on another bench. A young family speaking what sounded like French touched the fringed pinks to make sure that they were real.
thunk
as they turned. An elderly couple sat silently on another bench. A young family speaking what sounded like French touched the fringed pinks to make sure that they were real.
What a peaceful place,
Mary Helen thought, taking a deep breath. She felt her shoulders relaxing after a long day at the Refuge. She'd sleep tonight. And now that Geraldine had found her nephew, no doubt, so, too, would she. “Ah, peace,” she said, closing her eyes. As the breeze brushed against her face she thought she heard the gentle hum of insects. Tension seemed to drain from her arms and legs and she felt as if she could drop off to steepâand sleepâand sleep.
Mary Helen thought, taking a deep breath. She felt her shoulders relaxing after a long day at the Refuge. She'd sleep tonight. And now that Geraldine had found her nephew, no doubt, so, too, would she. “Ah, peace,” she said, closing her eyes. As the breeze brushed against her face she thought she heard the gentle hum of insects. Tension seemed to drain from her arms and legs and she felt as if she could drop off to steepâand sleepâand sleep.
“I wonder what's taking her so long,” Anne asked anxiously.
Mary Helen blinked. Had she actually nodded off? Geraldine
had only been gone a couple of minutes, hadn't she?
had only been gone a couple of minutes, hadn't she?
“She'll be here any second,” Mary Helen assured Anne, watching a seagull swoop, then hover over the dome-shaped top of the windmill.
“We need to get going if we're going to take her back downtown and then get home for dinner,” Anne let the thought dangle. “Maybe we could put her on the Muni.”
“I'm sure Junior will drive her home,” Mary Helen said, shivering a little. The fog, though not really cold, was damp. Soon it would blot out the vibrancy of the garden. She noticed that the older couple was leaving and the French family gathering up its toddlers. With them gone, the garden became so quiet that Mary Helen thought she heard the waves breaking against the shore.
“Do you think we should go looking for her?” Anne asked, a note of worry in her voice.
Before Mary Helen could answer, a horrifying, piercing shriek shattered the quiet. The old nun bolted upright.
“It's Geraldine!” Anne said, leaving the bench on a run. Puffing, Mary Helen followed. Without a word the two nuns hurried along the dirt path that they had seen Geraldine take. It was separated from Queen Wilhelmina's Garden by a chain-link fence.
“Careful,” Anne whispered, pointing at the dry manure in the path. Mary Helen was more concerned about the fallen branches of the evergreens. About two hundred feet down the road after a blind bend, they came upon a green stucco shed, locked and hidden by heavy foliage.
“Geraldine! Where are you?” Anne shouted.
No one answered.
“I hear something,” Anne called, darting toward the shed.
Out of breath, Sister Mary Helen caught up.
“Here she is!” Anne shouted to Mary Helen. The two nuns hurried to a sobbing Geraldine, crumpled on the ground.
“Are you all right?” Anne asked.
Mary Helen bit her tongue.
Of course she's not all right, she
wanted to shout.
Can't you see she's trembling like a person in shock? She doesn't even seem able to speak.
Of course she's not all right, she
wanted to shout.
Can't you see she's trembling like a person in shock? She doesn't even seem able to speak.
“What is it? What happened?” Mary Helen asked gently. “Can you tell us?”
With one shaky finger, Geraldine pointed to a clump of bushes hidden behind the shed.
On her guard, Mary Helen crept toward the place and, separating the shiny leaves, cautiously peered in. Her stomach turned slowly as she saw what Geraldine had seen. Junior Johnson lay on his back. One side of his head was shattered and pieces of his brain clung to nearby branches.
“What is it?” Anne was behind her. “Junior? Whatâ?” She heard the young nun gag. “I can't look,” Anne said, moving quickly toward a cluster of calla lilies. “I just can't,” she said before she was sick.
Merging into the traffic on the Great Highway, he wondered how soon the body would be discovered. Although he had turned the car heater up as far as it would go, he was still shivering from the cold and dampness. Crunching in the bushes he had wondered how he'd ever gotten into this mess. It was as if he had stepped into quicksand and just kept sinking deeper and deeper. First Sarah Spencer, now he had to take care of Junior Johnson.
“Take care of the bastard.” The familiar voice on the telephone had used those words, as though Junior were a small, solvable problem.
In a way, maybe he had been. Stupid bastard had tried to blackmail him. Big mistake! Then he'd used that hooker Olivia to tell his aunt where he'd meet her. A few bucks to a snitch and he'd known, too. Junior thought he was so clever telling
Olivia in a code so simple that even the snitch had figured it out.
Olivia in a code so simple that even the snitch had figured it out.
He laughed to himself. He had paid the guy extra to trash Moran's office hoping that Moran would take the hint and back off. Nice touch, he congratulated himself, using a guy Moran had fingered. The guy had really put his heart into his work. And if Moran didn't back off? He didn't even want to go there. One problem at a time.
Other books
My Salvation by Michelle Dare
Wet Part 3 by Rivera, S Jackson
Un puñado de centeno by Agatha Christie
This Cowboy's Heart by Cia Leah
Let Me Love by Michelle Lynn
The Abduction by Mark Gimenez
The Truth Collector by Corey Pemberton
Already Home by Susan Mallery
Time's Forbidden Flower by Rinella, Diane
On The Bridge by Ada Uzoije