Read The Corporal Works of Murder Online
Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie
The Corporal Works of Murder (18 page)
“Well?” his mother asked.
“Maybe it's a good idea,” Kate said. “Tomorrow morning will be a big rush.”
Thirty minutes later, carrying a small overnight bag, John kissed them both and took his grandmother's hand. “Nonie, do you still have Rocky Road ice cream at your house?” Kate heard him ask hopefully.
As Kate cleared the table, Jack began to load the dishwasher. They were finished in less than twenty minutes. “Talk about teamwork,” Jack said.
Without asking he poured two brandies and took them into
the living room. Kate followed and they settled on the couch. The room was warm from the kitchen heat. The delicious aroma of Italian spices still hung on the air. With only one lamp on, the room was dim and cozy. Kate liked it that way. She pulled her feet up under her and sipped her brandy.
the living room. Kate followed and they settled on the couch. The room was warm from the kitchen heat. The delicious aroma of Italian spices still hung on the air. With only one lamp on, the room was dim and cozy. Kate liked it that way. She pulled her feet up under her and sipped her brandy.
“Feeling better?” Jack asked.
Kate nodded. “Better,” she said, “but I still can't seem to shake this afternoon.” Without warning, and without really wanting to tell her husband, the awful scene tumbled outâJunior's skull shattered by a single bullet, the horror of finding bits of his brain on the tree branch, Geraldine's eerie keening. It was as if she needed to purge herself. When she had, she actually did feel better.
“Thanks for listening, pal,” she said, putting her head on his shoulder.
“My pleasure,” Jack said, gently kissing the top of her head.
“I don't know what I'd do without you,” she said and she meant it. And I hope I never have to find out, she thought, a sudden chill racing over her body.
Over and over on the drive from Ocean Beach to Mount St. Francis Convent, Sister Anne wondered what had ever possessed her to think that Sister Mary Helen and she needed to solve this murder
together.
She had uttered the statement less than four hours agoâbig bravado: “I think we need to solve this”âdramatic pauseâ“together!”
together.
She had uttered the statement less than four hours agoâbig bravado: “I think we need to solve this”âdramatic pauseâ“together!”
The shocked expression on the old nun's face should have given her a clue. Already she wanted out. Anne stopped at the signal on Fulton and Stanyan Street and switched on the headlights. She didn't have the stomach for it, as poor Inspector Gallagher could attest. Anyone who throws up on the murder scene clearly isn't cut out for the job. No one had actually said
so, but you didn't need to be a rocket scientist to figure it out.
so, but you didn't need to be a rocket scientist to figure it out.
“Why so quiet?” Mary Helen asked at last. When Anne didn't answer, Mary Helen ventured a guess. “Are you dreading what will greet us when we get home?” she asked gently.
Anne's mouth went dry. She hadn't even considered that yet. She could just imagine the other nunsâsome slightly disapproving, some very curious, all wanting some explanation. And there was none. None that Anne could think of. Why had a young undercover police officer and a known felon both been murdered in almost the same way? There must be some connection, but Anne was hard pressed to figure out what it could possibly be.
“Did you hear me?” Mary Helen asked. Anne had to admit that she hadn't. She hadn't even been aware that Mary Helen was speaking. She must have been in shock. Who wouldn't be after seeing what they had just seen?
“I said,” Mary Helen repeated distinctly, “that in a few short blocks we'll be home. Our best defense, as the old saying goes, is a good offense. Obviously we've missed dinner. I suggest that we burst into the Sisters' Room.” She checked her wristwatch, “Most of them will be glued to the news. And that we declare how upset and overwrought we are.”
“Isn't that the truth?” Anne muttered.
Mary Helen gave her a sharp glance. “I wasn't suggesting that we don't tell the truth. Just take the offensive.”
“Right,” Anne said, feeling suddenly exhausted. It took all her strength to turn the steering wheel into the driveway and start up the college hill.
Near the top, Mary Helen sat up, rigid in her seat. “What's that?” She pointed toward the front door of the convent. “It can't be!”
Anne sucked in her breath. TV vans circled like covered wagons around cameramen and anchorwomen with microphones. “The eleven o'clock news,” she groaned.
“Reverse the car!” Mary Helen shouted, but it was too late to back down the hill. They had been spotted. Before Anne had even turned off the ignition, men and women swarmed around the car, asking questions, pushing microphones in their faces, all shouting at once. Anne covered her ears and climbed out of the driver's seat, wondering how they would make it inside. She looked around for Sister Mary Helen, who seemed to have been swallowed up in the crowd.
“This way, Sisters.” Anne heard a familiar, deep voice. It was Sister Patricia, the college president. The Cavalry, she thought, tension lifting from her shoulders as she caught sight of the tall, square woman, her white hair bright against the dark convent front door.
Head down, Anne push through the crowd. She was relieved to hear Sister Mary Helen beside her muttering, “Good night, nurse!”
Once inside the convent, the sudden silence was startling. “Are you all right?” Patricia asked, her dark eyes worried.
“Fine, thanks,” Anne managed to say as Patricia led them to the Sisters' Room. A small game table near the windows was set and the dinner that had been kept warm for them arrived almost as quickly as they sat down. Without even asking, old Donata poured Anne a glass of deep red wine, then turned to Mary Helen.
“Well, you really got your foot in it this time, ord girl,” she said, filling Mary Helen's glass to the brim.
Mary Helen took a bite of baked chicken, a few ovenbrowned potatoes, and a taste of zucchini. “Delicious.” She raised her glass to Donata. “To be honest, we really don't know what we got into.”
Anne thought Donata looked skeptical, but she didn't say anything. Therese, on the other hand, was very vocal. “What do you mean?” she sniffed in disbelief. “What Donata is talking about is the murder that they just showed on the television. The
reporters said that the authorities supposed it was connected to the one outside the Refuge.” She spat out the next few words as if they were sour. “Your names, of course, were mentioned.”
reporters said that the authorities supposed it was connected to the one outside the Refuge.” She spat out the next few words as if they were sour. “Your names, of course, were mentioned.”
Anne's stomach somersaulted. “On television?” she asked.
“Yes, on television.” Therese's voice rose at least an octave.
“What did they say?”
“Nothing too much.” Patricia tried to sound comforting. She shot Therese a look which Anne figured anyone could decipher. Anyone except Therese, who must have missed it, since she didn't slow down for a minute.
“The reporter on the television said that a body had been found in the park near the Dutch Windmill and that two nuns stumbled upon it. They promised more details on the eleven o'clock news.”
“Which is why those reporters have descended on us,” Patricia said.
“But we don't know anything that they don't know,” Anne seemed to be stuttering. “Actually Geraldine found the body. We just heard her scream and went to help her.”
Therese's eyebrows shot up. “Why in the world would you do that?” Not waiting for an answer she went on. “Don't you know it's dangerous for nuns to be finding dead bodies?” She sounded outraged.
“We didn't want to find a body.” Anne caught herself before she said, “It wasn't our fault.” Even to her, it sounded too much like a whine.
Picking at her food, Anne was glad to hear Mary Helen clear her throat. With any luck at all, she was about to take over.
Deliberately, Mary Helen set down her fork and leaned back in her chair. Her hazel eyes scanned the room like searchlights taking in the assembled Sisters. A tense hush settled over the group. Even old Donata and Therese were quiet.
“Sister Anne and I,” she began in a soft, strained voice, “have just had one of the worst afternoons in our lives. Less than three
hours ago we found a man whose skull was shattered by a bullet with bits of his brain clinging to the branches of a tree.”
hours ago we found a man whose skull was shattered by a bullet with bits of his brain clinging to the branches of a tree.”
Anne heard someone gasp and several muttered “Oohs.”
Mary Helen adjusted her bifocals on the bridge of her nose. “We comforted his grieving aunt, called the police, and spent time answering their questions only to come home to a horde of media people who acted as if they would like to tear us apart. But for the intervention of Sister Patricia, they might have.” She nodded graciously toward Patricia.
“In addition to being emotionally exhausted, we are, as you may imagine, physically tired and hungry. I know I was delighted and grateful that you kept our dinner warm.” Anne nodded in agreement. “Which, by the way, is delicious. Please now may we have a few minutes to relax and eat? Then we can talk.”
After a moment of embarrassed silence, Ursula spoke up. “How thoughtless of us! Mea culpa!” she muttered piously and rushed for the coffee. Patricia set a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies on the table. The rest of the group quietly dissolved, although Anne noticed that they didn't move too far away.
Old Donata brought back the wine bottle and re-filled their glasses. “I know an academy award performance when I see one, old girl,” she said in a stage whisper.
Anne noticed Mary Helen's eyes twinkling. “On our way home, I was explaining to little Sister here”âshe pointed her fork toward Anneâ“that a good offense is the best defense.”
“I'm sure your last performance made the point abundantly clear,” old Donata said and chuckled. “As the saying goes, you are a class act.”
Both sets of eyes turned toward Anne. They seemed to be waiting for her to say something. She felt her cheeks grow hot. “This murder business is not for me,” she said finally, “and the sooner I'm out of it the better.”
Officers Mark Wong and Brian Dineen were in the second car to arrive at the hotel on Jones Street. A woman with a black eye and a bloodied lip was shouting obscenities. At first Wong wasn't sure exactly whom she was reviling, her husband, who most likely had battered her, or the patrolman who was dragging the man away in handcuffs. That is, until the woman kicked at the officer and his partner moved in to restrain her.
“That's what I hate most about these calls,” Wong said, watching the struggle. “You almost always end up the bad guy.”
“Yeah,” Dineen nodded. Then he added philosophically, “The one time in a dozen that you really do save somebody from having the crap beat out of her makes it worthwhileâalmost.”
Back in the squad car, Dineen yawned and checked his watch. “Two-fifteen,” he said. “You'd think these married types would be asleep by now.”
“You'd think,” Wong said, pulling out from the curb. The bars had just emptied out their crowds. The two officers cruised along the street knowing that the sight of them would deter at least a few crimes.
“Where to now?” Wong asked.
“Look! Is that who I think it is?” Dineen said, pointing.
Wong squinted and peered into a darkened doorway, but all he could make out was the tall, muscular man in the shadowsâprobably white. “Who do you think it is?” he asked.
“Go around the block!” Dineen ordered. “It looks like Tim Moran. I wonder what he's doing here.”
Quickly Wong turned the corner, ignoring the shouts of several slightly woozy pedestrians on their way home. By the time he had circled the block, Moran, hands in pockets, was walking briskly along the sidewalk. Hunched forward, he seemed to be checking his reflection in the store windows as if making sure that he wasn't being followed.
Wong rolled up the car beside him. Startled, Moran shied away. “Hop in,” Dineen invited.
Moran hesitated, checking to see if he was being observed. Then he gave them a little lip just in case anyone was watching. Finally he climbed into the backseat. “Thanks,” he said and wiped his forehead. Despite the chilly night, the man was perspiring.
“What are you doing out here so late?” Dineen asked. “Shouldn't you be home in bed?”
“I was, but I couldn't sleep.” Tim pulled nervously at his beard. His blue eyes jumped from them to the street. “I just can't get Sarah Spencer out of my mind. Poor kid! I thought maybe I'd run into somebody who knew something. But so far, no luck!”
Wong said nothing, although he wondered if Moran's insomnia could be blamed in part on his stormy meeting with Lieutenant Donaldson this afternoon. He was curious about what had brought on that confrontation, but he was hesitant to ask since clearly it was none of his business.
“Pits was acting like he had a pickle up his ass,” Dineen said.
“You can say that again,” Moran laughed bitterly.
“What was his problem?” Obviously Dineen had no such reservation.
“You know how he is,” Moran muttered. “Acting like it was my fault that my cover was blown. Like I could stop somebody from killing that girl. Or that I could stop that nun, Helen something, from seeing and hearing. And what is worse in Donaldson's mindâthinking.” Moran slammed his fist into the car seat.
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