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Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie

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BOOK: The Corporal Works of Murder
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“What did you hear? Brian asked.
“Let's order first,” Olivia said coyly and Wong motioned for Sam.
“Burgers for you two guys and the turkey blue plate special for the lady,” Sam repeated. “How do you stay so skinny?” he asked Olivia who shot him a seductive smile.
While they waited for the meal, Olivia excused herself. “Got to go to the little girl's room,” she said. Brian watched her go.
“Do you think she knows anything,” he asked, “or have we just been suckered into a free meal?”
Wong shrugged. “It's worth a try,” he said.
Olivia and the meal arrived at the table together. Wong watched the woman eat everything, even the parsley, and then mop up the last remnants of the turkey gravy with a piece of Parker House roll. “Was it good?” he asked.
Mouth still full, Olivia nodded and gave him a half smile. “Delicious,” she said.
Wong noticed his partner checking his watch. They needed to get back on the streets.
“Now then,” Wong said, “what can you tell us about Sarah Spencer's murder?”
“Sarah Spencer? Was that the girl's name?” Olivia asked, moving her plate so that Sam could set down the glass dish with a scoop of vanilla ice cream in it. “Comes with the blue plate,” he said.
“Sarah Spencer,” Olivia repeated. “That's a nice name. Kinda old-fashioned, huh?”
Wong could feel impatience knotting his stomach. “Come on, Olivia,” he said. “Tell us what you know.”
“All I know is what I hear on the street.”
Brian Dineen leaned forward in his chair. Olivia blanched. He didn't need to say anything. His size alone was intimidating.
“Honest, fellows, all I know is what I hear.”
“And that is?” Brian's voice was low.
“Someone said that Junior Johnson said—”
“Now we're getting somewhere,” Wong muttered.
Olivia took a spoonful of ice cream and savored it. “Junior
said that the guy who shot the girl was not from the neighborhood.”
“What does that mean?” Wong asked.
“That it's not somebody we know.” Olivia studied the two police officers as though she was deciding just how much more to tell them. “Junior thinks he's probably long gone back to where he came from. So there's no use hassling people around here.”
Dineen brought his face close to hers. “How does Junior know that?” he asked.
Olivia's brown eyes blinked nervously. “Junior knows all kinda things,” she said, “you know that. The best thing is to ask Junior, not a working girl like me.”
“Where do you think we can find Junior tonight?” Dineen asked. Olivia frowned, her spoonful of ice cream in midair. “You know what, fellows? Now that I think of it, I ain't seen Junior around since about noon.”
“Yeah,” she said, scraping her ice-cream dish clean. “Junior real busy with something.”
When the convent car rolled into the garage, old Donata was there to greet Mary Helen and Anne. “Therese has got herself into a real tizzy,” Donata said without introduction. “Is it true that there was another murder at the Refuge?”
Mary Helen felt as though someone had punched her. “Why don't you just come right out and say what's on your mind,” she asked, hoping it sounded light.
“At my age who has time for games?” Donata snapped. “Are you two involved in another murder?”
“Certainly not!” Anne sounded indignant.
“Then why did Therese's niece tell her you were?”
“I have no idea,” Anne said stiffly. “A woman was shot down
the street,” she conceded. “But how can we be held responsible? It's a rough neighborhood.”
“Down the street?” Donata pondered that news. “You must have had something to do with it to get Therese so upset.”
“As we both know, it doesn't take much to upset Therese.” Mary Helen slammed the car door. “Where is she now? I'll talk to her.”
“At the television—where else? It's time for the five o'clock news.”
By the time Mary Helen and Anne arrived in the community room, every seat was taken. No one seemed to notice them standing just inside the door since every eye was focused on the television set. Anchorman Dave Chavez solemnly reported the shooting death of Sarah Spencer, a young police officer, on her first undercover assignment.
There was footage of the sidewalk where her body had fallen, bare now except for the brown stains of her blood and a chalked outline. Her fiancé, looking distraught, had mumbled a few words into the outstretched microphone. Her parents, pale and teary-eyed, asked to be left alone. Finally, the Chief of Police assured the viewers that whoever did this would be found and prosecuted. “I'll do everything in my power,” he promised.
“What did he say about the hour?” Donata asked. She must have turned down her hearing aid.
“In his power,” Ursula repeated patiently.
“I don't know why they have to mumble,” Donata complained.
Mary Helen was sure that the segment was over and that no mention would be made of the Refuge, when the anchorman lowered his voice. It was as if he were about to share a dark secret. “A reliable source,” he said, giving the camera his sincerest expression, “informs this reporter that an elderly nun from the Refuge happened to be with the policewoman when she died.”
“Why couldn't he have just said ‘nun'? Mary Helen fumed as all eyes suddenly shifted toward her.
“I knew it!” Sister Therese's reedy voice pierced the silence. “And, if you ask me, it's a disgrace. We have no business dabbling in this sort of business.”
“If you ask me,” old Donata piped up, her hearing obviously improved, “it's one of the corporal works of mercy—
Comfort
the
dying.”
“I think you've got it confused with bury the dead,” Ursula, ever exact, corrected.
“Whatever!” Donata said impatiently. “You know exactly what I mean.”
Ursula's face flushed. “I suppose it could be compared to visiting the sick …”
“Stop!” Mary Helen tried to keep her voice even. “I didn't want to be there. It just happened. Do you think I enjoyed watching the beautiful young woman's life fading away?” Without a word she left the now silent room. She was exhausted. It had been a long day. Although she wasn't hungry, she should get some supper and go to bed. But first she needed to unwind. Regardless of the time in Ireland, she decided to call Eileen.
To say Eileen was surprised to hear from her again so soon was an understatement. “Do you know what time it is, Mary Helen?” her friend asked, in a voice thick with sleep. “This better be good.”
Quickly Mary Helen told her of meeting Sarah at the Refuge, being told that something bad was going on down the street, and getting to the woman to hear her dying word. Eileen listened without comment.
“What do you think I should do now?” Mary Helen asked finally.
“To be perfectly honest, I think you should leave it to the police. Whoever killed that woman has a gun and is not afraid to use it on anyone.”
Mary Helen was taken aback. Eileen was usually so fearless. She had fully expected her old friend to say, “You surely should do whatever you can to help Kate and Inspector Gallagher find the killer.” Then make up an old Irish proverb to prove it.
Maybe she hadn't heard correctly. Could they have a bad connection? It probably hadn't been such a good idea to wake up Eileen at two in the morning. Nobody is at their best when they're awakened from a sound sleep. “You mean not get involved?”
“That's exactly what I mean.”
“What makes you say that?” Mary Helen asked in disbelief.
“Well,” Eileen chose her words carefully, “for one thing, the last time I saw you, you were not yet bulletproof.”
“So?” Mary Helen pressed.
“So, when I finally do get home, old dear, I'd like you to be there.”
“Don't be silly,” Mary Helen said, but not before she felt a chill run up her spine.
As Kate Murphy drove out Geary Boulevard toward home, she was scarcely aware of the evening traffic. In all the congestion, her car seemed to operate on automatic pilot, stopping at stoplights, waiting for pedestrians to cross, and avoiding buses and aggressive bikers alike. It wasn't until she pulled up in front of her yellow peaked-roof house on Thirty-fourth and Geary that she noticed that great waves of fog had rolled in from the beach, covering the Avenues. She slammed her car door and felt the moisture in her hair. Soon the fog would be as thick and dense as her mind trying to make some sense out of the death of the policewoman, Sarah Spencer.
Kate was glad to see her husband's car. Jack was home. It was his turn to pick up their son from Sheila, the babysitter, and to
make dinner. She was starving. No wonder. The last thing she remembered eating was a cookie at the Refuge. Then all hell had broken loose.
Beside her front stairs the wide leaves of the iron blue hydrangea bushes glistened in the dampness. Carefully she mounted the steps. The fog made them slippery, and she had no time for a broken bone.
“Hi,” she called, pushing open the front door, fully expecting her son John to squeal and run to hug her. But the house was silent.
“Jack. Pal. John, it's Mom,” her voice ricocheted through the empty hallway. “Jack, are you there?” she called toward the kitchen. The light was on, but there was no hint that a meal was cooking—no aroma of onions or garlic. Fear prickled her scalp. No matter what Jack was preparing, he always sautéed a few onions or a clove of garlic first, claiming that the smell alone relieved everyone's anxiety about dinner being served.
“Jack?” she called, controlling her urge to scream, and listened. Was water running in the upstairs bathroom? The shower? Yes. Someone was in the shower. It must be her husband. But where was her son? If he were in the shower with his father wouldn't she hear some noise?
Struggling to calm the whirlpool of dread, she started up the stairs.
Why must I always imagine the worst?
Kate wondered, gripping the banister. Was it an occupational hazard?
The jangle of the telephone pierced the house like a scream. Taking the stairs two at a time, she snatched up the receiver from their bedside phone. “Hello,” she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.
“Hello, Kate,” her mother-in-law chirped. “This is Loretta.”
As though I wouldn't recognize your voice, Kate thought. “Hello, Loretta,” she said, hoping she didn't sound impatient. Mama Bassetti had the unfailing knack of calling at the absolute wrong time. Tonight was no exception.
The shower stopped. She heard the curtain being pulled back. She desperately needed to talk to her husband. Where was their son? Had Jack done the unthinkable and forgotten to pick him up?
“Did Jack tell you?” Mama Bassetti asked.
“Tell me what? Kate was distracted.
“Then, I guess he didn't. That boy!” Kate visualized her mother-in-law, one hand on her ample hip, lips pursed, shaking her head. “I don't know what's wrong with my Jackie,” she said. “I raised him better than that, Kate. I swear I did. His papa and I did our very best.” She sighed. “What kind of a husband is too busy to call his working wife and tell her that they are going out for dinner? I ask you?”
When her mother-in-law paused for breath, Kate heard a familiar giggle in the background. It was John! He was with his grandmother. Quick tears burned her eyes. What in the world was he doing there?
The bathroom door swung open and Jack appeared in a cloud of steam smelling clean and fresh. “Hi, hon,” he said, kissing the back of her neck. His wet hair dripped on her shoulder.
Suddenly angry, Kate handed him the receiver. “Your mother,” she said. “Was there something you forgot to tell me?”
“What's up, Ma?” Jack asked. Except for an occasional grunt and a few “but, Ma's,” he listened until Kate felt sorry for him.
“That was some wild Italian,” he said when he finally hung up. “She didn't even give me a chance to explain that your car phone wasn't on.”
“Oh, right,” Kate said, realizing that she'd been too distracted to notice. She sat down on the edge of their bed, pulled off her shoes, and wiggled her toes. “What's going on?” she asked, suddenly exhausted.
Toweling his hair, Jack shrugged. “It seems that my mother heard from a neighbor whose friend's son is on the force that a policewoman was killed today. Of course, the neighbor has no
name or other information to identify the victim, so my mother immediately jumps to the conclusion that it could be you.”
BOOK: The Corporal Works of Murder
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ads

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