The Missing Madonna (4 page)

As she crossed the hotel lobby, heading for the elevator, Mary Helen noticed Erma out of the corner of her eye. The woman had stopped at the main desk again.

The schedule for the final day of the annual OWLs convention was chock-full, so full in fact that even that morning Mary Helen had not yet decided which workshops to attend.

“Do you know which sessions you’re going to?” she asked Eileen while the two were still dressing in their hotel room. It wasn’t that she wanted a suggestion, but rather reassurance. She’d feel a great deal better knowing she wasn’t the only one who couldn’t make up her mind.

Eileen stuck her head around the bathroom door-jamb. “Oh, my, yes,” she answered brightly, or at least as brightly as she could with a mouth bubbling with pink toothpaste.

She rinsed. “But it took some doing,” she added diplomatically. Mary Helen realized her face must have fallen.

“Which topics did you decide on?” she asked, this time from pure curiosity. How in the world had Eileen been able to choose among such stimulating subjects as Nursing-home Reform, Job Discrimination, and Arms Control?

“I’m going to hear the paper on Pain-free Arthritis,” Eileen said, “and then the ones on Elderhostel and How to Age Happily.”

Mary frowned. “But, Eileen”—she tried not to sound critical—“you don’t have arthritis, do you?”

Eileen ran a comb through her wiry gray hair. “No, but Sister Therese does!” she answered, with a bit of logic that eluded Mary Helen.

“I see” was all Mary Helen could think of to say. Immediately she decided against asking, Why Elderhostel? Or remarking that Eileen couldn’t be aging any more happily if she tried. Right then Mary Helen made up her own mind to attend the session dealing with pending bills affecting older citizens. Legislation was one of the few things more complicated to follow than Eileen. Snatching her navy wool jacket from the closet, she quickly left their double room.

*  *  *

The final reception that afternoon took place in the hotel’s convention center. Waiters circulated through the crowd, serving expensive wine in tulip-shaped glasses. More waiters followed with trays of unusual-looking hors d’oeuvres harpooned with colored toothpicks and artistically arranged on frilly white doilies.

Helping herself to several pieces of what she felt surely must be chicken, Mary Helen moved slowly around the room, greeting other conventioneers and wondering where they had dropped their used toothpicks.

Noelle Thompson stood in the corner, chain-smoking. Through the blue haze of smoke, she listened intently to a group of women clustered around her. Even from a distance Mary Helen could see her snapping blue eyes peering over her half glasses. “Don’t agonize—organize!” she heard Noelle remind the group. That was the organization’s motto and a good one too. Although Caroline Coughlin had once remarked that “Do it, damn it!” would be more to the point.

Against the far wall she couldn’t help noticing Erma Duran and Lucy Lyons nose-to-nose in conversation.
Craning her neck, she could see that the usual smile was missing from Lucy’s round face. In fact, she was frowning slightly. Behind horn-rimmed glasses, her eyes were fixed on Erma.

One glance at Erma’s expression told her that whatever they were discussing was bothering them both. Erma seemed distraught. Odd, Mary Helen thought. In all the time she had known Erma she could not remember ever seeing her upset. Now . . . twice in two days? What was going on? Not that Erma didn’t have plenty to be upset about. It couldn’t be easy, Tommy dying and leaving her—to use the old phrase—less than well provided for. And her children! If you could believe what you heard, they fell a little short of the Waltons! But the Erma she knew had always seemed so solid and optimistic about everything.

Carious, Mary Helen watched Erma anxiously fingering the medal around her neck, then stopping just long enough to push a straying curl back in place.

What in the name of heaven is going on, she wondered. She watched Erma’s face pucker as if she were about to burst into tears. Something was definitely wrong, and Mary Helen intended to find out what it was.

Slowly, she began to thread her way across the crowded convention room. She had moved only a few feet, when she felt a firm hand on her elbow. Who in the name of goodness . . .? Whirling around, Mary Helen came face-to-face with Alice Taylor-Smith. Mrs. Taylor-Smith arched her long, slender neck and smiled her cat-smile.

“I have so enjoyed meeting you, Sister dear,” she purred.

Mary Helen could feel herself bristle. Being called
dear
at seventy-plus was only slightly less offensive than being called
honey
.

What was it about Alice Taylor-Smith that affected
her this way? The woman meant no harm. Mary Helen was sure of that. But there was something in her manner, something that gave the impression she thought herself—what was Eileen’s old Irish saying?—“just a cut above” the rest of us.

It took Mary Helen several minutes to exchange pleasantries with Mrs. Taylor-Smith and settle on their departure time for the next day. This business concluded, she turned to find Lucy and Erma gone.

“Pshaw!” she muttered.

“Pshaw, indeed! Be careful you don’t date yourself, old girl.” Eileen was right behind her.

Mary Helen spun around. “What would you suggest I say instead?”

Her friend paused for a moment, as though pondering a weighty issue.
“Shucks
would bring you forward two or three generations at least. And you’d have such a nice out-West ring. Like a regular Gary Cooper.”

“Good Lord, Eileen!” was all Mary Helen could think of to answer.

“What were you
pshawing
about, anyway?”

“Erma. Something is definitely wrong with her.”

“What do you mean
wrong?
Is she ill?” Eileen craned her neck to see if she could pick Erma out of the dense crowd.

“No, not sick. She’s disturbed or distressed, or something. I saw her across the room talking to Lucy. Everything about her said she was upset.” Mary Helen nodded her head. “Yes, definitely upset!” she emphasized.

“You saw her across this packed room and could tell she was upset?” Eileen gestured a bit too dramatically for Mary Helen’s liking. “Glory be to God, Mary Helen, you must give me the name of your optometrist. Whoever he is, he’s a regular miracle-worker.”

Eyes narrowed, Mary Helen faced her. “You know blasted well Dr. Van Houten is my eye doctor. And I tell you, Eileen, the woman is upset!”

Eileen was not to be cowed. “They could be talking about anything at all. For instance, maybe they’re discussing arthritis. Now,
that
is upsetting!”

She paused and looked hard at Mary Helen. “The point I’m making is, don’t be searching for trouble. There’s an old saying back home . . .” To Mary Helen’s astonishment, Eileen could always dig up an old saying from “back home.” She often suspected her friend made them up to fit the occasion. “ ‘Don’t trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.” And from what I’ve noticed, trouble troubles you soon enough!”

It is not my fault, Mary Helen wanted to say but refrained. It sounded too much like s whine. If there was anything Mary Helen detested almost as much as a bore, it was a whiner.

“Humph” was all she said. Turning on her heel, she squeezed her way across the crowded room. Where in the world had Erma and Lucy disappeared to? She checked her wristwatch. Four-thirty. The women had agreed to meet at six for a final fling. Their four traveling companions had planned to treat them to dinner at a place they’d found in the Three A’s tour book, before a quick walk over to West Forty-fourth Street and the eight o’clock performance at the Majestic Theatre.

Maybe Erma and Lucy had gone to their hotel room to start dressing for the evening, or perhaps to sneak in a short nap. Suddenly Mary Helen realized how tired she was. A short nap sounded heavenly. Maybe she’d sneak one in herself. It had been a long day. But first she’d stop by Erma’s room and make sure everything was all right. Grudgingly she admitted to herself that she’d do well to take Eileen’s advice and leave well enough alone. Absentmindedly, she pushed the elevator button.

*  *  *

The fourth floor of the hotel was plushly carpeted, dimly lit, and deadly quiet. The line of thick wooden
doors, like so many rabbit hutches, were shut tight against any intrusions.

Mary Helen stopped in front of Erma’s door and leaned forward to listen. She had just poised her hand to knock when she heard the pathetic sound of muffled crying.

“Shush, Erma. Stop it.” Even through the thick door she heard Lucy’s high-pitched voice pleading. “You’re working yourself up to an absolute frenzy. And about what? Money!” She spat out the last word almost as if it were an obscenity.

Erma muttered something unintelligible and cried all the harder.

“Damn it, Erma! You’d drive a preacher to cuss,” Lucy shouted, but her tone was not angry, just helpless. “Better yet, to drink. And I think I will pour us both a short one.” There was a long pause, but Mary Helen thought she heard Erma sobbing quietly.

“Please don’t worry,” Lucy said as if she were comforting a small child. “Here, drink this. Worry is not going to solve a thing,” she went on. “It’ll only ruin the little time off you have. I tell you, Erma, everything will work out. We’ll make sure it does. And in the meantime, I’d be happy to help out. You know that.”

Mary Helen heard what she thought was Erma blowing her nose and hiccuping softly.

Suddenly she shifted, embarrassed. She was intruding on a private conversation. Well, she’d never let on for one moment that she’d heard a thing. Straightening up, she decided against even knocking. Whatever was bothering Erma, she and Lucy would work it out. We’ll make sure it does, Lucy had said. Mary Helen had heard that.

Besides, it was really none of her affair. To be very truthful, she had probably heard too much already. Eileen was absolutely correct. Why go looking for trouble? It was bad enough that she seemed to stumble into
it even when she wasn’t looking. She would go straight to her hotel room, put her feet up for a half hour or so, see if she could nap. And if she couldn’t, she’d just relax and read a chapter or two of her murder mystery.

Squaring her shoulders, Mary Helen turned away from the door, adjusted her bifocals, and began to walk down the thickly carpeted hall. She was very glad she had, too, for just then the elevator door opened and out stepped Eileen. She would not, for one tiny moment, want Eileen to think that she would stoop to eavesdropping.

On Friday evening Sisters Mary Helen and Eileen had arrived back at Mount St. Francis College, where they spent the weekend recuperating. The other nuns were happy to have them home. Or so they said. Eileen staunchly denied that Sister Cecilia’s face fell when they’d arrived in the community room on Friday after supper and announced they were home.

“You are terrible!” Eileen said. “Besides, it is just not true. Her face did not change one iota when she saw us. If anything, she smiled.”

“Barely,” Mary Helen conceded.

“Glory be to God, give the woman credit She’s the college president. Even if she wasn’t completely happy to see us, she never would have let on. After all, she has had years of practicing the fine art of pretending to be happy to see people. The poor thing probably just had a hard day.”

“Maybe it wasn’t her face. Maybe it was something in her eyes.” Mary Helen stopped to let that sink in. She considered herself an expert on eyes.

Eileen didn’t dignify the remark with an answer.

“But what really made me wonder was when she looked up from her crossword puzzle and said, ‘I need a seven-letter word for
disturbance,’
glanced over at us, and said,
‘Trouble.’ ”

“You are the living limit” was all that Eileen said.

There was no doubt young Sister Anne had been glad to see them back. “It’s Dullsville around here without you two,” she said, giving each of them a warm hug. The Big Apple T-shirt they brought home for her was a hit At least Anne wore it the very next day.