The Missing Madonna (6 page)

“What’s the problem today?” Mary Helen asked.

“It’s the icebox,” Therese said, pointing to the refrigerator.

Allan looked at her, wishing, no doubt, that it was an icebox so they could call the iceman and not him.

“The freezing compartment is out of whack,” he said, running his fingers through his thick black hair. “But I think it’s because the machine is a little off kilter.” He pointed to the floor. The tip of a screwdriver stuck out about a fourth of an inch from the side of the box.

“It looks like the work of Luis, the handyman,” Mary Helen said, thinking once again that Luis had proven not to be as handy as he might have been.

“I’ll send a couple of men over as soon as I can to fix you up,” Allan said.

“Where are you two off to?” Pat, who had lost interest in the refrigerator, noticed the car keys.

“We thought we might just sneak away for a little while,” Mary Helen said softly, hoping Therese would be too absorbed in the freezing compartment to pay attention. “Today seems like a perfect day for an outing.

Therese rolled her dark eyes. “I would have thought—since some of us have been out and about so much—that a perfect day might be the day we could stay at home!”

*  *  *

Mary Helen drove quickly down Turk Street and cut over Divisadero to Castro. Even on a Tuesday, Castro Street, the heart of San Francisco’s gay community, was crowded. Bumper-to-bumper, Mary Helen edged the Nova toward 18th Street. She knew it was a little out of the way, but it would give her a chance to pass Sanchez and see how close they were to the 400 block.

“Watch out,” Eileen shouted. A truck with side panels announcing
TINY TOTS DIAPERS—WE
’
RE CHANGING THE CITY
pulled away from the curb. It was followed by
two male jaywalkers, hand in hand, who cut in front of the car, giving the hood a friendly pat.

“Are you really sure you want to do this?” Eileen asked, once she had recovered her voice.

“Of course,” Mary Helen answered with more confidence than she felt. “The Mission is beautiful.” And indeed it was. The whole district was a charming mixture of old Victorian and Edwardian homes, with a few stuccos from the thirties looking as though they had been backed into the narrow lots in between.

Mary Helen found a parking space on 16th and Dolores, right next to the old Notre Dame Academy. Some years back, the massive convent and high school had been converted into a center for the arts.

“It’s like a summer’s day,” Mary Helen said although she had to admit it was not like a summer’s day in most of San Francisco. Summer in the City was notoriously foggy. Wasn’t it Mark Twain who had said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco”?

He must not have visited the Mission District, sheltered as it was from the ocean, in the lap of Twin Peaks. The weather there was always mild. Why, an island of palm trees ran down the middle of Dolores Street. It could have been Los Angeles!

The two nuns paused for a moment to look at the whitewashed adobe Mission San Francisco de Asis, probably the oldest building in the City. Adjacent to it, and at least four times its size, was Mission Dolores Basilica.

In the alcove atop its towering facade, junipero Serra stood, in full Franciscan habit, looking down. His stone hands were clasped behind his back. Mary Helen wondered crazily what the saintly friar must be thinking about up there, gazing down on all he had started.

Before the light turned green, a Grayline tour bus pulled up to the curb. Japanese tourists, complete with sun hats and cameras, filed off the bus.

“They must have emptied an entire village,” Mary Helen murmured to Eileen.

“Do you still want to sightsee, old dear?”

“Why don’t we have a little lunch first?” Mary Helen glanced in the general direction of her wristwatch, hoping Eileen was hungry and wouldn’t notice that it wasn’t yet eleven o’clock. “There are lots of quaint little places in this neighborhood.”

Mary Helen drove up 16th a few blocks and turned left on Sanchez. Slowly she cruised the street.

“Where in the name of God are you going?” Eileen turned in the passenger’s seat to look at her. “You have passed three delis, two coffee shops, a health-food restaurant, and Just Desserts is right behind us on Church Street.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Mary Helen, if it is not too much to ask, what are you up to, exactly?”

“There’s where Erma lives.” Mary Helen pointed to a small two-story building on the corner. The first floor housed a storefront. Above it were living quarters. A string of carved rosettes ran between the curtained square bay windows. Probably in the twenties, the greengrocer or the butcher and his family had lived there, over their shop. Today, the shop had been converted to a trendy-looking restaurant with
ALPHONSO
’
S BISTRO
written in white script on its awning. The top story had probably been divided into apartments.

Eileen folded her arms and stared straight ahead. “I wondered what all this was about,” she said. “I should have known. You just could not wait until Erma called.”

For a moment Mary Helen was hurt. This wasn’t a matter of impatience or even curiosity. This was a matter of genuine concern. While she took several tries at parallel parking, she told Eileen about Caroline’s phone call. Eileen followed her across the street, muttering apologies that Mary Helen graciously accepted.

The mailboxes by the front door told them that the
upper floor had been divided into two apartments—Erma’s and one belonging to an A. Finn. Mary Helen pushed Erma’s doorbell and waited. She pushed it again and held it a little longer. Still no answer.

“She’s not at home,” she said, managing to push A. Finn’s bell before Eileen noticed. When A. Finn didn’t answer either, Mary Helen walked toward the restaurant’s side window.

Inside, everything was dark. Obviously the bistro had not yet opened for lunch. Putting her face to the window, Mary Helen cupped her hands around her eyes. There was a crack of light coming from under a door in the back. Someone was in there. With her car keys she tapped on the plate glass.

“What are you doing?” Eileen had caught up with her.

“There’s someone in there,” Mary Helen answered without taking her face away from the window. “Maybe he—or she—saw Erma today. Leaving her apartment, or something.”

“From the back of the restaurant? With the door closed?”

Ignoring her friend, Mary Helen watched a door at the far corner of the darkened room swing open. A squat man crossed the room, wiping his hands on his spotted butcher’s apron.

Frowning, he pointed to the red
CLOSED
sign still hanging on the glass door.

Mary Helen waved. For a moment the man squinted at her. She could almost see his mind working. Two old ladies in blue tailored suits, no makeup, no jewelry, small crosses on the left lapel.

“Oh, Sister!” He unlocked the glass front door. “Sorry,” he said, opening it, “we don’t start to serve until eleven-thirty.” He glanced at his watch. “About twenty minutes. You want to come in and wait?”

“We’re not here to eat, really,” Mary Helen said, trying
not to stare at the top of the man’s head, although it was difficult not to. His pate was bald, yet one long piece of hair had been stretched back and forth in a series of V’s across his crown. The top of his head looked for all the world like someone had threaded half a black shoelace, then plastered it all down with brilliantine.

Eileen nudged her. “We were wondering if you had seen Erma Duran this morning. The woman in the apartment above.” She pointed.

“Yeah, I know Erma, all right.” The man opened the door wide so the nuns could step inside. “She’s lived there for years. Since way before Tommy died. In fact, I’m the landlord. Own the whole building. Come on in.”

The Sisters stepped farther into the darkened bistro. The delicious smell of sautéing onions was beginning to permeate the whole room. Mary Helen’s mouth watered. Inside, small tables covered with white cloths were arranged close together. Napkins, like stiff little bishop’s miters, stood at each place. A milk-glass bud vase holding a real carnation and a frond of maidenhair was in the center of each table.

The walls were covered with deep red flocked wallpaper; the burgundy carpet was thick and plush. The whole place looked exactly as Mary Helen imagined a high-class bordello might look. Here and there an imitation hurricane lamp stuck out from the wall. Two or three large ferns in brass planters completed the decor.

“Then you’ve seen Erma today?” Eileen asked hopefully.

“No, she hasn’t been around for the last couple of days. She took off last Saturday, right after she got back from the Big Apple. Leaves me awful shorthanded. Thank God we’re closed on Mondays.” He wiped his hands on his apron again.

“Erma works for me too,” he added, in case the nuns
hadn’t gathered as much. “She’s my hostess. Been doing that since before Tommy died.

“Somebody’s been trying to get her all morning too. I can hear her phone ringing, but she’s gone. To visit relatives,” the man offered before Mary Helen had a chance to ask.

Just as Caroline had said, she thought. And that caller is no doubt Lucy. Poor thing must really be concerned.

“When do you expect her back?” Mary Helen asked.

The man shook his head. Not a hair on it moved. “Don’t know, Sister,” he said sadly, “and I really miss her around the place.” He brightened. “She said she’d call and let me know.”

“Well, thank you. I hope we haven’t bothered you, Mr. . . . Mr. . . .” Mary Helen realized belatedly that they hadn’t even bothered to introduce themselves.

“Finn. Al Finn.” He stuck out his broad hand. “I’m Alphonso, the one on the awning.”

“Ai for Alphonso.” Eileen cocked her head and ended her sentence somewhere between a question and a statement. It was an old Irish trick that had helped her out of many a tight situation.

The man didn’t know whether to answer or explain. He chose to explain. “My name is really Aiphonsus. My folks were from the old school. You know, name a kid for the saint whose day he was born on. My birthday’s the first of August.”

“St Aiphonsus Liguori.” Eileen beamed. “You were lucky, really. You could have been born on September twenty-ninth.”

Finn looked puzzled.

“Feast of St. Michael. How would you like to have gone through life being called Mickey Finn?”

*  *  *

“How long would you wager the piece of hair across the top of his head is?” Eileen watched Mary Helen unlock the car.

“About a foot.” She was abstracted. Al Finn was Erma’s boss and landlord. If the name on the mailbox was correct, he was her next-door neighbor too.

Obviously he was also her friend. Otherwise, why would she tell him she was going away and not tell Lucy or her own daughter? Yet she couldn’t remember Erma ever mentioning him. Odd!

“Now, see?” Eileen fastened her seat belt. “You worried for nothing. And now I’m really hungry,”

“I wonder when she’ll call,” Mary Helen said.

“Most likely today. Or tonight, when the rates are lower.” Eileen pointed to a deli. “By tomorrow, this whole thing will be cleared up.”

Mary Helen nodded her head. Eileen was probably correct. She thought she would give Kate Murphy a call this evening, however, just in case.

*  *  *

Kate Murphy was in the upstairs bathroom splashing water on her face when she heard the phone ring. Her husband, Jack, answered it on the sixth ring. He must have been waiting for me to pick it up, she thought, checking her eyes in the medicine-cabinet mirror. They didn’t look too red, she decided.

“Hon, it’s for you,” he called up the narrow staircase.

“Thanks.” She hoped her voice sounded strong and cheerful. She didn’t want him to know she’d been crying.

Wrapping Jack’s old flannel robe tightly around her, she padded toward the extension in their bedroom.

The moment Kate heard Mary Helen’s voice, she felt teary again. What was wrong with her?

She hardly heard what the old nun was saying. Something about an OWL friend of hers who was missing. At least this time the person was missing, not dead. Kate felt relieved, although she wondered what in the world an OWL was. She didn’t have to wonder long.

“Older Women’s League,” Mary Helen explained. “We are advocates for women’s rights.”

And a formidable group, I imagine, Kate thought, remembering her previous dealings with the old nun in the Holy Hill murder cases.

“Don’t worry, Sister. It’s probably nothing,” she said, trying hard to put Mary Helen’s mind at ease. “All kinds of people disappear for a day or two, then show up unharmed.”

There was an awkward silence on the other end of the line. Mary Helen must have suspected Kate of trying to pacify her. “Why, there was . . .” Oh, help! Kate desperately searched for a good example.

“Agatha Christie?” Good old Mary Helen came to the rescue herself.

“You’re absolutely on target, Sister. Agatha Christie,” Kate repeated. “And she lived to a ripe old age, didn’t she?

“On the other hand, if your OWL friend isn’t heard from in a day or two, you call back,” she added just before she hung up, “and we’ll look into it.”

“Is everything all right?” Jack’s voice startled her.

“Sister Mary Helen has an OWL friend whom no one has heard from or seen in a couple of days. She’s beginning to get concerned,” Kate answered without turning around. Her eyes might still be red. “Older Women’s League.” She anticipated Jack’s question.

“You’re Homicide; I’m Vice. That sounds like something for Missing Persons. Whew! That lets us both off the hook.” She could feel his hands on her shoulders. “Is something wrong, hon?”

“No. Why?” Kate forced a little laugh.

“Your voice sounds funny and you don’t seem to want to look at me.”

She shrugged her shoulders, not trusting herself to speak.

“And I always figured that you thought I was handsome.”
She could feel his warm breath in her hair and his strong arms slipping around her waist, pulling her close to him. “It’s my three gray hairs, isn’t it?” he teased. “Ever since you discovered the first gray hair in my raven locks—”