On weekday mornings the college began serving breakfast at seven. Even though she had already been to the alumnae office, Mary Helen was one of the first in line. She felt in her jacket pocket for the slip of paper with Erma’s address. She double-checked: The Mission District, 400 block of Sanchez.
Taking her toast and half a grapefruit into the dining room, Mary Helen searched the tables hoping to spot her friend Eileen. She found her sitting with Sister Cecilia near a set of windows overlooking one of the college’s formal gardens. Outside, the morning was already beautiful. The spring sun was just beginning to touch the row of funnel-shaped petunias that bordered the lawn. A row of sweet alyssum ran behind them, their grayish leaves glistening with drops of early-morning fog. A bed of yellow and gold marigolds circled the marble statue of the Blessed Virgin. Above, the sky was a bright, cloudless blue. All in all, it was a perfect day for an attack of spring fever and a perfect opening for Mary Helen.
“I feel like playing hooky,” she said, sliding into the chair across from Eileen. “It’s much too nice a day to stay home. We should go somewhere.”
“We just came back from somewhere.” Eileen eyed Mary Helen’s grapefruit.
Since she found it nearly impossible to eat grapefruit without squirting those around her, Mary Helen put it aside for later. She wanted nothing to distract Eileen’s attention. Much to her surprise, it was Cecilia’s attention she aroused.
“You’re absolutely right, Mary Helen.” The president smiled nervously. “It is much too nice a day to stay home. Where are you thinking of going?”
“Oh, just for a little ride. Sightseeing, maybe, as if we were tourists. Visit someplace we seldom go, like… say”-she paused for effect-“like Mission Dolores…” Mary Helen let the phrase ride on the air.
Eileen looked at her perplexed. “Mission Dolores? Why on earth? Besides, we have jobs, old dear. Remember?”
“What a grand idea!” It was Cecilia who seemed enthusiastic. “I’ll bet it’s beautiful out the Mission today.” Her eyes glowed. “I was born and raised in the Mission,” she said.
Mary Helen gulped. She might have known. The Mission District was home to many of San Francisco’s notables. She could feel the college president warm to the bait.
“Would you like to go?” she asked, trying not to sound as if she had caught the wrong fish.
Cecilia shook her head. “No, thank you. I’d love to, but you know I can’t. What would people think if I took a Tuesday morning off? Besides, I have several meetings today and…”
Mary Helen didn’t hear the rest of the answer. She was trying too hard to suppress a sigh of relief.
“And neither can we!” Eileen rose from the table. “We have responsibilities, too, even if our age entitles us to be legitimately part-time.”
“What is the point of being part-time unless we are gone part of the time?” Mary Helen addressed her friend’s fleeting back. “We owe it to them to go. It keeps them honest!”
It took her until nearly ten o’clock to convince Eileen that a ride to Mission Dolores was exactly what the two of them and the system needed.
Fortunately, the convent’s green Nova was free and Mary Helen signed it out on the car calendar “till late.”
“How late?” Eileen followed her toward the back door.
Mary Helen pretended not to hear. At her age, she could act a little hard of hearing. It worked for Therese, who was a full ten years younger.
As the pair passed the kitchenette just inside the back door, Mary Helen heard voices. It was Therese with a couple in tow.
“Hi, Sisters!” Patricia Boscacci turned quickly and moved across the room, giving them each a big hug.
Mary Helen liked Pat. She had graduated from Mount St. Francis almost twenty years before, but she still could easily have been mistaken for a coed. It was hard to believe that the petite, perky lady with curly honey-brown hair had four children, two of them teenagers.
Behind her stood her husband, Allan, quietly smiling. Allan towered over his wife. He was as calm and contained as she was vivacious and talkative. To Mary Helen they seemed a perfect pair, although she had to admit she sometimes felt a twinge of sympathy for Allan.
The man was the successful head of a large electrical firm somewhere in the city. Although he had a degree in electrical engineering, his wife always considered him an electrician. Pat loved the Sisters and was a very active alumna. Therefore, whenever there was an electrical problem at the college-from a balky socket to the whole heating system-she arrived with Allan.
“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-”
“Not funny,” Kate said.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were crying.”
“Now what in the world do I have to cry about?” She turned, buried her head in her husband’s shoulder, and sobbed.
Poor Jack. She knew he must be bewildered. Yet he stood there holding her, saying nothing, just waiting.
“Actually, it’s just your mother,” she finally managed. “I called her from work to ask what I could bring for dinner tonight and she said, ‘Nothing.’ ” Kate blew her nose.
Jack stared down at her, frowning. The look on his face was patient but puzzled. “I’ll bet poor Ma thought that would make you happy.”
“Oh, that’s not why I’m unhappy.” Kate pushed herself away. “How can men be so thick?”
Jack ran his fingers through his wavy hair. “Did I miss something?”
“I’m not pregnant again this month.” Kate plopped down on the corner of their old-fashioned brass bed. The springs creaked and jingled under her weight.
“Can’t say we didn’t try.” Smiling, Jack sat down beside her.
“Both your sisters will be at dinner tonight. And I know your mother is dying to be able to tell them that at least one of her children is giving her a grandchild.”
“Did she say that?”
Kate shook her head. “No, but I can just tell.”
“I thought we’d already settled that. It’s not whether Ma wants a grandchild that’s important. It’s what you and I want, Kate. Remember?”
“Of course I remember. But you and I do want one. And it’s just not happening, Jack. As hard as we try, I just cannot seem to get pregnant.”
Jack shook his head in disbelief. “Kate”-he gently kneaded her spine as he spoke-“trying isn’t all it takes. Remember those illustrations in your biology book. Those little wiggly-looking things. Or didn’t they have that chapter at the girls’ school?”
“Don’t try to be funny, Jack. This is not funny.”
“For chrissake, Kate, we’ve only been trying since around Christmas. That’s not even five months; and February, you remember, is a short one. Relax! Let’s give it a chance.
“As a matter of fact, if it would put your mind at ease”-Jack moved closer-“we could give it another try right now, before we go to my mother’s.”
“You don’t suppose God is punishing us?” she asked, pretending not to feel his hand under her loose robe.
“Punishing us for what?”
“For living together all those years before we got married.”
“I don’t believe you!” Putting his hands on her bare shoulders, Jack turned her toward him.
“Let me take another look. Is this the same wild-eyed feminist I lived with all those years? The one who never wanted to ‘ruin our relationship’ with marriage? The one I nearly had to club and drag to the altar to give her some respectability?”
Bouncing his eyebrows like Groucho Marx, he ogled her, flicking an imaginary cigar. “Ah ha!” he said. “It looks like the same one.”
“You’ve made your point.” Kate closed the front of the flannel robe and hugged it tightly. She pulled her knees up under her chin. “Maybe He’s punishing me,” she said.
“Punishing you for what? Although I must admit you would try the patience of the ordinary run-of-the-mill saint.”
“For not wanting to have a baby at first. Now when I want one, I can’t have one.”
“Jeez, Kate!” Jack stood up, stuck one hand in his pocket, and held the back of his head with the other one. He walked to the window and stared out at a sea of backyards.
Kate knew from experience that was Jack’s ultimate frustration pose. She waited, not daring to say anything until he got hold of himself.
For several moments he just stood there. Finally he turned, came back to the edge of the bed, and sat down. “If that isn’t the damnedest, guilt-ridden, Irish-Catholic thing I’ve ever heard you say.” He put his hands back on her shoulders. “And I was worrying about your biology book! I should have been worrying about your theology book. What the hell kind of a God do you believe in?”
“I know you’re right.” Kate snuggled close to her husband. “But sometimes I just can’t help thinking-”
He put his finger over her lips. She could feel his arm squeezing her tight. “Do me a favor, hon”-he rocked her back and forth-“don’t think. If it is really worrying you, why not make an appointment with a gynecologist? He… or she”-he corrected himself quickly-“can figure out if there is anything physically wrong. That will take care of the biology part, and as for the theology part, ask your friend Mary Helen,” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. “Now, there’s a gal who’ll really set you straight. I’ll bet my badge she could make a Jesuit theologian pale.”
The drive from Kate and Jack’s house in the Outer Richmond District to Mama Bassetti’s in the Sunset District was quiet. Kate enjoyed the silence. It gave her time to compose herself before she got to her mother-in-law’s house. She suspected Jack’s two younger sisters would be there already. Mama had found a real bargain on roast beef at Petrini’s Market, she said, and decided to invite the kids over to enjoy it. At least that was her excuse. Kate marveled at the woman’s creativity in thinking up reasons to lure her family to dinner.
Kate was feeling calmer when they entered Golden Gate Park at 43rd and Fulton on the Avenue of Lakes. The area was deserted, except for a few walkers who had braved the early-evening fog creeping up the Avenues from the ocean and two older women who sat bundled up on one of the green wooden benches bordering the lake, gossiping. The pair seemed oblivious of a mallard at their feet, quacking noisily at the brown-paper sack one woman held in her hand.
Jack rolled up the window as they passed downwind behind the Buffalo Paddock. “Even if you can’t see them you can smell them,” he said, patting Kate’s knee.
He stopped the car at the arterial on John F. Kennedy Drive, letting a jogger and a cyclist with an empty baby seat on the back of his bike cross before he took his turn. Looking at the empty seat, Kate could feel a new lump starting in her throat.
“What was it you were telling me about Mary Helen, hon?” Jack asked suddenly.
“What brought that up?” She could hardly speak.
Jack pointed to several elderly women in tennis shoes walking quickly down the path. “Association, I guess.”
Twisting a thick lock of her red hair around her index finger, Kate pushed it into a tight curl. “I guess I should have shown a little more concern,” she said. “We know from experience that the old girl is no wolf-crier.”
“You said a buddy of hers hasn’t been heard from for a couple of days?”
“Yes, a woman she goes to OWL meetings with. Another graduate of Mount St. Francis. Way back when.”
“And you old alums stick together, right?”
Kate nodded. They drove past a mound bright with blue forget-me-nots. Rhododendrons bordered the lawn. Even though they were past their prime, a few clusters of hot-pink blossoms still clung to the leathery green shrubs.
On their right, set back from the road, a battered sign read BERCUT EQUITATION FIELD. Idly, Kate wondered, as she always did when they passed the spot, if she’d ever seen a horse there. So far, negative.
Suddenly, Jack’s last remark registered. “Who’s an old alum?” She whacked his leg.
Her husband laughed. “You don’t think she suspects foul play, do you?” They turned left on Lincoln Way.
“She always suspects foul play. Jack. And the worst part is, she’s usually right on target.”
Jack’s guffaw startled her. “I know what let’s do.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Let’s turn her and Sister Eileen over to my old pal, Ron Honore, in Missing Persons.”
He turned toward her with an uncharacteristic glint in his eye. Honore was one of the few people she knew who could get under her husband’s skin. Jack said it was because of his cockiness. Kate suspected it had more to do with Honore’s reputation as a lady-killer.
“And the man is downright ugly,” Jack always said.
“Well, the guys don’t call him Don Juan Ron for nothing,” Kate always answered.
“I’ve been dying to get the better of that guy since we left the Academy.” Jack stopped at the arterial. “If those two gals can’t rattle his cage, then nobody can.”