A Novena for Murder by Carol Anne O'Marie Read Free Book Online Page A

you just become . . . er”—Mary Helen stumbled for the right word—“friendly since you arrived here?” She hoped she didn’t sound too snoopy.
    “It is a small village I come from. I know them all since we are children. I know Marina. She and Joanna. Not here, but in our village they are rich. Iam not. They are educated. I am not. I could not marry her there. Here, I can. This is the land of—how you say?—opportunity.” Leonel beamed.
    Mary Helen beamed back. She knew she was a hopeless romantic, but she loved the Cinderella story, even backwards.
    A sudden gust of wind pushed against Mary Helen and twisted her skirt. At times like this I miss my long habit, she thought, goose bumps running up her legs. She was glad when they finally reached the door of the warm kitchen. Leonel held it open for her. Inside, the kitchen crew banged heavy pots against the stainless steel tables. Sister Therese’s high-pitched monologue dominated the din.
    “I heard that Professor Villanueva helped them all to come to America,” Mary Helen said, hoping that Leonel would fill her in on some more of the background.
    “Yeah, he help us!” Leonel’s eyes narrowed, and he spat viciously into the hard ground beside the kitchen stoop. “For a price, Sister. For a price.”
    “A price? Money?”
    “Money, yeah. And maybe more.”
    “What do you mean ‘maybe more’?”
    “I’m not sure. But now four are gone.”
    “Gone? I don’t understand.”
    “Poof!” He snapped his fingers, then turned the palm of his hand up, empty. “Gone. Without even
‘Adeus’
! When I ask the professor, he says they went to L.A. to look for work. But why don’t we hear from them? And now, Joanna. Poor Joanna.”
    “Perhaps she’s just visiting someone,” Mary Helen offered.
    “We tried every place. No, she is gone, too.” He shook his head, a grim note in his voice. “Poor, nosy Joanna.”
    Mary Helen was just about to ask “Why nosy?” when a Plymouth rounded the corner of the service road and screeched to a stop.
    Headlights cut through the dense fog. The harsh squawk of the police radio drowned out the kitchen noises. Mary Helen and Leonel watched, dumbfounded, as both car doors swung open.
    Inspector Gallagher grunted from behind the wheel. Kate Murphy jumped from the passenger side and walked toward them.
    Protectively, Mary Helen stepped in front of Leonel. “What is it?” she asked, hardly recognizing Kate as the same smiling young woman from the night before. Everything about her now said “business.”
    “Well, Sister,” Kate began in her official police voice, “I’m afraid we are going to have to ask Mr. da Silva to come downtown with us to answer a few questions.”
    Kate looked over the nun’s head at Leonel. Fear had drained all the color from his face. He was as gray as the blistery fog.
    “I’m afraid, sir, you’ll have to come with us,” Kate repeated. With the precision of a fine acrobatic team, the two inspectors whipped into action.
    Quickly, Gallagher spread-eagled Leonel against the college building, patted down his sides, and slipped on the handcuffs. With a steady rhythm, Kate read him his legal rights, then grumbled something into the car radio. Gallagher wedged Leonel into the back seat.
    Sister Mary Helen stood speechless, a phenomenon that many later remarked was most unusual. Kate Murphy walked toward her. “Are you all right, Sister?” she asked.
    Mary Helen nodded. “But why Leonel?”
    “We dusted that statue for prints, Sister, and his turned up.”
    “Only his?”
    “No, but his were the only ones that didn’t belong there. We understand he threatened to kill the professor. ‘Crush the life from him,’ was the direct quote.”
    “But Kate.” Mary Helen reached over and touched the young woman’s forearm. “Leonel may have touched that statue, but he could not have killed anyone with it. Just look at his eyes—such gentle eyes.”
    Kate compressed her lips. “Sister,” she