Free Murder Makes a Pilgrimage by Carol Anne O'Marie Page A

simply smiled as if she hadn’t heard and, holding tight, forced Mary Helen’s toes into a large shell-shaped basin filled with ice cubes.
    “Now, the soles.” The girl bared her teeth. The left incisor was crooked. The ice clinked as Mary Helen pushed hard against the bottom of the basin and wiggled wildly to wrench herself free from the girl’s icy grip.
    “Stop it!” she shouted even louder, and this last shout was probably what woke her. She lay there, heart pounding, relieved that it was a dream. A least part of it was. Her toes were icy cold. The window! She had left the window open.
    Shivering, she crossed the room. To her surprise the Plaza del Obradoiro was completely deserted. Except for the patter of soft rain upon stone, all was stillness. The plaza, delineated as it was by four large and beautiful buildings,picked up the sound. And the low, steady trickle of water filled the quiet night.
    Leaning out to pull shut the window, Mary Helen thought she saw someone standing on the steps of the cathedral. She squinted into the shadowy darkness. Probably just a reflection of some sort. In the dim light it looked like a person. But nobody stands that still, especially in the pouring rain.
    A cough floated up from the floor below. Someone else must be standing by an open window, she thought, creeping back to her bed. Somebody else can’t sleep. She fluffed up her pillow and closed her eyes, feeling suddenly very tired. Exhausted, actually, and old, like St. Simeon, whose feast had been today. Poor old fellow had wished to live long enough to see Jesus, and as soon as he saw the Child, his first words were
“Nunc dimittis
. . . . Now you can dismiss your servant in peace. . . .”
    She wondered, sleepily, if, when his bones began to ache and his eyes began to fail, Simeon regretted his wish. There was a Chinese proverb about being careful what you wish for because you may get it. Odd—isn’t it?—that you must be careful what you wish for, even if it’s seeing the Christ Child or wishing that everyone downstairs has fun.
    Carpeted footsteps padded past the bedroom door. Two sets? Three sets? It was difficult to tell. Someone stifled a giggle. The party’s over, Mary Helen thought, wondering what time it was. By now, however, she was too sleepy to care.
“Nunc dimittis. . . .”

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 9
Feast of St. John Leonardi,
Priest
    Sister Mary Helen awoke with a fierce craving for a cup of good, strong, hot coffee. Blinking, she rescued her glasses and wristwatch from the nightstand. No wonder! It was already seven-thirty.
    Except for a gentle sough from Eileen in the next bed, the room was deadly quiet. No footsteps in the hall. No rumble of a chambermaid’s cart. The soft gurgle that water makes after a rain and the bark of a faraway dog were the only sounds she heard. It was as if the whole of Santiago were still in bed.
    Orange spears of sun shot through the open drapes, and particles of dust twirled and climbed up the beam. “As thikke as motes in the sonne-beem.” The line from
The Canterbury Tales
popped into her mind, and with it her fellow pilgrims. How were they doing this morning? Surely some must be up by now.
    Kicking her feet out of the covers, Mary Helen rustled around, hoping to rouse Eileen. Eileen didn’t budge. “Hopeless,” she muttered, dressing quickly.
    With a click the bedroom door closed behind her, and Mary Helen stood in the ornate but empty hallway, wishing she had paid more attention to Pepe’s instructions about time and places for things.
    A well-dressed man, looking all business, emerged from several doors down. On a hunch she followed him and with no trouble at all reached the
hostal’s
dining room at about the same time as Cora Bowman.
    “Good morning, Sister.” Cora, her cheeks still creased with sleep, seemed genuinely glad to see a familiar face. “I’m dying for a cup of java. How about you?”
    Before Mary Helen could answer, an ancient waiter in a stiff