Free The Missing Madonna by Sister Carol Anne O’Marie Page A

city block long.
    Laughing, Father Adams related the story. An old, shabbily dressed woman who attended St. Ignatius regularly had stopped one of the Jesuit fathers after Mass. She had a little money, she told him, and when she died she wanted to leave it to charity. To whom did he think she should will it?
    The priest thought for a moment He also said Mass for the nuns across the street He knew the group had come from Spain and were dirt-poor. Their monastery was a shambles. He had heard them praying each day that God would send them a benefactor. The priest figured the woman couldn’t have much, but he knew the nuns would be grateful for whatever she left them, no matter how small the amount.
    “Why don’t you leave it to the Carmelites?” He pointed to the rundown monastery on the corner.
    “Will they pray for me when I die?” she asked.
    “Praying’s their business,” the priest answered with a wink.
    When the old woman died, she left the Carmelite nuns more than a million dollars.
    Since the morning she’d heard that story, whenever she needed serious help Mary Helen had walked down from the college, slipped into the back pew, and offered her intentions with theirs. Praying, after all, was their business, and from the appearance of the monastery, God was into answering them.
    Before she left the darkened chapel, Mary Helen looked for the icon of Our Lady of Perpetual Help. Unable to find one, she lit a votive candle before an ornate statue of the Blessed Virgin. Any port in a storm, she thought, letting herself out onto the windswept street.
    *  *  *
    As Mary Helen neared the back door of the convent, a red Ferrari rounded the corner and came to a quick stop beside her. She recognized Allan Boscacci.
    Rolling down the window, he waved. “Hi, Sister.” A shy smile lit up his handsome face. “It’s all fixed.”
    All fixed? Mary Helen thought for a minute. What? Of course, the broken refrigerator. “What was it?” she asked.
    “The screwdriver. Iceboxes work better,” he said with a wink, “when they are set flat on the ground.”
    “Thanks, Allan.” Mary Helen waved as the sports car rounded the bend. Iceboxes and humans, she thought.
    The convent’s back door slammed. Amused, Mary Helen watched an irate Sister Therese, waving both hands and a screwdriver, talking nonstop to Luis. Hands in pockets, the handyman simply shrugged and shook his head.
    If the poor devil had been smart, Mary Helen thought, deciding to skirt the scene and go directly to her office, he would never have let on that he understood English.
    “Here’s your message, Sister.” Lynda rose and handed her a slip of blue paper. “But it’s not from Mrs. Coughlin.”
    Opening the note, Mary Helen read, “Noelle Thompson called. Meeting at Erma’s apartment with her daughter. Ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Expecting you and Sister Eileen.”
    Not an extra word—so like Noelle. Mary Helen grinned. Clear, efficient, organized. Coincidentally, in keeping with the woman’s penchant for blue, Lynda had written the message on blue paper. Noelle had definitely taken charge and, with her running the inquiry, if there was any information to be had, she would certainly unearth it.
    Folding the note, she shoved it into the pocket of hercoat, went to her inner office, and called Homicide. It was time to bring Kate Murphy up-to-date.
    *  *  *
    Inspector Dennis Gallagher answered the phone on the first ring. Kate noticed her partner’s face start to turn red, forehead first, then his cheeks, finally, his neck. He loosened his already loose tie.
    “What is it?” she mouthed. Poor Gallagher looked almost as though he were in pain. Forestalling her with a raised index finger, he listened intently.
    “Yes, ’Ster,” he said finally. “Yes, ’Ster. Right here. Hold on.”
    Pushing the Hold button on the phone, he held out the receiver to Kate. “Jeez, Katie-girl!” He ran his hand across his bald pate. “It’s that nun again.