Free Pushing Murder by Eleanor Boylan Page B

delightful lady, and I’ve enjoyed my dealings with you. In fact, I’d like to think I’ve been one of your greatest challenges.”
    â€œOh, you are, you are.”
    â€œ Have been, Clara, have been. It’s all in the past, or will be in a few days. You mustn’t forget that, for Sal’s sake and possibly for your own, and—er—your family’s. Well, back to the store.”
    He was gone, and I sat stupefied, then called shrilly, “Dan!” He appeared. “Dwight Dunlop is just leaving the hospital headed for Cornelia Street.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNo time to explain. See if you can follow him!”
    â€œI’ve never seen him!”
    â€œI know. I want you to—so you can identify him—a big, tall, fleshy man—maybe you’d better dash ahead to Pushing Murder and wait for him. Don’t let him see you—he’ll recognize your cast. There’s a coffee shop across the street—wait there. I want to be sure he does go back to the store.”
    â€œI don’t under—”
    â€œNo need to—go!”
    â€œWhat about you?”
    â€œMr. Saddlier’s on his way up—go!”
    He darted off, and I sat breathing like a superannuated runner. I’d gotten rid of Dan briefly, but did I still have time?… I reached for my watch on the bedside cabinet, and my hand encountered something small and rough. Janet’s scapular. I examined it for the first time. There were two squares, each imprinted with the image of the saint and connected with a double length of tape, one square apparently worn in front and the other in back. I stared at it. St. Benedict. How was he on miracles? That seemed about our only hope at this point.
    A hospital volunteer, Mrs. Ling, pleasant, middle-aged, and Chinese, came in with newspapers. I hadn’t looked at one since I’d landed here, but now I took a tabloid and the New York Times.
    â€œIsn’t this murder terrible?” she said in the perfect English that both amazes and mortifies nonlinguists like myself. “One of the nurses has told me you were a friend of this woman.”
    â€œYes, terrible. And yes, she was a friend.”
    Mrs. Ling shook her head sympathetically and withdrew. I gritted my teeth and flipped past the tabloid headline WOMAN SLAIN ON ALTAR STEPS to page two, where I read that “broken blossoms were strewn about the body of a woman identified as Mrs. Janet Folsom, Fairfield, Connecticut, socialite,” who was apparently in the act of “laying her floral tribute on the altar of St. Victor’s Hospital chapel when she was strangled and robbed.” The police had no lead on the killer.
    The Times eschewed what Sadd calls “that awful word socialite ” and called Janet Folsom a “wealthy and respected philanthropist.” Only two relatives were named, a sister-in-law, Mrs. Loretta Vaughan, also of Fairfield, and an uncle of her late husband, Reverend Robert Folsom, a Benedictine priest.
    The sister-in-law I knew slightly. The clerical uncle I’d not been aware of.
    I folded the newspapers and pressed my buzzer. To my relief, Sister Agnes appeared. I’d better get the boss’s permission this time, my team of conspirators not being present.
    I said, “Sister, would it be possible to have an aid or a volunteer take me down to the chapel in the wheelchair?”
    She looked doubtful. “Mrs. Gamadge—”
    â€œI feel the need of a little spiritual consolation.” I tried to look the need, and it wasn’t hard.
    â€œFather McCarthy will be making rounds this afternoon.”
    â€œThat will be lovely, but I’d just like to say a prayer in the place where my poor friend died.”
    â€œI’m not sure they’ll let you in. I understand the police have closed the chapel temporarily.”
    â€œIn that case I’ll come straight back. Please?” Please. I was not up for