Free The Corporal Works of Murder by Carol Anne O'Marie Page A

solving a problem is finding humor in it.
    Mary Helen fully expected that the situation was on the mend. It never occurred to her that she’d spend the next two hours accepting apologies, explanations, and fending off offers to help, etc. By the time she had shut her bedroom door she could have happily strangled Anne.
    After a relaxing bath she settled into bed with the latest Gloria White mystery, hoping that Ronnie Ventana, private investigator, would take her mind off the events of the day. But even Ronnie wasn’t tough enough for that assignment. Giving up, she turned off the light and lay in the darkness waiting for sleep to come. Heaven knows, she was tired enough. She turned on her side toward her bedroom clock where the glow-in-the-dark numbers read 10:15.
    Had it only been sixteen hours since her day had begun? It seemed like a lifetime ago that Father Adams had spoken of the corporal works of mercy in his homily. She had bargained for feeding the hungry and sheltering the homeless, but never had she anticipated dealing with another death.
    Even with her eyes closed she could still see Sarah Spencer crumpled on the sidewalk. She watched the young woman’s face grow pale as her blood slowly ran toward the curb. She felt Sarah’s breath on her ear as she strained to hear her dying words.
    Didn’t that make her somehow responsible for trying to find the woman’s killer? The police will take care of that , a still, small voice warned her. Her dear friend Eileen had cautioned her against getting involved, too, but she was already involved.
    Lord , she prayed in the quiet of her heart, remembering the shadow she thought she’d glimpsed in the doorway, what harm would it do to try to find out if anyone was there? And if so, what had he or she seen? Then I can pass the information on to Kate Murphy. She and Inspector Gallagher must be swamped. It would be
a real act of charity. You know, Lord, what Scripture says about charity—that charity never fails.
    â€œI see. I thought you might have another passage in mind,” the Lord said.
    And what passage is that? Mary Helen asked, sensing that she was walking into a Divine trap.
    For an instant she thought she heard a deep, hearty chuckle. “That charity covers a multitude of sins, old friend,” the Lord said.
    That, too , Mary Helen answered and fell into a peaceful sleep before the Lord had a chance to go into detail.

Tuesday, June 5
    Feast of Saint Boniface, Bishop and Martyr
    T he first thing Sister Mary Helen heard when she awoke was the hum of the garbage truck coming up the college hill. It must be Tuesday, she thought, her eyes still closed, and nearly seven o’clock ! Abruptly she sat up. Had she overslept or was the Sunset Scavenger early? One glance at her bedside clock told her that as usual, the truck was on time.
    This is getting to be a bad habit, she thought, turning back the corner of her window shade to check the weather. A screen of thick fog shrouded the college. In the dampness the lawn glistened and dew on the startlingly orange and red Tropicana roses shimmered like tiny sequins.
    Quickly Mary Helen slipped into her navy blue skirt and a white cotton blouse, and then took her Aran sweater from the closet. Layers was the only way to dress for a San Francisco summer day.
    Father Adams and she arrived in the chapel at exactly the
same time. “Today is the Feast of Saint Boniface,” he began from the altar, “the patron saint of Germany.”
    At the mention of the Saint’s name, Mary Helen’s mind leapfrogged from the man to the church of Saint Boniface in the heart of San Francisco’s Tenderloin. For years the Franciscan Fathers had fed hundreds of homeless men, women, and children each day. Most of the women from the Refuge had their main meal at St. Anthony’s, the church’s free dining room. How , she wondered, had the women fared last night? She hoped that they hadn’t