Murder Makes a Pilgrimage by Carol Anne O'Marie

Then, early this morning, that giggling in the hallway.” She gave an involuntary shudder. “But nothing bothers my Roger. He’s upstairs, dead to the world.”
    “Bud, too!” Cora, rejoicing with a fellow sufferer, bent forward and began to berate her husband’s sleeping habits. Bootsie, too exhausted to do anything but listen, agreed; that suited Cora fine.
    With no experience to add to the conversation, Mary Helen drained her cup. Wondering how to escape politely, she fumbled in her pocketbook. There was Anne’s travel diary. If she didn’t write something now, she’d probably take it home empty.
    Since neither Cora nor Bootsie needed her attention, she opened it. “October 9,” she wrote on the top of the firstpage. “Saturday. Going to see St. James.” Enough! She’d fill in the details later.
    Mumbling excuses about prayers and Mass, which her companions neither seemed to hear nor to care about, Mary Helen made a hasty exit.
    Once outside the
hostal
, she paused, still unable to believe that she was actually in Santiago de Compostela. Overhead the bowl of sky was an after-the-rain blue, and the air was fresh and crisp. The Plaza del Obradoiro itself was nearly deserted. The few people who were in the flagstone square seemed in a hurry to be on their way. Pigeons, their necks ringed in rainbows, bobbed along, picking at crumbs and drinking from puddles.
    One enterprising young man, probably a student, was already setting out his wares. From where Mary Helen stood they looked like windup plastic birds. She wondered idly how the pigeons would take to their intrusion.
    Midway across the huge plaza she stopped to drink in the magnificent cathedral. Moss and lichen streaked the granite facade, giving it a greenish tinge. Two towers soared into the sky, framing a shorter central one with St. James the Apostle atop it. Mary Helen craned her neck. James, dressed in flowing cape and wide-brimmed, cockleshelled hat, with a pilgrim staff in his hand, looked ready to step right out of his niche and into the plaza below.
    She started up the long flight of stairs, the stone worn with the feet of centuries. Kings and saints, rogues and beggars and poets all used these same steps, she reflected, planting her foot firmly on each one.
    Maybe even St. John Leonardi, she thought, remembering the medieval pharmacist whose feast the Church celebrated today. Maybe he walked this way, and in time unknown saints, saints yet to be born, will use the same stairs that I now touch.
    Mary Helen paused just inside the main entrance of the cathedral under the Pórtico de la Gloria—the Door of Glory—to let her eyes adjust to the sudden dimness. She drew in her breath. The triple-arched masterpiece was magnificent, rampant with hundreds of figures. Fascinated, Mary Helen found prophets and saints, angels and children, all carved by Maestro Mateo in the twelfth century, still relaxing against the pillars and along the arches. Smiling and winking, lounging or chatting, they awaited the Last Judgment.
    Their joy was contagious. Mary Helen smiled. In fact, she might have laughed aloud if the cathedral hadn’t been so silent. This was her idea of the dreaded Last Judgment, too, an upbeat affair where God, in His unconditional love, invites each one of us to enjoy a paradise of music and laughter and winking saints.
    The cathedral, like most cathedrals, was built in the form of a Latin cross with long, narrow aisles and soaring arches. The hushed interior was nearly empty. A woman in a blue smock was dusting, and here and there a lone worshiper hunched over a pew, obviously deep in prayer. Mary Helen tiptoed, hoping not to disturb anyone.
    Before her, the sanctuary was dominated by the ornate silver repoussé on the wall and on the altar. Above it all sat St. James himself, glittering in silver and gold, surrounded by angels. Eight enormous cherubim held a massive carved and gilded canopy. As startling as the baroque sanctuary was, especially