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

in contrast with the quiet elegance of the arches, the two were somehow harmonious.
    The high altar was empty, but a faint aroma of incense hung on the air. Obviously Mary Helen had missed the early Mass.
    Before I settle down to morning prayer, I’ll just pop in for a quick visit to the shrine of St. James, she thought, tiptoeing around the side of the sanctuary. It seems only polite.
    According to the guidebooks, the apostle’s remains were kept in a crypt below the main altar. A narrow door to the left of the sanctuary led the pilgrims down to it.
    Carefully she squeezed through the door marked
“Entrada”
and followed the narrow, worn steps down to a stone chamber hardly large enough to hold four or five people. It was as quiet as a tomb! No wonder, Mary Helen thought, suppressing a nervous urge to laugh, it is a tomb!
    A bronze plaque on one wall proclaimed Pope John Paul II’s visit to the shrine, where the pontiff had celebrated Mass. Across from it a heavy, wrought-iron gate closed off the tunnellike hallway leading to the silver coffin which was adorned with figures of Christ and the twelve apostles. The now-familiar cockleshell pattern decorated its lid. A single light shone down, and hammered silver absorbed the glow.
    A tattered purple velvet prie-dieu stood in front of the gate like a double guard to protect the saint from his visitors. Slipping behind the kneeler, Mary Helen moved up to the gate. It was locked. She peered at the crypt from every angle and caught a glimpse of the edge of an altar and a bouquet of flowers.
    That altar was probably where the Pope said Mass, she thought, and the flowers looked perky and fresh. People must go into the enclosure. She shook the gate, but it was so securely fastened that it didn’t even rattle.
    There has to be another entrance, she thought, feeling a sudden inexplicable urge to touch the casket, which tradition held contained the remains of St. James and two of his disciples. Perhaps the gate–prie-dieu barrier fanned her desire. Perhaps it was the realization that both the Pope and the florist had been inside. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander! Whatever spurred her on, she was determined to have some physical contact, however slight, with a man who had known and loved and touched Christ Himself.
    Glad that the cathedral was nearly deserted, Mary Helen hastily climbed up the steps. In the shadows behind the main altar, she opened a carved wooden gate and crept into the chancel. Groping in the semidarkness, she felt her shin hit a kneeler. The harsh scrape of wood against granite reverberated up through the stone arches.
    Mary Helen froze, waiting for the sacristan or a guard or even the woman in the blue smock to investigate. When no one appeared, she edged her way toward another small door with a set of steps.
    Blindly she touched the stone wall and, testing each step with her toe, felt her way down. As she descended, the strange musty odor became stronger.
    Once she reached the bottom, the small light drew her toward the casket. Mary Helen squeezed around the altar, careful not to upset the vase. Her foot caught on something. The edge of the linen altar cloth, no doubt. She looked down, hoping that she hadn’t pulled the whole thing awry.
    But it wasn’t the altar linen at all. It wasn’t even white. Whatever had tripped her was shiny and red. Raspberry red. Even in the dim light, it shimmered. Wondering what it could be, Mary Helen freed her toe and squeezed around the marble pillar.
    She must be quick. Someone else was sure to come down into the crypt soon, someone who was bound to realize that she was neither the Pope nor the florist. Not even the cleaning lady. She didn’t want to be caught on the wrong side of the gate. Too hard to explain. Somehow she knew that her “goose and gander” theory wouldn’t cut it.
    Eyes closed, Sister Mary Helen whispered a prayer, stretched out her hand, and touched the silver lid. She expected it to