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

feel cold, not wet and sticky. Distracted, she opened her eyes and fished in her pocket for a tissue. What inheaven’s name could be leaking down here? Mary Helen glanced up at the ceiling, then down.
    Her heart gave a sickening jolt. She stared disbelieving at her open palm where the flickering light played on a clot of bright red, sticky blood.
    Steadying herself, she stretched forward to examine the side of the casket. A streak of red was smeared from the corner of the lid down one side—as though a bloody rag had been dragged over it. Then she saw it . . . on the marble floor below, awkwardly stuffed behind the ornate casket. It was not a rag at all. It was a body. Rivulets of blood snaked down from a gaping head wound onto the shimmering evening dress. They ran like scratches across the raspberry lamé.
    Mary Helen crouched beside the casket and peered at the face, half covered with strands of auburn hair. Vacant blue eyes stared back at her. The tip of a tongue protruded from swollen purple lips. Across the throat was a thick, cruel welt. Someone had strangled her. Someone had strangled Lisa Springer.
    The room moved around her. Mary Helen grabbed a cold pillar to keep from moving with it. A scream—her own?—ricocheted off the stone walls, echoing and reechoing until it faded into a whisper.
    She leaned heavily against the marble altar. The musty smell mingled with the sickening odor of blood. She fought back the nausea rising in her throat. What now?
    A creak overhead startled her. Was someone coming? An unsuspecting worshiper? Another tourist? The murderer?
    Sister Mary Helen stumbled up the narrow stairs. She must tell someone, anyone, quickly. She ran past startled worshipers and frowning cleaning ladies in blue smocks, past a priest on his way into the confessional.
    Still shaking, she exploded into the blinding light of the Plaza del Obradoiro. Temples pounding, she hurried acrossthe huge flagstone square, unaware of the straggle of tourists and unsuspecting townsfolk preparing for the start of a brand-new day.
    Breathlessly Sister Mary Helen flung open the bedroom door and burst in on a startled Eileen.
    “Where in heaven’s name have you been?” Eileen’s face was still pink and wrinkled from sleep. “I woke up, and you were—” She stopped in mid-sentence. “What is it, Mary Helen? Your cheeks are flaming. And the rest of your face is as pale as if you just shook hands with the devil or stumbled upon the dead.” Staring, she sat down heavily on the edge of her bed. “Oh, no! It can’t be. Tell me you didn’t.”
    Mary Helen made straight for the room phone. While she waited for an operator to answer, she took deep breaths, hoping to quell the sick throb pulsating through her whole body.
    “Drink this.” Eileen offered her a chunky glass filled with water.
    Mary Helen pushed it away and listened intently. “Señor Nunez,
pox favor
,” she ventured, hoping that was what the operator had asked. Apparently it was.
    “Good morning. This is Pepe,” he announced cheerfully.
    “Pepe, this is Sister Mary Helen,” she said, wondering crazily why his cheerfulness irked her so.
    “Ah, Sister, may I be of some assistance?”
    You’d better believe it, Mary Helen wanted to snap. Instead she cleared her throat, steadied her voice, and, without preamble, told him of her discovery.
    By the time Mary Helen replaced the receiver, Eileen’s face had gone gray. She drained the glass of water herself. “What did he say?” she asked hoarsely.
    “I’m not sure. I know it started with
Dios mío!
”
    “What do you mean, you are not sure? You were just on the horn with him.”
    “After his first horrified gasp, he rattled away in Spanish. I haven’t the foggiest notion what he was saying. The only words that I could make out clearly were God’s name, Lisa’s, and
policía
.”
    Mary Helen sank down on the edge of the bed next to her friend. They sat in uneasy silence, each one lost in the whirling of