Death Goes on Retreat Read Online Free Page B

continually training new help. No one knows how to make square corners anymore and, I swear, they don’t see dirt. Even our staunchest supporters have mentioned it. Nicely, of course. But no one, however staunch, expects to come to retreat and begin by cleaning up the bathroom sink.
    “That, plus the priests’ being insulted every time they bring parishioners—how long will anyone continue to come?” Felicita suddenly looked very old and very tired. “It’s taken us years, decades really, to build up our clientele. And once they are gone . . .”
    Silently Mary Helen and Eileen followed Felicita across the deserted grounds. Their hostess insisted on showing them to their rooms in St. Agnes’ Hall, although Mary Helen felt reasonably certain that, given the room numbers, they could find their own way.
    Suddenly, she felt almost as tired as Felicita looked. Maybe it was the time of night or the herbal tea or just the pressure of preparing for retreat, leaving Mt. St. Francis College, and driving to Santa Cruz. Whichever, she was one guest who did not intend to examine the square corners on the bed, or the bathroom sink, for that matter. She doubted that she’d even get through the first few pages of her new mystery before sleep took over.
    The gentle night wind rustled the leathery leaves of the bay trees, almost like wind chimes. The soft hum of the insects rose in the stillness. Ancient redwoods formed a dark, protective rim around St. Colette’s, their thick, soft bark producing a profound quiet. Overhead the sky was awash with stars. Mary Helen found the bright North Star and marveled at its nearness.
    No one would ever suspect, she thought, yawning as Sister Felicita fumbled with the door keys, that such turmoil could possibly exist in this citadel of peace.

Monday, June 21

Feast of St. Aloysius
Gonzaga, Religious

Day Two
    The mournful and persistent coo, coo, coo of a pair of doves finally woke Sister Mary Helen. Eyes shut, she lay in the comfortable bed wondering how it was possible that someone who slept through foghorns, sirens, garbage trucks, and Muni buses, not to mention the stream of traffic on Turk Street, could possibly be awakened by a mourning dove. Impossible, yet true! Worst of all, she could not fall back to sleep.
    The hungry squawk of a blue jay startled her. It sounded so close. Was the bird in the room? Reluctantly Mary Helen opened her eyes. What was it Eileen always said about birds in the house? A sign of death?
    She felt a sudden dread, but shrugged it off as nonsense. She had not quite recovered from the shock of discovering a dead body on her trip to Spain last year. That’s all it was. If I’m not careful, I’ll be expecting dead bodies everywhere.
    Furthermore, she thought, searching for her slippers on the cold floor, how would a bird get in?
    Shivering in the early morning chill, Mary Helen pulled back the heavy drapes. Below the window, a narrow sitting porch ran alongside the building. A noisy jay with a long, dark crest was perched on the rail. He tilted his head. Bold stump! Mary Helen thought as she and the bird eyed each other.
    Beyond the porch lay a pageant of trees—sycamore and redwoods, madrone and spruce—as far as the eye could see. Fog rose from them like incense from some gigantic thurifer hidden on the valley floor. As the mist blended into the overcast sky, Mary Helen felt as if she were about to catch a magical glimpse of Brigadoon. Then with a twinge of regret she remembered that she must wait another whole week to enjoy seven days of all this beauty.
    Not that she didn’t enjoy her work in the Alumnae Office of Mount St. Francis College. She did. Very much, in fact. But the sudden change of plans—because they really couldn’t stay on the priests’ retreat—made her realize how much she had been looking forward to this retreat.
    Tiptoeing into the bathroom between Eileen’s room and her own, she listened for any “awake” sounds. All she heard was a