Murder Makes a Pilgrimage Read Online Free Page B

the road, the hum of the engine, and the warmth of the October sun filling the car were so soothing that she was sure to fall right off.
    And no wonder! Eileen and she had scurried around for the last two weeks, making the necessary arrangements at the college, digging out their passports, purchasing a few traveler’s checks, and packing and repacking their suitcases, trying not to forget anything essential yet keep them light enough to carry.
    Of course, Mary Helen had checked out a couple of new paperback murder mysteries from the library and stashed them in her pocketbook. She was careful to slip the one she intended to read first into her plastic prayer book cover. After all, there was no sense scandalizing the other “pilgrims” unnecessarily.
    There would be plenty of time both to sleep and to read once they boarded the plane. According to the itinerary, Mary Helen figured that the trip to Madrid, their first stop, would take about eleven hours.
    A blazing red-orange yolk of sun was sinking quickly and turning the sky into a study of lavender and pink. They passed the National Cemetery; Señor Fraga exited 280 and sped along the Portola Freeway toward San Francisco International.
    The airport was a maze of traffic and blinking lights. Hunched over the steering wheel, Señor Fraga maneuvered the lanes for departing and arriving flights, for domestic and international airlines.
    With an air of relief, he pulled up in front of their terminal and spoke at last. “Seesters, not to worry. We are here in plenty of time.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “In fact, we are early. I will give you to my nephew if I can find him. And then I will see personally to your luggage.” He hustled them out of the Toyota and into the terminal.
    Mary Helen was curious to meet the much-maligned Pepe.
    “Ah, Seesters, here comes the big man now.” SeñorFraga frowned toward a young fellow pushing his way through the crowd.
    The two men could not have looked less alike if they’d held a contest. Where the señor was short and stout, his nephew was tall, broad-shouldered, and thin in all the right places.
    Nor did he fit Mary Helen’s stereotype of a bum. His gray woolen suit was tailored to perfection, his face tanned, and his eyes, like the words of the old Irish ballad, were “dark and . . . roving.”
    “Ah, Tío Carlos! Early, as always.” The young man smiled. Beside her, Mary Helen felt Señor Fraga stiffen.
    “Seesters,” he said, scarcely hiding his contempt, “this is my wife’s sister’s boy, my nephew, Señor Jose Nunez de Costa.”
    With a smile that revealed a mouthful of straight white teeth, Señor Nunez clicked his heels and gave a deferential bow.
    “Pepe. Please call me Pepe,” he insisted. “It is my supreme pleasure to meet you both.” His voice was unctuous. “We are indeed fortunate to have two such religious women upon this pilgrimage.” He faced Mary Helen.
    If you only knew what we’ve heard about you and this trip, she wanted to say, but thought better of it. After all, they had eleven hours together on this plane, plus another short hop to Santiago. Not to mention a week in a foreign country. No sense starting off on the wrong foot.
    “Except for our friend Consuelo Aguilar we would never have been in your uncle’s restaurant.” Mercifully Eileen filled the conversation gap. She turned to include the señor, but he had vanished.
    Pepe, seemingly unconcerned about his uncle’s quick exit, led the two nuns through the milling crowd. “Follow me,Sisters,” he shouted over his shoulder. “We are in the First Class Lounge. I will introduce you to the rest of our pilgrims.”
    “Thank you, señor,” Eileen shouted back, grabbing Sister Mary Helen’s hand to make sure that they weren’t separated.
    “Pepe, Sister.” Mary Helen was puffing to keep up. “Please just call him Pepe.”
    When the three reached the First Class Lounge, Pepe pulled back the heavy smoked-glass door. Chinese stone