Read Online Murder Makes a Pilgrimage by Carol Anne O'Marie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie
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waiting for everyone to abandon all conversation before he continued.
“Who was she with?” Mary Helen whispered, but butterscotch Heidi was once again enthralled.
“Did you enjoy your first banquet in España?” Pepe asked.
The group clapped appreciatively. Bud Bowman put his baby fingers in his mouth and gave a loud whistle.
“Hear! Hear!” Lisa Springer raised her glass and winked at Bud.
Cora scowled at her husband, who whistled a second time. Mary Helen wasn’t sure if the glare was for the whistle or the wink.
With a bow Pepe went on to outline their schedule for the following morning: breakfast at eight; a tour of the cathedral at ten; dinner at two-fifteen. Mary Helen hoped that Eileen was jotting it all down.
“Tonight,” he said, “you are free. Some of you may be tired and wish to retire early. But for those of you who wish to prolong the evening”—he glanced meaningfully across the table at María José—“the hotel has several public rooms that are open with music for dancing. . . .”
Pepe’s words continued on, but Sister Mary Helen’s mind was already climbing the stairs to her room.
“What do you say, old dear?” Eileen, her gray eyes twinkling, leaned toward her. “Is it to bed or to boogie?”
Mary Helen moaned. “I am exhausted. How about you?”
Eileen nodded in agreement.
“I can’t quite figure out why.” Mary Helen squirmed out of her chair. “Is it jet lag or the heavy food?” She gathered up her pocketbook. “Maybe it’s the wine.”
“Perhaps, just perhaps, mind you”—Eileen followed her as she threaded her way through the crowd—“it’s our age.”
Mary Helen stopped short. Pushing her bifocals up the bridge of her nose, she glared at her friend. “I prefer to think it is the wine,” she said, “don’t you?”
Five minutes after they turned out the lights, Mary Helen was wide-awake. Maddening, she thought, struggling to find a comfortable position. Not a half hour ago I thought I’d fall asleep in my dessert. Now I’m in bed, and I can’t even doze.
“Are you awake?” she whispered, hoping Eileen had the same trouble. Her only answer was a soft, rhythmic snore.
Irked, Mary Helen rolled onto her side, punched up her pillows, and tried to think sleepy thoughts. The sound of laughter floated up through the floorboards, and a familiar tune, although for the life of her she couldn’t remember the words.
Footsteps came down the corridor, one set, two sets; then a loud burst of conversation. Mary Helen strained to hear. Although the words were muffled, the tone was abundantly clear—red-hot anger!
A door slammed, and Mary Helen pulled the covers up over her ears. The band switched to a raucous number, and the floor seemed to vibrate with the beat.
“Eileen,” she whispered, hoping for company. No response. How can anyone sleep through that? Mary Helen wondered, pushing back the covers. She lay in the darkness with her eyes shut. Was it jet lag? If she had it, why didn’t Eileen?
Suddenly the room seemed very stuffy with the musty odor of old furniture and the heavy red velvet drapes taking over. Air! That was what she needed: some cool night air to help her sleep.
She tiptoed across the room, fighting down the urge to jiggle Eileen’s bed. Although from the sound of things I could jiggle to my heart’s content and she’d never notice, Mary Helen thought with a twinge of envy.
Mary Helen pulled back the heavy drapes and flung open the window. To her surprise the Plaza del Obradoiro was filled with people, all kinds of people. It was as if darkness had brought the city roaring to life. She remembered reading in one of the books in the Hanna Memorial Library that at night Santiago de Compostela changes into a colorful, fascinating maelstrom. It was colorful and fascinating, all right, but from where she stood hardly dangerous. If anything, at least this part of Santiago seemed bright and cheerful and contented.
Large groups of
“Who was she with?” Mary Helen whispered, but butterscotch Heidi was once again enthralled.
“Did you enjoy your first banquet in España?” Pepe asked.
The group clapped appreciatively. Bud Bowman put his baby fingers in his mouth and gave a loud whistle.
“Hear! Hear!” Lisa Springer raised her glass and winked at Bud.
Cora scowled at her husband, who whistled a second time. Mary Helen wasn’t sure if the glare was for the whistle or the wink.
With a bow Pepe went on to outline their schedule for the following morning: breakfast at eight; a tour of the cathedral at ten; dinner at two-fifteen. Mary Helen hoped that Eileen was jotting it all down.
“Tonight,” he said, “you are free. Some of you may be tired and wish to retire early. But for those of you who wish to prolong the evening”—he glanced meaningfully across the table at María José—“the hotel has several public rooms that are open with music for dancing. . . .”
Pepe’s words continued on, but Sister Mary Helen’s mind was already climbing the stairs to her room.
“What do you say, old dear?” Eileen, her gray eyes twinkling, leaned toward her. “Is it to bed or to boogie?”
Mary Helen moaned. “I am exhausted. How about you?”
Eileen nodded in agreement.
“I can’t quite figure out why.” Mary Helen squirmed out of her chair. “Is it jet lag or the heavy food?” She gathered up her pocketbook. “Maybe it’s the wine.”
“Perhaps, just perhaps, mind you”—Eileen followed her as she threaded her way through the crowd—“it’s our age.”
Mary Helen stopped short. Pushing her bifocals up the bridge of her nose, she glared at her friend. “I prefer to think it is the wine,” she said, “don’t you?”
Five minutes after they turned out the lights, Mary Helen was wide-awake. Maddening, she thought, struggling to find a comfortable position. Not a half hour ago I thought I’d fall asleep in my dessert. Now I’m in bed, and I can’t even doze.
“Are you awake?” she whispered, hoping Eileen had the same trouble. Her only answer was a soft, rhythmic snore.
Irked, Mary Helen rolled onto her side, punched up her pillows, and tried to think sleepy thoughts. The sound of laughter floated up through the floorboards, and a familiar tune, although for the life of her she couldn’t remember the words.
Footsteps came down the corridor, one set, two sets; then a loud burst of conversation. Mary Helen strained to hear. Although the words were muffled, the tone was abundantly clear—red-hot anger!
A door slammed, and Mary Helen pulled the covers up over her ears. The band switched to a raucous number, and the floor seemed to vibrate with the beat.
“Eileen,” she whispered, hoping for company. No response. How can anyone sleep through that? Mary Helen wondered, pushing back the covers. She lay in the darkness with her eyes shut. Was it jet lag? If she had it, why didn’t Eileen?
Suddenly the room seemed very stuffy with the musty odor of old furniture and the heavy red velvet drapes taking over. Air! That was what she needed: some cool night air to help her sleep.
She tiptoed across the room, fighting down the urge to jiggle Eileen’s bed. Although from the sound of things I could jiggle to my heart’s content and she’d never notice, Mary Helen thought with a twinge of envy.
Mary Helen pulled back the heavy drapes and flung open the window. To her surprise the Plaza del Obradoiro was filled with people, all kinds of people. It was as if darkness had brought the city roaring to life. She remembered reading in one of the books in the Hanna Memorial Library that at night Santiago de Compostela changes into a colorful, fascinating maelstrom. It was colorful and fascinating, all right, but from where she stood hardly dangerous. If anything, at least this part of Santiago seemed bright and cheerful and contented.
Large groups of
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