A Novena for Murder by Carol Anne O'Marie Page A

he had said. Poor Pa. Kate had to laugh. He had deliberately chosen a small, safe, liberal arts college for her. Pa had counted heavily on the “arts.” Little did he realize that his choice would turn his only daughter, the apple of his eye, into a flaming liberal.
    She remembered clearly the night when all the resentment she had built up toward her “proper place” burst into rebellion.
    Pa and she had had a terrible row in the kitchen. “A regular Donnybrook,” Ma called it later, shaking her head.
    “No daughter of mine is going to join the police force,” Pa shouted, his face red with anger. “I’d be the laughing-stock of the entire Department.”
    “Oh, yes I am,” she shouted back. “As soon as I graduate.”
    “I said, you are not! I forbid it!”
    Stubbornly, Kate folded her arms.
    Furious, her father had stormed from the kitchen, but not before he turned and shouted, “I wish you were ten years younger. I’d march you right upstairs and wallop a large dose of that stubbornness out of you!”
    “Don’t be too hard on the girl, Mick,” Ma called from the sink. “Remember, the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree.”
    “How can you stand him?” Kate asked her mother.
    “Stand him? I love him.” Ma wiped her hands on her crisp apron. “And when you love someone, you can give a little.”
    “I’ll never give an inch to any man,” Kate said.
    “We’ll see,” Ma said. “In the meantime, Kate, do what you need to do. Pa will come round.”
    “I love you, Ma.” Kate kissed her soft cheek.
    “But remember, Kathleen, whatever you choose, it’s almost impossible to have your cake and eat it, too.”
    So much had happened since that night. Kate had joined the police force. Poor Pa had died suddenly. Heart. Not long after, Ma followed him. Now, Kate was living in the old, peaked wooden house on 34th Avenue with Jack Bassetti. Ma had been wrong. So far, Kate was having her cake and enjoying every bite of it.
    “Hi, hon,” she called, turning the key in the frontdoor. From the entryway, she could see the light in the kitchen.
    Eyes closed, lips puckered, Jack stuck his face around the corner of the small entryway. “Kiss me, Kate,” he said in his Charles Boyer accent.
    Laughing, Kate pushed the front door shut with her foot. Eyes closed, she kissed Jack loudly on his puckered lips.
    Before she could open her eyes, he wrapped her in a bear hug and carried her, feet dangling, into the warm kitchen.
    Rocking her back and forth, Jack kissed her neck and ears. “I made spaghetti, salad, and pot roast, my love,” he whispered. “There is Dago red chilling in the fridge. Let us eat dinner, then I will eat you.”
    “Put me down, you beast!” Kate pushed against his chest, which was covered with flour. “Why don’t you ever wear an apron?” she complained, dusting the white film off her blue plaid jacket. “And don’t you know red wine should be room temperature?”
    “Sixteen hours over a hot stove, and all I get is bitch, bitch, bitch.” Teasing, Jack dabbed his eyes with a pot holder. Turning to the stove, he stirred the rich, red meat sauce bubbling in an iron pot.
    “What a day I had, pal.” Kate slipped a butcher apron over her head and stood next to Jack at the stove. She stole a quick peek into the oven. The spicy aroma of Italian pot roast filled the cozy kitchen. She slipped her arm through Jack’s, and rested her head against his shoulder.
    “I was on Holy Hill all day. Made me feel a littlesentimental. It was such a nice, sheltered place to go to school.”
    “ ‘Was’ is right. That homicide is big news.” Jack took the lid off the pot of boiling pasta and tested one strand.
    “Yeah, the history professor. Talked to the old nun that reported the body. Quite a character. You’d enjoy her. And you know what Gallagher asked me as we were leaving the main hall?”
    “What?” Jack held up a wooden spoonful of sauce for her to sample. His dark eyes waited for