The Corporal Works of Murder by Carol Anne O'Marie Page A

Chavez solemnly reported the shooting death of Sarah Spencer, a young police officer, on her first undercover assignment.
    There was footage of the sidewalk where her body had fallen, bare now except for the brown stains of her blood and a chalked outline. Her fiancé, looking distraught, had mumbled a few words into the outstretched microphone. Her parents, pale and teary-eyed, asked to be left alone. Finally, the Chief of Police assured the viewers that whoever did this would be found and prosecuted. “I’ll do everything in my power,” he promised.
    â€œWhat did he say about the hour?” Donata asked. She must have turned down her hearing aid.
    â€œIn his power,” Ursula repeated patiently.
    â€œI don’t know why they have to mumble,” Donata complained.
    Mary Helen was sure that the segment was over and that no mention would be made of the Refuge, when the anchorman lowered his voice. It was as if he were about to share a dark secret. “A reliable source,” he said, giving the camera his sincerest expression, “informs this reporter that an elderly nun from the Refuge happened to be with the policewoman when she died.”

    â€œWhy couldn’t he have just said ‘nun’? Mary Helen fumed as all eyes suddenly shifted toward her.
    â€œI knew it!” Sister Therese’s reedy voice pierced the silence. “And, if you ask me, it’s a disgrace. We have no business dabbling in this sort of business.”
    â€œIf you ask me,” old Donata piped up, her hearing obviously improved, “it’s one of the corporal works of mercy— Comfort the dying.”
    â€œI think you’ve got it confused with bury the dead,” Ursula, ever exact, corrected.
    â€œWhatever!” Donata said impatiently. “You know exactly what I mean.”
    Ursula’s face flushed. “I suppose it could be compared to visiting the sick …”
    â€œStop!” Mary Helen tried to keep her voice even. “I didn’t want to be there. It just happened. Do you think I enjoyed watching the beautiful young woman’s life fading away?” Without a word she left the now silent room. She was exhausted. It had been a long day. Although she wasn’t hungry, she should get some supper and go to bed. But first she needed to unwind. Regardless of the time in Ireland, she decided to call Eileen.
    To say Eileen was surprised to hear from her again so soon was an understatement. “Do you know what time it is, Mary Helen?” her friend asked, in a voice thick with sleep. “This better be good.”
    Quickly Mary Helen told her of meeting Sarah at the Refuge, being told that something bad was going on down the street, and getting to the woman to hear her dying word. Eileen listened without comment.
    â€œWhat do you think I should do now?” Mary Helen asked finally.
    â€œTo be perfectly honest, I think you should leave it to the police. Whoever killed that woman has a gun and is not afraid to use it on anyone.”

    Mary Helen was taken aback. Eileen was usually so fearless. She had fully expected her old friend to say, “You surely should do whatever you can to help Kate and Inspector Gallagher find the killer.” Then make up an old Irish proverb to prove it.
    Maybe she hadn’t heard correctly. Could they have a bad connection? It probably hadn’t been such a good idea to wake up Eileen at two in the morning. Nobody is at their best when they’re awakened from a sound sleep. “You mean not get involved?”
    â€œThat’s exactly what I mean.”
    â€œWhat makes you say that?” Mary Helen asked in disbelief.
    â€œWell,” Eileen chose her words carefully, “for one thing, the last time I saw you, you were not yet bulletproof.”
    â€œSo?” Mary Helen pressed.
    â€œSo, when I finally do get home, old dear, I’d like you to be there.”
    â€œDon’t be silly,”