Murder at the Monk's Table

Chapter One Friday, August 29 "May the road rise to meet you, May the wind be ever at your back." ---Irish blessing The long black hearse came speeding out of the driveway, nearly careening into the hackney. Don't tell me this is going to be one of those days, Sister Mary Helen thought, grabbing the car door handle. "Cheeky, get!" she heard the driver mumble. Then, realizing that she might have overheard, he added a quick "Sorry, Sister," turning full around to check her reaction. "Maybe he's late," she said, wishing the driver would keep his eyes on the road, especially since he was driving on the opposite side, which, of course, wasn't the opposite side here in Ireland. Ireland, she thought, closing her eyes and wondering if she were dreaming. Her eyelids felt sandy. Why wouldn't they? It was four o'clock in the morning, San Francisco time. And she'd had little sleep since her friend, Sister Eileen, had called less than a week ago, inviting her to come. "Late for his own funeral!" The driver laughed. "That's a good one, Sister. But if you want to know what I think, I think it is one of his boyos on his way to pick up the pearl of the festivities, the Oyster Queen. Her da owns the funeral parlor. Probably why they chose her," he said, "comes with her own grand car." The Oyster Festival! Until last week Mary Helen had never heard of the event, but then Eileen had called with the sad news that her sister Molly, whom she had gone to County Galway, Ireland, to nurse through her final illness, had died. Eileen's nieces and nephews were so grateful for her help that they insisted on treating their aunt to a holiday before she returned to her convent in San Francisco. The Oyster Festival was in County Galway, so why not attend that? As an added surprise, they had purchased a ticket so that her good friend, Sister Mary Helen, could join her. "What about my work at the homeless center?" Mary Helen had asked when Eileen called with the invitation. "Glory be to God, old dear, you're a volunteer! If the truth be told, you are actually retired. What's the point of being retired if you can't go off once in a while for a little fun?" Eileen asked, and then added as if it were news, "Life is short." Mary Helen's recent brushes with murder had, if anything, made it clear to her just how short a life can be. So here she was. Looking out the car window, she watched the green fields and stone fences slipping by. Enormous clouds blew across the bright sky. Both Sister Anne, whom she helped at the homeless center, and Sister Patricia, the president of Mount St. Francis College, where she lived, were delighted that she had the opportunity to go. Too delighted, in Mary Helen's opinion, but there was no sense getting into that. After nearly sixty years in the convent, she had learned that there were some things you were better off ignoring. "We'll be there in no time," the hackney driver called out. Paul. That was his name, Mary Helen remembered. Paul Glynn. He had introduced himself at the Shannon airport where he had met her, holding a big sign with her name neatly printed on it. "No hurry, Paul," she answered, closing her eyes again as he passed the hearse. When she had first spotted him, he had reminded her of pictures she'd seen of the young James Joyce---slight, with straight black hair and rimless glasses on a thin face. Just add a patch on the left eye and a mustache . . . "Only another thirty or soO'Marie, Carol Anne is the author of 'Murder at the Monk's Table ', published 2006 under ISBN 9780312357672 and ISBN 0312357672.