The Missing Madonna Read Free Page B

was all about.
    Eileen’s gray eyes twinkled. “You do amaze me!” she said. “We’ve been friends for more than fifty years and I’ve never heard you say the Prayer of St. Cyril of Jerusalem used in the Coptic Orthodox Church.” She moved closer. A group of women going to the Cafe Fonda squeezed around her. “To tell the God’s honest truth, I hadn’t the ghost of an idea you even knew any Coptic Orthodox prayers. Where did you manage to dig up such a thing?”
    “You’re not going to believe this,” Mary Helen said.
    “That was a lovely grace, Sister.” A stout woman touched Mary Helen on the shoulder. “Very inspirational.”
    Mary Helen smiled and nodded. “Thank you,” she said. The woman paused to exchange pleasantries with Erma and Lucy.
    “Come clean, Mary Helen.” Eileen was not to be put off.
    “It was printed on the back of the plastic bookmark I stuck in my murder mystery,” she whispered. Mary Helen was happy that Erma and Lucy were busy chatting.
    “And there are those among us who dare to doubt the luck of the Irish!” Eileen rolled her eyes heavenward. Mary Helen not only doubted that the Irish had an edge on luck, she had her doubts about the rest of Eileen’s superstitions as well. She was just about to say so when Lucy turned back to the group.
    “Did I hear
Irish?”
she said. “Which brings to mind St. Patrick’s and Fifth Avenue. What kind of devilment can we get into this afternoon?” Her eyes twinkled behind her horn-rimmed glasses.
    “What exactly did you have in mind?” Mary Helen asked.
    “I can’t hear myself think in here, which probably is no great loss.” Lucy leaned in toward the group. “But I can’t hear you either. Can we talk outside?”
    “Where are the other two?” Eileen shouted over the crowd.
    “Noelle is introducing the speaker in one of the minisessions,” Erma explained, “and Caroline has a childhood friend living in an apartment on East Fifty-sixth Street whom she promised to visit.”
    Outside the hotel, New York City was having a sparkling spring day. The sky above the tall buildings was a clear, picture-postcard blue and the air had a snap to it.
    The noontime crowd bustled along in all directions. Taxis honked at trucks, cars, and pedestrians alike. A tight group of young men with yarmulkes and earlocks dashed across Seventh Avenue against the light Businesswomenin smartly tailored wool suits and tennis shoes rushed past one another on the crowded sidewalks.
    Although Mary Helen had visited New York City several times in her seventy-plus years, she never seemed to get over the sense of excitement she felt whenever she was there. There was a certain verve in the air that could not be denied.
    “Shall we head for St. Patrick’s Cathedral first?” Erma’s brown eyes snapped with eagerness. “I’ve always wanted to see it.”
    They all nodded. Who would have the heart to say no, Mary Helen wondered. Lucy led the way and the others followed her, zigzagging single file across West Fifty-third Street to Fifth Avenue. Sister Mary Helen brought up the rear.
    “We must look like a string of gray-haired ducklings,” she shouted to Eileen, who was just ahead of her. She was not sure her friend had heard her. She wished Eileen would wait. She wanted to tell her about Erma looking worried and stopping by the front desk of the hotel. She also wanted to ask Eileen if she had any idea why, but they had reached St. Patrick’s before she caught up.
    The four women stood for several minutes, looking up at its Gothic splendor. Then they threaded their way through groups of people seated on the entrance steps, having lunch, chatting, or just leaning back to enjoy the sunshine.
    Skirting the bronze doors, they entered the vestibule. Once inside the cathedral, Mary Helen paused while her eyes adjusted to the cool dimness of the immense structure. Behind her on the west wall, the rose window, framed by the thousands of shining pipes of the great organ,