Murder at Mission Dolores

By Linda Anton

Allie Fenske’s husband was murdered at random year ago on the streets of San Francisco, and she hasn’t been able to work or feel normal since then. When her son, a psychologist, pops in for a surprise visit and presents a list of activities he thinks she should try, she barks at him and he storms off in a huff. But the next day she decides to take a walk to Mission Dolores, an historic Catholic church and cemetery near her home. As she reads about its history on a bench in the garden of the Mission, a nice man stops to chat about himself and the significance of the Mission to him. When Allie gets up to leave she finds him stabbed and bleeding. This was not what she expected to happen on her first outing since her husband’s death...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Moulton
• Release date: May 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301969234

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The doorbell rings and I experience a moment of total disorientation. Am I awake? Am I dreaming? If I go to the door will I find the policeman outside again as I do night after night in my dreams, as I did a year ago, the day my husband Irving was murdered? Finally – how long does it take? – the gray San Francisco fog pressing against the kitchen window convinces me that I am awake. Sunshine lit the sky a year ago.

This time my tall solemn son Duane is at the door.

I came anyway, he says, his smile uncertain.

I’m not surprised to see him, even though I declined his offer to be with me on the one-year anniversary of Irving’s death. I learned long ago how difficult it is for people to give you what you need and want, if it doesn’t correspond with their notion of what you need and want. Even though I hadn’t wanted him to come, my heart is warmed by his presence.

I’m glad you came, I say as I step aside to let him in. What have you done with your patients? Duane lives in the San Diego suburbs with his wife and hellion twin sons. He’s a Ph. D. psychologist with a private practice.

I rescheduled everyone. I didn’t want you to be alone. He gives me an awkward hug and then releases me.

Don’t let me go! I want to wail. A year of being rarely touched by another human being has made me like a withered plant hungry for water. Irving was a warm St. Bernard of a man, quick to dispense lengthy nurturing hugs. My son is more like his own father, uncomfortable with displays of physical affection. At least with me.

Duane follows me down the long corridor to the kitchen. His presence causes me to see the dust bunnies at the side of the rug. I wonder if Duane notices them too. I can tell by the way he wrinkles his nose that he takes in the unwashed dishes on the kitchen table and counter top.

I know – it is not just my imagination – that he is clinically appraising my condition. It is second nature for him, as it was for me the sixteen years I worked at Child Protective Services for the San Francisco Department of Social Services. He will note that even though it is 11:00 a.m. I am still in my bathrobe and slippers. He will observe that I look washed out and in need of makeup. Irving used to tease me about my Doris Day freshness, my girl-next-door appeal, but that look is gone.

Duane removes his blue blazer and hangs it on the back of a chair. He is wearing his usual Brooks Brother blue-on-white striped shirt, no tie today, and just before sitting down he pulls up slightly on the legs of his sharply creased pants.

What would you like to do today? he asks. Had you planned to visit the cemetery?

I shake my head.

Do you go to the cemetery at all? His voice is gentle.

Again, I shake my head.

Okay then, let’s take a walk at the beach or go to Golden Gate Park. Or we could take a ride to Sausalito or Tiburon and have lunch there. We could even venture up to the wine country if you want. I have all day, Mom.

He has forgotten--if he ever knew--that Irving and I had decided on an impromptu outing to the wine country that day. Irving had gone to the bank and I was at home fixing a picnic lunch when the doorbell rang. The policeman told me, as we drove to San Francisco General Hospital, that Irving had waited in line at the ATM outside the bank, withdrawn his money, and walked around the corner toward his parked car. Within seconds a shot rang out. They, others in line, found Irving sprawled on the pavement, blood gushing from the wound in his chest. The assailant, a young man, sprinted up the street and disappeared into an alley. At the hospital the officer waited with me until a grim-faced emergency room doctor regretfully informed me that they had not been able to save him. Irving was dead.

Mom?

I’m sorry, Duane, I say. I’m really not up to doing anything.

You’ll feel better if you do. C’mon, Mom, he coaxes, go shower and get dressed. We’ll grab a bite around here.

I can’t. I just can’t.

You have to try. The anti-depressants can’t do it alone.

How can Duane understand? He can’t. He liked Irving and Irving liked him, but I doubt if they actually loved each other. Duane was living with his father when Irving and I met, and by the time we married Duane had gone off to college. He has never lost a loved one; he can’t know how devastating it is, how the foundation of your life crumbles.

On the flight up I was thinking about what might help. Duane pulls a paper napkin from his jacket pocket. I jotted down some things you always liked and wanted to do. Taking even small steps can be helpful. He waits for my reaction and I nod, knowing that he means well. You like to walk. You could take a walk every day. And you’ve always been interested in California history. You could go to the library and find a book that interests you. He glances up from his list to see if I am listening. Buy yourself fresh flowers. That’s easy to do. Or go to church, any church. You’ve often said you’d like to find your way back to church. He pauses. Will you do it, choose one or two things?

When I didn’t respond his voice betrays his frustration, You can’t just sit and brood, Mother. I know you can’t let go of your grief and anger yet, but you have to start adding positive things to your life. You’re only forty-eight. You need to take responsibility for building a new life without Irving.

Suddenly I am filled with rage. I need my son to comfort me, to show his love for me. I want him to understand that I am overcome with grief, immobilized for the first time in my life.

So you took a day off and came all the way from San Diego to tell me to get a grip, I say, my voice rising. You should have stayed home if this is the best you can do.

Duane flushes and I know my words have hit their target. I am so angry I don’t care.

I’m trying to help, he replies stiffly.

Then don’t play the detached professional with me, I snap. "I need a loving son who understands what I’m going through. You used to be kind and spontaneous and loving. Now you hide behind a professional façade."

Duane is wounded, I can see it in the way his face tightens. I watch him struggle to control his anger. He wants to greet my outburst with clinical calm, I know he does, but he is too angry.

While we’re on the subject of people changing, he says, his voice cold, tell me what happened to the mother I used to have, a woman who embraced life, heartaches and disappointments, the whole package. He stands up and leans toward me, palms resting on the table. I’ve never admired anyone like I admired you after dad walked out. I knew how hard it was for you to work and finish college and take care of me. But you did it. We laughed a lot, remember, even though we were devastated? I would never ever have expected this. He waves a hand around the room. Yes, you’re depressed. Yes, you’ve had a major loss. But you’re getting all the mileage you can out of it, using it as an excuse to give up. He straightens and reaches for his jacket. Well, go ahead. Give up. Your son, the detached professional, won’t bother you any more. Duane stomps down the hallway and I hear the door slam behind him.

I sit at the table, stunned at my outburst, stunned at my unkindness to him.

Before Irving was murdered I was a good-natured, mild-mannered soul. Now I seethe with rage. I want to smash ice cream cones into the faces of young lovers strolling arm-in-arm near the ice cream shop where we used to go. I want to scream obscenities at drivers who cut in front of me or don’t move the second the light turns green.

I wait until evening, until Duane has time to get home, and I telephone to make amends. Celi, his wife, answers the phone and when I ask for him she hesitates. Didn’t Duane tell you? There is an awkward pause before she says in a rush, We’ve separated. Duane has moved out. We hope some time apart will give us a better perspective on the marriage.

I hadn’t thought I could feel worse, but I do.

I tell Celi how sorry I am and that I hope things will work out for them. I get Duane’s new telephone number and call, but all I get is the answering machine. So I tell the machine how sorry I am about my outburst, how sorry I am about the separation. I tell the machine how much I love my son.

When I hang up, my eyes rest on the paper napkin Duane left behind. I pick it up and read his list. Duane is right. I need to take action on my own behalf. Tomorrow I will visit Mission Dolores.

CHAPTER 2

Come morning I persuade myself that I should read about the mission before actually visiting it. I start to rummage through the overflowing book cases which line the living room walls, searching for a book Irving gave me years ago. The books are covered in a heavy layer of dust and several times I’m engulfed in a dust storm that forces me to step back so I can breathe. An hour later the book has not materialized, which is not a surprise, since the books are in no particular order. Irving and I loved to read, his taste more eclectic than mine – biographies, political analyses, Booker prize winners, travel – while mine runs almost exclusively to history, especially early California history. As my eyes linger on a few old friends, I long for the days when I could lose myself in a book. No more. In the end I conclude the book must be in the boxes stored in the garage and I decide to simply go.

Mission Dolores is less than a mile from where I live, but I haven’t been there in years. I think the last time was thirteen years ago, shortly after Irving and I married, when I moved from my modest white stucco house in San Francisco’s Richmond District to his more spacious home in Noe Valley, two San Francisco neighborhoods a world apart. Our home, the house Irving’s parents bought, which became his, and is now mine, is right on Noe Street. Noe was always a charming, tree-lined street of Victorian houses adorned with beautifully colorful and elaborate architectural features. Now the street has cultivated charm as well. There are planter boxes full of flowering vegetation and wooden benches where people can linger over their cappuccinos and lattes.

When I step outside into the warm afternoon sun, I see an accumulation of leaves and old papers in front of the garage door. Once or twice Bea Pyke, who rents the flat upstairs, has swept up the debris for me, but she is almost eighty and I feel guilty at my negligence. So I open the garage door, locate the broom and dustpan, and sweep up. Finally I am on my way. Even though the sun is warm, the breeze is cool and I’m glad I wore my old corduroy pants and a long sleeved shirt. San Francisco weather is changeable and like all natives I know not to trust it. The walk is short and fifteen minutes later I reach the large wedding-cake Basilica which dwarfs the mission beside it.

The mission entrance, a small side door, leads into the gift shop and I head immediately for the books, choosing one which includes historical material as well as mission photographs. At the cash register an elfin teenager – her braided red hair decorated with strings of colorful beads – takes my money.

I love your hair, I tell her.

She grins at me, Thanks. Some people look at me like I’m weird or something, but I like it.

Me too. I take the change she hands me. Do you work here every day? Aren’t you still in school?

She rolls her eyes. Junior year at Sacred Heart. I don’t really work here, not like getting paid. Just a volunteer. Usually I come after school.

At the chapel entrance I wait behind a family of tourists. The man, who has a number of cameras strung around his neck, listens patiently while his wife tells the volunteer stationed at the chapel door that, Yes, this is their first visit to the mission. It’s even their very first visit to San Francisco. Yes, they love it, so different from the Iowa farm country where they live. Behind the couple a tall older teenage boy with spiked blond hair shifts impatiently from foot to foot. Finally the three of them move inside. The volunteer welcomes me and hands me a brochure. When I ask about admission, he nods toward the large glass jar whose sign suggests a two-dollar donation, which I make.

When I step inside the chapel, I am immediately undone.

The cool hushed interior evokes a spiritual longing so deep that it overwhelms me. I slip into a pew and sink down onto the kneeler, prop my elbows on the bench in front of me and rest my head on clasped hands. The tears fall freely.

It has been so long.

In my teens I was deeply religious and derived great comfort and life-purpose from religion, but then I lost the connection. Nothing dramatic happened. I just drifted away. Often I’ve yearned to find my way back. Sometimes on Sunday mornings when Irving and I were out and about, I envied the people I saw emerging from church.

I try now to pray but I hardly know how to begin. I pray like a child prays, my words embarrassingly simple, but it is all I can do. When the tears stop, I dry my eyes and stand up.

The chapel is ornate yet simple. The back and left walls are plain adobe; the front and right walls are covered with elaborate reredos. But what really catches my attention is the ceiling. The beams are a glorious combination of red, blue, and ochre chevrons and triangles. They bring a joyful touch to the solemn room. As I wander around the chapel I read from the brochure that the mission is the oldest building in San Francisco and the most intact of the twenty-one Spanish missions. Its four feet thick adobe walls survived the 1906 San Francisco earthquake with little damage and, amazingly, the ceiling is supported still with the original redwood logs lashed together with rawhide. The ceiling, Ohlone Indian designs, was originally painted with vegetable dyes. When I leave, I peek into the one-room museum with its treasure trove of old artifacts and decide to return later after I read about the collection in my new book. There are benches outside, I know, where I can sit and read.

The garden is Eden before the serpent. Ivy climbs old stucco walls; patches of Mexican sage stretch and bend toward the sun; purple agapanthus flowers cluster on tall stalks. The air is fragrant with the scent of the roses that bloom everywhere, enormous roses, pink and apricot, red and yellow. A woman in a sun hat trimmed with a red-and-white-checked ribbon, another parish volunteer I assume, bends to trim them. A variety of trees, including Magnolias with their over-sized waxy white blossoms, shield the enclosed garden on all sides. In the garden’s center stands a statue of Father Junipero Serra, his head bowed, his hands clasped behind his back, and I imagine as I gaze at him that he prays for strength to accomplish the task before him.

I choose a wooden bench, one surrounded by weathered gravestones, and start to read. Soon I am engrossed in the story of Spain’s final attempt to expand its empire in this new land, this Alta California, by establishing missions up and down the coast. Father Serra, a Franciscan monk, was selected as religious leader and founder of the missions. Awaiting him and the military commander and settlers who set out from Mexico was an inhospitable land and the Indians, perhaps hostile, whom they hoped to convert. This mission, the third most northern of the twenty-one missions, was founded in 1776, five days before the American Declaration of Independence was signed. Although the mission, garrison, and pueblo were officially named San Francisco de Asis in honor of St. Francis, founder of the Franciscan order, the mission came to be known by its nickname, Mission Dolores. The padres, who were not without a sense of humor, had called a small stream nearby Arroyo de Nuestra Senora de los Dolores, (dolores meaning sorrows), the name no doubt reflecting their opinion of the damp cold weather conditions at the mission.

The missions make fascinating reading, don’t they?

Surprised, I look up into the clear green eyes of a man who appears to be about my age. I nod. I’ve always thought so.

I was baptized here, he tells me with obvious pride. And, his face lights up with an ingenuous smile which I warm to immediately, I was an altar boy. We both know he’s showing off.

Actually in the mission? I ask with a smile. Not next door?

Oh, yes, right in the mission chapel. It’s used along with the Basilica for parish worship. He gestures toward the bench. Do you mind?

He looks respectable – gray hair and mustache neatly trimmed; dressed in clean gray slacks, a yellow turtleneck, and what appear to be new white running shoes – so I say, Not at all.

Quentin Weller, he says, offering me his hand.

Allie Fenske. I offer my hand and we shake.

Of course, it’s been years since I worshipped here, he says as he sits down. I left when I was eighteen.

So this is a sentimental journey? A return to the old neighborhood?

He hesitates and I think my question may have been too personal, but then he smiles again and replies, I guess you could say that. He nods toward my closed book. I’m interrupting your reading.

I don’t mind.

I can see he is pleased, as though I’ve given him a gift, which I guess I have. We all have