“OWL? What in the name of God does that mean?” Eileen had asked, her brogue thickening a little, as it always did when she began to get nervous.

“Relax, Eileen.” Mary Helen had tried to calm her friend. “OWL is an acronym for Older Women’s League.”

Eileen’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “We most certainly qualify”-she straightened her blue suit skirt-“although I am surprised, no, shocked is a better word, to hear you of all people admit that we are old!”

“I said older women, Eileen!” Mary Helen cleared her throat, hoping to make a point “Older women,” she repeated. “Not old women!”

Her friend had just chuckled. “And what do these older women do?”

“According to Erma, they meet, discuss current issues, take political action when needed.”

“What kind of action?” Eileen’s gray eyes had narrowed suspiciously.

“Letter-writing, a phone call or two. Whatever.” Mary Helen had dismissed the rest with a wave of her hand, hoping it would pacify her friend. It must have.

Eileen had shrugged. “It sounds safer, I suppose, than some of the actions one of us has been taking recently.” She leveled her eyes at Mary Helen, who chose to ignore the remark.

After all, how could she have known, when she’d come to Mount St. Francis College three years ago to retire, that she would find the dead body of the chairman of the history department or that, a year later, she would become involved in the stabbing death of her secretary, Suzanne? Poor Suzanne. Mary Helen still missed the young woman. So much so, in fact, that she had readily agreed to turn the alumnae office over to a recent graduate and simply act as a resource person.

As a resource person, her main occupation, Mary Helen and the convent bathroom scale were beginning to realize, consisted chiefly of meeting people and going out to lunch.

That was why she had been especially thrilled when Erma Duran had suggested she join the OWLs. In addition to doing some good, she’d be keeping her mind active and maybe even her waistline thinner.