Rueful Death

Chapter Six

I asked for a roster of room assignments and a map of the monastery's grounds. Mother also gave us an information sheet and keys to our cottages. Maggie was staying in Ezra. Ruby, who was here just for the night, was in Ezekiel. I'd been assigned to Jeremiah.

As we were leaving, I thought of one more thing. "I promised a certain young Cowboys' fan that I'd put in a prayer request for tomorrow's game," I said. "Maybe it sounds a little strange, but would you mind-"

"Not at all," Mother Winifred said with a smile. "In fact, I believe that Sister Gabriella has already been praying for them. But God moves in mysterious ways, you know," she added. "Tell your young friend that we can triumph even in defeat."

I didn't think Brian would buy that idea, but I only smiled and nodded.

Ezra, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel were a mile from the main complex by road, although the hand-drawn map revealed a shorter trail through the meadow. We drove, then parked the car and grabbed our bags, agreeing to meet again just before six. "You'll hear the bell outside Sophia," Maggie

told us. "It's rung for every meal." Then we split up to go to our separate cottages, which were about fifty yards apart along the river.

Jeremiah was a wood-shingled cottage with a screened porch. Its two small rooms-a bedroom-sitting room and a bathroom-dressing room-were clean and simply furnished, with a bed, an upholstered chair, and a wooden desk and chair. There were brown plaid drapes at the windows and a crucifix on the wall. In the bathroom was a Texas-sized cast-iron bathtub with old-fashioned claw feet, almost big enough to swim in. On the bathroom shelf, I saw a hot plate, a coffeepot, and a cache of tea and coffee supplies. The cottage was surrounded on three sides by a dense growth of cedar. The porch looked out over the river only ten yards away, at the foot of a gravel path. I imagined myself sitting there in the evening, listening to the water and watching the sun set behind the high cliff.

I spent a luxurious half hour hanging up my clothes, organizing the books and other belongings I'd brought, and making up my narrow bed with the sheets I found folded on the pillow. Then I sank into the chair and gazed around the room, letting its clean spareness sink into me, its healing silence wash over me. It had been so long since I'd been alone, truly alone-no other people, no telephone, no television, no radio. I could picture myself sitting here in quiet meditation for days on end, writing in my journal, reading a little, sleeping a lot.

But I sat for only a few minutes. The conversation with Mother Winifred weighed heavily on my mind. The accusing letters seemed to be the most pressing problem from her point of view. But while poison-pen letters are spiteful and traumatic, arson can be fatal. The fires had to be stopped before somebody burned to death.

I got up and found the handwritten report I'd gotten from the sheriff's deputy, which turned out to be very sketchy and nearly illegible. Walters hadn't been called to the October fire, because Mother Winifred had decided it was

accidental. He'd been called after the other two fires, however.

I read the report and made a list of the people Walters had talked to, noting the names of the three people who had shown up at both scenes. Dwight was one, which wasn't surprising, since it was his job to be available for emergencies. Father Steven was another. Sister John Roberta, whose name I hadn't previously heard, was the third. I looked her up in the roster and decided she must be a St. Agatha nun, since she lived in Hannah.

I put the report aside and stood up and stretched. Three fires had been set in a community where forty nuns lived within arm's length of one another. Somebody was bound to know something. I was hoping that tonight's announcement would jar loose some essential piece of information. I wanted to get to the bottom of this thing and spend the rest of my time doing what I had come to do: nothing. I smiled wistfully. Two whole weeks with absolutely nothing to do. Except, of course, for going riding with Tom Rowan.

The thought made me restless. I pulled on my jacket and walked down the gravel path to the river's edge, where I stood for a few minutes, hands in pockets, breathing in the spicy fragrance of cedar, the crisp, clean smell of windswept meadow.

How well had I known Tom Rowan? At the time, of course, I'd thought we were intimate. We certainly talked enough over the restaurant meals we shared after work, and during the late-night hours when we lay in one another's arms. But now, with the clarity of hindsight, I had to admit that we hadn't been intimate at all-that we hadn't known the first thing about intimacy. Mostly, we'd talked about our careers, about work-who had won that day's battles, who had lost, how we had somehow managed to come out on top. And beneath the talk there was always a hard, brittle edge of competitiveness. Tom was poised to top my story about the day's achievements; I was ready to do him one better. We'd been lovers, yes, but our relationship probably

had more to do with sex and power than with love.

Now, thanks to McQuaid, I knew a little more about intimacy-enough to realize that what Tom and I had back then was the kind of shallow, casual relationship that career people often substitute for genuine caring. To give us credit, of course, neither of us had much choice in the matter. When you're on your way to the top, the climb occupies most of your waking hours and a big hunk of your dream time. It's practically impossible to have both a rising career and a deeply engaged relationship. It was for me, anyway.

I made a wry face. When I left my career and found McQuaid, I'd gotten what I wanted: a warm and nurturing connection that grounded me and held me close. The irony was, though, that being held close also made it hard to find space for myself, and being grounded made it tough to fly free. It was a dilemma a lot of women might welcome, but not me.

I thought back on the lunchtime meeting. Leaving the city and coming back to rural Texas must have been hard for Tom, after all those glittering successes in Houston. What had brought him here? What kept him here?

I looked around and saw part of my answer. This part of Texas has to be one of the most beautiful spots on earth. The Yucca River rippling at my feet was a broad, shallow stream, bordered with mesquite and cedar. Across the stream rose the rugged limestone cliff I had seen earlier, fringed with willows and hung with maidenhair fern. It was a Garden of Eden, a paradise of peace and profound tranquillity, punctuated only by the inquisitive whistle of a mockingbird and the soft, sweet whisper of-

Ka-boom!

I ducked for cover behind the nearest boulder as the high-pitched ricochet whined over my head. Somebody was shooting at me!

I poked my head cautiously over the rock, which was barely big enough to hide me. "Hey!" I yelled, indignant. "What the hell do you think you're-"

A second report, followed by the flat, hard slap of a bullet hitting the water ten yards to my left.

I ducked down. The shooter was on the cliff on the other side of the river. The Townsend side. Was it one of the Townsends up there, carelessly enjoying some Saturday afternoon target practice? "Hey, lay off, you idiot!" I yelled. "You're going to kill somebody!"

When the third shot came and the bullet thwacked into the trunk of the cotton wood six feet to my right, I didn't wait around. I scrambled over the rocks to a thick clump of willows, where I flopped on my stomach and caught my breath.

Paradise, huh? I thought darkly. Garden of Eden? Well, where there are gardens, there are snakes. And one of them was holed up on the cliff across the river, taking potshots at me.

By five-fifteen, twilight was falling and I had calmed down. The third shot had been the last. I'd hunkered down behind the willows for ten minutes, then made a dash for the safety of Jeremiah. I'd had a short nap and a long bath, and I had put things in perspective. Given the spread of the shots-off the rocks and over my head, into the river to my left, and into the cottonwood tree to my right-it wasn't likely that anybody was shooting at me. It was probably some dude with a new deer rifle, not firing at anything in particular, not even bothering to look where his bullets might end up. Chances were, he hadn't heard me yelling, or he knew that he'd come that close to wiping me out.

I was pulling a flannel shirt over my jeans when the bell began to toll. I looked at my watch. Not yet five-thirty. Dinner was at six, I thought, but maybe my watch was slow.

It wasn't. The bell had just stopped tolling when Maggie knocked at the door. I started to tell her about my adventure with Hawkeye and his Christmas rifle when I saw her face.

"What's wrong?"

"Sister Perpetua died this afternoon," Maggie said soberly. "I went back to Mother's cottage for a talk. While I was there, Sister Rowena came with the news. That was the bell just now, tolling for her."

"That's too bad," I said. I was genuinely sorry that Perpetua had died, and almost as sorry that I hadn't gotten to talk to her. "Her heart?"

Maggie's mouth tightened. "Royce Townsend has other ideas. He was there when she died. He's ordered an autopsy."

An autopsy? In the routine death of an elderly woman with a history of heart trouble? "Why?"

"Who knows? Maybe he suspects something."

I looked at Maggie, startled. "Suspects what?"

"God only knows," Maggie said. "Maybe he thinks he can embarrass St. T's by implying that there's something suspicious about the way Perpetua died, the same way he did with Mother Hilaria." She shook her head bleakly. "Perpetua would be so humiliated at the idea of an autopsy. She was tired and sick and ready to die. That's all there is to it."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," she said. "Who would want to kill poor old Sister Perpetua?"

I stuck my flashlight in my coat pocket and Maggie and I walked over to Ezekiel to get Ruby, who had changed from her monk's robe into slacks, a sweater, and jacket. The three of us set off on the path through the meadow to Sophia. On the way, Maggie repeated the story of Perpe-tua's death and I told them about the shooting.

Ruby stopped in her tracks and stared at me. "Somebody tried to kill you!" she exclaimed.

Maggie frowned. "If the shots came from the cliff, it had to be one of the Townsends. That's their land."

"Wait a minute," I said. "Whoever it was, he wasn't aiming to kill me. The shots went all over the place."

"It could have been a warning," Maggie said.

"It wasn't a warning," I said. "It was an accident. Some idiot was up there with a new gun, not paying any attention to-"

"If it was a warning, the guy had to know who China is and why she's here," Ruby said.

"Stu Walters knows," Maggie said. "He could have told Carl Townsend."

"Hey, you guys," I protested. "Haven't you been listening? It was an accident."

But now I wasn't so sure. Even if I allowed for Maggie's anti-Townsend bias, I had to admit she might be right. Given the influence of the county political machine, the sheriff and the deputy might very well be in cahoots with one of the county commissioners. Which meant that Walters could have mentioned to Townsend that the abbess intended to bring in her own arson investigator. And if Townsend had anything to do with the fires-which I had to admit was also possible, even though everybody insisted it wasn't-he might have decided to warn me off.

Ruby was frowning at me. "What are you going to do?"

"Eat supper," I said. "And think about it."

Sophia emerged out of the twilight at the end of the path, like a ghost of the old ranch headquarters. I almost expected to see tooled leather saddles hung over the wooden porch rail and the heads of trophy bucks nailed to the walls. But if they had been there once, they were gone now. Maggie opened a wooden screen door and we stepped into a high-ceilinged entryway that smelled of old stonework, overlaid with the scent of the lemon polish that had been used on the large oak cabinets along the walls and the pine oil used on the tile floor. But what struck me most was the utter silence, a calm, weighty presence that was almost as physical as the walls themselves.

"Gosh, it's quiet in here!" Ruby said in an awed whisper. She looked up at a heavy wooden cross encircled by a wreath of rusty barbed wire that was decorated with orange-red pyracanthus berries.

"Of course it's quiet," Maggie said in a low voice. "It's a cloister." She lifted her eyes to the cross.

"Do I have to whisper?" Ruby whispered to me.

Maggie turned, smiling. "No," she said. "People talk at mealtimes."

Ruby and I followed Maggie down the silent hall, past a large laundry room and kitchen on one side and a community room on the other. We turned a corner.

"That's the main office," Maggie said, pointing to a closed door. "Someone is on duty there during business hours. That's where the phone is located, if you need it."

The refectory-already crowded with sisters-was at the end of the hall, a large, square, cheerful room, brightly lit, with undraped floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto a small, shady garden. It was furnished with wooden tables and chairs arranged in orderly rows. At one end stood another large table, on which the food-soup, bread, sandwich fillings, salad, and fruit-was laid out on a bright yellow cloth, buffet style. Although the women were older than most students, the scene reminded me of a college dining hall.

But as I glanced around, I saw that there seemed to be an invisible line drawn down the middle of the room. On one side, the tables were filled with women wearing jeans, slacks, and skirts, talking in low voices, laughing and smiling, their heads close together. The women on the other side-most of them older-wore navy skirts, white blouses, and the same short blue veil and white wimple Sister Olivia had worn. They ate with their eyes cast down, observing what Maggie called ' 'modesty of the eyes,'' and only a few were talking. If I'd needed a visual demonstration of the gulf between St. T's and St. Agatha's, diis was it.

We filled our plates, then went in search of Dominica. We found her at a table with Sister Miriam, a thin-faced woman with hair the color of autumn oak leaves and an intense, darting glance. As I sat down, I saw a look pass

between Maggie and Dominica. I thought I understood that look now, and the softening at the comers of Maggie's mouth when Dominica returned her smile. Love is love, wherever you find it. The trouble is that some kinds of love are hard to fit into our lives. The glance wasn't missed by Sister Miriam, either, who turned away, her face unreadable.

We were still getting settled when we were joined by Sister Rachel, who was short, plump, and all in a dither. Her nose and eyes were red and she seemed distraught, not so much over Perpetua's death, but over the fact that her body had been taken away.

"We have a very special ritual when a sister dies," she explained to Ruby and me. "Our infirmarian-that's Sister Rowena-washes our dead sister and dresses her. Then we carry her to the chapel and light the paschal candle and take turns reciting the Psalms. It's all very beautiful, very reassuring. To have poor Perpetua hauled off like a dead cow…" She shook her head, despairing. "It happened the same way with Mother Hilaria. So horrible! Where will all this end?"

"With a new abbess, unfortunately." The angularity of Miriam's face was matched by her thin voice. "Unless a miracle happens, we'll be voting before compline tomorrow."

"We should have prayed harder for Perpetua," Dominica muttered.

I seconded that. Maybe Perpetua couldn't have told me anything more than I already knew about the letter she'd received. On the other hand…

"There won't be an election tomorrow," Maggie said, buttering her roll.

"Oh, really?" Miriam asked dryly. "With Perpetua dead, the score is nineteen to twenty. Just in time, too. Olivia is getting tired of holding her breath."

Who would want to kill poor old Sister Perpetua? Miriam had just given me an answer to Maggie's rhetorical

question. But that was ridiculous. Nuns only killed other nuns in murder mysteries.

"I'm afraid Olivia will have to hold her breath a little longer," Maggie said. "There are still twenty votes for Ga-briella." Everybody was looking at her, but she didn't seem to notice. "I asked Mother Winifred if I could come back to St. T's, and she said yes. It's up to the Council of Sisters, of course, and Reverend Mother General has to agree, but Mother says there won't be a problem."

Miriam didn't look overjoyed. "Reverend Mother will jump on the idea like a duck on a Junebug," she said, "even if it does put Olivia on hold a while longer. The order needs every vocation it can get."

Ignoring Miriam, Dominica clasped her hands, her round face shining. "Oh, Margaret Mary, I'm so glad! I've missed you so much. We've all missed you!"

Ruby was gaping. "But what about your restaurant? You've put two years of work into it, Maggie, You can't just turn your back and walk away!"

"Why not?" Maggie's face was sober but her blue eyes were twinkling. "It's just a restaurant. No big deal." She patted Ruby's hand. "This is right for me, Ruby. I belong here."

Ruby subsided, muttering. She enjoys an occasional retreat, but she also loves her fun. She would find life in a monastery unutterably boring.

I searched Maggie's face for a hint to how she was feeling, but all I could see was her normal serene calm. Her announcement wasn't totally unexpected, of course. She'd been telegraphing it all day. I hoped she was coming back for the right reasons, but I had to wonder.

"I don't suppose you're doing this to keep Olivia from being elected," Miriam remarked. She was watching Maggie obliquely, and I wondered how much she knew about the relationship between Maggie and Dominica. She herself was linked with Dominica, at least in the poison-pen

writer's imagination. I studied her more closely. Was there a hint of jealousy in her look?

I wasn't surprised when Maggie answered Miriam's question with a firm, clear "Of course not." If Maggie had another motive, she probably wouldn't share it-and certainly not in response to such an obvious challenge.

Sister Rachel cast innocent eyes around the table. ' 'Why in the world should anyone want to keep Olivia from being elected? She isn't my choice, but if she's elected, it will be God's will."

"Really, Rachel," Dominica said impatiently. "You know better than that. God doesn't will everything that happens. He wasn't responsible for the fire in the chapel, for instance. Some bad person did that."

Rachel was half-frowning. "But the person who set the fires… couldn't she-if it is a she, I mean-couldn't that person be carrying out God's will? There is a larger purpose in all things, even if we can't always see it." She paused, took a deep breath, and then plunged deeper into the muddy theological waters. "The person who is setting the fires could be an agent of God. Who are we to question? Who are we to know?'

Miriam hadn't been paying any attention to Rachel. She leaned across the table toward Maggie. ' 'If you're coming back to keep Olivia from taking over, it won't do a dime's bit of good, Margaret Mary. You may stall her for a while, but sooner or later she and Reverend Mother will get what they want. Unless we do something about it, St. T's is doomed."

The last melodramatic sentence rang into the dead silence that had fallen suddenly over the room. Miriam raised her head and looked around, her cheeks reddening. Mother Winifred was standing at a table near the front of the room. She was so short that I had to move my chair to be able to see her.

"I am sure you have all heard that Sister Perpetua died this afternoon," she said with dignity. "Father Steven will

celebrate a Requiem Mass later in the week. In the meantime, following our tradition, we will say prayers in the chapel for Sister Perpetua's soul." She didn't mention the fact that Sister Perpetua's body would be somewhere else.

When she finished, she introduced me and told the sisters that I was there to look into the fires. She paused for a moment, looked around at her silent audience, and added, "I am sorry to tell you that letters of a quite destructive nature have been delivered to several of our sisters." She spoke in measured, emphatic phrases. "This unfortunate business must be brought out into the light. If you have received such a letter or have any information about the writer, I request-no, I direct you to speak to me or to Ms. Bayles immediately."

I watched the sisters as she spoke. Their eyes were on Mother Winifred, their faces expressionless, with that look of calm serenity I was beginning to think of as a convenient camouflage. If one of them had received a letter or had written one, the guilty knowledge was not written on her face.

The night sky was lit by a sliver of low-hanging moon when Maggie, Ruby, and I walked in the direction of the cottages, our flashlight beams glancing along the path in front of us. We were all shivering in the frosty January air. As if by mutual agreement, we said nothing about Maggie's decision to return to St. T's, although Ruby must have been quivering with curiosity and I still wasn't convinced that Maggie didn't have an ulterior motive. I couldn't help noticing, though, that her step was lighter and she was smiling. Whatever burden she'd been carrying she seemed to have left behind.

But there was something else on my mind. I was trying to puzzle out what to do about the shooting that afternoon. Had it been accidental or deliberate? The answer to that question-if there was an answer-was on the Townsend side of the river.

I caught up to Maggie. "What's the best way to get to the top of the cliff?"

"You can cross the river at a narrow spot about fifty yards upstream from your cottage," Maggie said. "The path begins on the other side. The climb takes about half an hour, maybe less."

"It's not straight up, is it?" I asked. I eyed the cliff, which seemed to loom over us. I'm not in bad shape, but I'm not a mountain goat, either.

"It isn't very steep, but it's a bit treacherous. Would you like to go up there tomorrow?"

"Actually, I'd rather go tonight," I said. "If I'm going to snoop, I prefer to do it when I'm not going to run into anybody." I wasn't sure there was anything to find, but I wouldn't know unless I climbed up there and looked.

Ruby zipped up her jacket. "Isn't it a bit cold for us to snoop?''

"You don't have to come," I said. "After all, you've got to get up pretty early tomorrow." Ruby was leaving for Albuquerque before breakfast.

Ruby gave me a look. "Of course I don't have to come. But did George and Beth desert Nancy in her hour of need? Anyway, two of us up there snooping are less suspicious than one."

"Three of us," Maggie said. "You need me to show you the path. It's not a snap in daylight-it'll be harder at night."

The path was definitely not a snap. Halfway up the cliff, I stopped to catch my breath and take a look at the moon-washed landscape. Above me, rhinestone stars glittered against a matte black sky and the moon, a quarter-round of stamped silver, was surrounded by an iridescent halo. Under my feet, luminescent chips of rock littered the path like moon pebbles. To my right, several yards away, was a five-strand barbwire fence wearing a ' Townsend Ranch-Keep Out" sign. To my left were shadows, deep, dangerous,

where the cliff plunged to a platinum ribbon of river far below.

Behind me, Ruby stumbled and slid down a few feet, grabbing at a bush and muttering words that would have made Mother Winifred blush. I turned my attention back to the path, concentrating on putting my feet in the right places. When we finally reached the top, we found a rocky ledge, maybe fifteen feet wide, the barbwire fence slicing across it at an angle. I paused, looking out over the rim. The monastery lay silent and mysterious in the moonlight below, the meadow as silver as if it were blanketed with snow. I could see the lights of Sophia and Rebecca and the flat, square roof of Hannah, and the looping road that tied the complex together. Directly below, on the other side of the silvery braid of the Yucca, was Jeremiah, serene and peaceful in the moonlight. I could see the willow clump where I'd taken cover, and the open, rocky river beach where I was standing when the shot was fired. The silence lay like a blessing across the land.

Maggie stood beside me. "God, it's beautiful," she said. She let out a long sigh. "Please, please don't let it be changed." It was a prayer.

I turned and flicked my flashlight across the ground.

"What are we looking for?" Ruby asked.

"I wish I knew." I walked along the fence line. "Some indication that somebody was here, I guess." But if the shooting was deliberate, the shooter would have been careful not to leave any traces. If it was accidental-

The torchlight glinted on something metallic in the loose rock. A cartridge case, brass. "By golly," I muttered. I found a twig and stuck it in the open end, in case there were prints, and used the twig to pick it up. I shone the light on the base and studied the identifying marks around it. 303 brit. Oh, yeah?

It's funny, the things that stick in your mind. McQuaid and I went to a gun show not long ago, and he showed me a gun that was once the pride of the British infantry. An

Enfield, a 303-the only rifle of that caliber, its hand guard removed and the stock shortened to sporterize it. And now I was holding a 303 cartridge in my hand. I narrowed my eyes. Somewhere, just recently, I'd seen a gun like that. Now where-

"What did you find?" Maggie asked, coming over.

I held it up.

"A bullet?" Ruby asked.

"Part of it."

She looked disappointed. "Too bad. If you had the rest of it-"

"That's okay, Ruby," I said, wrapping the cartridge in a bit of tissue. "This is all I need."

"Oh," she said. "Then I guess you don't want this."

"What is it? What have you found?"

She shone her torch on an empty Camel cigarette pack. Now I knew where I'd seen that gun.

I was at Mother Winifred's door before the bell rang for breakfast.

"Good morning, China," Mother said. She was wearing a rumpled green robe and she looked tired, as if she hadn't rested well. "I've just put the kettle on. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"What I'd like," I said without preamble, "is your permission to search Dwight Baldwin's living quarters." I had already made a circuit of the parking lot behind Sophia and confirmed my suspicions.

She stared at me. "You suspect Dwight of setting the fires?"

"I don't know about the fires," I said. "But I think he was the person who took a shot at me yesterday afternoon."

Her pale blue eyes widened. "Shot at you! But why?"

"To warn me off," I said. "I know it's Sunday, Mother. But I'd like you to invent a task that will occupy him for an hour or so this morning, so I can search. And I'd like a key to his quarters, if you have one."

She nodded sadly. ' 'You can conduct your search during Mass. Dwight is one of our little flock." She went to the cupboard and took down a large ring of keys. ' 'I'm sure there's a key here somewhere."

In Texas, the law doesn't permit the landlord to enter rented or leased premises, even with a key. But Mother Winifred probably wasn't current on the law, and I certainly wasn't going to sweat it. Legal or not, opening a door with a key beats breaking and entering.

Breakfast was a repeat of supper, with the refectory once again divided down the middle, neither side talking to the other. Both sides seemed more tense and fidgety than they had last night. I wondered whether they were upset by Sister Perpetua's death or by Mother Winifred's request, or whether they were counting heads. If they hadn't heard that Maggie was returning, they'd be expecting that an election would be held in the next day or two.

When I had finished assembling my breakfast tray, I looked around for Maggie but didn't see her. Ruby wasn't there either, of course. She had already left for Albuquerque.

After we'd climbed down the cliff the night before, we had all walked to my cottage, where we sat down to talk for a little while. "I'd love to stay and help you figure out what's going on here," Ruby had said regretfully. "But my friends have made all sorts of plans. I really can't disappoint them."

"That's okay," I said. "You're still picking us up for the drive home, aren't you?"

"In two weeks." She'd glanced at Maggie. "Are you going back with us, Maggie?" It was the first reference either of us had made, since supper, to Maggie's momentous decision.

"I've got to go back," Maggie said. "I have to get ready to put the restaurant up for sale, make arrangements, that sort of thing. It'll be a while before I can come back to

stay. In the meanwhile, though, I'm considered a member of the order."

I regarded Maggie thoughtfully. "I suppose I'd understand it better if the restaurant were a flop. But feeling the way you do about the Church, I'm not sure why you want to come back-especially when things here are so unsettled."

Maggie looked down at her hands resting quietly in her lap. "It's true-there's a lot of uncertainty here. And I'm not any more comfortable with the Church than I was when I left."

I shook my head. "Then why-?"

"Because it's where I'm meant to be," Maggie said simply. "Haven't you ever felt that your place in life is the right place?"

I thought about that for a moment. No, I had never been sure that my place was the right place-not when I was practicing law, not after I'd bought the shop, not even after I'd moved in with McQuaid. Where I was now felt pretty good, sometimes more, sometimes less, but I wasn't absolutely sure it was right. I wondered fleetingly what it would be like to experience that kind of assurance.

"Excuse me." Ruby stirred. "You don't have to answer this if you don't want to, Maggie. But what about Dominica? Does she have anything to do with this?"

Maggie didn't seem offended. "Maybe. I've certainly missed her. But I don't expect anything to be different between us. I'm just sort of doing this a step at a time. Taking it on faith. And loving the questions."

I was surprised into the recollection of a piece of poetry I had read once. "Love the questions like locked doors," I said softly. "Like books in a very foreign tongue." Rilke was the poet, I thought.

"Love the questions?" Ruby shook her head. "Excuse me, but I prefer answers."

"In the short run, maybe." Maggie smiled. "But questions take us farther and deeper. I was called here to St.

T's to learn something. Whatever it is, I need to come back and get on with the job."

"But don't you need to know what job it is that you're supposed to get on with?" Ruby asked doubtfully.

Maggie's laugh was rich and joyful. "There is such a thing as faith, you know. Come on, you guys. Love the questions!"

The logic of Maggie's decision continued to escape me, but 1 felt close to her in a new way. And when she and Ruby left, we all hugged one another for a long time, Ruby and I in our doubt, Maggie in her faith.

I found a spot at a table in a corner of the refectory. If one of the sisters had information for me, I was hoping she'd come and sit down. But perhaps it had been too public an invitation, I decided as I finished my breakfast alone. The only person who spoke to me was Sister Gabriella, who had traded her jeans for a tailored skirt and sweater. She stopped as I was putting my plate on the stack of dirty dishes on the pass-through shelf to the kitchen.

"How about dropping by Jacob after Mass?" she asked. "I'd like to give you a tour of our garlic operation." A nun in a habit paused to scan a nearby bulletin board and Gabriella bent toward me, lowering her voice so the other woman couldn't hear. "Sadie Marsh, one of the Laney Foundation Board members, will be here this morning. She wants to talk to you."

"Oh, yes," I said, remembering. "Tom Rowan mentioned her. She raises horses, doesn't she?"

"That's right." Gabriella raised one quizzical eyebrow. "You've met Tom?"

I felt myself coloring. ' 'We knew one another years ago. He said that the board is meeting here this week."

"Tuesday morning. But Sadie doesn't want to wait until then." She raised her voice again. "Does eleven sound all right? We can take a tour of the garlic field, if the weather is still cooperating."

"Fine," I said, and turned to go. "See you then."

I was halfway down the hall when I was stopped by a slight, anxious nun in a modified habit and veil that hid her hair. She wore plastic-rimmed fifties-style glasses, and she was so tense that I could almost feel her quivering. She looked over her shoulder in both directions before she pulled me into the laundry room.

"I'm Sister John Roberta." The words escaped from her in whispery gasps. "If I tell you what I know, will you help me get away?"

I was startled. "Get away? Why?" What did she know that would make her so fearful?

She clutched at my arm. "I'm afraid I'll die here! Please, help me!"

"I'll do my best," I said reassuringly. "What are you afraid of?"

Her mouth trembled. "Sister Olivia says we have to stick together." She broke into a flurry of dry coughing. "And Sister Rowena says if I tell, I'm being disloyal. They might-"

She pressed her fist to her mouth at the sound of muted voices and footsteps in the hall. The group passed, the outer door closed, and there was silence once again. John Roberta stood still, her eyes apprehensive. Her face was almost as white as the starched band of her veil.

"I'm afraid someone will hear," she said. "Or see us together and guess that I'm-" She bit off her sentence.

' 'I could come to your room to talk,'' I said. ' 'We'd have more privacy there."

She shook her head violently. "They'd see you. They'd know I was talking to you. They'd-" She broke off, coughing. "You're staying in Jeremiah, aren't you?" she asked, when she could speak again. "I'll come there. Later."

"After lunch?" I asked. I wasn't sure I could trust her to come, but I didn't have any choice in the matter.

"Not right after. One-thirty." Another cough, a fright-

ened glance, and she was gone, a shadow winging down the shadowy hall.

The encounter was promising, but all I was left with were questions. I would have to wait until one-thirty to learn the answers. I looked at my watch. Mass would be starting soon. I'd better get busy.

Earlier in the morning, in the gun rack of Dwight's GMC pickup in the parking lot, I had seen an Enfield 303 and, crumpled on the floor of the cab, an empty Camels pack. But before I accused the man of assault with a deadly weapon, I wanted to see if I could discover something that might explain his attack. Something that would connect him to the Townsends, for instance.

The bell was ringing for Mass when I walked casually to the door of Amos, Dwight's vintage stucco cottage, and knocked. No answer. I knocked again, harder, and called Dwight's name. Still no answer. 1 put my hand in my pocket and took out the key. But I didn't need it, because the door wasn't locked.

Amos had the same layout as Jeremiah, although it wasn't nearly as clean. Foul-smelling jeans and work shirts were heaped in one corner, there was a saddle and a dirty saddle blanket under the window, and copies of Playboy, open to the centerfold, littered the floor by the bed. The room reeked of stale cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey.

I began by checking the dresser drawers, then moved to the single drawer in the wooden desk, the bathroom shelves, and the jackets and shirts hanging in the closet. But apart from a half-empty box of 303 cartridges and a completely empty bottle of Wild Turkey, I found little of interest. Until, that is, I reached in the pocket of a flannel shirt and found a business card with the name, address, and telephone numbers of J. R. Nutall, Carr County Probation Officer.

Probation officer. So Dwight wasn't totally clean, as far

as the law was concerned. What had he done to earn jail time?

I confiscated one of the shells as a souvenir, jotted down the information on Nutall's business card, and went to the nightstand. Most of the canceled checks I discovered in the drawer were made out to Al's Liquor Store for amounts under thirty dollars. The December bank statement, which I discovered on top of the toilet, showed that Dwight had $74.41 in the bank, after depositing four weekly checks, each for the identical amount of $352.70-his salary, most likely. A chipped saucer on top of the dresser held a silver rosary, nail clippers, a beer bottle opener, and a black book that contained phone numbers and first names, most of them women's. I flipped the book open to the Ts. There was no listing for Townsend.

And that was it-until I raised the mattress and found the black spiral notebook.

The sky was clear, the sun was shining, and the temperature was already climbing out of the fifties when I took Mother Hilaria's diary back to Jeremiah. Today might top out at sixty-five, which almost made up for the ferocious heat of last July and August. Almost, but not quite.

I glanced at my watch. It was only nine-thirty. I'd have time to read a few pages before I went over to Jacob to meet Sadie Marsh. And after I had talked to Sister John Roberta, I would let Mother Winifred know what I'd found under Dwight's mattress. He had some tall explaining to do.

Back in Jeremiah, I brewed a cup of tea and sat cross-legged on the bed with Hilaria's journal in front of me. Opening it, I saw that she had been using it as a multiyear diary, a page for every day in the year, with the years arranged in sequence down the page. She had been keeping the diary for almost five years when she died, and although the entries were short, there were far more than I could read in an hour. Where to begin? Should I start with Sep-

tember 3, the last entry, and read backward? Or start earlier?

I thumbed through the pages for a few minutes, then began with the middle of July, when the St. Agatha sisters moved to St. T. It didn't take long to find a reference to the first poison-pen letter. But if I'd been hoping that Hi-laria had recognized the identity of the writer and confided it to her diary, I was disappointed. For July 17, all I found were three enigmatic words: Sr. Perpetua, letter.

The other entries were just as cryptic. Hilaria was in the habit of jotting down the names of people she talked to and the topics of their conversations, or short phrases describing the day's activities-Board meeting, nothing accomplished, for instance, or Bank, check records. Tom Sr, questions re: interest. Tom Senior would be Tom Rowan's father. These entries had been made after the court had finally awarded the money to St. T, so he and Mother Hilaria were no doubt straightening out the complications that had arisen during the years the bank held the foundation's money.

Financial queries seemed to have kept Mother Hilaria busy through July and into August. She devoted several days a week to Bank, questions re: accounts or Investment records, review. I could understand why. If the court had dumped a fourteen- or fifteen-million-dollar inheritance into my lap, I'd be studying deposit accounts and investment records too. I'd be so busy asking questions that I might not waste much time over a nasty letter that accused a forgetful sister of the petty theft of a library book.

But a week after her meeting with Sister Perpetua, Mother Hilaria was indeed thinking about the letter. Questioned Sr. O about Sr. P's letter, I read, on July 24. I reached for the roster Mother Winifred had given me. Conveniently, Olivia was the only sister whose name began with O.

I went back to the entry with a frown, wishing that Mother Hilaria had been less cryptic. I had first assumed that she had questioned Olivia because she hoped Olivia

might be able to name the culprit. But perhaps that wasn't the right assumption. Perhaps she thought that Olivia herself had written the letter.

I got up, took a bathroom break, and brewed a second cup of tea. I started reading again with July 26: Dwight, salary increase, approved. After that, his name appeared with increasing frequency. August 5: Dwight, no promotion. August 8: Dwight, said no again. And then, August 12, Dwight, threats. Spoke sternly. And on August 13, J. R. Nutall, questions re: Dwight.

I sipped my tea and reread all five of these entries, trying to piece together the story that lay behind them. Dwight had been given a raise at the end of July. Less than two weeks later, he was back, asking for a promotion. From handyman to what? Farm manager? Whatever he wanted, he didn't get it. When he struck out again, he retaliated with a threat. Mother Hilaria had clearly been concerned, or she wouldn't have contacted his probation officer.

Again, I wondered what crime had sent Dwight to jail. If he'd served time for a violent felony, Texas law prohibited his carrying a gun off the monastery grounds. Caught with that 303 anywhere else, he could be charged with a third-degree felony-which meant that his target practice at the top of the cliff might just earn him more lockup time. I had J. R. Nutall's home phone number. A call would turn up the information I needed. But first, I'd ask Mother Winifred for a look at Dwight's personnel record-assuming there was one, of course. As far as I knew, he was the monastery's only full-time employee. Mother Hilaria might have hired him without any formalities.

I turned the page to August 16 and found something else. Sr. A, letter. Questioned Sr. R & Sr. O. Sister A must be Sister Anne, whom the letter-writer had chastised for lewdly baring her nakedness. Sister O-well, I knew who that was. Sister R? She was new to my cast of alphabet characters. I ran my finger down the roster and counted eight Rs: Ramona, Rachel, Rowena, Ruth, Rosabel, Rose,

Rosaline, Regina. Nine, including Sister John Roberta. I sighed. It was too bad that R names were so popular in this order. It was really too bad that Mother Hilaria had been so cryptic. If she had only used names instead of initials, I'd know which of the nine Rs she had questioned. But that was information I could get from Sister O, who would surely remember the August sixteenth conversation.

I turned the pages and found more brief notations. Phoned Rev Moth G, re: problems, but on retreat at Moth Hs. Which of her problems had Mother Hilaria wanted to discuss? The trust accounts? Dwight? The letters? But Rev Moth G (Reverend Mother General, I assumed) had apparently remained incommunicado at the Moth Hs (the Mother House?) for quite some time. The diary didn't indicate that Mother Hilaria had succeeded in talking to her.

There was nothing more of interest until August 22, the day Sister Anne's swimsuit was found draped on the cross. Sr. A's suit!!, the outraged entry read. Questioned Sr. 0 & Sr. R again. The remaining entries in August were focused on financial affairs-Bank re: statements, Tom Sr re: funds, bank re: note. September 1 was blank. September 2's entry consisted of just one word, underlined.

letter.

I stared at the single word. Somebody else had gotten a letter, but who? Mother Hilaria? If so, what had happened to it? Had she destroyed it, or was it still among her possessions?

That was the last entry. On September 3, Mother Hilaria had died. Sometime after that, Dwight had stolen her journal.