Rueful Death

Chapter Seven

Sister Gabriella's garlic operation wasn't exactly what you'd expect in a monastery. Neither was she, come to that. She was tall and strong, and she swung her arms energetically as she talked, her gestures punctuating her rich Southern speech.

"When we first came out here, there were only ten of us, and we had just an acre of plants," she said as we walked through the big, airy barn. "When harvest time came, we dug the garlic with forks and shovels."

"Wasn't that hard on everybody's back?" I asked, trying to imagine what it would be like to spade up an entire acre of garlic. And even after it was dug, the job wouldn't have

been done. The sisters had to remove the dirt, dry the plants, separate the bulbs from the tops… People who buy garlic in little cellophane packages have no idea what they're missing.

She chuckled. "You bet. But we were new in the business and everybody was willing. A couple of years later, though, we doubled the acreage, and I started to hear grumbling. Mother Hilaria tried to convince the sisters that they'd get a couple of extra days in paradise for every garlic bulb they dug, but they didn't buy it. So when we doubled the acreage again, I went looking for an old-fashioned chisel plow, like the one my grandfather used to have back in Kentucky." She gestured at a piece of equipment in the corner. "Found it in a junkyard over in Johnson City. All that was wrong with it was a quarter-inch of rust and a broken strap. Now, I just set the tractor tires into the irrigation furrows and drop that plow-point between the rows. The plants still have to be pulled, but at least they're loose. No more spadework."

I grinned at the picture of tall, strong Sister Gabriella poking around a Johnson City junkyard looking for a secondhand chisel plow. "What happens after the garlic's pulled?"

"We used to cart it up here in wheelbarrows and dunk it in a tub to wash off the dirt. Then we'd lay it out on that cement over there to dry." She shook her head pityingly. "Lord sakes, that was work. Happy garlic grows three feet high, and we harvest the whole thing, not just the bulb. That's a lot of leaf to be totin' around."

I shook my head, imagining the size of the job. "It was a good thing you had conscripts," I said. "You probably couldn't have found enough people willing to work that hard for what you could pay."

Gabriella grinned. ' 'We had a good crop of novices those years. And Sadie, bless her heart, donated a beat-up old Ford pickup, which we traded for a front-end loader for our tractor." She gestured in the direction of a dusty, antique-

looking dinosaur of a tractor. ' 'Then we built some garlic flats-chicken wire on board frames, six feet long by three feet wide by two feet deep-that we lay on the loader. Now, after the field's plowed, we pull the garlic and lay it in a rack. When one rack's filled, we stack on another. When they're all filled, I haul the load up here. We restack the garlic into those thirty-foot-long storage racks in that cement block building over there."

"It looks like a great system," I said.

She nodded. "There's still plenty of toting and hauling. From planting to market we handle the garlic eight times. If we braid it, we handle it twice more. In a good year, we'll move over two tons of the stuff."

I whistled. Two tons of St. T's famous rocambole. "It's all gone by spring, I suppose."

' "The biggest cloves are back in the ground by October. The market-grade stuff we sell as bulbs, retail and wholesale. The plants with the best tops we braid into ristras and wreaths and swags, along with chilies and dried flowers. Buckwheat, statice, strawflowers, cockscomb-the usual stuff. Sister Cecilia is in charge of that part of it. She also grows a few specialities. Chiles, gourds, strawberry popcorn. With the garlic, they make nice wreaths."

I looked around. "You've got lots of storage, plenty of labor, decent equipment. You've got water for irrigation and room for more fields. How big could the operation get?"

She grew thoughtful. ' "That depends. We could plant another acre or two of garlic and sell it easily. With an expanded marketing effort, we might sell fifty or a hundred percent more. We could grow more flowers and market fhem with the garlic, and just about double our revenue." She lifted her broad, capable shoulders, let them fall. ' 'We could get big, sure. We could make a lot more money. But why?"

I cocked my head at her. ' 'Why?''

"Well, sure. Work is good for the soul, and we can al-

ways use a little more money. But we need time for prayer and study more than we need money." A half-grin cracked her weathered face. "Woman does not live by work alone, you know."

I thought of the shop back home and the hours I'd poured into it last fall. Had I been brought all the way to St. Theresa's just to hear this bit of advice?

She grew sober. "Anyway, you know what's happening here. The garlic operation isn't likely to expand. In fact, the crop in the ground may just turn out to be our last."

"That would be a loss," I said. "A lot of people think St. T's rocambole is better than anything else on the market."

"The garlic won't be too happy about it, either," Ga-briella said. We were at the far end of the barn now, and she opened the door to a large, chilly room furnished with worktables, shelves of neatly arranged supplies, and racks filled with dried flowers, chilies, and whole garlic plants, stalk and all. "This is Sister Rosaline's part of the operation. It's where her crew braids the ristras and makes the wreaths, swags, baskets, things like that. A dozen or so sisters work here half-days all year round. August to December, Rosaline recruits an extra half-dozen. They take a rest after the holiday, but they'll be back tomorrow, starting on our spring orders. It's work they enjoy."

"I'd enjoy it too," I said. Crafting is a lot more fun than standing behind a counter all day.

"It's creative work," Gabriella said, "and worth it. The simplest arrangement sells for ten times the value of the garlic in it." Her voice grew acerbic. ' 'It beats baking bread or making altar cloths or selling rosaries, which is what other monasteries do to make a living. And it sure as sin beats playing host to a bunch of bishops."

I glanced around. "This is the room where the fire occurred last fall?''

' 'See where those two walls have been replaced, and that big patch in the ceiling?'' She pointed. ' 'We had to repaint

too. There wasn't a lot of damage, but it cost Rosaline a couple of days' work while we cleaned things up."

"What happened?"

' "There was a work light hanging on that wall. It shorted out. At least, that's what Dwight says."

"You don't agree?"

She shrugged. "The light was new. After the fire, it disappeared. But I don't have any suspects in mind, if that's what you're asking. It happened on a Sunday afternoon when nobody was here. If it hadn't been for Dwight, we'd have lost the barn." She glanced at her watch. "Let's go to my office. Sadie will be here in a few minutes."

Gabriella's office smelled of woodsmoke. It had once been a tack room, and various pieces of riding gear-bits, bridles, curry combs-still hung on the splintery walls. The rustic decor wasn't enhanced by her gray metal desk and fifing cabinet, or by the incongruous-looking computer on the shelf behind the desk. But the woodstove in the corner, topped with a steaming kettle, radiated heat. Next to it sat an old rocking chair with a wicker seat. Gabriella opened the stove door, thrust in a stick of cedar from the stack in a wood box, and adjusted the damper.

"When the wind's out of the north, the smoke blows back down the chimney," she said. "But it keeps me warm."

A moment later, Sadie Marsh arrived. She was a wiry, steely-haired woman of nearly sixty with commanding gray eyes, high cheekbones, a jutting nose, a forceful jaw. Deep vertical creases between her eyes suggested prolonged periods of concentration-or a bad temper. A determined person, I guessed, perhaps a difficult one. She wore jeans and scuffed cowboy boots, a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a Navajo vest striped in reds, greens, and blues. Even in Texas, it wasn't the kind of outfit you'd wear to Mass, so I guessed she'd come here straight from home.

Sadie fixed her eyes on me as she lowered herself into

the rocking chair beside the stove. "Winnie-Mother Winifred-has been telling me about you. Lawyer, huh?"

"I used to practice law," I said. "I own an herb shop now."

Gabriella picked up the kettle. ' 'Coffee?'' she asked. Sadie and I nodded. I pulled up an old wooden dining chair with a broken spindle in the back and sat down.

"Once a lawyer, always a lawyer," Sadie said. "Still keep up your credentials?" Her West Texas twang had a biting edge. She wasn't making idle conversation.

"I keep current," I said. It's probably silly to pay the Bar Association dues and meeting the annual professional development requirement, especially with Thyme and Seasons doing so well. But I've wanted to have something to fall back on, just in case.

"What do you know about our situation here?"

Our situation? "Are you referring to the litigation over the will or to what's going on here at St. T's?"

She hooked one ankle over the other knee. ' 'Both. Tell me what you know."

I felt as if I were being interviewed for a job. "I know that the court case was settled last spring and that the foundation finally has control over the trust assets," I said cautiously. "I've been told about the merger of St. T's and St. Agatha's, and I'm guessing that it will have a bearing on the foundation's fiduciary activities and investment plans."

"That pretty well covers it, I reckon," Sadie said. She took the chipped mug Gabriella handed her and rocked back and forth for a minute. "I'm a charter member of the Laney board," she said. "Is there any thin' you want to know about the way it operates?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," I said. I thanked Gabriella for my coffee and cradled it in my hands. I prefer tea, but coffee will do. "Who else is on the board? How is it set up?"

"There are five members. Winnie, of course. As actin'

abbess, she took Hilaria's place. And Gabby here." At my half-surprised glance at Gabriella, Sadie added, "Hilaria appointed her last August to replace Perpetua, who wasn't too well. Tom Rowan Junior, who's taking over for his daddy at the bank, is number three. Number four is Cleva Mason, a woman from the local parish who's missed the last couple of meetings-she's about to be replaced. And I make five. I'm the only one who's actually on the board by name, and I'm on it until I die." She rubbed her palm along her blue-jeaned thigh.

"If another abbess were to be chosen, would she have the power to appoint new board members?" Mrs. Laney would probably have set it up that way, to give the abbess a strong hand.

"Yes," Gabriella said. She pushed her desk chair over to the stove and sat down. ' 'If Olivia were elected tomorrow, she would appoint two new members-one to replace Cleva, the other to replace me."

" So if it came down to a vote on some crucial issue-''

"It would be three to two," Sadie said. "Assumin' Tom Junior voted with me. That isn't an assumption I'd stake my life on. His father and I are old friends, but we've never seen eye to eye. No reason to believe Tom Junior will be any different. It could be four to one."

Basically, then, Olivia could count on the Laney Foundation providing the capital she needed to fund the retreat center. "Who's the fiduciary officer?"

"Tom Junior, as of a couple of weeks ago. Carr State Bank manages the investments." She eyed me over the rim of her coffee mug. "Anythin' else?"

There was something. It had occurred to me last night in bed, just before I drifted into a dream where I was riding through a garlic field with Tom Rowan while Olivia walked behind us with a tape measure, staking out a parking garage.

"When Mrs. Laney deeded the eight hundred acres to

St. Theresa's," I said, "did she impose any restrictive covenants on the property?''

Sadie sat very still, watching me. Her eyes were bright. "What makes you ask that question?"

"Just a hunch." Helen Laney and Mother Hilaria had been determined women, and neither of them had trusted the Church. They would have tried to guard against every possible eventuality.

"You got good hunches." Sadie grinned.

I grinned back.

Sister Gabriella put down her coffee cup and stood up. "You two ladies finished your business?" she asked mildly.

"Just about." Sadie looked at her watch. "What time's lunch?"

"Same time as always," Gabriella said.

"Probably same garbage, too," Sadie replied tartly. "Glad to hear Margaret Mary's decided to come back. Make it worthwhile to drive over here for Sunday dinner." She put both feet on the floor and glanced at me. "You want to have a look at that property deed sometime soon?''

"Do you have a copy?"

"Yep. How about this afternoon?"

I thought. I'd agreed to talk to John Roberta at one-thirty, I had to find Olivia, and I needed to put in a call to DWight's probation officer. "How about tomorrow morning? Around ten-thirty?"

"That'll do," Sadie said. She hoisted herself out of her chair.

I stood too. There was one other question on my mind. "The Reverend Mother General who heads up the order now-is she the same one who was there when the deed was executed?"

Sadie shook her head.

"Do you know whether she's looked at the deed?"

Sadie's eyes were very bright. "I doubt it. It's more than twenty years old. Who cares anymore?"

"That's a good question," I said.

Sister John Roberta wasn't in the refectory for lunch while I was there, which I took to be a bad sign. But I didn't see Olivia, either, or Maggie. It was probably just my timing. But I did see Mother Winifred, who ate with Gabriella, Sadie, and me. She seemed subdued, and even more drawn than she had this morning. Sadie seemed to think she was grieving over Perpetua.

"It's too bad about poor old Perpetua," Sadie said. "We'll all miss her." She patted Mother's hand in sympathy. "When is Father Steven saying Mass?"

' 'When we have a body to say it over,'' Mother Winifred said. "We haven't heard when the autopsy will be done."

"Autopsy?" Sadie scowled. "What's that damn fool Royce doin' that for?"

"He wants to know how she died," Gabriella said. "It's a perfectly natural request for a doctor to make."

"He wants to make trouble, that's what he wants," Sadie muttered. "Which is perfectly natural, if you're a Town-send." She gave Mother Winifred a darting look. "How did Perpetua die? Heart?"

Mother spoke almost reluctantly. "It does seem to have been her heart. She had been suffering from cardiac arrhythmia. But at the end, she was quite dizzy and nauseous and had a convulsive seizure of some sort. Perpetua was in her late seventies, you know. It's entirely possible that she was having a stroke."

Cardiac arrhythmia, nausea, dizziness, convulsions. A stroke? Maybe. But another explanation came to mind. I curbed the impulse to mention it. I would ask Mother Winifred about it privately. I had to talk to her anyway, about what I had found in D wight's room.

Lunch was over at twelve-thirty. I still had an hour before I was scheduled to talk with John Roberta, so after we said good-bye to Sadie, I walked with Mother Winifred back to her cottage. We were accompanied by two other sisters on their way to the herb garden, so we couldn't talk.

When we reached her cottage and she said, "Would you like to see the stillroom now?" I was glad of the opportunity.

The stillroom was once a screened porch, now closed in, that enlarged the small square cottage into a rectangle. It had a terra-cotta floor that was warmed by the sun streaming in through two large casement windows. Some of the floor-to-ceiling shelves held large amber-colored jars, crocks, and urns, all labeled. Other shelves held dark glass bottles full of prepared tinctures and jars of oils and other materials used to create salves and lotions. There were rows of vials and jars of empty gelatin capsules arranged beside baskets filled with scoops, glass droppers, atomizers-all the paraphernalia of an old-fashioned stillroom, the household apothecary shop. A workbench stood along another wall, near a small two-burner gas countertop stove for heating herbal preparations. Above the workbench was an extensive shelf of reference books, old and new, and above that framed botanical prints. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling.

"This is very pleasant," I said, looking around. Perhaps, I could make a room like this for myself-if I had the time. "How many sisters work here?"

"Eight or ten," Mother said. "We have class once a week, and I assign them individual projects. They come here for two hours a week, on their own, to work. It's good experience for them, very educational, and of course they help prepare the salves and ointments and lotions that we use for…" Her voice trailed off. She brushed some loose leaves off the worktable and into a basket on the floor.

I regarded her. "You haven't been experimenting with foxglove, have you, Mother Winifred?"

She looked at me, and I noticed once again how pale and drawn she was. Her skin seemed cracked, like old glaze on a piece of pottery. "No, of course not." She straightened a row of lidded canisters, not looking at me. "You don't think… You really can't believe…"

"The symptoms of Sister Perpetua's illness," I said gently. "They sound like the symptoms of digitalis poisoning. Wouldn't you agree?"

Her mouth trembled. "Yes," she said finally, almost in a whisper. She turned to look out the window, across the sunny garden, where the two nuns who had accompanied us were bent over the culinary bed, cleaning off the frostbitten foliage. "To tell the truth, that thought did occur to me. In fact, it kept me up late last night."

"Had the doctor prescribed digitalis?"

"Not as far as I know." She turned around. "You can ask Sister Rowena, who manages the medications. But no, I'm sure he hadn't"

It was entirely possible that we were going in the wrong direction. But it wouldn't hurt to pursue it further-especially since a nonprescription source of digitalis was growing right in front of our eyes. "How many foxglove plants do you have in your apothecary garden?"

"Two," she said faintly.

"So it's possible that someone-perhaps one of the sisters who works here in the stillroom-could have harvested the leaves and prepared a tincture from them?" I glanced up at the row of jars. "Or filled some of those gel caps with the powdered leaf?"

"I suppose," she said slowly. "But you don't think that one of our sisters deliberately…"

"It might have been an accident," I said. "The leaves look something like comfrey. The two have often been confused."

"The comfrey is on the other side of our apothecary plot, well away from the foxglove. Both plants are clearly labeled. I don't see how anyone could have…" She gave a heavy sigh. ' 'I suppose I should tell you. A few weeks ago, Sister Dominica was weeding the apothecary garden. She brought me a foxglove leaf and asked me about it."

"What did she want to know?"

"She asked whether the toxin was in the leaves or the

root, and whether the plant could be confused with spinach."

"With spinach?" I asked. "I don't know of any spinach varieties that have hairy leaves. What did you tell her?"

"Someone came along at that moment and interrupted us. I don't believe I gave her an answer."

Dominica had also asked me about foxglove, just a few hours before Perpetua died. But her question to me came long after the digitalis-if that's what had killed Perpetua- had already been prepared and administered. I was sure Dominica hadn't had anything to do with the old nun's death. Still, her curiosity about foxglove had to have been prompted by something. What was it?

I went on to a different question. ' 'Did Doctor Townsend give you any reason to believe that he suspected digitalis poisoning?''

"No, but he barely spoke to me." She sat down on a wood bench in front of the window. "I suppose Margaret Mary has told you about our difficulties with the Townsend family." At my nod, she added, "I'm afraid Doctor Town-send is more interested in causing trouble than in finding out the truth. We wouldn't ask him to attend our sisters if there were another doctor in this area."

"But Townsend is also the JP," I reminded her. "If he wants to investigate a death, you can't keep him out of it."

"I know," she said. "I just wish…" She laced her fingers together and looked down at them.

"Well, if it's any comfort," I said, "he probably won't be doing the autopsy. I'm sure Carr County doesn't have the facilities to test for serum digoxin levels. He's likely sent the body to Bexar County-which means it'll be Wednesday or Thursday before there's any news." I stirred. I needed to add Dominica to my list of people to talk to, and Sister Rowena, the inftrrnarian. But first I had to deal with Sister John Roberta and Dwight.

"I have to make a phone call later this afternoon," I said. "May I use the telephone in Sophia?"

"Of course," Mother said. She stood up. "Or the one in my cottage, as you prefer."

"The office phone will be better," I said. "I don't want to be overheard." I paused. "I need to talk to Dwight's probation officer."

"Probation officer?" Mother was startled. "You mean. Dwight has been in prison!"

"You didn't know?"

She shook her head. "Hilaria must have known, but she didn't mention it. I suppose she thought the idea might make the sisters… nervous." She pressed her pale lips together. "What kind of crime did he commit?"

"I don't know. I wonder-does Dwight have a personnel file?"

"Yes. After you told me you wanted to search his cottage, I found it. There's not much in it, though. What did you discover when you went through his things? Do you think he might be our arsonist?''

"I don't know yet," I said. I thought of the Camels and the rifle I had seen in his truck. "It does look like he's the guy who shot at me yesterday afternoon, though." I paused. "And I found Mother Hilaria's diary under his mattress."

"So that's what happened to it!" she exclaimed. "But why would Dwight have taken a diary?"

"Perhaps because he didn't want anyone to read about his continuing disagreements with Mother Hilaria. She gave him a raise, but he seems to have wanted a promotion."

Mother Winifred stood and began to walk up and down. "He wants to be farm manager," she said. "He's asked me twice, and I turned him down both times. I'd no idea he approached Hilaria as well."

"Mother Hilaria noted that he threatened her. Has he said anything to you that could be construed as a threat?''

"Not exactly. But he has been rather forceful." She shook her head. ' 'Hilaria should have mentioned it, but she kept her own counsel about things like that."

But Mother Hilaria hadn't kept her own counsel where

the letters were concerned. Questioned Sr. O about Sr. P's letter. "If Mother Hilaria had needed to discipline one of the St. Agatha sisters," I asked, "how would she have handled it? Would she have spoken to the sister directly, or would she have asked Olivia to intercede?"

Mother Winifred frowned. "Directly, I'd say. I don't think she was very fond of Olivia. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she didn't fully trust her."

"When you went through Mother Hilaria's papers, did you find a poison-pen letter directed to her?"

Mother's pale blue eyes opened wide in astonishment. ' 'To Hilaria? No, of course not! If I had found such a thing, I would have told you." She shook her head. "Her papers are in my desk. You can look for yourself."

"Perhaps later," I said. "Have you had a chance to speak to the housekeeper about the hot plate in Mother Hilaria's cottage?"

"I talked.to Sister Ruth this morning after Mass and told her you wanted to locate an item in the storeroom. She said she'd be in her room this afternoon. She lives in Hannah."

"Thanks," I said. "By the way, have you seen Maggie?"

Mother's smile lightened her tired face. "Margaret Mary is spending a day or so on retreat. I believe she plans to come to supper this evening, though." She glanced at me. "She's told you about her decision to return to St. Theresa's?"

"Yes," I said. "I was a little surprised."

"I can't say I was. I've felt all along that God wanted Margaret Mary to be here. I was delighted to learn that she has come to the same conclusion."

"Of course," I remarked, "her coming will delay the election that would have taken place after Sister Perpetua's death."

Mother's mouth pursed. "God works in mysterious ways, my child. Perhaps that's why He brought her back just now."

"Perhaps." I glanced at my watch and stood. "Could I ■c that personnel file?"

"Of course." Mother Winifred went to the door that led li the cottage, then paused. "Oh, I'm forgetting. Tom Rowan called just before lunch. He'll be here this afternoon:o discuss some financial business. He asked me to tell you that he'll stop by Jeremiah and say hello, perhaps about four."

Tom?

Mother didn't appear to notice the sudden flush on my cheeks. "He mentioned that you two were friends," she said, and opened the door. "He's a fine man, so attentive to his father. And quite attractive, too, don't you think?"

"I suppose," I said shortly.

Mother gave me a curious glance. "You've been friends for long?"

"We knew each other in Houston."

She walked across the room to an old walnut desk. ' 'His father was glad to see him come back, although I must say that the circumstances of his return were not exactly-" She unlocked a drawer and took out a folder. "But you probably know all about that messy business in Houston."

I didn't. I wondered what it was.

When I'd left that morning for Jacob and my meeting with Gabriella, I had locked my cottage and taken the key. To be doubly secure, I had pulled a tiny feather from my pillow and inserted it between the door and the jamb about four inches from the floor. A bit melodramatic, maybe, but when I now saw that the feather was still there, I knew that nobody had been in my room in my absence-or was there now, waiting for me. And that Mother Hilaria's diary was still safely hidden under the cushion of the chair.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost one-thirty. While I waited for John Roberta, I lay down on the bed and went over Dwight's personnel file. Mother had been right-there wasn't much in it. A partially filled out sheet indicated that

Dwight H. Baldwin had been hired in July, three years before. No prior addresses, no references, no next of kin or emergency phone numbers. If Dwight had had a life before he became St. Theresa's maintenance man, it wasn't documented here. Neither was his prison record. Maybe Mother Hilaria hadn't known about it when she hired him. Or maybe she wanted to give him another chance, and decided to act as if he were clean.

I closed the file and glanced restlessly at the clock. It was one thirty-five and John Roberta hadn't shown up yet. By one-forty, I knew she wasn't coming.

I frowned, remembering the Little nun's obvious anxiety. If I tell you what I know, she'd said, barely above a whisper, will you help me get away? And when I'd asked her what made her think she was in danger, she'd gasped something about Sister Olivia and Sister Rowena. What was it? Sister Olivia says we have to stick together. And Sister Rowena says if I tell, I'm being disloyal. They might-

Might what?

Had someone prevented John Roberta from keeping our appointment?

What was it that she was so anxious to tell me?

I stood, filled with determination and a new energy. She wasn't coming. There was no point waiting. I found the roster of sisters and put it in the pocket of my jeans. I had too much to do and too many people to see to waste time hanging around here. I needed to talk to Ruth about the hot plate, Olivia about her conversations with Mother Hilaria last summer, Anne and Dominica about the poison-pen letters they had received-and John Roberta, if I could find her. I also had a phone call to make, and Tom was planning to drop in.

Tom. I ran a hand through my hair and glanced in the mirror to see whether I should add a quick shampoo to my list of things to do. The woman in the mirror was becomingly flushed, her lips were curved in an anticipatory smile, and her gray eyes were sparkling. I leaned closer, startled.

Was this me?

Was Tom responsible?

I straightened up and turned my back on the flatter looking woman in the mirror. I had McQuaid and that ws enough. Tom Rowan belonged to a past that was over an done with. Over and done with, I reminded myself as closed the door and headed in the direction of Sophia.

Over and done with.

The monastery office must once have been a study. Thre walls were paneled in dark wood and hung with photc graphs of women in clerical dress, a gilt-framed oil paintin of an elegant-looking older woman I took to be Mrs. Lane] and framed certificates of various sorts. Floor-to-ceilin walnut bookshelves filled with heavy, intimidating vo. umes-the writings of the church fathers, probably-ra the length of the fourth wall. But the wine red carpet wa worn, the damask draperies were faded, and the desk wa a utilitarian gray metal affair like the one I'd seen in m barn, with a wooden chair. The sisters of St. Theresa too their vow of poverty seriously.

As I looked around, I wondered how Mrs. Laney's for tune, which now belonged to St. Theresa's, would chang all this. If Gabriella became the next abbess, things wouli probably stay the same, judging from the simplicity of he corner of the barn. But what if Olivia took over? Woul‹ her office furniture be plain pine or rich mahogany? Wouli the floor be bare, or wall-to-wall sheared pile?

But those weren't the questions I needed to answer, closed the door, sat on a corner of the desk, and dialed J. R. Nutall. It was Sunday, and I caught her at home, bakim a cake for her son's birthday. She listened to what I had t‹ say, agreed to confirm my story with Deputy Walters, aw phoned me back a few minutes later with the informatio! I requested.

I wasn't surprised to learn that Dwight H. Baldwin hac spent four years as a guest of the State of Texas Departmen

of Corrections, Huntsville Unit, Walker County.

And under the circumstances, I wasn't too surprised when Ms. Nutall told me why he'd been sent there. His crime?

Arson.