Authors: LYNN BOHART
“Did you see anyone when you came back downstairs?”
The young man paused, his mind working.
Suddenly, his eyes flashed as if he’d remembered something
,
and the
thought made him visibly relax.
“Actually, I did see someone.
I thought I saw someone
from
the window at the head of the stairs.
Just a shadow really.
I couldn’t tell who it was.
It was too dark.
I happened to pause at the window and glance below.
Someone was going in the direction of the kitchen.”
“What time was this?”
“Around seven-thirty.”
“And you couldn’t tell who it was?”
“No.
It was too dark.”
“Could you see where they went?”
“I didn’t pay any attention.
I just continued down the stairs.”
Giorgio’s mind was buzzing.
He was trying to determine if what Poindexter had just told him was the trut
h, or a lie to create an alibi.
“What is your room number?”
He paused as if he thought he’d just gotten caught in a trap.
Finally, he replied, “Number eight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Poindexter.”
Giorgio got up to go.
“One more thing.
Was there a reason you didn’t dress for the myster
y?”
Poindexter stopped smiling.
“I just forgot,” he said quickly.
“I mean about the mystery.”
Giorgio nodded and thanked him again, leaving Poindexter to gaze out at the valley below as if he d
idn’t have a care in the world.
Chapter Twelve
Giorgio decided it was time to examine the monastery by daylight.
He followed the rear hallway east along the north side of the building
past
the
bathrooms, two small classrooms
,
and a large meeting room set up with a projector screen and folding chairs.
An intersecting hallway served as the bo
undary
between the retreat center and monastery.
On the
monastery
side, Giorgio passed a small meditation room and a large laundry.
Finally, t
he hallway opened into a stairwell where a metal door led to the backside of the property, probably the escape route for the cigarette-smoking monk.
When he opened the door,
Giorgio
stepped through a wood
en
awning covered by a thick tangle of vines.
An ancient light fixture was tucked up under the overhang, but when he reached in and flicked the light switch, it didn’t work.
No wonder he hadn’t noticed it.
A worn, brick path led away from the building to
a
circular courtyard
and pond
. The pond languished i
n the cool morning air, its green water bubbling up like the headwaters of a mountain stream.
Several small tadpoles kicked around the bottom looking for cover under the floating
l
ily pads.
Giorgio glanced around thinking that by day the monastery and its elaborate grounds only added to the mystery.
Almost every view was blocke
d by something
−
trees, bushes, cement statues
,
or vine covered arbors
.
He re
entered the building and rounded the rear staircase, stepping into a wide hallway that fronted the commercial kitchen and chapel.
An open-air courtyard was visible through a set o
f double doors to his right, complete with another fountain, two flowerbeds, a second pond
,
and a large statue of Christ standing on a pedestal.
Looking up, Giorgio realized the monks’ bedroom windows looked out onto th
is
courtyard, making it unlikely any of them had seen anything the night before.
Retracing his steps, he
climbed the stairs to the monk
s
’
quarters.
If the conference wing had felt worn and old, the monks
’
quarters were cold and empty.
The hallway was all hard angles, bare wood paneling
,
and a hardwood floor.
Three tall windows on the exterior wall were flanked by plain, dark green curtains.
It all reminded Giorgio of the first time he'd attended classes at
Sacred
Heart
Catholic
School
when he was six.
His earliest memories were of being trapped in a frigid classroom with uncomfo
rtable wooden desks and a harsh-
looking woman encased in black, flowing robes
and
some sort of bonnet.
The ruler she held became a weapon, and to this day the image filled him with a mixture of awe and dread
.
While there was nothing to fear
here, the austerity of the monk
s
’
e
xistence was intimidating
.
Giorgio counted
eight
doorways before the hallway turned left.
He passed four more rooms before the hallway turned again, returning along the south side of the building.
There were no embellishments, not even room numbers.
At the end of the south hallway, a second staircase led to the first floor and the chapel.
He suspected it was down this staircase that he and Swan had witnessed the chanting monks.
Turning around, he walked the route in reverse, this time peering out the windows and stopping to explore a supply closet at the west end of the wing.
The closet was stocked with toilet paper, blankets
,
and other basic necessities.
If his calculations were correct, it backed up to the closet just outside of Mallery Olsen’s room
.
Giorgio returned to the first floor.
It appeared the building was shaped like a hammerhead shark.
When he stepped into the east hallway
again
, just outside the open air courtyard, he was standing where the shark's brain would be, if hammerhead sharks had brains.
At the end of the hallway
was the chapel
;
to his left
the baking kitchen.
The smell of baking bread drew him to
the
arched
kitchen
doorway
. The room was large and
equipped with two sets of big, black wall ovens, several work tables, a stand that held a large, copper kettle
,
and two walls of shelves and cupboards.
Five monks were busy kneading dough, sorting ingredients, and working the ovens.
Two additional monks worked in the rear, wrapping and packing loaves of freshly baked bread.
Giorgio swallowed the saliva that flowed
freely
into his mouth.
Father Rosario, the small monk who had greeted them the night before, saw him and approached.
“Detective, can I get you a sample?”
“Oh, no,” Giorgio replied, his gaze drifting to where a short monk was just pulling a long metal paddle from the oven.
On it sat six round loaves of steaming brown bread.
Fa
ther Rosario followed his gaze.
“We don’t eat butter, but le
t me get you some fresh bread.”
He lifted a fresh loaf of bread from where it sat cooling on a nearby table and retrieved a long, serrated knife to cut off a large hunk.
He placed it on a paper towel and gave it to Giorgio.
“Thank you," Giorgio murmured. "You’re well known for your bread.”
He took a mouthful as Father Rosario smiled.
“We sell to all the local super markets and even many of the bakeries.
It’s a labor of love.”
He smiled.
“That’s the name of our business, of course,
“
Labor of Love
”
.
We thought the name was catchy.
We’ve been approached to expand our market, but as you can see,” he gestured to the other monks, “we have a limited labor pool.”
He smiled again, exposing a set of crooked teeth.
Giorgio sunk his own teeth into the soft bread.
“Mmmm,” he mumbled.
“How do you resist?
I’d eat this all day long.”
“Actually, today is a fasting day.
We fast two days a week to commemorate the death of our Lord Jesus.”
“But it’s Sunday.
Don’t you eat at all?”
“We are allowed one nourishing meal, which will be shared in the refectory after the morning service.
No other food will be taken for the day.”
His voice reflected his surrender to a life of poverty and lack of convenience.
Giorgio had always wondered why the lack of anything was somehow more holy than actually having those things.
It was a conversation he’d
had often with Father Michael.
“
Life is not about things, Giorgio,
” the good priest had said. “
Life is about love
;
the love of God, love of life, love of family.
Remember that,”
he added, tapping Giorgio’s head, “
and you’ll do just fine in life
.”
The problem was that Giorgio liked his things.
He didn’t think he was materialistic.
There was just a certain comfort in having things
l
ike his favorite chair and his big screen TV.
“I never understood fasting,” Giorgio mumbled, swallowing another chunk of the tasteful, heavy bread.
“If God meant for us to eat, why would anyone choose
not
to eat?”
“Fasting has its roots in the very beginnings of Christianity," the small monk offered.
"Many believe you cannot know God unless you fast, just as you cannot know God unless you pray.
Fasting has many physical and mental benefits
,
as well as spiritual, not the least of which is to slow us down and force us to pay attention to the essence of life.
When you fast, you let go, and by letting go, you see and hear more clearly.”
The little priest clasped his hands over his abdomen and smiled.
“Perhaps it would even prove helpful in your line of work, Detective.”