Rueful Death (12 page)

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.

Well. Now that I knew Dwight's criminal history, I didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that he was St. T's resident arsonist. In fact, I didn't know how Deputy Walters had managed to overlook him-unless the deputy suspected that Dwight might be the Townsends' hired torch, in which case the idea might not bear too much scrutiny.

Dwight' s motive? It was possible, of course, that he
had
been hired by the Townsends. But his bank account and low-rent lifestyle didn't suggest that he'd earned any extra pocket money lately. Much more likely was the motive sug-

gested by the entries in Mother Hilaria's journal. It wouldn't be the first time an employee sabotaged something just so he could repair it. Dwight had been Johnny- I on-the-spot at all three fires, proving himself an! indispensable candidate for promotion to farm manager. "Don't hurt none fer a man to be rekkanized fer helpin' folks out," he'd said after he pulled Ruby's Honda back! from the brink of disaster. Helping folks out? That was a laugh. I'd bet he spilled the logs there in the first place, just so he
could
"help out."

I agreed with Dwight about one thing. He should get the credit he deserved for what he had done. Unfortunately, that might not be so easy to arrange. The evidence I had turned up was entirely circumstantial. Without physical proof of his guilt, Dwight would never be charged with arson.

I did have the 303 cartridge and the cigarette pack from the cliff top, however. Tomorrow, I'd take them into town and leave them with Walters, along with my story about yesterday's shooting. With luck, one or both would yield his prints, which might persuade the county attorney to go I for unlawful possession of a firearm by a convicted felon
and
aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. Both were third-degree felonies that could get Dwight two to ten years and five thousand dollars apiece-plus the unserved time from his original sentence.

But whether or not Dwight could be returned to jail, there would be no more fires. One of Mother Winifred's mysteries was solved. She could give Dwight his walking papers-and I could be forgiven a touch of pride at having wrapped up the investigation so quickly.

Unfortunately, I wasn't going to unravel the mystery of the poison-pen letters quite so quickly. What's more, there had been two deaths at St. T's in the last five months, and both victims-Mother Hilaria and Sister Perpetua-had been connected to the letters. It seemed to me an ominous connection.

I was beginning to feel uneasily urgent about talking to

I:ia and to John Roberta, if I could find her. The clouds r^c blown away and the afternoon sun was warm when I
kft
Sophia and walked toward Hannah, a two-story build-
zz
bisected by a green-tiled hallway that ran the length of &e building. The only thing that kept Hannah from looking jie a college dorm was the absence of screaming girls Wishing down the corridor in various degrees of undress-
md
the doors. Every dorm I've ever visited was remarkable for the door decorations. These doors were blank. They *ore nothing but a name and a number.

Feeling uncomfortable and distinctly out of place, I:hecked the roster I'd brought with me, located Olivia's door, and knocked. Then knocked again, harder. No answer. Olivia wasn't there.

According to the roster, John Roberta's room was on the second floor, at the far end. Ignoring her instructions I climbed the stairs, found her door, and knocked. Again, no response.

I was luckier with the housekeeper, who lived at the other end of the second floor. Sister Ruth was a soft, pillowy woman in her forties with a face as round as a full moon, a fractional smile that came and went nervously, and conscientious eyes magnified by thick glasses. She was dressed in a full, flowing habit with a rosary at her waist. She didn't invite me into her room, but through the door I could see that it had the bare simplicity of a monastic cell: a bed covered with a smooth gray blanket, a straight chair, a small chest of drawers, a desk, its surface immaculate. The walls were empty except for a picture of a woman bound to a cross on a heap of firewood, her eyes cast toward a dark and stormy heaven while a malicious-looking soldier lurked in the shadows with a flaming brand. Beneath the picture was a table with an open Bible.

Sister Ruth walked fast for a woman of her girth. I followed her to Sophia, where she opened the door of a storeroom and pulled a cord, lighting a pale bulb so high in the ceiling that its forty watts barely brightened the gloom.

"Mother said you needed assistance," she said. The words were carefully enunciated, the tone helpful. "What is it you're looking for?"

"A hot plate," I said. I glanced around. All manner of things were stored here for future use, arranged in fastidious order on shelves that ran the length of the room. Sheets and blankets, pillows, towels, soap, toilet paper, cleaning supplies, flower vases, an ancient typewriter, a couple of lamps, boxes of lightbulbs. The monastery's quartermaster depot, organized with a quartermaster's skill and attention to detail.

A distressed look appeared on Ruth's face. "Something's gone wrong with your hot plate? I'm
so
sorry. I inspected Jeremiah myself just before you moved in. I'm
sure
I checked to see that everything was in order." Her agitation seemed to be increasing, as if she were personally responsible for the failure of my hot plate. "I'm
very
sorry you've had a problem. If I had known, I-"

I stemmed her apology hastily. "Pardon me, Sister. There's no problem with Jeremiah's hot plate. I'm looking for the one that was in Mother Hilaria's cottage."

Sister Ruth blinked rapidly behind her thick glasses, seeming not to hear. "But if your hot plate is functioning, you shouldn't require another." She folded her hands at her waist. "Perhaps Mother Winifred did not explain our rule. Each cottage, you see, is provided with only
one
hot plate so that occupants cannot prepare meals in their cells. All of our residents are expected to dine communally, and the hot plates are meant only for the occasional cup of coffee or-"

"Excuse me, Sister," I said. "I don't want to cook on Mother Hilaria's hot plate. I simply want to
look
at it."

"Oh, dear." She gave me a nervous half-smile. "I fear I have misunderstood. And I very much fear that you and I have made an unnecessary trip. The item you are looking for is no longer in our inventory."

"Did the sheriff take it?"

"The sheriff?" She opened her eyes very wide. "Why should the sheriff want it?"

"Then it was discarded?"

She shook her head.

"I don't understand," I said. "What happened to it?"

Her hands twisted nervously. "I don't think… I wish you hadn't…" She stopped, clasped her hands as if to quiet them, and spoke with an effort. "It was taken. From this room."

I stared at her. "Someone stole it?"

''Stole
it?" She looked horrified. "Of course not!" A corner of her mouth was trembling. ' 'This room is never locked, so it couldn't have been stolen."

I couldn't argue with her logic. I spoke more gently. "When did this loss occur, Sister?"

"A few weeks ago. Before Christmas." Her words were stumbling, as if her tongue had gone numb. "I'm afraid I can't be precise. It was soon after Sister Rowena inquired-" She caught her lower lip between her teeth.

Sister Rowena, the infirmarian, who had been with Per-petua when she died. "Sister Rowena asked about the hot plate?"

She dropped her head so that all I could see was the veil covering her hair. "I know I should have confessed to Mother Winifred that I misplaced an object assigned to my care. But it was Christmas and I had so many other things to do. I felt the hot plate would surely turn up again. There are bare wires in the switch, and it isn't safe to use."

"Bare wires?"

She nodded. "Anyway, no one would wish to use it after…" Her voice trailed off. She was fumbling with her rosary.

"I see," I said.

"I will speak to Mother immediately and inform her of my carelessness."

"Thank you for your trouble," I said.

"I am very sorry that I couldn't be more helpful."

"You've been very helpful," I said.

She pulled the light cord. The room went dark.

When I got to Rebecca, the building that housed the St. T sisters, I had two matters to take up with Sister Dominica. I started with the one that was at the top of my mind.

"Foxglove?" Dominica repeated. Her normally expressive face was blank. "Did I? 1 really don't remember."

I pushed aside a pair of jeans and sat down on her bed. I felt much more at home here than I had in Hannah. The space was more like a college freshman's bedroom than a nun's cell. A battered Spanish-style guitar stood in one corner on a stack of sheet music, the pink flowered bedspread was rumpled, and books and papers were piled on the dresser and shelves. A coffeepot sat on a hot plate, beside an untidy tray of coffee makings and packaged snacks.

"Come on, Dominica," I said. "You can't have forgotten. Why did you ask?"

Dominica was wearing a flowing blue robe with gold moons and stars printed on it. Her loose hair was parted in the middle and rippled over her shoulders. She made a face. "It seems sort of silly."

I sighed. "It's not silly, Dominica. What made you ask the question?"

"It wasn't a what. It was a who."

Aha. Maybe we were getting someplace. "Who was it?"

"Agatha Christie."

"Agatha…Christie?"

"Yes. Have you read
Postern of FateT'

"I don't think so," I said, feeling distinctly let down. "Is that one of the Miss Marple books?"

She shook her head. "Tuppence and Tommy. Somebody accidentally confuses foxglove and spinach, and puts them into a salad. The whole family eats it and gets sick. But I didn't see how that could have happened. Spinach doesn't look anything like foxglove-or am I wrong?"

"No, you're right," I said. "The leaves of both plants are lance-shaped, true. But spinach is smooth and foxglove is hairy. Foxglove is a different shade of green too."

"Actually," Dominica said, "the victim doesn't die from the foxglove. The killer takes advantage of the accidental poisoning and deliberately puts digitalis in the coffee." She smiled. "Fiendishly clever, wouldn't you say?"

"Fiendishly," 1 muttered. Personally, I think it's unfortunate when a writer uses a plant to kill somebody. It gives plants a bad press. That's not to say that people don't die of herbal poisonings, of course. Before firearms were invented, plants were the weapon of choice. Tens of thousands of people must have died from ingesting hemlock or monkshood or foxglove, with no one the wiser. In fact, I read recently that in the last ten years, there have been something like five thousand digitalis fatalities. Not an insignificant number. Still, if you're inventing a fictional murder, there are plenty of other creative ways to bump somebody off.

"Here," Dominica said, taking a book off the nightstand. "You might enjoy reading this. You can decide for yourself whether Agatha Christie got it right or not."

"Thanks," I said, and took the book.

"Anyway," Dominica went on, "the same week I was reading
Postern of Fate,
it was my turn to weed the herb garden. I looked down and there it was, right under my nose. Foxglove, I mean. No flowers, just a bunch of hairy green leaves, wearing a name tag. I was curious about the poison and I thought maybe-" She shifted uncomfortably, as if she wanted to say something else.

"And?" I prompted..

She gnawed her lip. ' 'We really do have problems here, you know, and Olivia is responsible for a lot of them. It crossed my mind that it would be easy to sneak some foxglove leaves into her salad and…" She made a nervous pleat in her blue robe. ' 'It was only a stray thought, but it

was very wicked. It isn't anything I'd really
do,"
she added hastily. "When I made that silly remark about getting rid of her, I was just joking."

' 'It doesn't pay to joke about poisons," I said. ' 'If somebody dies, people have a way of remembering-''

Her eyes flew open and her hands went to her mouth. "Sister Olivia hasn't died, has she?" she whispered in an anguished voice. "If she did, I'd feel terrible! It was so
wrong
of me to wish her ill!"

Dominica's response was a bit over the top, but I didn't think it was an act. Anyway, she was worrying about the wrong person. "Olivia's fine," I said. "As far as I know, that is. I haven't been able to find her. I need to ask her what she knows about the letters."

Dominica's eyes went dark. "From what Mother said at supper last night, I gather she's told you about the one I received. And Miriam too."

' 'Yes,'' I said. We had come to the second matter I had to take up with her. "You still don't have any idea who wrote it?"

She glanced at me, her cheeks reddening, and I thought how vulnerable she looked. "That's what makes it so awful," she said bleakly. "I keep wondering who has such a horrible, poisonous malice in her heart. What could I have done to make someone hate me enough to write that kind of lie?"

"Could
the
writer have seen something that led her to the wrong conclusion?"

"I suppose." She lowered her voice, as if someone might be listening outside the window. "Since Margaret Mary left, Miriam is my best friend. We go for walks together. We touch. Sometimes we hug-the normal kind of contact between friends. But we're not lovers." The blush rose higher. "I've been tempted, but not with Miriam."