Bad Faith (17 page)

She stood aside, furious at what he’d done, yet unable to stop him. Prayers wouldn’t come until her anger subsided.

Finally she followed him and the deputies to the postulant’s sleeping quarters. Sheriff Green led the search. He looked through the few possessions Celia had brought with her and found nothing of interest. Then, as he lifted the mattress, a small notebook fell to the floor.

He read a few pages, then leafed through it some more.

“Are you planning to keep that?” Sister Agatha asked coldly. Many postulants and novices kept journals, and Celia, from the looks of it, had been no exception.

“I have a right to seize any books, papers, and records that may establish the identity of the killer. It’s in the warrant. In addition, I can confiscate any monkshood in herb or drug form or derivative thereof or paraphernalia that may point us to the killer.”

He read a few more pages, then skipped to the last few entries. This time his expression changed and his concentration became focused on the page before him.

“Celia was afraid of Father Anselm—it wasn’t as simple as she let on. Listen to this,” he said, and began to read.

“ ‘Father could take away my dream. I belong in this monastery. God brought me here. I’m going to pray really hard until God tells me what I need to do.’ “

Sister Agatha scoffed. “Come on, Tom, that scarcely screams premeditated murder. She was taking her problem to God. We all do that here.”

“What if she thought God told her to punish the priest? A lot of confessed killers have testified that God spoke to them through little voices in their heads. Maybe Celia looked at it as a modern twist to the story of Abraham and Isaac. Remember that it’s unlikely the person who put the monkshood on the alb meant to kill anyone.”

“Celia’s not crazy. She’s very devout and wouldn’t harm a soul.”

“Get her and bring her to the parlor again. I have a few more questions.”

Her heart hammering a mile a minute, Sister Agatha rushed to the chapel and went directly to Reverend Mother’s stall. Seeing her, the abbess rose and hurried out of the chapel with Sister Agatha.

Once she’d been given permission, Sister Agatha took Celia to the parlor where they met Bruno and the sheriff.

“I’d like Mother Mistress to stay,” the young postulant said quietly, looking at the sheriff.

Sister Agatha looked at him. “I won’t interfere. You have my word.”

“You’ve already spoken to me alone, Sheriff. I have nothing more to tell you now than I did then. Surely having Sister Agatha present won’t cause you to become distracted.”

Sister Agatha had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. By appealing to his pride, the postulant had won the round.

“Stay if you want, Sister—but I’ll handle the questioning,” he said, taking out a small tape recorder.

“Of course,” Sister Agatha said.

Tom placed the journal on the table so Celia could see it clearly. Then he brought out his handcuffs and placed them beside it. Sister Agatha had to bite her lip to keep from protesting the obvious attempt at intimidation. Bruno frowned, and shook his head, but Tom ignored him.

Celia stared at the handcuffs and her journal, her jaw dropping slightly.

“Did you get your answer from God when you prayed about your problem with Father Anselm? Were you told to punish him?”

“No, of course not! I had planned to talk to Father, that’s all.”

“But you were alone with the alb. Did you place the poison on the collar?”

“I was sewing it.
That’s all.
If I’d put something so dangerous on the alb, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near it. Why would I risk getting that stuff on my hands?”

“As a smoke screen, or to misdirect the police?”

A tear ran down Celia’s cheek, but she wiped it away quickly. “You’re so determined to believe I’m guilty that you’re not really listening to anything I say.”

“You’re still playing games, Celia. Just like your mother always said you did.” He stood and leaned forward, resting his palms on the table. “How about the truth this time? For once in your life?”

Celia began to shake. “My mother doesn’t know a thing about me. She never did,” she whispered. “I’ve told you the truth.”

John Bruno stood. “And that’s the end of this interview, Sheriff. I’m not letting you badger my client, or intimidate her with that cheap handcuff trick. If you want to bring charges against my client, do so. I’ll have her out on bail by the time you finish booking her. And then we’ll talk to the district attorney, and maybe even the state attorney general about your tactics.”

“I don’t have all the evidence I need to make an arrest yet,” Tom said, his voice low, hard, and cold. “But I will get it. And when I do, I’ll be back.” His eyes focused on Celia. “Being a nun won’t keep you out of prison if you killed Father Anselm.”

Sister Agatha went to Celia’s side and led the postulant out into the corridor. She could feel the young woman shivering, though it was close to eighty degrees in this part of the monastery right now. “Go back to chapel. I’ll be there shortly.”

As Celia walked away, John Bruno came up to the grille. “The sheriff wants to talk to you now. I think I should stick around.”

“Fine, but it’s the sheriff who’ll need protecting, not me,” she said, then took a deep breath, bringing her temper under control. “Let’s go.”

As she reentered the parlor, Sheriff Green’s eyes focused on her. “I have only one question for you, Sister. Did you know about Celia’s problem with Father Anselm?”

“I knew nothing for sure,” she said, heeding Bruno’s advice and keeping it simple.

“But you had your suspicions. Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

“Don’t answer that until we talk, Sister.”

She glanced at Bruno and shook her head. “I’ll go ahead and answer.” Sister Agatha looked back at the sheriff. “Tom, I’m going to be perfectly honest with you. I wasn’t withholding evidence. There was nothing to discuss except an incident I’d witnessed between Father and Celia—and that happened
after
I found Celia sewing the alb. Until that moment, Celia and Father Anselm had never actually met face-to-face.” She gave him the details about the encounter with the food delivery.

“That couldn’t have been their first meeting. They must have seen each other prior to that. Doesn’t she go to communion every day?”

“I don’t think he ever noticed her. It’s one thing to see someone on the outside, and another to see a postulant in her veils as you’re giving communion to a line of nuns who come up to an opening in the enclosure grille. And during confession, there’s a screen between the priest and the penitent.” She took a deep breath, then continued. “Think about this, Tom. It doesn’t add up. Why would Celia have tried to make Father Anselm sick? It would have served no purpose. Father wouldn’t have broken the seal of the confessional no matter what Celia had told him in the past.”

“But we only have her word that everything that passed between them was under the seal of the confessional. Father Anselm isn’t in a position to contradict anything.”

John Bruno held up one hand. “All you’ve got is speculation. The monastery has done all you asked. That’s enough for one day.”

“There is one more thing I need to tell you,” Sister Agatha added before the lawyer could usher Tom out of the building. “I didn’t think it was important at the time it happened. But now, under the circumstances, I believe it may be. I remembered it while you were questioning Celia,” Sister Agatha said. “I think you should hear this, too, Mr. Bruno.”

The lawyer shrugged. “All right. One more thing.”

“With everything that happened since Father Anselm died, this had slipped my mind. But I realize now that it could have been connected directly to the person who harmed Father.” She proceeded to tell Sheriff Green about the note in the turn, the one that had suggested someone was about to be hurt.

“Where’s that note now?”

“It was thrown away after the requested prayers were offered the night of the murder. But it came through the turn, which means that someone on the outside left it there. This may be linked to the intruder we suspect caused Father’s death.”

“Tell me what you remember about the note, and give me the wording exactly as you remember it.” Green brought out his notebook, and she complied as well as she could.

“This may or may not help the case against the postulant. Unless we can track the note back to the author, and find a new motive for the crime, nothing has changed,” he warned.

“Except it raises doubts about the direction your investigation is going in,” Sister Agatha answered. “The postulant isn’t permitted in the outer parlor.”

Sheriff Green shrugged, reaching for the doorknob. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

John Bruno waited until the sheriff left. “You handled him well, Sister, and that piece of new information about the note may help muddy his trail of evidence, too. But be careful. He’s got the reputation for being like a pit bull when he’s on a case. He’ll play with your head.”

“Maybe, but it’s hard to confuse someone who’s telling the truth. That’s our best defense.”

He smiled. “And it’s a good one.” He paused. “But your postulant does have some secrets she’s not telling, Sister. I’ve been practicing law for too many years not to know when someone is holding things back.”

“I’m certain that it’s nothing that will implicate our postulant in Father Anselm’s murder. But I’ll find out what’s going on. Or, if I can’t, Reverend Mother will. You can count on it.”

Sister Agatha let John Bruno out, then went directly to Reverend Mother. After telling her what had happened, including the information about the note in the turn, the abbess went with Sister Agatha to join Sister Bernarda, who was waiting in the hall outside the chapel.

“The cells need to be straightened up,” Sister Agatha reported.

“The same holds for the kitchen and the infirmary. The provisory,” Sister Bernarda said, using the nuns’ term for the pantry, “is in the worst shape of all. Food is everywhere. Sister Clothilde will have a fit when she sees it.”

She was about to suggest that they gather Celia and Sister Mary Lazarus and try to make things better before the nuns returned from chapel, but a soft murmur beginning to rise from the corridor told her it was already too late.

Here, that murmur was the equivalent of a roar. Silence soon settled over them again as Reverend Mother signaled they could leave chapel. Without saying another word, the nuns formed teams and began to work quickly to restore order to their house.

With the exception of stopping for the Liturgy of the Hours, they worked tirelessly. By the time the period for Manual Labor was over the monastery showed no evidence of the sheriff’s visit.

Knowing that all of them needed to connect with the One they served now, both Sister Bernarda and Sister Agatha locked the parlor doors and attended Vespers. This time would be set aside for the sisters, their monastery, and God.

Afterward, strengthened, the nuns took up their routine tasks, trying to set the earlier confusion aside once and for all. Sister Agatha looked around for Reverend Mother and found her outside, rosary in hand, Pax by her side.

The dog had adopted all of them now, and he seemed to be acquiring the ability to find those who needed his company the most.

“Praised be Jesus Christ, Mother,” Sister Agatha said as she approached.

“Now and forever.”

“Mother, I’d like your permission to visit Ruth Moore, Celia’s mother. It’s clear that Celia is holding something back that concerns her past life, something that is deeply disturbing to her. I don’t think that it’s anything to do with Father’s death, but I’d still like to know what it is. And Mr. Bruno feels it’s important as well. I think the time’s come for me to go and speak to Ruth directly.”

“Godspeed, then. But take Pax, child. Celia’s home, I was told by Celia herself, is in an unsavory part of town.”

“I’ll do that, Reverend Mother.”

Without waiting for Sister Agatha to call him, Pax stood and went over to her. He then followed her, staying close beside her, as she walked down the path that led to where the Harley was parked.

I
t was after six when Sister Agatha set out with Pax in the sidecar. She hadn’t seen Ruth since high school. Back then, the world had seemed filled with infinite possibilities for both of them.

As Sister Agatha rounded a bend in the highway, heading south toward town, she caught a glimpse of a large black pickup approaching at high speed from behind her. An uneasy feeling began to creep up her spine. She slowed slightly, and the big Ford truck roared around, cutting close in front of her. Dropping her speed to avoid a collision, she tried to get a look to the driver of the truck, but all she saw was the headrest. The license plate was missing.

Thinking it was most likely a youngster who’d been drinking, she kept a careful watch as she continued into town.

About two miles farther along, she noticed a black truck, probably the same one as before, coming in her direction. Fear touched the edges of her mind, and she automatically slowed down, looking for a possible turnoff and wondering what would happen next.

A few seconds later, the truck moved to the center of the road, taking half of her lane. It was coming right at her. “Hang on, Pax!” Sister Agatha braked hard, pulling over as far as she dared onto the shoulder and scanning the terrain in case she had to leave the road completely.

The truck roared toward her. At the last second, the driver leaned on the horn and swerved back into the proper lane. There was no chance this time for her to even try to get a look at the driver.

“We’re getting out of here,” she yelled to Pax, and eased the Harley back onto the highway. The bike and sidecar seemed all right, despite the jolts of their ride on the unpaved shoulder, so she twisted the throttle and brought the speed up to sixty, sneaking glance after glance in the rearview mirror. Soon the truck was just a black dot in the distance.

Had she just faced a drunk kid out to harass a motorcyclist, the unnamed man who had hoped to get the Harley in payment of a debt, or Father’s killer? If it had been an attempt to unnerve her by the person who’d been promised the motorcycle, it had worked.

“Pax, you’re sticking with me like glue from now on whenever I leave the monastery. I don’t like what’s happening out here.” Her hands were shaking and her body felt cold, though it was still very hot outside.

Switching directions at the last minute, she headed into the center of town, deciding to stop by the sheriff’s office next. He needed to know what had just happened. With luck, she’d be able to convince him not to tell Reverend Mother and worry her. As she pulled into the parking lot, she saw him and his wife standing near the giant Dumpsters at the back. From their expressions it was easy to see they were having a fight.

She hesitated, wondering if she should make her report now, or wait. As she watched, Gloria raised her fist, but he intercepted her hand quickly and forced it back down. The side door opened then, and as a deputy came out, Gloria stalked off through the hedge that separated the station from the neighboring residential area.

Tom glanced around, a scowl on his face, and suddenly saw her.

She had no choice now. As he approached, she set out to meet him halfway. “We have to talk. Do you have a moment?” she asked.

As he led her to his office, he remained silent. Stealing furtive glances at him, she weighed the implications of what she’d seen, and began to suspect that the bruise on his face had been one Gloria had given him. The purplish mark was still there, though fainter now.

“Is everything all right between you?” she asked softly.

He shrugged. “Gloria’s got a temper, that’s all.”

“Did she hit you?”

He glanced at her coldly. “You mean this?” he asked, pointing to the bruised area below his eye. “Nah. We were horsing around that day, that’s all. But let’s not get into that. I’ve taken enough ribbing from the men here.”

He never looked her in the eye, and she suspected he was lying. The bruise hadn’t been the result of an accident. But she had to respect his privacy.

He waved her to the chair across from his desk. “What’s up?”

She told him about the black truck and saw his expression grow hard and guarded. “Did you see the driver, or the license plate?”

“No, but I thought I’d better tell you about it. I wondered if it could be the man that Bobby Gonzales owed money to,” she said, then filled him in. “I wish I had a name to give you. I sure don’t like the idea of someone preying on kids around here.”

“You did the right thing telling me. I’ll look into it.”

“Be careful how you go about it. Timothy is a good kid. He doesn’t need the backlash.”

He smiled. “Looking out for the underdog? That was always your style.”

“He needs it. He’s a good kid.”

She stood and he walked her to the door. “I suppose Joan Sanchez is in the clear?”

“Not in the clear, no, but my chief suspect is Celia.”

She nodded once. “Well, I better get going.”

“Be careful. And if you see that black pickup again, call me as soon as possible. And try to see if it’s got any distinguishing marks.”

“I’ll give it my best shot.” Leaving him to his business, she went back to the Harley with Pax.

As she set out, she took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on her meeting with Ruth. She remembered her as a girl whose main career goal had been to marry the high school football star and have a bunch of kids. But from what she’d heard from the town gossips over the years, that dream had gone awry.

As she drew near to the house, Sister Agatha realized that the neighborhood was even rougher than she’d remembered. A car full of young men was parked beside the curb, and two of them, in identical color headbands, were leaning out the street-side car windows, drinking beer and yelling back and forth at two girls on a porch. She hadn’t heard language that rough in years.

Graffiti covered the neighborhood walls, and an abandoned brick building on the corner, cordoned off by yellow crime-scene tape, had all its windows broken out or covered by pieces of warped plywood. In the alley, just beyond the police tape, an old man in a heavy coat was pushing a grocery cart that apparently contained all his worldly possessions. This section of town now held the unmistakable stamp of poverty and despair.

Sister Agatha drove slowly up a narrow residential street, maneuvering carefully to avoid running over pieces of broken beer bottles on the pavement. There, at the end of the cul-de-sac, was a shabby one-story, flat-roofed adobe house. Several individual adobe bricks visible on one wall told her the building needed work, but in that respect it was no different from any other house on that block.

Ruth’s home bore little resemblance to the same house she’d remembered visiting at the time of Celia’s birth. The dwelling had been well maintained and landscaped back then, with flower boxes filled with geraniums, and wildflowers bordering the brick walkway from the gate to the door.

Now the archway that held the gate was gone, as well as most of the low adobe wall around the property. What was left was crumbling and blanketed with graffiti. Near the side of the house she could see a vegetable garden, and that was the only section of the grounds that appeared well tended.

“Come on, Pax. Stick with me.” The truth was, she needed courage. It had been a shock to see how much things here had deteriorated, and she had a feeling that she’d have more unpleasant surprises before this visit was over.

Sister Agatha knocked on the door, and soon a woman came to answer. She was wearing a loose blue cotton knit top, a long, baggy, shapeless red skirt, and worn house slippers. It was a colorful outfit, but even less flattering than a nun’s habit.

“Mary … Sister Agatha, is that you?”

Sister Agatha took a closer look at the woman’s face then. It took her a few seconds before she realized that this was her old friend. Age had hardened Ruth’s features beyond her true years, and her eyes were haunted as if she’d seen too much. She wore no makeup. Her face was pale, and the dark hair that framed it had been dyed a ghastly red-brown. She looked as lifeless as a store mannequin, but not as well dressed.

“Hello, Ruth,” she greeted her, trying to sound upbeat.

“What brings you here? Don’t tell me my kid is giving
you
a problem now!” she said, gesturing for Sister to come inside. There had once been a screen door, apparently, but all that remained was the bare wood and scars where the hinges had been removed. Noticing Pax for the first time, Ruth suddenly froze. “Whoa. That’s a big dog.”

“He’s a teddy bear, really. His name is Pax, and he’s the monastery’s new unofficial guardian.”

Ruth smiled, stepping aside to let Sister and Pax enter, then closing the door behind them. “Well, if you vouch for him, he’s welcome inside and out of this heat, too.” She led the way into the living room. A large fan stood on an end table, moving back and forth to stir the hot, stale air.

Sister Agatha followed Ruth into the kitchen. The interior of the house was encased in a gray gloom, but the house was neat and orderly. The only light besides that filtering around the edges of the dark, faded curtains came from dozens of votive candles that flickered atop a metal TV tray behind a two-foot-tall statue of the Blessed Virgin that dominated one corner of the living room. Ruth had never been particularly religious, so seeing that statue and the candles took Sister Agatha by surprise.

“Do you have a special intention you’re praying for?” she asked, then instantly chided herself.
Smooth, Sister.

“It’s for protection. A woman and her daughter living alone in this neighborhood need all the help they can get.”

“Whatever happened to Jerry? Does he ever come around anymore?” she asked, referring to Celia Clines’s dad. Celia seldom, if ever, spoke about her parents. Now she was starting to realize why.

“He left me when Celia turned eight. He just went out for cigarettes one day and never came back. That wasn’t an easy time for any of us.”

She remembered Jerry Clines, the high school star quarterback. He and Ruth had been madly in love. She remembered their wedding and the high hopes they’d shared for their future. But, from what she’d heard, they’d never left town to follow their dreams.

“So how’s Celia doing? That girl was such a wild one when she was at home. But maybe now that she’s changed her ways and joined the monastery, the Lord will save her from eternal damnation.”

“Celia is very devout,” Sister Agatha said cautiously.

Hearing a rock station playing softly from another room, Ruth bolted to her feet. “Wait a sec.” She hurried down the hall, then threw open one of the doors on her right. “You turn that noise off right now, Betsy. I don’t allow the devil’s music in this house and you know it. If you want to keep that radio, you’ll listen to the stations I select. Is that clear?”

“Mom, I was just changing—”

“I’m not interested in excuses. And why haven’t you cleaned this room yet? Laziness is the first symptom of wickedness, young lady. Now get to work.”

“Mom, I already cleaned my room!”

‘There’s dust on the windowsill. I can see it from here. After you’re finished, I want you to memorize Psalm Fifty. The psalm of contrition will do you a world of good. When you’re ready, come out of your room and recite it for me.”

“Mom, I can’t! Not now. I have to meet Michelle at the library.”

“You’re not going anywhere. I know what you’re up to. You’ll tell me you’re going to the library and end up in the backseat of some boy’s car. You might as well forget it. It’s not going to happen, Betsy.”

Ruth returned to the kitchen a moment later. “Sorry about that. Betsy is at an age where I’ve got to watch her every second. She’s fourteen and already boys are calling her here at home. I put a stop to it, of course, but I can tell she’s going to be a slut, just like …” Her voice trailed off and she looked away.

“It’s normal for her to have friends, Ruth. We did.” She’d heard Ruth’s conversation with her daughter, and the entire exchange had left her stunned. The Ruth she’d known once had never been like that. “You and I were famous schoolwide for not letting rules get in the way of fun, remember?” she added with a tiny smile.

For a moment she saw a flicker of life in Ruth’s eyes and the woman nearly smiled. But then, in a heartbeat, her somber expression returned.

“Life can be very hard, Sister. You work, you dream, then you get your heart broken. Neither one of my daughters is going to go down the same path I did. I want them both to be God-fearing, moral children. God only protects those who turn to Him wholeheartedly.”

“I agree, Ruth,” she said softly. “But the key is balance. Kids need time to be kids, too.”

“You’re in that monastery now. You have no idea what temptations kids face these days. I won’t have Betsy become an abomination unto the Lord.”

Sister Agatha stared at Ruth, trying hard to understand what had happened to the young carefree girl she’d known once. “It must have been very hard on you to raise your girls alone.”

“The hardest time of my life came when Jerry left me. He was the one great love of my life,” she said softly, then continued. “At first I didn’t know what had happened, if he was hurt or dead. But no one fitting his description showed up in crime reports or at the hospitals, and I found out when the bills came in that he’d cashed a check for exactly half the money we had in the bank.”

“I’m so sorry. That must have been a shock.”

“It was. Eventually, I figured out why he’d left me. When there’s never enough money to make the bills month after month, it wears a soul down. And, truth be told, no matter how hard we worked, we never had enough money to make ends meet. Things fell apart a little at a time, but we didn’t even realize it until it was too late.” She paused, her voice strained. “A year later, I was contacted by the police. He’d been in a convenience store when it got robbed. He got shot. He died before he could even say good-bye to his kid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But you did a wonderful job raising Celia. She’s going to be a real asset to the order.”

Ruth smiled wearily. “It was sure an uphill battle, believe me. Did you know that when she was just twelve—two years younger than Betsy—she tried to commit suicide by taking an overdose of herbs I kept in my pantry?”