Bad Faith (18 page)

“Herbs?” Sister Agatha repeated, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“I was married to Mike Moore back then, and although he had a good job, the company he worked for was small and didn’t offer benefits. We had no medical insurance, so I learned to depend on herbal medicine like a lot of the folks in the Spanish community.”

Ruth gazed at an indeterminate spot across the room, a faraway look on her face. “I remember making hyssop tea for my girls, to keep them pure, you know? I’d read a psalm that said, ‘Purge me with hyssop and I shall be clean.’ I also found out that the herb had been used to cleanse the temples during biblical times, so I started keeping crushed leaves and flower tops in little containers all through the house. It made things smell nicer.”

“You were saying something about Celia trying to commit suicide?”

“Oh—yes. She was such a moody child back then—clinical depression is what the doctors called it. They blamed her problems on the fact I’d married Mike and Celia didn’t accept him, but I don’t know. I think Celia was at that age—becoming a teenager.”

“What happened?” Sister Agatha pressed. Obviously, Ruth was hoping to sidestep the whole matter, but Sister Agatha had no intention of letting it go.

“I’d kept pennyroyal on hand back then—some of the herb and a small amount of the oil. The herb can be used as a decongestant and a cough remedy. The oil, though, is trickier—two tablespoons can cause death. The only reason I’d kept it around was because it was a great insect repellent. You could add just a little to regular skin cream and not have a mosquito or a fly bother you all day. I’d cautioned Celia never to touch it. If she wanted to use it, she was to come to me. But one day while I was out, she went into one of her dark moods and tried to kill herself by drinking some of the oil.”

“Were you the one who found her?”

Ruth nodded. “I took her to the university hospital in Albuquerque the second I found her. They saved her life, but they told me she needed psychiatric help or she’d try again. With the help of some people from the welfare office, they arranged to have Celia spend time at Nazareth Hospital in Albuquerque.” Ruth rubbed her temples as if pained by the memory of that trying time.

Taking a deep breath, she looked up and continued in a more positive tone of voice. “But those days are behind her now. She got the help she needed and that’s all that matters. Of course, I never told anyone around here
where
she was. I just let them think that Celia had gone to spend some time with my sister in California.”

“I’m so sorry you had to go through all that. I wish you’d have written me. I was living in Albuquerque then, but that’s still close. I might have been able to do something to help you.”

She shook her head. “There was nothing you could have done. Even Mike gave up on all of us after that,” she said sadly. “But I prayed about it day and night, and now my Celia is going to become a cloistered nun in a mcmastery where she’ll always be protected from the evils of the world.”

Sister Agatha wasn’t sure what to say about that. Obviously evil touched everything—including their monastery. But rather than arguing the point, she decided to stay on her investigative course. “Tell me, which herbs do you keep these days?”

“A little of everything. Is there something you need?”

“What can you tell me about monkshood?”

“Not much, except that the local gossips say it was used to kill Father Anselm. Personally, I’ve never used it, or heard of anyone who does. I’m told it can be used for reducing fever, and as a topical anesthetic, but it’s highly dangerous.”

“The plant is supposed to have beautiful, distinctive blue or white flowers, and people often mistake the root for a radish.”

“There’s no danger of that in this family. I hate radishes, and I always have.”

A long silence stretched out between them. Then there was a soft sound, like muted footsteps in the living room. Pax, who had curled up by Sister Agatha’s feet, lifted his head.

Suddenly Ruth bolted out of her chair so fast that Sister Agatha followed, worried that something terrible must have happened.

They found Betsy by the front door. She was wearing tight jeans and a tube top that exposed her middle. Her lipstick was dark red, almost black, and her eyelids thick with poorly applied makeup.

For a moment Ruth just stared, her face crimson. “You harlot! Get into the bathroom and clean off that paint. How dare you try to sneak past me, especially dressed like that!” She grabbed Betsy by the arm, pulled her into the bathroom, and shoved her inside.

Sister Agatha held Pax firmly by the collar. She could tell he was nervous at Ruth’s rough handling of the girl, and she wasn’t sure what he might do. Taking him outside, she ordered him to stay on the porch, then went back inside.

As she did, she heard Ruth’s voice coming from down the hall. “Wash your face, then put on some decent clothes. Then I want you on your knees while you memorize that psalm I gave you. You are
not
to leave this room until you’ve done that.” She shut and locked the door from the outside.

Sister Agatha heard Betsy sobbing, and felt a cold chill go up her spine.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ruth snarled. “Do you want her pregnant like I was, not even out of high school? I won’t let her ruin her life like I did. She
will
glorify God, not dishonor him.”

“She shouldn’t have tried to sneak out, I agree, especially dressed like that. But if you want her to turn to God, don’t use Him as a weapon to punish her,” she said, trying to reason with her.

“You’re not a mother, and you don’t have a child to raise. You can’t possibly know what I go through. Stick to what you do, Sister, and I’ll do the same. If you really want to help, pray for Betsy’s soul. She’s going down the road to perdition as surely as there’s a sunset at the end of each day.”

When Sister Agatha left Ruth’s home, she felt more troubled than ever. Celia had undoubtedly wanted to keep her suicide attempt a secret. But Sister still didn’t know for sure if that was the secret Celia and Father Anselm had shared—the one Celia seemed determined to hide. She thought of the herb Celia had used… pennyroyal. The very mention of that herb had disturbed her, but she couldn’t figure out why.

Stroking Pax’s massive head, she stood next to the motorcycle, trying to decide what to do next The bookmobile wouldn’t be much help, even if she were lucky enough to catch it in town. That’s when she remembered the extensive library in the rectory. Father Anselm had made it a point to collect books on almost every subject, usually getting them at low cost at garage sales or estate sales.

She’d pay Father Mahoney an unscheduled visit. Maybe he’d let her take a look through the books there and see if she could find out more about pennyroyal.

When she and Pax arrived at the rectory a short time later, Frances answered the door and invited them in. “I’ve been hearing about you two all over town!” she said, leaning down to pet Pax. “He’s a beauty, isn’t he, and so big.”

The dog wagged his tail happily.

“Pax, vanity is a sin,” Sister Agatha said in mock reproach. She laughed when the dog gave her one of his happy panting grins.

Hearing their conversation, Father Mahoney came out of a nearby room. “The famous Sister Agatha and Brother Pax!” he said. “It’s a pleasure to see you here. I hope that all is well with the sisters.”

“Father Mahoney,” she greeted, and shook hands with him.

“Father Rick, please. It’s less formal, and I prefer it.”

“Father Rick, then. We’re all fine, thank you, and relieved to have a chaplain again.”

Father Rick was wearing shorts and a T-shirt and looked as if he’d been in the middle of a workout. The priest had more muscles than any other human being she’d ever seen. She thought he could probably bench-press a Buick without raising a sweat.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Sister. Had I known you were coming by I would have postponed my weight training. I may not be a wrestler anymore, but I’ve found that staying fit makes it easier to keep up with the demands of God’s work. Now tell me, Sister, what can I do for you?”

“I hoped to look something up in the library here. Would you mind?”

“Not at all. Come in.” He led her to the book-lined study.

Sister Agatha looked quickly through the well-organized collection and soon located a large volume on folk medicine.

“Are you looking for information about the herb that killed Father Anselm?”

Sister Agatha paused. “No, right now I’m investigating what may be a related matter. Since it may not be connected, I’d rather not discuss it yet, but Reverend Mother asked me to follow all the leads that presented themselves. The sheriff, you see, believes one of the sisters is somehow involved in Father’s death, and that’s making things very difficult for all of us. He even wanted to haul our postulant to the station for questioning.”

Father shook his head. “I really wish there was more I could do for you all.”

“You’re our chaplain. Your support and prayers are more than enough.” She lifted down two smaller books on herbs and carried them to the sofa. “I’ll get out of your way as soon as I can.”

‘Take your time. I’ll go back to my workout. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

Alone, Sister searched through the books. Since so many rural communities in New Mexico used herbal remedies, Father Anselm had collected several books on the subject. He’d told her once that he considered it his business to learn the practices and customs of his parishioners.

There was no mention of pennyroyal in the smaller books, but as she opened the large one and checked the index, she found it. Four pages described the herb and detailed its uses. Suddenly she knew why she’d felt so disturbed by Ruth’s mention of the herb.

Throughout history, pennyroyal oil had been used with disastrous results by young women who’d wanted abortions. She remembered an incident many years back when she’d been a professor. One of her freshman students had bought the oil extract at a shop in the city and used it to terminate her pregnancy. The very toxic preparation had resulted in her death as well as that of the child she’d carried.

Had Celia’s suicide attempt been something more than the result of depression? If what she now suspected was true, she could understand why the postulant had been so afraid that she’d be asked to leave the monastery.

Frances came in with a glass of iced tea. “Here. I thought you could use this. I’ve got Pax in the kitchen eating dog biscuits. Well, old cookies I was going to throw out.”

Sister Agatha smiled and thanked her on behalf of both of them.

As Frances glanced down at the book, she added, “Are you trying to find out more about Celia?”

“Just seeing this page made you think of her?” Sister asked.

Frances sighed. “You know, I’ve lived here all my life, and in a town this size, it’s darned near impossible to keep a secret. I remember hearing all about her so-called suicide attempt years and years ago. Then Celia was sent away. There was a lot of talk going around then. Celia didn’t return for almost a year and a half, but while she was still away, Ruth showed up in town with an infant girl—her adopted daughter, Betsy.”

“I bet that caused a stir.”

“There was a lot of talk. At first some thought that maybe she’d finally flipped and kidnapped a child because she was lonely. Mike Moore had left her by then and she had no one. Others thought that maybe it was Celia’s baby and Ruth had adopted it. In those days it wasn’t at all uncommon for unmarried, pregnant teens to leave town to have their babies. It saved embarrassing their families.”

“And I suppose Ruth never tried to clear things up?”

“She hardly spoke to anyone. But Sheriff Salazar checked things out, and the baby’s adoption papers were in order. Later, Ruth told people that her sister had been overwhelmed by the birth of her sixth child, and had asked her to adopt Betsy. That kind of private arrangement was the only way anyone figured Ruth could have qualified as an adoptive parent.” She shrugged, then added, “But I don’t think Betsy knows that Ruth isn’t her natural mother, so keep it to yourself.”

“Sheriff Salazar moved away years ago, didn’t he?”

“Yes. A lot of people miss his old-fashioned style of law-enforcement. He kept the town clean.”

“He was one tough cookie. I remember him from when I was growing up here.”

She smiled. “People used to say that if a rattlesnake ever bit him, the rattlesnake would die. He was mean, all right, but only to those who broke the law.” Hearing the phone ring, the housekeeper left to answer it.

A few minutes later, Pax padded into the room. “You must have ESP, Pax. It’s time for us to go,” she said, replacing the books she’d used back on the shelf. “I’ve got more information than I ever expected to get—and no idea what to do with all of it.”

If Betsy was fourteen now and Celia had only just turned twenty-seven, Sister Agatha knew that the chances were good that Betsy was Celia’s child. The theory fit on many levels, but she still had no solid evidence, and conjecture alone wasn’t enough to warrant turning Celia’s and Betsy’s lives upside down.

After saying good-bye, Sister Agatha headed back to the monastery. The gravel road ahead of her was deserted, but she could see headlights behind her. A shudder ran up her spine. Even thinking of the big black pickup that had forced her off the road made her heart begin to race.

Soon the road around her became dark as pitch. She went slowly, realizing that on a moonless night she’d never be able to see the ruts in the gravel road well enough to steer clear of them.

She saw the flicker of lights in her rearview mirror, but if someone was tailing her, they weren’t making any effort to close in on her this time. On the other hand, if they were coming this way on purpose, she’d soon learn who it was, because the road led to few other places besides the monastery.

Checking back again a few moments later, she saw only red taillights. The vehicle had turned around. The next time she looked, they had disappeared.

By the time she returned home, Compline had been chanted, and the monastery was shrouded in silence. Sister Agatha went to the scriptorium and worked for a long while beside Sister Bernarda. Though neither of them broke the Great Silence, the look exchanged between them told Sister Agatha that Sister Bernarda knew that something was troubling her. It was often that way between the Sisters. They knew each other too well to hide what they were feeling. When one sister was having a problem, all tried to share her heaviness of spirit so the burden would be easier to shoulder.