Bad Faith (21 page)

Today had sure turned out differently from what she’d planned. On the other hand, she knew more now than she had before. Tonight she’d call Suzi and arrange to meet her. Tomorrow, she’d visit Nazareth Hospital. With a little bit of luck, by the time she left there, she’d have more of the answers that had eluded her so far.

T
he bells rang shortly after daybreak signaling the start of Lauds. Sister Agatha, who’d already been up more than an hour, joined the others in chapel. Chanting the Divine Office during the predawn hours, then at daybreak, was something she looked forward to each day. With her daily excursions outside the monastery, she needed the strength and focus it gave her more than ever now.

Seeing Tom Green so often these days was confusing. Apparently not all the feelings she’d had for him once had died. She’d thought they had—if they’d ever really existed at all. But now things just weren’t as clear, and it wasn’t just the stress they were all going through.

Sister Agatha worked in the scriptorium until after Terce trying to catch up on the work that needed to be done. As the bells rang, Sister Agatha stood and went to their weekly chapter of faults. The birth of St. John the Baptist would be celebrated soon, and the sisters were asked to pray for his blessing on them and for his help. Bowing until their foreheads touched the floor, each nun accused herself of her failings before Reverend Mother and the others.

When Sister Agatha’s turn came, she knelt before the abbess and followed the example the others had set. “At times, I get so angry, Mother! I want the ones on the outside to understand what we do here—and, more, to
value
it. But they seldom do and then I find myself resenting them.”

“You must try to be more patient, child,” Reverend Mother answered. “You and Sister Bernarda carry a great burden because you’re the face and the voice of this monastery to the community. Anger plays no part in your service to God. This week I want your prayers to focus on those who have lost their way, who may need a patient word or a kind gesture to remind them that their souls are precious to God.”

“Yes, Mother.” Sister Agatha retreated. The chapter of faults could be difficult, but it always left the sisters feeling renewed. It was like receiving a much-needed compass heading that never failed to get them back on the right course.

After the other nuns left to fulfill their duties, she met with Reverend Mother. Thankfully, her duties as novice mistress had been reassigned to Sister Eugenia, who was doing a wonderful job.

“Mother, I have to go to Albuquerque,” Sister Agatha said, and explained everything she’d learned about Celia so far and about the arrangement she’d made to meet her friend at Nazareth Hospital.

“You may go, of course, if it’s necessary. But please take the car. I won’t worry nearly as much. I’d like you to stay low profile after yesterday’s incident. And I’m extremely concerned about you being followed.”

“Mother, I wasn’t being threatened. Whoever they were
always
kept their distance—well, except for that time with the black pickup. But the sheriff told me Mr. Malcolm owns a truck of that color and strongly suspects it was him. Now that he’s in jail, he poses no danger to anyone. The person in the sedan, on the other hand, is probably just a reporter. That’s Sheriff Green’s theory and I agree.” She decided not to mention the other alternatives the sheriff had suggested.

“I want you to take the station wagon, drive where there are plenty of other vehicles around, and be extremely careful in Albuquerque today, child. Also, take Pax with you.”

“All right, Mother.”

“You’ll come straight back as soon as you’re finished at Nazareth?”

“I’d like to leave that open-ended, Mother. Depending on what leads I uncover, I may want to follow them up right away.”

“All right, but report back to me as soon as possible. I’m going to delay speaking to Celia until after I’ve heard from you. And, child, be
very
careful.”

Sister stopped by the scriptorium and saw Sister Bernarda working along with Celia and Mary Lazarus.

“Sister Bernarda, I’ll need you to cover portress duty for me again today,” she said.

Sister nodded. “Sister Gertrude will be keeping regular hours in the scriptorium so I don’t need to do double duty there and in the parlor. Sister Eugenia is now doing a wonderful job with the postulant’s and the novice’s instruction. And Sister Maria Victoria tells us that the work on the quilt is nearly done. Somehow, it’s all working out”

“Praised be Jesus Christ!”

“Now and forever.” Sister Bernarda took her away from the others, then in a hushed voice asked, “Are you any closer to finding out who killed Father Anselm?”

“I’m making progress, but for every answer I uncover, I get three new questions. Once the answers catch up to all the questions, I’ll have the solution.”

“May the Lord bless your work this morning, Sister.”

“God reward you, Your Charity, for all you’ve done for us,” Sister Agatha said, meaning every word.

As she walked out with Pax to the station wagon, she glanced back. Despite the high walls, the monastery itself was just a building. It was the strength of the sisters who lived there that made it a fortress.

The Nazareth Hospital psychiatric facility in Albuquerque was less than an hour’s drive away. Driving the Antichrysler in the heat, without air-conditioning, and at the slow speed that was all the vehicle was capable of, was an exercise in patience. The car chugged along at forty-five miles per hour, making enough engine noise to wake the dead. But at least the muffler was no longer trumpeting like Joshua.

Pax was standing beside her, his head hanging out the window, enjoying the wind on his face. She probably should have told him to sit but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. If she could have, she would have stuck her own head out the window—anything for some air!

Before she’d even reached the city limits, she saw flashing lights behind her, and she pulled over. Sheriff Green came out of his unit and walked toward her.

‘What’s this? Skipping town?” he said, half jokingly.

“I’ve got to go to Albuquerque on behalf of the monastery,” she answered, not ready to tip her hand just yet. “Have you managed to turn up anything new on Father’s murder?” Even saying the word “murder” left a bad taste in her mouth, but she looked at him steadily and waited for an answer.

“My background check on Ruth Moore revealed that she has an extensive knowledge of herbs. Celia probably picked up a lot of information from her. Was that the lead you’re not ready to talk to me about?”

“There are many people in the area who make use of herbal remedies,” Sister Agatha answered, avoiding the question. “I really wish I could convince you that Celia’s not the killer. Every instinct I have tells me that we should keep looking.”

“That’s loyalty—an admirable trait, but it can really get you hung up during an investigation. Also, at the risk of sounding like a macho jerk, I have to say again that poison
is
a woman’s weapon.”

“You’re right. That makes you sound like a macho jerk,” she said with a wry grin. “But come to think of it—”

“Only you can get away with saying something like that. Just so you know.”

“We’re on the same side, Tom, believe me.” As she glanced over his shoulder, she noticed a light-colored sedan parked off the side of the road about two hundred yards back.

“We have the same goal, but we’re working from opposite sides of the fence because your own bias blinds you.” He frowned, noticing she was distracted.

“The one thing you have to understand is this,” she said, looking directly at him. “I would no more shield a killer than I would stop being a nun.” As she looked away from him, she saw the vehicle was still there, a driver at the wheel.

He turned his head to follow the direction of her gaze. “What are you looking at?”

“The sedan sitting by the road. It reminds me of the one that was following Pax and me yesterday. Did you notice it behind you earlier?”

“No, I was trying to catch up to you. But I’ll go back and see who it is.”

“Too late. It’s already turning around and heading back toward Bernalillo.” She could see it had New Mexico license plates, but could not make out the code.

“I’m gone. Later.” He ran back to his unit. His tires squealed as he swung the vehicle around and, sirens on, roared off in pursuit.

Sister Agatha returned to the Antichrysler. Don Malcolm was in jail, so that ruled him out. As she thought about what had just happened, she wondered if perhaps this time, the person had been following the sheriff, not her. She was almost sure she would have noticed the sedan earlier if it had been tailing her.

She tried to figure things out. If the sedan had followed the sheriff and her on separate occasions, then it seemed likely that the person in the sedan was a reporter, as Tom had suggested.

Satisfied with that explanation for now, she continued on her way. She stayed on the slowest route to Albuquerque, taking Highway 313, passing through Alameda rather than using the interstate. She wasn’t stalling—the Antichrysler was. Whenever it went above forty-five miles an hour it screamed as if in pain. She tried to push it to fifty, wondering if the screamlike noise would go away on its own. But then Pax began to howl, so Sister Agatha had to resign herself to traveling at a snail’s pace.

When they arrived at the hospital, Sister Agatha parked in the back of the large facility. Leaving Pax in the shade of a large cluster of pines outside the main entrance, she patted him on the head. “You behave and relax. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said, leaving the leash tied loosely around the rear door handle.

As arranged, Sister Agatha walked to the lobby, and asked for Suzi at the desk. Minutes later, she was directed to Suzi’s office in a rear section of the facility.

Suzi, a middle-aged black woman with salt-and-pepper hair sat at her desk filling out some forms. Hearing footsteps, she looked up and smiled broadly. “Well, hi, stranger! It’s good to see you again.”

Sister Agatha’s gaze fixed on the far wall. There in beautiful calligraphy was a quote from Ephesians. Live a Life Worthy of the Calling to Which You Have Been Called. She smiled. “That’s one of my favorite quotes, too.”

“It helps keep me focused, particularly on days when things aren’t going well.” She leaned back and regarded Sister Agatha thoughtfully. “So what brings you here?”

“I’m trying to track down some information on a former patient.”

Suzi’s expression turned somber. “That’s going to be next to impossible. We have to respect confidentiality, for the patients and their relatives.”

“What I want is less official—not necessarily something found in patient files.” She paused, took a deep breath, and continued. “It involves our newest postulant—Celia Clines. It’s absolutely crucial that we learn more about her. She’s going through a crisis now, and we just need to understand her a little better so we can help. We’ve learned she was here about thirteen, maybe fourteen years ago. She would have been about that same age, too, at the time.”

“I was here back then, but that name just doesn’t ring a bell. Can you tell me a little more about her?”

“She came here after she apparently tried to commit suicide using a dangerous herb. She may have been pregnant at the time, too.”

Suzi’s expression gentled as memories crowded into her mind. “I remember a young teenager who was here in that situation around then. But her name wasn’t Celia “ She focused on an indeterminate object across the room, lost in thought.

Sister Agatha remembered the name Father Anselm had called Celia. Playing a hunch, she asked, “Was it Annie?”

Looking surprised, Suzi nodded. “That was it,” she said.

“Did Father Anselm work here at that time too?”

“Oh, sure. He was our chaplain back then. He came in three times a week. He was really good with the kids, too. He tried to become a friend to the ones who seemed to have no family to depend on. If memory serves, I think he had a special rapport with that girl Annie. But, I should tell you, Annie never admitted she’d been trying to kill herself. In fact, she emphatically denied it, which surprised Father and me. People who attempt suicide generally don’t bother to deny it, either because they’re crying out for help or they really do want to be dead.”

“Then you think it was just an accident?”

“No, not at all. Father and I asked her that same question repeatedly, but we never got a straight answer from her, which made us even more suspicious. I, personally, had the feeling that Annie’s mother had given her something to make her abort the child, miscalculated the dosage, and nearly killed her daughter by mistake. Her mother was one of those quacks—a self-trained herbalist with a remedy for everything.”

“Do you happen to remember Annie’s last name?”

“I never knew it—and neither did Father. Our policy is to safeguard the identities of all our underage patients. We know them only by their first names, or sometimes just a nickname. Last names aren’t even listed on their charts—just code designations. Even if I were to access our computer records, I still couldn’t get information on a specific patient based on name alone. Everything is encrypted.”

“How long did Father work with Annie?”

“Most of the time she was here—close to a year, if memory serves. I think he was the one who arranged for Annie to come to Nazareth and made sure her bills were covered through different state aid programs. The girl’s mother had no medical insurance and she made it clear she couldn’t afford the prices we charged and that she had no intention of going into debt to pay for the sins of her daughter. She was a real nightmare.”

“What happened to Annie’s baby?” Sister Agatha asked.

“The baby was born here. She was premature, but in perfect health, and was adopted almost immediately.”

“By whom?”

“I don’t know. Catholic Charities handled it and those records are sealed tighter than the files at the CIA. But there was talk and, well, Annie’s mom had a baby with her when she came to take her daughter home months later. I always suspected that Annie’s mom had adopted the baby herself. But I prayed I was wrong.”

“Because of the way she treated Annie?”

“Exactly. A slave would have gotten more respect than that poor kid did. That woman was constantly berating Annie. It was no wonder that the kid had a perpetually defeated look about her.”