Bad Faith (4 page)

Sister Agatha felt as if his words had suddenly sucked all the oxygen from the room. Murder, here, under their roof? She remembered following police cases as a reporter, then later with her journalism students. If there was one thing she remembered it was that an investigation of this nature left no one untouched. The delicate, orderly ebb and flow of their life at the monastery would be under siege now.

She saw Sister Bernarda in the doorway. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we, Sister?”

Sister Bernarda’s military bark was strangely absent now, and she could understand why. The death of their chaplain had left all of them in shock. But neither of them could indulge their feelings now. She and Sister Bernarda were the monastery’s first line of defense.

“We’re about to face an invading army, Sister, and I see no way to stop it.”

“I overheard someone say murdeŕ… is that true? Was Father murdered?” Sister Bernarda’s tone grew stronger, but she was still pale.

“They don’t know yet, but apparently there’s enough evidence to make the law suspect something other than an accident or natural causes.”

Sister Agatha saw Sheriff Green walking in their direction with a man in civilian clothes and a blue jacket. He had an ID badge clipped to his pocket.

“Sister Agatha, Sister Bernarda, this is Jim Brown, the medical investigator. He has a few questions for Sister Ber-narda.” Not giving either woman a chance to reply, the sheriff motioned to Brown, who led Sister Bernarda away to a nearby pew.

Questioning people separately was standard procedure, she knew that from her journalism days, but having these protocols enforced here filled her with dread for what lay ahead. To the police, they were all suspects now—no matter how far-fetched that seemed to her. She and Sister Bernarda were accustomed to interacting with the world outside the monastery. That was part of their duties. But the cloistered sisters would find contact with the police dismaying, to say the least

“Okay, Sister Agatha, let’s get back on track over here. Who else besides you saw Father this morning?” Green brought out a pen and small black notebook.

“He spoke to Sister Bernarda, who was portress at the time. She rang the bell notifying us that he was here. Then there was our postulant, Celia, and our novice, Sister Mary Lazarus.”

“No one else? You’re sure? Think about it a moment before you answer.”

“It’s not impossible that he might have seen someone else, because he was already out of the pickup by the time we came to greet him. But as far as I know, it was just us. The cloistered sisters don’t come out to the front of our grounds.” She met his gaze. “I think you already know that none of us here would have harmed Father. Do you have to treat us like criminals?”

“I’m not treating anyone like a criminal yet. If I were, the lot of you would be trooping down to the station house. I’m treating everyone like a witness to a suspicious death, possibly murder.”

“You’re showing very little respect for the nuns here, and not an ounce for me. Do you really hate me so much?”

“I don’t hate you. Not at all. I’m married, and have my own life. And you’ve got yours—such as it is.”

“Your sweet disposition is well hidden today, then.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“So am I. What other information do you need?” she added coldly. “I have other responsibilities.”

“Look, Mary… Sister Agatha. I’m not the enemy.”

“Then stop acting like one.” Seeing two deputies taking the altar cloth and placing it in a large paper bag, Sister Agatha immediately shifted her attention to them. “What do you think
you’re
doing?”

They looked at her, then at the sheriff, who stood behind her, then resumed sealing and labeling the sack.

“Evidence has to be examined and interpreted. I’m trying to cut you some slack, so chill out,” Sheriff Green said, shifting until he stood between her and the deputies. “You’re going to need to use the chapel, right? Nuns have church
all
the time. The moment this place is cleaned up, any evidence that’s here will be compromised. I don’t want to risk that until I know for sure how and why Father Anselm died. If you’d rather, I can tape off the chapel for the next few days to preserve what may be a crime scene, and bar anyone from coming in at all. All things considered, I figured you’d prefer to have us take what we may need as evidence and free the scene for ordinary use as soon as possible.”

“All right Remove what you need to examine, but I really don’t think you’re going to find anything.”

“We’ll just have to wait and see. Now think back again. Did the father eat or drink anything while he was here, either right before Mass or earlier today? Did he get an injection or take a pill in the infirmary, or anything like that at all?”

“All I know is that he drank a glass of iced tea this morning when we were working in the food pantry—the monas-tery’s special blend.”

“Okay. Now, what about the sacramental wine and the communion wafer?”

“He was about to consecrate them when he became ill. So the answer is no, he never got to that part of the Mass.”

“All right. If you haven’t washed the tea glass he used, I’d like to take that into evidence. If there’s still a little bit of tea in it, so much the better. I’ll also need a sample of the tea from the source you used.”

“Normally that glass would have been washed and dried right away, but today we were so rushed, Celia probably didn’t have time. I’ll go see.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“That’s fine.” She suddenly stopped and looked him in the eye. “You think he was poisoned, don’t you? But that’s nonsense.”

“You’re a nun. I’m a cop. I won’t tell you how to pray, and you don’t tell me how to conduct my investigation.”

She considered arguing with him but, from what she remembered about Tom, she knew it would be futile. At that precise moment, one of the deputies knocked over a cruet of sacramental wine. Red liquid spilled onto the brick floor. She started to move toward the utility room next to the sacristy so she could get a towel to wipe up the spill, but he held her arm.

“The deputy will clean it up.” He glowered at the deputy. “No more accidénts. That’s inexcusable.”

“Yes, sir,” the young deputy said, and looked around a few seconds before hurrying out of the chapel.

Sister Agatha stared at the ever-widening pool of crimson wine. It flowed down the cracks between the bricks, staining everything in its path. Like the blood of the lamb that had been spilled for sinners, it ran freely, leaving its mark on everything it touched.

Sadness settled over her spirit. She stepped back as the trail of unconsecrated wine reached the tip of the alpargates she wore—the flat, hemp-soled shoes that were part of the habit. Father’s life, like that crimson liquid, was just another promise left unfulfilled.

“Who mixed the herbs for the tea Father Anselm drank?” Sheriff Green asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“I did—it’s just a few herbs from Sister Clothilde’s garden. I keep a jar of it in St. Francis’ Pantry to offer the people who bring donations.”

The deputy rushed back into the chapel with a handful of folded paper towels like those found in the chapel’s public test room.

“Let’s go see,” the sheriff said, ignoring the deputy and gesturing to the door.

As she led Tom Green toward the pantry, one of the monastery bells began to ring. The deep, resonant sound came from the largest bell.

She stopped in her tracks to offer a prayer.

“What’s going on?” he grumbled when she looked up again.

‘That bell was announcing Father’s death,” she explained, then continued walking. Reverend Mother would be meeting with the other nuns now. There were nine of them here in their small monastery. Prayers for Father Anselm’s soul would be said, and tonight would be a time of mourning. She knew that even Sister Ignatius, who’d never really approved of Father Anselm’s youthful levity, would be heartbroken. Death had claimed a member of their family.

They found the glass, still unwashed, on the counter in the pantry. Sheriff Green bagged and labeled it as evidence, after putting on latex gloves. The trace of liquid at the bottom was poured into a labeled plastic medicine-type bottle and sealed. He also took a sample of the dry herbal tea mixture and sealed it in a labeled paper bag.

When they returned to the chapel a short time later, Jim Brown was putting his equipment away, and Father’s body, now inside a black zippered bag, was being wheeled out on a gurney.

“Sister, I’d like to talk to you,” Brown said, coming over to meet her as the sheriff placed the evidence he’d collected into a cardboard box.

“At your service,” she answered, hoping this wouldn’t take long. Sister Mary Lazarus was on her knees near the altar with scrub brush and bucket, starting, at last, to clean things up. Sister Bernarda was probably acting as portress right now.

“Let’s sit down on one of the benches,” Jim suggested.

She did as he asked.

“I have a few simple questions that I need you to answer, since you were trying to help the priest when he died.”

“Go ahead.”

“What exactly did he say? Did he complain of any pain?”

Sister Agatha related all she could recall, though the details were heartbreaking and her voice shook at times despite her efforts to remain calm. “He suffered—this I know.”

“You said that he was having auditory hallucinations. Is that correct?”

“No, I never said that. Father told me he heard bells, but I took that at face value. For all I knew, it could have meant that his ears were ringing, or maybe it was God’s way of telling him not to be afraid. When people are about to pass on, they sometimes see and hear things that others don’t. I never concluded that he was hallucinating.”

“You also mentioned the paralysis of his facial muscles.”

“His expression became rigid, yes.”

Medical Investigator Brown stared at the floor. Minutes ticked by and Sister Agatha wondered if he’d forgotten she was there.

“Is that all, or do you still need me?” Sister Agatha asked softly.

The man looked up suddenly, as if he’d just remembered where he was. “I heard you tell the sheriff that Father had consumed some herbal tea earlier today. What kind of herbs are in that tea, Sister?”

“Some mint, some chamomile—all ordinary things that grow in our garden. Sister Clothilde has a special section for culinary herbs. The sheriff took a sample of the mixture we used.”

“I’d like to talk to Sister Clothilde, and then see her garden.”

“I can take you to see the garden, but Sister Clothilde won’t be able to speak to you, even through the grille. She’s taken a vow of silence.”

“How does she communicate with the rest of the order?”

“Through a special form of sign language we’ve developed to communicate with each other during times of silence. It’s very limited. But she can listen, and she can write down answers. She’s allowed to do that.”

“All right. Show me the herb garden, then we’ll see if we need to trouble Sister Clothilde about the rest.”

“All right,” she said, and stood up. “But Mr. Brown, the herbs Sister Clothilde grows are quite common and completely harmless.”

“Accidental poisonings are common in rural areas of New Mexico, Sister. The fact of the matter is that the symptoms you and Sister Bernarda described to me reminded me of another case I worked on when I first became a medical investigator. An elderly Hispanic man died as a result of an overdose of an herbal medicine he took for pain. Which brings me to my next question. Does Sister Clothilde also grow medicinal plants?”

“A few, yes. I’ve heard of her using chamomile to settle the stomach, and something called alegria, which is said to be good for the heart. The Spanish word means ‘happiness,’ so it worried us at first. We certainly don’t need stimulants. But it’s harmless. There are also herbs to treat high blood pressure and other ailments.”

‘Take me to see the garden, then. Herbal medicine isn’t always as safe as people think. The elderly man I told you about experimented with the anesthetic properties of monkshood and died because that plant also contains highly toxic alkaloids.”

“Let me get Reverend Mother’s permission, then I’ll take you.”

Leaving the medical investigator in the chapel, Sister Agatha went through the corridors of the monastery quickly, and found Reverend Mother praying in her office before a statue of the Blessed Virgin.

Sister Agatha remained by the door, hating to interrupt the abbess at prayer but knowing she had no other choice.

“Praised be Jesus Christ,” Sister Agatha said quietly.

“Now and forever,” Reverend Mother answered, and turned around. “Have the police finished what they need to do?”

Sister Agatha filled Reverend Mother in quickly, and saw shock and then sorrow in her eyes.

“You were a reporter, and later a journalism professor, child. You understand investigative methods and thought processes more than any of us. I need you to remain with these people at all times while they’re here at the monastery. And please make sure poor Sister Clothilde isn’t harassed in any way.”

“I’ve told the medical investigator, Mr. Brown, about Sister’s vow of silence. He understands that he can’t speak to her—at least not directly—and has agreed to that. But he insists on examining our garden to make sure the herb tea didn’t contain anything harmful.”

“Then show it to him. He’ll see for himself that we don’t grow anything dangerous here.”

“Right away, Mother.”

Agatha walked back quickly to the chapel. She had to find a way to convince the police that their answers lay outside the monastery. Maybe once the medical investigator saw their small garden, he’d understand how simple their lives were and that whatever had happened to Father Anselm was in no way connected to the monastery or the sisters.

“Mr. Brown,” Sister Agatha said as she came up to him, “I’m ready to show you the garden. It’s in the back of the building, and though not behind cloister, it is a restricted area. Please keep your voice low so we don’t disturb any of the sisters who might be praying. And should you see one of our sisters, don’t attempt to speak to her without checking with me first. Will you agree to this?”