Bad Faith (5 page)

“All right. You’ve got yourself a deal.” Brown nodded.

She walked with the man to the back of the monastery, all of which was enclosed behind a high wall. As they reached the garden—a large field sectioned off into rows of corn, tomatoes, squash, carrots, pinto beans, and chile—she spread out her arms. “This is it. Most of what graces our table is grown here, with the exception of staples like flour, salt, sugar, and such. We’re all vegetarians. The herbs are in the last row,” she said, leading him to the north side of the garden.

He stepped from row to row, examining the plants and studying the ground between them, then finally reached the row containing the herbs.

“Most of these plants are gifts that the monastery has received from our neighbors in the community.”

He spoke aloud as he identified chamomile, mint, sage, rosemary, and various other common culinary herbs. He also snipped off samples of the medicinal plants Sister Agatha pointed out as ones used to treat high blood pressure, fevers, colds, and other common problems. After searching the entire area carefully, he stood up straight and shook his head. “There’s nothing out of the ordinary here. Heck, I couldn’t even find a weed,” he said with amazement. “Is this the only place where you grow herbs?”

“This is it. The only other plants we cultivate and grow here are roses. Everything else, including the trees, is part of the desert landscaping and requires no tending.”

She escorted him around the grounds so he could see for himself. “Nothing in our gardens is capable of injuring anyone—unless you count the rose thorns,” she said.

“I admire your loyalty to the monastery, Sister Agatha,” he said as they reached the chapel.

His words surprised her. This wasn’t a matter of being loyal. It was common sense. To think that any of the sisters pledged to a religious life could intentionally harm another living being was completely crazy. They even freely shared the fruits of their labor with the cottontail rabbits who, from time to time, ravaged the vegetables they grew.

As they stood on the front steps of the chapel, she watched the deputies loading the boxes of evidence into their vehicles.

“It’s time for me to get going, too,” Brown said, then shook hands with her. “With luck, none of us will have to come back.”

“God doesn’t depend on luck, He gives us prayer and faith instead.”

He smiled, then with a wave, walked away from her.

“Don’t count on this being the end of it,” Tom said as he approached, apparently having overheard at least the end of their conversation. “I’ve heard about Sister Clothilde’s vow of silence, but if the investigation continues, it may be necessary for her to speak to us.”

“Communicate, maybe—speak, no.”

“Whatever. This isn’t over. Mark my words.”

“Have you learned something new, Sheriff?”

“Only the names of the people from the community who were here at Mass. Sister Bernarda gave me a list. I’ll have to track them down now. But, you know, I’ve got a gut feeling that this one was an inside job.”

“You’re wrong.” She gave him a long, thoughtful look. “You don’t sense any of it, do you? The peace that’s here, the quiet purpose—everything that defines this place and makes it special.”

He met her gaze and shrugged. “All I see is women living together behind walls. It’s no more or less a prison than the one near Los Lunas or Santa Fe.”

“We’re here in this monastery so we can work for the world. Through our prayers, we make a difference. But like doctors who have to keep a professional distance from their patients, we can do our job better by remaining separate.”

“Well, I wouldn’t count on staying too ‘separate.’ If I don’t get the answers I need, I’ll have to come back. And, if that happens, I won’t cut you or the monastery any slack. I’ll do whatever it takes to find out what happened to Father Anselm, including getting the paperwork I need to enter your cloister. And if you get in my way, I’ll throw the book at you.”

She smiled. “For the record, my book’s a lot heavier than yours.”

As Sheriff Green strode off without another word, she understood that a warning had been given. Sorrow and apprehension weighed down her spirit as she turned around and walked back inside.

A
fter Lauds the following morning, Sister Agatha went out with Sister Bernarda to the parking lot. The Anti-chrysler was in a sad state.

“I had to go out late last night to get some heart medication for Sister Gertrude from the all-night pharmacy, and I barely got back,” Sister Bernarda explained. “The car was missing so badly it nearly died three times. I just don’t think this vehicle will be able to take Sister to the doctor if she needs to go. There’s no way this junk heap will make it all the way to Albuquerque and back again.”

The doctor who took care of the nuns was a thirty-minute drive away, at the northwest side of Albuquerque. Although he made special allowances for the sisters, like giving them a reduced rate and never making them wait in the reception area, he could only make house calls if there was a dire emergency.

Sister Agatha rolled up her sleeves, and reluctantly opened the hood. Since the car couldn’t be replaced, it had to be fixed, that was all there was to it. She checked the oil, and the sparkplug wiring, and the plugs themselves. They were all correctly gapped and hooked up, which wasn’t obvious from the degree Sister had said that the engine was missing.

“Okay, tell me exactly what the car’s symptoms were.”

“It wouldn’t go over twenty miles an hour except downhill, it kept stalling, and it roared like a bulldozer. I tried coaxing,I tried prayer, I even cursed it a time or two, but nothing worked. I consider it a minor miracle that it made the round trip at all.”

Sister Agatha started the engine, which rattled and misfired. She continued checking what she could under the hood. Once finished, she slammed the hood closed. “It needs a rebuilt engine to handle the big problems. The valves are knocking like a woodpecker, the carburetor is shot, and the distributor is a joke.”

She glanced over at Sister Bernarda. “I’ll drive the car over to Mr. Gonzales’s repair shop. This is beyond my abilities. We don’t have the parts, and special tools are needed as well. Maybe he can do something and keep it going a little longer.”

“What we really need is for someone to donate a car to the monastery.”

“I know, Sister Bernarda, but these are hard times. By the time anyone around here parts with a car, it’s ready for the wrecking yard.”

“I’ll ask Reverend Mother to have all the sisters pray that the Lord will provide us with some reliable transportation.”

“That’s an excellent idea.”

“Are you going now—before breakfast?” Sister Bernarda asked. “If you are, let me at least get you a couple of tortillas from the kitchen. Sister Clothilde and Sister Maria Victoria must have made stacks and stacks of them from the small sacks of flour Mr. Kelly, the grocer, brought for our monastery.”

Sister Agatha smiled, remembering the delivery. Many of the grocers donated staples to their monastery, which helped the nuns stretch their already tight budget. But these sacks had been found to have mealworms, and Sister Clothilde hadn’t wanted to store them in the pantry and risk contaminating the other food. She’d also refused to freeze the flour, convinced that the worms would hatch out later. So, all the flour had been carefully sifted and then tortillas had been made and cooked until every last trace of usable flour had been used. Their vows of poverty made it unacceptable that any food would be wasted.

The tortillas now towered in the refrigerator and their large freezer. With the pinto beans they’d grown last year, there’d be plenty of food for everyone. But tortillas would be part of breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the foreseeable future.

Sister Agatha had the Antichrysler turned around and the gate open by the time Sister Bernarda returned from the kitchen. “Here. I took two, and smeared them with peanut butter from those huge cans the grocer gave us, and jelly that Sister Clothilde made with a donation of overripe peaches. Think of it as a New Mexican breakfast sandwich.”

The drive to town took even longer than Sister Agatha had expected, and she’d worried that someone might complain as she crossed pueblo land. The old station wagon sputtered and coughed, never going over twenty miles an hour. But at least it kept going. She stayed close to the shoulder in case faster traffic wanted to pass her, but the roads in the early morning hours were blessedly empty except for an occasional piece of farm machinery.

As she approached Paul Gonzales’s garage, a wood-framed building with an old West-style false front and a hand-lettered sign that had probably been there thirty years, she saw the mechanic standing out by the side of the road, cup of coffee in hand. Paul was in his late fifties and was built like a fire hydrant—short and stocky. He was wearing a pair of gray-and-white-striped overalls and a red headband fashioned from a handkerchief to keep his hair out of his eyes.

He waved and motioned for her to pull up in front of one of the garage bays.

In addition to all the troubles the ailing vehicle’s engine had, there was also still no muffler. It was little wonder that Mr. Gonzales had heard her coming.

Sister Agatha pulled up, braked to a stop, then turned off the engine. Even turned off, it ran a few more seconds, shaking like a leaf, then died.
“Deo Gratias”
she murmured as she climbed out to greet the long-suffering mechanic, who had donated so much of his time to reviving the monastery’s vehicle.

“Mr. Gonzales, our car desperately needs your help again. The muffler is gone, and now, on top of everything else, when it runs at all, it won’t go over twenty miles an hour.”

He nodded. “I was beginning to think I’d have to go looking for you. Sister Bernarda called an hour ago and said you were on your way. You barely made it, obviously. Let’s take a look.”

Sister Agatha insisted on helping him push the heavy car into the garage. Then, rolling up her sleeves, she set to work, handing him whatever tool he requested. In spite of his skill, the mechanic couldn’t get the engine to run again for more than a few seconds.

“What do you think, Mr. Gonzales? You know we have very little money, but we’ll be glad to offer prayers for you and your family for the rest of the summer months, and at Mass. And we can make payments—small payments.”

The bonds between the monastery and the community were very strong. Praying for special intentions had become an acceptable method of at least partial payment for many of their supporters. God had been kind to their religious community, and news of favors attributed to the nuns’ special prayer vigils had even spread among the less religious townspeople.

“Sister, this car obviously needs far more than a tune-up this time. In addition to a new muffler, I’m going to have to order engine parts—
if I
can get them—and do a major overhaul, maybe even a complete rebuild. If you want reliable transportation, I’m going to need a month or more—and that’s providing I can find the parts.”

“But we can’t wait that long. This monster is our only transportation. Without it, how can we get supplies for the monastery or take sisters to the doctor, or do any of the other things we have to do to keep our house going? Depending on cabs for a month or more will drive us into ruin.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Sister. If you need a miracle worker, you’re going to have to go directly to the source,” he said, pointing up.

Sister Agatha held his gaze, undaunted. “Surely there’s
something
you can do for us.”

“
I
have an idea.” Edith Gonzales, Paul’s wife, came into the garage bay. She was a robust, middle-aged woman with graying hair, and she was smiling at Sister Agatha. “It’ll help the monastery, and, at the same time you’d be helping us.”

“What did you have in mind?” Sister Agatha asked.

“Our son, Bobby, was given a fancy motorcycle by his uncle. We won’t let him ride it yet because he’s only sixteen and I’ve seen the way he drives. If we donate it to the monastery, it won’t be around here to tempt him, and the monastery would have some form of transportation. Even Bobby’s uncle would approve of that. And we’ll also get a nice charitable donation to put on our income tax.”

Mr. Gonzales smiled at his wife. “What a wonderful idea!” He went to the back of the shop, turned on the light over a work bench, and pulled a canvas tarp off a large object standing in the corner.

Sister Agatha gasped and a slow grin spread across her face. “She’s a real beauty.” Any doubts Sister Agatha had vanished the second the tarp came off the 1986 Heritage Classic Harley-Davidson with its matching sidecar. The only difference between this one and the one her brother, Kevin, had owned was the color. Kevin’s had been steel blue, and this one was apple red, a custom paint job.

“This is a very generous donation. But are you aware of how special this bike is?” Sister Agatha knew it was a collector’s item among cycling enthusiasts.

“All we care about is that it poses a danger to our son. You take it. We’ll write it off on our taxes and keep our son in one piece,” Edith said.

“I’ll have to ask Reverend Mother before I can officially accept this donation,” she said, her heart hammering at a crazy tempo.

“Take it today anyway. It’s the only way you’ll get home. You can drive it, can’t you?” the mechanic asked, reaching into his pocket and handing her the key.

“Oh, sure! My brother had one that was very similar.” Sister Agatha hiked up her habit slightly, straddled the bike, and eased onto the leather saddle. She inserted the key into the ignition, and touched the electric starter button as she gave it a little gas.

The engine started up immediately with that distinctive engine sound that elicited a wide grin from anyone who’d ever owned a Harley.

“I can see you know what you’re doing, Sister. That’s your ride back to the monastery, then.” Paul smiled. “And here’s your helmet,” he said, passing her one with a gleaming red devil painting on the side, complete with pitchfork and shooting flames.

“El Diablo? That won’t do, Mr. Gonzales,” she said sternly.

“It was my son’s idea of a joke, Sister. He’s not in a gang, or a Satan worshiper, or anything,” he added quickly.

She stared at the otherwise perfect helmet for a moment. “Do you have some paint remover or a piece of steel wool?”

Edith responded at once. “I’m an artist, Sister, just give me ten minutes. I think I can do something for you. Meanwhile, Paul can give you the registration, and get a receipt for the donation, pending Reverend Mother’s approval, of course.”

While Paul Gonzales wrote out the paperwork to transfer title to the monastery, his wife took the helmet into her small studio, which was behind the garage. When she came out again, the paint she’d used was nearly dry.

The red devil had vanished without a trace, and in its place was a white outline sketch of a nun on a motorcycle, with the words Heaven’s Angels above it.

Sister Agatha laughed. “Thank you. That’s brilliant.”

“So you’re all set, then?” Paul said. “I’ll try to get the car working again for you in three weeks, but I’m not promising anything, even with all you sisters praying for me.”

Sister Agatha quickly assured him that they could manage as long as they needed to now that they had this wonderful gift. She smiled as she looked at the motorcycle and ran her hand over the bright red fuel tank. “Lord, I’ve been praying for a change in my routine duties, and You’ve outdone Yourself.
Deo Gratias”
she whispered, slipping on the helmet over her veil, then hiking up her skirt so she could straddle the bike and keep the fabric well away from the wheel and other moving parts.

“I’ll be on my way then, Paul. But remember, Reverend Mother will have the final say on whether or not we can accept your gift.” She switched on the ignition, gave the throttle a little gas with a twist of her wrist, then eased slowly out of the garage into the parking lot. Flipping down the visor on the helmet, she waved at the Gonzales couple, then got back on the road.

It was just like riding a bike. One never forgot how to operate a motorcycle, she thought, testing the feel of the steering through the handlebars. The sidecar was attached, American style, to the right side of the motorcycle, exactly the way it had been on Kevin’s Harley. With a sidecar more steering was required when cornering because you couldn’t do it by leaning or shifting your weight the way you could on a cycle alone.

All this wonderful and nostalgic information came flooding back to her naturally as Sister Agatha headed back to the monastery. For the first time in years, she found herself thinking of her brother without the danger of tears flowing. With the visor down, only she and God knew that she never stopped smiling all the way home.

As the motorcycle roared through the gate and into the monastery parking area, she saw Sister Bernarda draw back the curtains in the parlor and look outside.

Sister Agatha waved, parked beside the entrance, and quickly removed her helmet. She saw the surprise, then the slow smile of recognition that spread across Sister Bernarda’s face.

“I don’t believe my eyes,” she said, opening the parlor door and stepping outside to look at the red-and-chrome beauty that was ticking quietly as its eighty-cubic-inch engine cooled.

“The Antichrysler is now in intensive care at Mr. Gonzales’s garage, and due to remain there for the next three weeks, minimum. Mr. Gonzales donated the motorcycle to the monastery so we would be able to get around without the car.” She reached into her pocket and brought out the papers.

“I had a friend in the Marine Corps who loved bikes. I can see that’s a Harley. What year?”

“It’s an eighty-six, and a dream to drive. I can give you lessons if you’ve never driven one. And, best of all, I can fix anything this machine needs myself. I worked on my brother’s Harley all the time, and he had an eighty-six Classic a lot like this one. We used to take it apart and put it together again in a day just for kicks.”

“You’re going to have to be the one to sell the idea to Reverend Mother. Do you think you can do it?”

“It’s absolutely perfect for the monastery now that we don’t have the Antichrysler. It’s great on gas and the engine is in perfect condition. The sidecar can easily handle supplies or a passenger!”