Il Pane Della Vita

OTHER BOOKS BY

CORALIE HUGHES JENSEN

L’ORO VERDE

THE PUKEKO

WINTER HARVEST

LETY’S GIFT

PASSUP POINT

Il Pane
della Vita
A Sister Angela Mystery

Coralie Hughes Jensen

Copyright © 2014 by Coralie Hughes Jensen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are drawn from the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

To my editor

Kathy

for her love of Sister Angela mysteries

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Cover: Ann Proyous DeGuilio

Thank you to my editor, Kathy Brown. To our dear friend,
Cinzia and Giorgio
, owners of
La Chiusa dei Monaci
Bed and Breakfast in Arrezzo, who helped us find the places we needed to see in the Apennines. To my fans who pushed me to finish this book. And especially to my husband Bruce who worked so hard to make this book possible.

Save the babble of a nearby stream, all was silent. Few monks were up. Three hardy souls spilled out into the front portico after preparing the bread, now baking, for the hungry monks who would assemble in the dining room after Lauds, the earliest of the morning offices.

Brother Enrico
took out his cigarettes and shared them with the others. They leaned into the flame of his lighter. “The abbot begged me to rid myself of this filthy habit by using prayer and humility. Instead I have passed it on to my brothers.”

“It isn’
t an addiction if you restrict yourself to the hours between midnight and two, the time everyone retires until Lauds,” said Brother Salvatore, the youngest looking of all the monks.

“I didn’t say I had an addiction. I can sto
p any time. It’s just something I look forward to—like dessert.” Brother Enrico could see the flash out of the corner of his eye, but before his brain could register it, the horrible din filled everyone’s ears. “What was that?”

“Look,” said Brother Alonzo. “Isn’t that the
eremo
? It’s probably the gas tank. I never thought that was wise to add a gas tank so close to the community.”

“
The tank’s been there for thirty years, Brother Alonzo. I don’t think they had enough brothers who wanted to devote months, let alone years, as hermits without it. Yes, they had fireplaces for the snow months and candles for over a thousand years, but there was a bigger chance for a fire if they had continued to use those. From what I hear, the wood stove in the chapel did little to remove the chill of a snowy February night. In their bathrobes, Abbot Rafaello and a number of others emerge onto the portico to watch the glow that enveloped the treetops near the crest of the mountain. “What did it look like?” he asked the three cooks.

“I only
saw a flash,” admitted Brother Enrico, snuffing out the cigarette with his foot. “What about you, Brother Alonzo?”

“It was tall, way
above the trees. I didn’t see the remnants of the blast rising from behind the trees. I only saw it fall. You know, like fireworks. It exploded above the treetops and then slowly subsided.”

A simultaneous
awe
hissed through the small crowd that now circled the fountain.

“Are you saying it
burst again when it was above the treetops? Were there bright lights like the kind you see in a professional show?” asked Brother Enrico.

“No,” said Brother Alonzo. “Not that spectacular. More like a failed rocket launch. What did you see, Brother Salvatore?”

“Nothing. I was concentrating
on trying to keep my cigarette lit. I found that if you keep your head down, watching your feet, the others protect it from the breezes.”

“At least Brother
Enrico had the sense to get rid of his in my presence, Brothers, “said the abbot. “I suggest you crush out yours now and dispose of the remnants in the garbage. I don’t want to see stubs all over the flagstone.” Abbot Rafaello gazed at the fading glow. “Whatever it was, it looks like it’s under control. I haven’t received any calls requesting help from us. I suppose they phoned for help from Collinaterra or Avalle if it was necessary.”

“Maybe you think the gas tank was a bad idea,” said
Brother Enrico. “But creating the road to the top was a good one. I’d hate to have to trek up there in the dark.”

“I wouldn’t call it a road. It’
s more like a wide path.” said Brother Alonzo. “I don’t know how they get the big trucks up there when someone’s ill.”

“Th
ey usually manage,” said the abbot, rounding up his flock. “I think I hear the timers going off. The loaves must be ready. The rest of us can now head back to bed. I’m sure we’ll get the news first thing at breakfast. The party’s over. Everything seems to be under control.”

Sister Angela
took the long way to the bishop’s palace. Her mother superior had received the call from Father Sergio, the bishop’s assistant, right after breakfast. Someone had to cover her morning classes because Sister Angela was needed for a meeting at the palace.

Mother Margareta’s first inclination
must have been to turn down the priest’s request. Who did the school have to teach her classes? They used to have the postulant step in, but Sister Daniela was now a teacher with a class of her own. They had a new postulant, Sister Eloisa, with no experience at all in the classroom. Perhaps she could help out. Father Sergio had no idea what he was demanding of this
scuola media
. They could lose Sister Eloisa. She might panic if she had to face students, barely younger than herself, while the headmaster sat and judged her from the back of the classroom. Which was worse, fighting Father Sergio or dealing with a terrified postulant?

Spring was definitely in full bloom. Sister Angela sat on a bench to admire the rows of grapevines
growing down the hillside of Montriano. While only a few weeks earlier, the pruned branches were bare revealing the dusty earth below, the branches now were laden with new green leaves and tiny, star-like flowers. In between the rows, flowers bloomed in brilliant colors.

The sweet smell she inhaled now would, in just a couple of months, mature to the musty smell of grapes, ready to be crushed into win
e. She could almost taste it. She sat back. But why hurry it? This beauty and the warmth of a pending summer would do. Pushing herself up, she continued around the side of the hill. She still had ten minutes to enjoy the views before making her way back to the palace.

Sister Angela ambled through the courtyard of the bishop’s p
alace, admiring the fountain and garden along the inside walls. Arriving at the covered walkway, she made her way through the large doors. The air-conditioning inside brushed her cheeks.

The last time she attended
a meeting with Father Sergio in the large conference room, she had hesitated to admire the fifteenth-century paintings and scrolls that lined the walls. At that time, he threatened to seize her veil for not following her vocation. A bit intimidating, yes. But she also had the support of her mother superior and the secretary general. She had no idea what the bishop’s assistant had in mind for her this time and was actually curious why Mother
Margherita
did not insist on attending too. She opened the door to find the same large room with a long table and richly upholstered chairs. In one of chairs, about halfway down the table, Father Sergio sat to examine some papers laid out in front of him.

“I hope I’m not late,” said Sister Angela.

“Oh?” he said, failing to glance in her direction. “It does not matter. I was just checking the testimony again. Come sit down so you can read these papers too.”

Sister Angela could not believe what she heard.
This must be the wrong Father Sergio.

He looked up. “Sit here,” he said, patting the chair beside him.

She did as instructed and glanced at the papers, the print too small for her to read without her glasses.

“I suppose your mother superior
informed you why I asked for you.”

“No, she told me nothing.”

“I had to get her blessing.”

Sister Angela squirmed. “I suppose there has been an incident of some kin
d. Why wouldn’t Allesandro and his partner, Lazaro, call me themselves?”

“This
is not under the jurisdiction of Montriano’s police department. It is ours.”

“
If this is a serious crime, it’s important that the authorities be involved, Father. I would report to them. Perhaps I’m not the right person…”

“You consider yourself a good detective, do you not?”