Rueful Death (10 page)

There was nothing more of interest until August 22, the day Sister Anne's swimsuit was found draped on the cross.
Sr. A's suit!!,
the outraged entry read.
Questioned Sr. 0 & Sr. R again.
The remaining entries in August were focused on financial affairs-
Bank re: statements, Tom Sr re: funds, bank re: note.
September 1 was blank. September 2's entry consisted of just one word, underlined.

.

I stared at the single word. Somebody else had gotten a letter, but who? Mother Hilaria? If so, what had happened to it? Had she destroyed it, or was it still among her possessions?

That was the last entry. On September 3, Mother Hilaria had died. Sometime after that, Dwight had stolen her journal.

Sister Gabriella's garlic operation wasn't exactly what you'd expect in a monastery. Neither was she, come to that. She was tall and strong, and she swung her arms energetically as she talked, her gestures punctuating her rich Southern speech.

"When we first came out here, there were only ten of us, and we had just an acre of plants," she said as we walked through the big, airy barn. "When harvest time came, we dug the garlic with forks and shovels."

"Wasn't that hard on everybody's back?" I asked, trying to imagine what it would be like to spade up an entire acre of garlic. And even after it was dug, the job wouldn't have

been done. The sisters had to remove the dirt, dry the plants, separate the bulbs from the tops… People who buy garlic in little cellophane packages have no idea what they're missing.

She chuckled. "You bet. But we were new in the business and everybody was willing. A couple of years later, though, we doubled the acreage, and I started to hear grumbling. Mother Hilaria tried to convince the sisters that they'd get a couple of extra days in paradise for every garlic bulb they dug, but they didn't buy it. So when we doubled the acreage again, I went looking for an old-fashioned chisel plow, like the one my grandfather used to have back in Kentucky." She gestured at a piece of equipment in the corner. "Found it in a junkyard over in Johnson City. All that was wrong with it was a quarter-inch of rust and a broken strap. Now, I just set the tractor tires into the irrigation furrows and drop that plow-point between the rows. The plants still have to be pulled, but at least they're loose. No more spadework."

I grinned at the picture of tall, strong Sister Gabriella poking around a Johnson City junkyard looking for a secondhand chisel plow. "What happens after the garlic's pulled?"

"We used to cart it up here in wheelbarrows and dunk it in a tub to wash off the dirt. Then we'd lay it out on that cement over there to dry." She shook her head pityingly. "Lord sakes, that was
work.
Happy garlic grows three feet high, and we harvest the whole thing, not just the bulb. That's a lot of leaf to be totin' around."

I shook my head, imagining the size of the job. "It was a good thing you had conscripts," I said. "You probably couldn't have found enough people willing to work that hard for what you could pay."

Gabriella grinned. ' 'We had a good crop of novices those years. And Sadie, bless her heart, donated a beat-up old Ford pickup, which we traded for a front-end loader for our tractor." She gestured in the direction of a dusty, antique-

looking dinosaur of a tractor. ' 'Then we built some garlic flats-chicken wire on board frames, six feet long by three feet wide by two feet deep-that we lay on the loader. Now, after the field's plowed, we pull the garlic and lay it in a rack. When one rack's filled, we stack on another. When they're all filled, I haul the load up here. We restack the garlic into those thirty-foot-long storage racks in that cement block building over there."

"It looks like a great system," I said.

She nodded. "There's still plenty of toting and hauling. From planting to market we handle the garlic eight times. If we braid it, we handle it twice more. In a good year, we'll move over two tons of the stuff."

I whistled. Two tons of St. T's famous rocambole. "It's all gone by spring, I suppose."

' "The biggest cloves are back in the ground by October. The market-grade stuff we sell as bulbs, retail and wholesale. The plants with the best tops we braid into
ristras
and wreaths and swags, along with chilies and dried flowers. Buckwheat, statice, strawflowers, cockscomb-the usual stuff. Sister Cecilia is in charge of that part of it. She also grows a few specialities. Chiles, gourds, strawberry popcorn. With the garlic, they make nice wreaths."

I looked around. "You've got lots of storage, plenty of labor, decent equipment. You've got water for irrigation and room for more fields. How big could the operation get?"

She grew thoughtful. ' "That depends. We could plant another acre or two of garlic and sell it easily. With an expanded marketing effort, we might sell fifty or a hundred percent more. We could grow more flowers and market fhem with the garlic, and just about double our revenue." She lifted her broad, capable shoulders, let them fall. ' 'We could get big, sure. We could make a lot more money. But why?"

I cocked my head at her. ' 'Why?''

"Well, sure. Work is good for the soul, and we can al-

ways use a little more money. But we need time for prayer and study more than we need money." A half-grin cracked her weathered face. "Woman does not live by work alone, you know."

I thought of the shop back home and the hours I'd poured into it last fall. Had I been brought all the way to St. Theresa's just to hear this bit of advice?

She grew sober. "Anyway, you know what's happening here. The garlic operation isn't likely to expand. In fact, the crop in the ground may just turn out to be our last."

"That would be a loss," I said. "A lot of people think St. T's rocambole is better than anything else on the market."

"The garlic won't be too happy about it, either," Ga-briella said. We were at the far end of the barn now, and she opened the door to a large, chilly room furnished with worktables, shelves of neatly arranged supplies, and racks filled with dried flowers, chilies, and whole garlic plants, stalk and all. "This is Sister Rosaline's part of the operation. It's where her crew braids the
ristras
and makes the wreaths, swags, baskets, things like that. A dozen or so sisters work here half-days all year round. August to December, Rosaline recruits an extra half-dozen. They take a rest after the holiday, but they'll be back tomorrow, starting on our spring orders. It's work they enjoy."

"I'd enjoy it too," I said. Crafting is a lot more fun than standing behind a counter all day.

"It's creative work," Gabriella said, "and worth it. The simplest arrangement sells for ten times the value of the garlic in it." Her voice grew acerbic. ' 'It beats baking bread or making altar cloths or selling rosaries, which is what other monasteries do to make a living. And it sure as sin beats playing host to a bunch of bishops."

I glanced around. "This is the room where the fire occurred last fall?''

' 'See where those two walls have been replaced, and that big patch in the ceiling?'' She pointed. ' 'We had to repaint

too. There wasn't a lot of damage, but it cost Rosaline a couple of days' work while we cleaned things up."

"What happened?"

' "There was a work light hanging on that wall. It shorted out. At least, that's what Dwight says."

"You don't agree?"

She shrugged. "The light was new. After the fire, it disappeared. But I don't have any suspects in mind, if that's what you're asking. It happened on a Sunday afternoon when nobody was here. If it hadn't been for Dwight, we'd have lost the barn." She glanced at her watch. "Let's go to my office. Sadie will be here in a few minutes."

Gabriella's office smelled of woodsmoke. It had once been a tack room, and various pieces of riding gear-bits, bridles, curry combs-still hung on the splintery walls. The rustic decor wasn't enhanced by her gray metal desk and fifing cabinet, or by the incongruous-looking computer on the shelf behind the desk. But the woodstove in the corner, topped with a steaming kettle, radiated heat. Next to it sat an old rocking chair with a wicker seat. Gabriella opened the stove door, thrust in a stick of cedar from the stack in a wood box, and adjusted the damper.

"When the wind's out of the north, the smoke blows back down the chimney," she said. "But it keeps me warm."

A moment later, Sadie Marsh arrived. She was a wiry, steely-haired woman of nearly sixty with commanding gray eyes, high cheekbones, a jutting nose, a forceful jaw. Deep vertical creases between her eyes suggested prolonged periods of concentration-or a bad temper. A determined person, I guessed, perhaps a difficult one. She wore jeans and scuffed cowboy boots, a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a Navajo vest striped in reds, greens, and blues. Even in Texas, it wasn't the kind of outfit you'd wear to Mass, so I guessed she'd come here straight from home.

Sadie fixed her eyes on me as she lowered herself into

the rocking chair beside the stove. "Winnie-Mother Winifred-has been telling me about you. Lawyer, huh?"

"I used to practice law," I said. "I own an herb shop now."

Gabriella picked up the kettle. ' 'Coffee?'' she asked. Sadie and I nodded. I pulled up an old wooden dining chair with a broken spindle in the back and sat down.

"Once a lawyer, always a lawyer," Sadie said. "Still keep up your credentials?" Her West Texas twang had a biting edge. She wasn't making idle conversation.

"I keep current," I said. It's probably silly to pay the Bar Association dues and meeting the annual professional development requirement, especially with Thyme and Seasons doing so well. But I've wanted to have something to fall back on, just in case.

"What do you know about our situation here?"

Our
situation? "Are you referring to the litigation over the will or to what's going on here at St. T's?"

She hooked one ankle over the other knee. ' 'Both. Tell me what you know."

I felt as if I were being interviewed for a job. "I know that the court case was settled last spring and that the foundation finally has control over the trust assets," I said cautiously. "I've been told about the merger of St. T's and St. Agatha's, and I'm guessing that it will have a bearing on the foundation's fiduciary activities and investment plans."

"That pretty well covers it, I reckon," Sadie said. She took the chipped mug Gabriella handed her and rocked back and forth for a minute. "I'm a charter member of the Laney board," she said. "Is there any thin' you want to know about the way it operates?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," I said. I thanked Gabriella for my coffee and cradled it in my hands. I prefer tea, but coffee will do. "Who else is on the board? How is it set up?"

"There are five members. Winnie, of course. As actin'

abbess, she took Hilaria's place. And Gabby here." At my half-surprised glance at Gabriella, Sadie added, "Hilaria appointed her last August to replace Perpetua, who wasn't too well. Tom Rowan Junior, who's taking over for his daddy at the bank, is number three. Number four is Cleva Mason, a woman from the local parish who's missed the last couple of meetings-she's about to be replaced. And I make five. I'm the only one who's actually on the board by name, and I'm on it until I die." She rubbed her palm along her blue-jeaned thigh.

"If another abbess were to be chosen, would she have the power to appoint new board members?" Mrs. Laney would probably have set it up that way, to give the abbess a strong hand.

"Yes," Gabriella said. She pushed her desk chair over to the stove and sat down. ' 'If Olivia were elected tomorrow, she would appoint two new members-one to replace Cleva, the other to replace me."

" So if it came down to a vote on some crucial issue-''

"It would be three to two," Sadie said. "Assumin' Tom Junior voted with me. That isn't an assumption I'd stake my life on. His father and I are old friends, but we've never seen eye to eye. No reason to believe Tom Junior will be any different. It could be four to one."

Basically, then, Olivia could count on the Laney Foundation providing the capital she needed to fund the retreat center. "Who's the fiduciary officer?"

"Tom Junior, as of a couple of weeks ago. Carr State Bank manages the investments." She eyed me over the rim of her coffee mug. "Anythin' else?"

There was something. It had occurred to me last night in bed, just before I drifted into a dream where I was riding through a garlic field with Tom Rowan while Olivia walked behind us with a tape measure, staking out a parking garage.

"When Mrs. Laney deeded the eight hundred acres to

St. Theresa's," I said, "did she impose any restrictive covenants on the property?''

Sadie sat very still, watching me. Her eyes were bright. "What makes you ask that question?"

"Just a hunch." Helen Laney and Mother Hilaria had been determined women, and neither of them had trusted the Church. They would have tried to guard against every possible eventuality.

"You got good hunches." Sadie grinned.

I grinned back.

Sister Gabriella put down her coffee cup and stood up. "You two ladies finished your business?" she asked mildly.

"Just about." Sadie looked at her watch. "What time's lunch?"

"Same time as always," Gabriella said.

"Probably same garbage, too," Sadie replied tartly. "Glad to hear Margaret Mary's decided to come back. Make it worthwhile to drive over here for Sunday dinner." She put both feet on the floor and glanced at me. "You want to have a look at that property deed sometime soon?''

"Do you have a copy?"

"Yep. How about this afternoon?"

I thought. I'd agreed to talk to John Roberta at one-thirty, I had to find Olivia, and I needed to put in a call to DWight's probation officer. "How about tomorrow morning? Around ten-thirty?"

"That'll do," Sadie said. She hoisted herself out of her chair.

I stood too. There was one other question on my mind. "The Reverend Mother General who heads up the order now-is she the same one who was there when the deed was executed?"

Sadie shook her head.

"Do you know whether she's looked at the deed?"