Rueful Death (17 page)

Townsend hesitated, as if
h%
were debating how to handle my question. But I was friendly and he was by nature a boastful man. He was also a man who enjoyed women. He moved his leg an inch toward mine. "So you've heard

what they're plannin' to do with the monastery on the other side of the river?''

I nodded. "The garlic farm, you mean?"

"That's what the nuns are doin' right now," he said. "But the head honcho of the order-she's out in El Paso- has talked to me about the possibility of turnin' it into a resort. Golf, tennis, swimming, conference facilities, even a heliport." He settled back comfortably and his leg came another inch closer. "Of course, she's thinkin' mainly about invitin' the Pope for a vacation, but I'm thinkin' about all those bankers and business types in Houston and Dallas." The smile showed more teeth. "Folks are tolerant these days. No reason we can't mix and mingle."

"Well, sure," I said. "And any kind of development out that way is going to enhance the value of the neighboring ranches. And I understand that vacation ranches are big tourist attractions these days. More money in that kind of thing than there is in cows."

"You bet." He was emphatic. "I tell you, the best is yet to come. This little town, it's gonna see some real changes. We're all gonna get rich." He waved at Bernice. "Hey, darlin', how about some of that black tar you're pourin'?" Bernice bore down on us with the coffeepot.

"And you're on the County Commissioners Court, aren't you?" I said admiringly. "With you behind the idea, the development will be a lot easier. You can push the highway improvements and handle the environmental stuff that usually gives developers fits. I'm sure there won't be any delays with you at the wheel, so to speak."

"You got it," Townsend said sunnily. "Fixin' to jump on it like a frog on a pond lily. Soon as we get word from the big chief nun that she's goin' to dump some dollars into the project." He circled Bernice's waist with his arm as she poured his coffee. ' 'Hullo there, Bernice. Been missin' me, darlin'?"

"Not too much, t' tell th' truth." Bernice wriggled out of his grasp and took a safe step away. "Say," she said to

me, "how you doin' out at the monastery? Got that bucket by your bed the way I told you?"

Townsend frowned. "Monastery?"

"You get tired of that nun-type food, you just come on in here and I'll feed you," Bernice said cheerfully. "Y'hear now?''

Townsend's warmth had cooled faster than a blue norther. "You're one of that bunch out there?" he demanded. "Why didn't you let on? You pumping me for information or something?"

I pushed my chair back and stood up. "It was really nice meeting you, Mr. Townsend. Sorry I can't stay to chat." I was just leaving when Stu Walters finished his phone call and strode back to the table.

But I didn't quite make my getaway.

"Hey," Walters said. He was grinning, not pleasantly. "You know whut, Miz Bayles? Turns out yer wrong 'bout Dwight. He didn't do it. He's cleaner'n a whistle. Like I tole you, it's gotta be one o' them nuns."

I stopped. "He didn't do it?"

"Didn't do what?" Townsend asked.

"What do you mean he's clean?" I demanded.

"What the
hail
didn't he do?" Townsend roared.

Walters gave his belt an uneasy hitch. "Set them fires at the monastery. Miz Bayles was hired to find out who done it. She fingered Dwight."

Townsend fixed his eyes on me, all geniality gone, a scorpion about to strike. "Who hired her?" he growled.

"The nuns," the deputy said.

Townsend's face was getting red. "Sheriff know about this?"

"Yessir, he does," Walters said uneasily. "He an' me, we figgered it couldn't hurt none, though. She wadn't likely to come up with anythin'." His grin showed a gold tooth. "We was right too. There was 'nother fire last night. An' Dwight, he was somewhere else."

"How do you know?" I asked.

" 'Cause that was Joe Bob on the phone jes' now." His voice was filled with triumph. "Joe Bob is the night-shift deppity. He picked Dwight up 'bout nine last night in Bimbo's parkin' lot. 01' Dwight was drank as a skunk, an' Joe Bob pitched him in jail to sleep it off. He's bin there all night. Fact is, he's there right now."

It was one of the more humiliating moments of my recent life. I had been so dead-set on proving that Walters was wrong and the arsonist wasn't one of the sisters, that I had violated a rule I had learned a long time ago: God will forgive you for fooling the judge and the jury. God won't forgive you for fooling yourself.

I got out of there as fast as I could. But when I reached the door I could hear Walters and Townsend guffawing. The sound was still ringing in my ears when I got to the Carr County Hospital, on the east side of town.

The hospital was a small, one-story building on the corner across from the elementary school. There were a half-dozen cars and pickups in the front lot, but no other sign of life. Inside, the small lobby was empty except for a fax machine, a phone, and a computer, angled so I could see the monitor. A yellow happy face was bouncing around the blue screen, urging me to "Have a Heart-Healthy Day."

I checked my watch. It was nearly nine, and mere were several more items on my list of errands. I didn't have time to waste. I went to the double doors at one side of the lobby, pushed them open, and walked down the empty hall to the nurses' station. I was greeted by a starched nurse in wire-rimmed glasses with the scowl of someone annoyed with the world in general and her corner of it in particular.

"I'm looking for a patient by the name of Sister John Roberta," I said. "She checked in yesterday afternoon. Can you tell me what room she's in?"

The nurse gave me a waspish look. "Patient location information is available at the lobby desk."

"I would have got it there if I could have," I said. "The

problem is, there's nobody at the lobby desk. Just a phone and a fax and a computer." Somehow, I'd thought that a small-town hospital would be more friendly than hospitals in the big city. I guess institutions are institutions, wherever you find them.

"Go back to the lobby and wait," the nurse commanded. "I'll get somebody to help you."

A few minutes later, a dark-haired young woman in a plaid shirt and denim wraparound skirt appeared, "Cherie Lee" printed on her happy-face name badge.

"Sorry," she said brightly, and set down a steaming mug of coffee. "We don't get a whole lotta traffic on Monday mornings. My cousin Alma stopped in-my mama's brother's oldest girl, who I haven't seen for months an' months-and I took a break. Who was it you was askin' for? We'll just have a look right here in the computer and-" She made an exasperated noise. The happy face had been swallowed by a blank screen. "Well,
darn
it. Wouldn't you just know? We're down again. Can I get you some coffee while we're waiting?"

The coffee-three ounces of a pale brown liquid that tasted like the water they'd used to wash out the pot-came in a white plastic cup. While I sipped it, I thought about what had transpired in the cafe a little while ago.

If it was true that Dwight had spent the night in jail, I had to eliminate him as an arson suspect. Of course, he still might have taken a couple of shots at me, but why? I was back to square one, with two big questions staring me in the face.

If Dwight hadn't set the fires, who had?

If Dwight hadn't shot at me, who had?

They weren't questions I was going to answer sitting around in the waiting room. I went to the desk and persuaded Cherie Lee to ask the starchy nurse to check the charge sheet. It showed that
Roberta, Sister John
had already been released-at 8:45 A.M., while I was talking to Carl Townsend at the cafe. When I spoke to yet another

nurse, the one who had actually overseen the discharge, I learned that die patient had left with a woman in street clothes. A nun? The nurse didn't know.

"I was worried about her," the nurse said. "She was crying. It's not good for asthmatics to be upset, you know. Emotional events are likely to trigger an attack. I wondered whether it was a good idea to release her, but Dr. Townsend had already approved it." She looked up as a man approached. "Oh, hello, Dr. Townsend."

Royce Townsend had none of his father's affability and good looks. He was round and short-shorter than I, and I'm only five-six-with brown hair and dark eyes, closely spaced. His upper lip was fringed with a sparse mustache and his chin receded behind a small, nattily trimmed beard. He wore a white lab coat, a stethoscope, and a pair of five-hundred-dollar eelskin cowboy boots.

"This is Ms. Bayles, doctor," the nurse said deferentially. "From St. Theresa's. She's asking about Sister John Roberta."

Royce Townsend, MD and JP, looked me up and down, and a furrow appeared between his eyes. "From the monastery?" His voice was surprisingly deep for such a small man.

"Yes," I said. "I particularly wanted to talk with Sister John Roberta-"

"You've missed her," he said brusquely, still frowning. "You aren't by any chance staying in the cottage by the river?"

"As a matter of fact, I am. Why do you ask?"

"Because I recognize you. You were messing around down at the river Saturday afternoon. I was having some target practice up on the cliff and-"

I sucked in my breath.
"You're
the one who shot at me!"

"I did not shoot
at
you," he said with some dignity. He balanced on the balls of his feet. "I was sighting in my new rifle and heard you screaming-your hysteria was quite unnecessary, I might add-and glanced down and saw

you." His voice became petulant. "I must say, Ms. Bayles, you were never in any danger."

"How was I supposed to know that?" I retorted.

He smiled thinly. ' 'My brother and father and I use that cliff quite frequently for target practice. I suggest that you stay clear of our range, particularly on weekends. I don't enjoy treating gunshot wounds, especially on my day off." He turned on his heel and walked away.

I was angry enough to go after him, but the nurse put a restraining hand on my arm. "It won't help," she said in a half-whisper. "He'll never admit he's wrong. Whatever you say to him is like water off a duck's back. Better just forget it."

Forget it? I wished I could. But it wasn't just anger that made my face burn. I knew now that I had been wrong on two counts. Dwight hadn't shot at me, and he hadn't set the fires. I had accused an innocent man.

Some detective I was.

Of course, Dwight wasn't innocent of the theft of Mother Hilaria's journal, I reminded myself as I parked the truck in front of Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church. But that recollection didn't do much to redeem my self-esteem. When I got back to the monastery, I'd have to let Mother Winifred know that I'd been wrong. Worse yet, I'd have to tell her that the arsonist was still at large. That was the worrisome part, of course. So far, the fires had been small ones, but what if a little fire got out of control?

And now tiiat I knew Dwight wasn't involved, there was something else I had to consider-a possible connection between the fires and the letters. The fire in the chapel had burned Dominica's guitar. Last night's fire had destroyed Miriam's painting. There was a link here, and it was on my mind as I went to look for Father Steven.

The church, which stood on one corner of the square, was a narrow, white-painted frame building with stained-glass windows down both long sides, four steps up to a pair

of double doors in front, and a steeple on top. I followed the path around the building to a gray stucco cottage behind a privet hedge. A ceramic goose planter filled with frost-killed marigolds sat by the front door, and on the grimy stucco wall beside the door hung a cross made out of cholla cactus. Under it was a handprinted sign with sloping letters that announced that Father Steven Shaw lived there. Father Steven, who had been present at last night's fire.

The priest still had traces of sleep on his eyelids when he answered the door. The ugly, wrinkled scar on his face extended up the side of his neck and across the left side and top of his head. His hair grew patchily, I guessed, and he had shaved his head bald. He was quite tall and very thin, almost emaciated. He was wearing a striped pajama top, drawstring cotton pants, and corduroy house slippers. Over his pajamas he had drawn the sweater he'd worn last night, which still bore the acrid odor of burning rags.

"China Bayles?" he repeated, when I introduced myself. He had a thin, high voice that sounded curiously off-key. He rubbed one eye with the back of his hand. "Oh, yes. China Bayles. You're the one Mother Winifred asked to look into the fires." His eyes narrowed. "Do you know what happened last night?"

He obviously didn't recognize the woman he had helped to pull the chair off the porch. "I was there," I said. And so were you, I reminded myself silently. You were present at all the other fires too.

"The whole thing is horrible." His nostrils flared. "I hope you'll be able to stop… whoever it is."

"I wonder if I might talk to you, Father. About the fires, and another matter."

He stepped back, reluctantly, I thought. "I suppose you'd better come in, then."

I followed him to the kitchen, where he motioned me to a chair at the kitchen table while he hunted for a clean coffee cup. He found one in the dish drainer, then ransacked the cupboard for instant coffee, which he finally

discovered in the refrigerator freezer. After another search, he located the kettle on top of the refrigerator and the matches behind an open loaf of bread on the cluttered counter. I was glad I'd already had coffee. It might be a little while before this cup was ready.

"Things are rather a mess," he said, striking a match under the kettle. "My housekeeper had her seventh baby on Saturday, and I'm eating my meals at Bernice's." He glanced at the full sink, and I could read the distaste on his face.

I was tempted to suggest that there were several surefire ways to ensure that the housekeeper was always around to cook and wash up, but my recommendations would almost certainly reveal that I was on the devil's side of the birth control question. I made a noncommittal noise.