Rueful Death (5 page)

I glanced over my shoulder at Maggie. She was taking in the landscape hungrily, as if she were starved for the sight of it. She let her breath escape in a long sigh.

"I feel like Eve being let back into the Garden," she

said as Ruby drove through the gate. "I knew I missed it. I just didn't know how much."

Dominica touched her hand. "Why don't you come back?"

"Maybe I will," Maggie said.

"No kidding?" Ruby asked, startled. I was surprised, too, but not as much as I might have been yesterday. All during the drive, I had sensed some sort of purpose in her. Perhaps this was it.

"I've considered it," Maggie said. Her voice was low. She was looking out the window. "More than once."

Ruby glanced up at her in the rearview mirror. "If you did, you'd swing the election."

"That's right," Dominica said excitedly. "It would be twenty-one to twenty. Do it, Maggie! We could elect Ga-briella and raise garlic for the rest of our lives and I could stop putting all those stupid biscuits into the computer."

Maggie frowned. "Hey, come on, now! We're talking about a vocation, not an election."

Dominica shook her head. "Believe me, honey, if this election doesn't come out right, there'll be a lot fewer voca-Look out!"

Ruby locked the brakes and jerked the wheel hard to the right, fighting for control. The Honda's rear end skidded on the wet gravel, slamming my head, hard, into the passenger-side window. The little car rocked onto two wheels and nose-dived down a steep embankment, coming to a stop inches away from a twenty-foot drop-off above white-water rapids.

"Sweet Mother of God!" Dominica breathed.

"Is everybody all right?" Ruby cried anxiously.

"Don't move," I said, looking out the window. "We're hung up on a tree. If we come loose, we'll end up in the river." From below, we could hear the deep-throated noise of water tumbling over the boulders.

' 'What happened?'' Maggie asked in a half-whisper.

White-faced, Ruby was clinging to the steering wheel.

"There were big logs in the road," she said. "I was trying to keep from running into them." She looked at me. "What are we going to do?"

' 'Pray,'' Dominica replied promptly. She closed her eyes, clasped her hands under her chin, and began to mutter in a half-audible voice. I sat back, trying to get a fix on our situation. To my right, barely within reach, was a small tree. If I eased the door open, slid out, and grabbed for the tree-

"Hey, down there!" came a rough voice. "Y'all right?"

Dominica 's eyes flew open. "There, you see?" she cried triumphantly. "It works every time!"

The answer to Dominica's prayer turned out to be Dwight, St. T's handyman, who had just driven up. He clambered down the hill to survey our predicament, climbed back up, then came down again with a heavy chain. He fastened one end to the Honda and the other to his truck and snaked the car up the hill, the four of us still inside. I don't know about the others, but I felt very nervous while this operation was going on. I could imagine the weight of Ruby's Honda pulling the truck over the edge and landing us on the rocks, with the truck on top of us.

It didn't. When we reached the top and climbed out, I saw why Ruby had swerved. A dozen large logs were scattered at the entry to a narrow bridge, completely blocking the road.

Dwight was a dark, burly man with dirty brown hair, a scar on his stubbled jaw, and a crumpled pack of Camels poking out of the pocket of his plaid shirt. His GMC pickup had a rifle slung in the back window-a modified combat weapon, from the look of it, as macho as he was.

"Sure am sorry about them cedar posts layin' in the middle o' the road," he muttered. He dropped his cigarette and ground it out under his heel. "I was haulin' 'em out to where I'm buildin' some new fence. When I got there, the load was half-gone. Figgered I musta dropped 'em off the truck an' come back to see."

"That's okay," Dominica said. "We're just glad that

God brought you along when we needed you."

"Yeah. It was real lucky." Dwight's shrewd grin showed two broken, tobacco-stained front teeth. "You goin' to tell Mother Winifred 'bout how I drug y'all up that drop-off?"

She nodded, and Maggie said, "Of course. We're very grateful to you, Dwight."

"We sure are," Ruby said earnestly. "I hate to think how long we might have hung there on that cliff-
if
we'd hung there." She glanced down at the river and shuddered.

"Good," he said, and unhooked the tow chain. "Don't hurt none fer a man to be rekkanized fer helpin' folks out."

I frowned. Dwight had been there to help when the fires broke out, too. While we gave Dwight a hand with the fence posts, I wondered if there was any connection.

When the road was clear, we got back in the Honda. "How far is it?" Ruby asked nervously.

"We're almost there," Maggie said. We drove down the road a hundred yards, through an oak grove, and saw the ranch house ahead of us.

"That's Sophia," Dominica said. The house was a single-story, multiwinged building, large and sprawling. It was constructed of native limestone and cedar, with porches on three sides and a metal roof painted barn red. "It's the main building," she added. "The refectory and the kitchen are there, and Mother's office and the library and a couple of guest rooms."

"Sophia?" I asked, puzzled.

"You'll get used to it," Maggie said with a smile. "In most monasteries, everything has names-the buildings and the rooms, the paths, the gardens, even the trees. It's true here, too. That barn, for instance. It's called Jacob."

The picturesque red bam stood to the left of the ranch house. To the right was another long, low, stone-and-cedar building, with an addition built at right angles to it-Rebecca, according to Dominica, where the St. T sisters lived. She also pointed out Hannah, a dormlike brick residence

hall behind a clump of oaks, where the St, Agatha sisters lived.

"You're still living separately?" Maggie asked, surprised. "I thought you were all going to move into Hannah."

"Maybe that's part of the problem," Ruby said, following the long, curving drive around Sophia. ' 'If you and the St. Agatha sisters lived together, you might get along better."

"That's what Mother Hilaria said," Dominica said. "Just before she died, she reassigned us. But afterward, Olivia convinced Reverend Mother General that we ought to wait until her successor took over."

"That's unfortunate," Maggie said. "The longer the two groups are separated, the easier it is to stay that way, if only because there's less tension."

"Less tension?" Dominica shook her head. "Don't count on it. Even separated, we're at one another's throats. Figuratively speaking, of course. Although sometimes I wonder." Abruptly, she leaned forward and changed the subject. "Margaret Mary tells me you're an herbalist, China. What do you know about foxglove? I understand it's poisonous."

"You bet," I said emphatically. "It used to be called Dead Men's bells." The name was a reference to foxglove's bell-shaped blossom, as well as to the knell that was rung for the dearly departed. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I heard someplace that it can be confused with other plants. It affects the heart, doesn't it? Like digitalis?"

"It
is
digitalis," I said. Foxglove is a cardiac herb. It contains four glycosides, the most powerful of which is digitoxin, a stimulant that increases cardiac activity, causing the heart and arteries to contract and raising the blood pressure. Why was Dominica asking about it? "Foxglove is a lovely ornamental," I added, "but it shouldn't be used as a medicinal. There's too much danger of making a fatal mistake."

Ruby pulled into a parking lot and stopped the car. "We're here," she said, and opened the door.

I got out, intending to ask Dominica why she was so interested in foxglove. But I was distracted by two women who seemed to be having an argument a short distance away. One wore a navy coat with a gold cross in her lapel, a starched wimple, and a short veil. Her arms were full of file folders. The other wore jeans, a Cowboys sweatshirt, and knee-high rubber boots. She was pushing a wheelbarrow full of empty terra-cotta pots. Both had angry faces and set mouths. They were scowling at one another.

"Uh-oh," Dominica whispered as Ruby opened the trunk. "They're at one another again."

"Who are they?" I asked.

"That's Sister Gabriella with the wheelbarrow. The one with the file folders probably started it-she's Sister Olivia. Our next abbess, if Reverend Mother General has her way." Dominica sighed. "And she will, unless somebody does something to prevent it." She squeezed her eyes shut. "Please, God," she whispered urgently. "Do something!"

Given Dominica 's track record, I wouldn't have been surprised to see Olivia struck down by a bolt of lightning. Dominica opened her eyes. "Sometimes it takes a while," she said.

"My grandmother had an old saying," Ruby remarked sagely. "God helps those who help themselves."

Dominica considered this. "My grandmother had another. With the fox, play the fox." She narrowed her eyes. "There
must
be a way to get rid of her."

I get the jitters when people talk that way.

The argument ended, obviously without a resolution. Sister Gabriella turned on her heel and strode angrily away, pushing her wheelbarrow as if she were powered by the wrath of God.

Sister Olivia raised her head and saw us. The flush spread over her cheeks and her eyes became steely behind her gold-rimmed glasses. She marched in our direction, shoulders back, spine erect, with a look that reminded me of General Patton. But under her stiffness, I saw a deep hurt. Whatever she and Sister Gabriella had been arguing about, it had pained her. I wondered how much emotional effort it took to maintain the stern exterior that hid her feelings.

To Dominica, she said crisply, "Put your bag in your room and come to the office, Sister. We've fallen behind while you've been away." To the rest of us, she gave a thin smile. "Welcome to St. Theresa's. You'll need to check in with Mother Winifred. Her cottage is down that path." She turned on her heel and marched off.

Ruby raised her eyebrows. "Somewhat abrupt, wouldn't you say?"

"She's a witch," Dominica said feelingly, taking her bag out of the trunk. She looked at Maggie. "Ask Mother for

Perpetua's room, won't you? It would be wonderful to be close together. We've got so much to talk about. There are things going on here that you wouldn't-" She broke off with a glance at me. "We just really need to talk," she finished lamely.

When Dominica had gone off, Ruby and I followed Maggie down a gravel path that led past a statue of St. Francis, through a small oak grove, and across a grassy meadow bordered with weeping willows and cottonwoods. At the foot of the meadow I could see the Yucca River, a broad band of rippling silver glinting in the pale afternoon sun, and on the other side, the high south bank, a spectacular cliff festooned with ferns and rimmed with cedar trees. It was as lovely as a garden.

"The Townsend Ranch boundary runs along up there," Maggie said, pointing to the top of the cliff. She pulled her jacket closer around her and pointed in the other direction. "And that's the garlic field."

The expanse of rich brown soil, perhaps five or six acres, was sliced lengthwise by furrows of blue-green spikes, already a foot high. St. Theresa's famous rocambole, preparing to fling itself into another growing season.

It might be the last, if Dominica was right about the order's plans. St. T's had the beauty of a remote paradise, but it could be reached from either coast in a matter of hours. It also had a treasure chest fat enough to finance whatever the Reverend Mother General wanted in the way of a plush retreat center-if the Laney Foundation Board could be coerced into going along with the scheme. Not to mention an abbess-in-waiting who was eager to get started. Give Sister Olivia the go-ahead and three years to construct a small but luxurious residence and visitor center, a spa, golf course, and tennis courts, and every American bishop would be packing his golf clubs for a leisurely visit. Give her five years, a decent golf pro, and plenty of rain on the greens, and the entire Vatican would be here.

But all that development would cost something-and not

just money, either. I could imagine what this lovely place would look like in ten years. The garlic field would be gone, the flat, rich earth paved over for tennis courts and parking. The picturesque red barn would be replaced by an auditorium, chapel, and conference rooms, and the visitor residence would fill the meadow we were crossing. And the sisters could forget about their contemplative life. They'd be so busy tending prelates they wouldn't have time to pray.

I was considering this sad scenario when we turned a corner and were nearly run down by a wheelbarrow loaded with filled seed trays. Behind it was Sister Gabriella, moving with a fierce energy that suggested she hadn't quite forgiven Sister Olivia for whatever had sparked their argument.

"Whoops, sorry!" She dropped the wheelbarrow with a thud and pushed her windblown dark hair out of her eyes. "I should have been looking where I was-" Her tanned face broke into a smile. "Margaret Mary, bless you!" she exclaimed. "It's good to see you!"

Gabriella enveloped Maggie in a warm embrace, then turned to Ruby and me. As Maggie introduced us, she held out a dirty, garden-worn hand, her nails every bit as unspeakable as mine. I saw that her dark hair was liberally streaked with gray, and revised my estimate of her age. She was probably closer to sixty than fifty.

"When you get a little time," she said to me, "drop by my office in Jacob and let me give you a tour of our garlic operation." She paused, eyeing me. "Unless of course you're here to get away from herbs, in which case you probably don't want-"

"No," I said hastily. "It's the pressure I'm trying to get away from, Sister, not the plants."

Her grin was infectious. ' 'Lord knows, we all need to go over the wall every so often."

"You're questioning your vocation?" Maggie asked teasingly.

Gabriella's weathered face grew serious. "Only a fool doesn't question her vocation-minute by minute. And God's got plenty of fools. She doesn't need another one." She picked up the wheelbarrow handles, nodded a cheerful good-bye, and started up the path. As she went around the corner, she began whistling, "We're Off to See the Wizard."

We went in the other direction. As we walked, Ruby said, "Why in heaven's name don't the St. Agatha sisters vote for
her!"

"It's the vow of obedience," Maggie said. "Until a few years ago, novices were taught to obey their superiors whether they agreed with them or not. When you're trained to obey, questioning authority feels like you're questioning God. The St. Agatha sisters, especially the older ones, wouldn't even consider voting for anybody but Olivia." She paused. "And they're all older, come to think of it. When I was there a few years ago, I don't think I saw anybody younger than fifty."

We had reached a small cottage. Maggie was raising her hand to knock at the door when it was flung open wide by a tiny, stooped woman in a white blouse and trim navy slacks, less than five feet tall. Her darting eyes were an electric blue, and she had flyaway white hair and an elvish face. She welcomed Maggie like a long-lost daughter, and greeted Ruby and me with enthusiasm.

"Please, come in and sit down, all of you," she said, ushering us into the warm, cozy room. "Did you have an uneventful trip?"

"Actually, it was full of events," Maggie said wryly, and told her about our accident.

"We were lucky," Ruby said. "If the car had gone over, we might have been pretty badly hurt. Believe me, I was awfully glad to see your handyman."

"It was providential that Dwight came along when he did," Mother replied. She went to a hot plate and took off

a steaming kettle. ' 'You need a nice cup of peppermint tea to settle your nerves."

In a moment, Mother Winifred had poured our tea and settled us at a table in front of an uncurtained casement window which looked out over a square expanse of stonewalled garden. In the middle was a large circular bed, centered with a stone statue of Mary and divided into pie-shaped wedges by red bricks. Gardens are subdued in winter, but this one was still lovely. I could see the layered mounds of santolina, the silvery velvet of lamb's ears, and the stiff gray-green of lavender bushes, striking against the ferny green of tansy and yarrow and the feathery leaves of southernwood. And there was blue-green rue, a lively companion to a large potted rosemary that had been expertly trained into a neat, conical topiary. Nearby were several other untrimmed rosemaries, exuberantly green against the stone wall. In this part of Texas, they'd likely make it through the winter outdoors. Much farther north or west, it was another story.

"A pity the wind is so chilly today," Mother Winifred remarked. "Perhaps tomorrow it will be comfortable enough to walk in the garden." She looked out the window. "It looks a bit bleak now, but in the summer, it is really quite beautiful."

"Even in the winter," I said. "The design is classic."

The walled square contained five gardens, one in each corner and one in the middle. The corner to the right was the kitchen garden, bordered by mounds of thyme, with clumps of marjoram and parsley and sage in the center and a handsome rosemary at the back. One of the back corners was a fragrance garden, with old roses climbing against the stone wall. The other was a dyers' garden, with teasel- not a dye plant, actually, but used by weavers to tease fibers-and madder and woad, a sprawling, noxious weed that has to be carefully contained.

"The apothecary garden interests me most." Mother Winifred pointed to the fourth corner. "We have quite a

few medicinals. Peppermint for an upset stomach, catnip and chamomile for a sound sleep. As well as sage, foxglove, rue, comfrey, pennyroyal, feverfew-"

"Mother also has a stillroom," Maggie said. "That's where the sisters make salves and lotions."

"A growing number are interested in herbal medicines," Mother Winifred said. "I try to keep up on current research, and several of the sisters enjoy trying out old recipes. We have quite an extensive shelf of reference books, if you'd care to see them."

"I would, thank you," I said. "I'd like to see your still-room, too." It was pleasant to sit here in the warmth, sipping tea and talking about gardens. But there was something else to be done, and we might as well get to it. I pushed my cup away. "We ran into Deputy Walters in town," I said. "He told us about the fires. He also said you wanted me to look into them. Is that right?''

A look of consternation crossed Mother Winifred's face. "Oh, dear," she said. "I wanted to be the first to tell you."

So it was true. I sighed. ' 'The fires are the 'minor mystery' you mentioned on the phone?''

Mother Winifred fixed her bright, birdlike eyes on me. "I hope you'll forgive me, China. I've been duplicitous."

"If you don't mind my saying so, Mother," I said, "arson isn't a minor matter. Especially in a place like this, with so many people living so close together."

"You're right, of course." She gestured at a telephone on the wall. "The difficulty is that we have only two phones here-this one and the one in the main office in Sophia. They're on the same line. I needed to let you know that I had a special reason for wanting you to come, but I was afraid our conversation might be overheard."

"You thought someone might be listening? Who?"

Mother Winifred shifted uncomfortably. "Something troublesome and dangerous is going on here. I understand that you have been helpful to the police on several different occasions, and that you have a background in criminal law.

And since you wanted to make a retreat here, I felt you were the right person to help us."

Ruby leaned forward. " China is
very
good at solving mysteries. And I'm always glad to help." She made a face. "It's really too bad that I can't stay. If I hadn't already made plans-"

I shook my head. "What Mother Winifred needs is a trained arson investigator, Ruby. Someone who-"

"But it's not just the fires, China," Maggie broke in. She folded her arms on the table. "Tell her about the letters, Mother."

Mother Winifred shifted nervously. ' 'Yes. Well, the letters are really quite distressing. They have the potential to make a difficult situation much worse."

I took a deep breath. The matter was obviously quite complicated, but we had to start somewhere. "Let's begin with the fires, shall we?" I said. "I know something about them already."

"Of course. The fire in the craft room in the barn-that was in October-started with an electrical short. Dwight said he thought it was accidental, so after he repaired the short, I wasn't especially concerned. Sister Gabriella wondered whether there might be something more to it, but I'm afraid I rather brushed her suspicions aside."

"The second fire was at Thanksgiving?" Ruby asked.

' 'Yes. It had to have been deliberately set. A large pan of cooking oil was placed on the stove and the burner turned on high-something our kitchen staff would never
think
of doing. No one was ever in danger, fortunately. Our meal was over and the kitchen crew had finished. There was nobody in the building."

"Except Dwight," I remarked. I frowned. "And Father Steven. Is that right?"

She nodded. "Father Steven had been here for dinner. They were both outside, talking. Dwight smelled smoke and ran in and put a lid on the pot. There was ho actual fire damage, but we had to repaint the kitchen. The fire was

obviously deliberate. I thought we'd better have Deputy Walters take a look." She made a face. "For all the good it did us."

"Was Father Steven here when the fire started in the barn?"

Mother Winifred looked at me, shocked. "You're not suggesting-"

"I'm just asking."

She hesitated. ' 'Actually, I'm not sure whether he was here that day or not. Perhaps you should ask Gabriella. She might remember."

"But he was here the night of the chapel fire."

"Yes. It was Christmas Eve, and he was preparing to say Mass. That fire was also deliberate, I'm afraid. A candle was placed close to a curtain in the sacristy." Her face was distressed. ' 'We
must
identify the person who is doing this. She is mentally unbalanced. She needs help."

Maggie frowned. "Why does the arsonist have to be one of the sisters, Mother? How about Carl Townsend? I was in Mother Hilaria's office one morning when he stormed in, mad enough to throttle her. Now he's lost the battle over Mrs. Laney's will, and Mother Hilaria is beyond his reach. Setting a fire is the sort of thing he would do."

Mother Winifred was dubious. "I don't know-I mean, I really don't think…" She clasped her hands with a heavy sigh. "But I suppose anything is possible. Carl and Rena Townsend
were
here on Christmas Eve. Rather unexpectedly, too, I might add. Not at the other times, though. At least not to my knowledge."

"But there are two other Townsends." Maggie leaned forward. "How about Royce?"