Rueful Death

by Susan Wittig Albert

  root, and whether the plant could be confused with spinach."

  "With spinach?" I asked. "I don't know of any spinach varieties that have hairy leaves. What did you tell her?"

  "Someone came along at that moment and interrupted us. I don't believe I gave her an answer."

  Dominica had also asked me about foxglove, just a few hours before Perpetua died. But her question to me came long after the digitalis-if that's what had killed Perpetua- had already been prepared and administered. I was sure Dominica hadn't had anything to do with the old nun's death. Still, her curiosity about foxglove had to have been prompted by something. What was it?

  I went on to a different question. ' 'Did Doctor Townsend give you any reason to believe that he suspected digitalis poisoning?''

  "No, but he barely spoke to me." She sat down on a wood bench in front of the window. "I suppose Margaret Mary has told you about our difficulties with the Townsend family." At my nod, she added, "I'm afraid Doctor Town-send is more interested in causing trouble than in finding out the truth. We wouldn't ask him to attend our sisters if there were another doctor in this area."

  "But Townsend is also the JP," I reminded her. "If he wants to investigate a death, you can't keep him out of it."

  "I know," she said. "I just wish…" She laced her fingers together and looked down at them.

  "Well, if it's any comfort," I said, "he probably won't be doing the autopsy. I'm sure Carr County doesn't have the facilities to test for serum digoxin levels. He's likely sent the body to Bexar County-which means it'll be Wednesday or Thursday before there's any news." I stirred. I needed to add Dominica to my list of people to talk to, and Sister Rowena, the inftrrnarian. But first I had to deal with Sister John Roberta and Dwight.

  "I have to make a phone call later this afternoon," I said. "May I use the telephone in Sophia?"

  "Of course," Mother said. She stood up. "Or the one in my cottage, as you prefer."

  "The office phone will be better," I said. "I don't want to be overheard." I paused. "I need to talk to Dwight's probation officer."

  "Probation officer?" Mother was startled. "You mean. Dwight has been in prison!"

  "You didn't know?"

  She shook her head. "Hilaria must have known, but she didn't mention it. I suppose she thought the idea might make the sisters… nervous." She pressed her pale lips together. "What kind of crime did he commit?"

  "I don't know. I wonder-does Dwight have a personnel file?"

  "Yes. After you told me you wanted to search his cottage, I found it. There's not much in it, though. What did you discover when you went through his things? Do you think he might be our arsonist?''

  "I don't know yet," I said. I thought of the Camels and the rifle I had seen in his truck. "It does look like he's the guy who shot at me yesterday afternoon, though." I paused. "And I found Mother Hilaria's diary under his mattress."

  "So that's what happened to it!" she exclaimed. "But why would Dwight have taken a diary?"

  "Perhaps because he didn't want anyone to read about his continuing disagreements with Mother Hilaria. She gave him a raise, but he seems to have wanted a promotion."

  Mother Winifred stood and began to walk up and down. "He wants to be farm manager," she said. "He's asked me twice, and I turned him down both times. I'd no idea he approached Hilaria as well."

  "Mother Hilaria noted that he threatened her. Has he said anything to you that could be construed as a threat?''

  "Not exactly. But he has been rather forceful." She shook her head. ' 'Hilaria should have mentioned it, but she kept her own counsel about things like that."

  But Mother Hilaria hadn't kept her own counsel where

  the letters were concerned. Questioned Sr. O about Sr. P's letter. "If Mother Hilaria had needed to discipline one of the St. Agatha sisters," I asked, "how would she have handled it? Would she have spoken to the sister directly, or would she have asked Olivia to intercede?"

  Mother Winifred frowned. "Directly, I'd say. I don't think she was very fond of Olivia. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she didn't fully trust her."

  "When you went through Mother Hilaria's papers, did you find a poison-pen letter directed to her?"

  Mother's pale blue eyes opened wide in astonishment. ' 'To Hilaria? No, of course not! If I had found such a thing, I would have told you." She shook her head. "Her papers are in my desk. You can look for yourself."

  "Perhaps later," I said. "Have you had a chance to speak to the housekeeper about the hot plate in Mother Hilaria's cottage?"

  "I talked.to Sister Ruth this morning after Mass and told her you wanted to locate an item in the storeroom. She said she'd be in her room this afternoon. She lives in Hannah."

  "Thanks," I said. "By the way, have you seen Maggie?"

  Mother's smile lightened her tired face. "Margaret Mary is spending a day or so on retreat. I believe she plans to come to supper this evening, though." She glanced at me. "She's told you about her decision to return to St. Theresa's?"

  "Yes," I said. "I was a little surprised."

  "I can't say I was. I've felt all along that God wanted Margaret Mary to be here. I was delighted to learn that she has come to the same conclusion."

  "Of course," I remarked, "her coming will delay the election that would have taken place after Sister Perpetua's death."

  Mother's mouth pursed. "God works in mysterious ways, my child. Perhaps that's why He brought her back just now."

  "Perhaps." I glanced at my watch and stood. "Could I ■c that personnel file?"

  "Of course." Mother Winifred went to the door that led li the cottage, then paused. "Oh, I'm forgetting. Tom Rowan called just before lunch. He'll be here this afternoon:o discuss some financial business. He asked me to tell you that he'll stop by Jeremiah and say hello, perhaps about four."

  Tom?

  Mother didn't appear to notice the sudden flush on my cheeks. "He mentioned that you two were friends," she said, and opened the door. "He's a fine man, so attentive to his father. And quite attractive, too, don't you think?"

  "I suppose," I said shortly.

  Mother gave me a curious glance. "You've been friends for long?"

  "We knew each other in Houston."

  She walked across the room to an old walnut desk. ' 'His father was glad to see him come back, although I must say that the circumstances of his return were not exactly-" She unlocked a drawer and took out a folder. "But you probably know all about that messy business in Houston."

  I didn't. I wondered what it was.

  When I'd left that morning for Jacob and my meeting with Gabriella, I had locked my cottage and taken the key. To be doubly secure, I had pulled a tiny feather from my pillow and inserted it between the door and the jamb about four inches from the floor. A bit melodramatic, maybe, but when I now saw that the feather was still there, I knew that nobody had been in my room in my absence-or was there now, waiting for me. And that Mother Hilaria's diary was still safely hidden under the cushion of the chair.

  I glanced at my watch. It was almost one-thirty. While I waited for John Roberta, I lay down on the bed and went over Dwight's personnel file. Mother had been right-there wasn't much in it. A partially filled out sheet indicated that

  Dwight H. Baldwin had been hired in July, three years before. No prior addresses, no references, no next of kin or emergency phone numbers. If Dwight had had a life before he became St. Theresa's maintenance man, it wasn't documented here. Neither was his prison record. Maybe Mother Hilaria hadn't known about it when she hired him. Or maybe she wanted to give him another chance, and decided to act as if he were clean.

  I closed the file and glanced restlessly at the clock. It was one thirty-five and John Roberta hadn't shown up yet. By one-forty, I knew she wasn't coming.

  I frowned, remembering the Little nun's obvious anxiety. If I tell you what I know, she'd said, barely above a whisper, will you help me get away? And when I'd asked her what made her think she was in dange
r, she'd gasped something about Sister Olivia and Sister Rowena. What was it? Sister Olivia says we have to stick together. And Sister Rowena says if I tell, I'm being disloyal. They might-

  Might what?

  Had someone prevented John Roberta from keeping our appointment?

  What was it that she was so anxious to tell me?

  I stood, filled with determination and a new energy. She wasn't coming. There was no point waiting. I found the roster of sisters and put it in the pocket of my jeans. I had too much to do and too many people to see to waste time hanging around here. I needed to talk to Ruth about the hot plate, Olivia about her conversations with Mother Hilaria last summer, Anne and Dominica about the poison-pen letters they had received-and John Roberta, if I could find her. I also had a phone call to make, and Tom was planning to drop in.

  Tom. I ran a hand through my hair and glanced in the mirror to see whether I should add a quick shampoo to my list of things to do. The woman in the mirror was becomingly flushed, her lips were curved in an anticipatory smile, and her gray eyes were sparkling. I leaned closer, startled.

  Was this me?

  Was Tom responsible?

  I straightened up and turned my back on the flatter looking woman in the mirror. I had McQuaid and that ws enough. Tom Rowan belonged to a past that was over an done with. Over and done with, I reminded myself as closed the door and headed in the direction of Sophia.

  Over and done with.

  The monastery office must once have been a study. Thre walls were paneled in dark wood and hung with photc graphs of women in clerical dress, a gilt-framed oil paintin of an elegant-looking older woman I took to be Mrs. Lane] and framed certificates of various sorts. Floor-to-ceilin walnut bookshelves filled with heavy, intimidating vo. umes-the writings of the church fathers, probably-ra the length of the fourth wall. But the wine red carpet wa worn, the damask draperies were faded, and the desk wa a utilitarian gray metal affair like the one I'd seen in m barn, with a wooden chair. The sisters of St. Theresa too their vow of poverty seriously.

  As I looked around, I wondered how Mrs. Laney's for tune, which now belonged to St. Theresa's, would chang all this. If Gabriella became the next abbess, things wouli probably stay the same, judging from the simplicity of he corner of the barn. But what if Olivia took over? Woul‹ her office furniture be plain pine or rich mahogany? Wouli the floor be bare, or wall-to-wall sheared pile?

  But those weren't the questions I needed to answer, closed the door, sat on a corner of the desk, and dialed J. R. Nutall. It was Sunday, and I caught her at home, bakim a cake for her son's birthday. She listened to what I had t‹ say, agreed to confirm my story with Deputy Walters, aw phoned me back a few minutes later with the informatio! I requested.

  I wasn't surprised to learn that Dwight H. Baldwin hac spent four years as a guest of the State of Texas Departmen

  of Corrections, Huntsville Unit, Walker County.

  And under the circumstances, I wasn't too surprised when Ms. Nutall told me why he'd been sent there. His crime?

  Arson.

  Chapter Eight

  "Somebody told me it was some silly mistake the cook made. Brought foxglove leaves into the house by mistake for spinach-or for lettuce, perhaps. No, I think that was someone else. Someone told me it was deadly nightshade but I don't believe that for a moment because, I mean, everybody knows about deadly nightshade, don't they, and anyway that's berries. Well, I think this was foxglove leaves brought in from the garden by mistake. Foxglove is Digoxo or some name like Digit-something that sounds like fingers. It's got something very deadly in it-the doctor came and he did what he could, but I think it was too late."

  Agatha Christie The Postern of Fate

  Well. Now that I knew Dwight's criminal history, I didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that he was St. T's resident arsonist. In fact, I didn't know how Deputy Walters had managed to overlook him-unless the deputy suspected that Dwight might be the Townsends' hired torch, in which case the idea might not bear too much scrutiny.

  Dwight' s motive? It was possible, of course, that he had been hired by the Townsends. But his bank account and low-rent lifestyle didn't suggest that he'd earned any extra pocket money lately. Much more likely was the motive sug-

  gested by the entries in Mother Hilaria's journal. It wouldn't be the first time an employee sabotaged something just so he could repair it. Dwight had been Johnny- I on-the-spot at all three fires, proving himself an! indispensable candidate for promotion to farm manager. "Don't hurt none fer a man to be rekkanized fer helpin' folks out," he'd said after he pulled Ruby's Honda back! from the brink of disaster. Helping folks out? That was a laugh. I'd bet he spilled the logs there in the first place, just so he could "help out."

  I agreed with Dwight about one thing. He should get the credit he deserved for what he had done. Unfortunately, that might not be so easy to arrange. The evidence I had turned up was entirely circumstantial. Without physical proof of his guilt, Dwight would never be charged with arson.

  I did have the 303 cartridge and the cigarette pack from the cliff top, however. Tomorrow, I'd take them into town and leave them with Walters, along with my story about yesterday's shooting. With luck, one or both would yield his prints, which might persuade the county attorney to go I for unlawful possession of a firearm by a convicted felon and aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. Both were third-degree felonies that could get Dwight two to ten years and five thousand dollars apiece-plus the unserved time from his original sentence.

  But whether or not Dwight could be returned to jail, there would be no more fires. One of Mother Winifred's mysteries was solved. She could give Dwight his walking papers-and I could be forgiven a touch of pride at having wrapped up the investigation so quickly.

  Unfortunately, I wasn't going to unravel the mystery of the poison-pen letters quite so quickly. What's more, there had been two deaths at St. T's in the last five months, and both victims-Mother Hilaria and Sister Perpetua-had been connected to the letters. It seemed to me an ominous connection.

  I was beginning to feel uneasily urgent about talking to

  I:ia and to John Roberta, if I could find her. The clouds r^c blown away and the afternoon sun was warm when I kft Sophia and walked toward Hannah, a two-story build-zz bisected by a green-tiled hallway that ran the length of &e building. The only thing that kept Hannah from looking jie a college dorm was the absence of screaming girls Wishing down the corridor in various degrees of undress- md the doors. Every dorm I've ever visited was remarkable for the door decorations. These doors were blank. They *ore nothing but a name and a number.

  Feeling uncomfortable and distinctly out of place, I:hecked the roster I'd brought with me, located Olivia's door, and knocked. Then knocked again, harder. No answer. Olivia wasn't there.

  According to the roster, John Roberta's room was on the second floor, at the far end. Ignoring her instructions I climbed the stairs, found her door, and knocked. Again, no response.

  I was luckier with the housekeeper, who lived at the other end of the second floor. Sister Ruth was a soft, pillowy woman in her forties with a face as round as a full moon, a fractional smile that came and went nervously, and conscientious eyes magnified by thick glasses. She was dressed in a full, flowing habit with a rosary at her waist. She didn't invite me into her room, but through the door I could see that it had the bare simplicity of a monastic cell: a bed covered with a smooth gray blanket, a straight chair, a small chest of drawers, a desk, its surface immaculate. The walls were empty except for a picture of a woman bound to a cross on a heap of firewood, her eyes cast toward a dark and stormy heaven while a malicious-looking soldier lurked in the shadows with a flaming brand. Beneath the picture was a table with an open Bible.

  Sister Ruth walked fast for a woman of her girth. I followed her to Sophia, where she opened the door of a storeroom and pulled a cord, lighting a pale bulb so high in the ceiling that its forty watts barely brightened the gloom.

 
; "Mother said you needed assistance," she said. The words were carefully enunciated, the tone helpful. "What is it you're looking for?"

  "A hot plate," I said. I glanced around. All manner of things were stored here for future use, arranged in fastidious order on shelves that ran the length of the room. Sheets and blankets, pillows, towels, soap, toilet paper, cleaning supplies, flower vases, an ancient typewriter, a couple of lamps, boxes of lightbulbs. The monastery's quartermaster depot, organized with a quartermaster's skill and attention to detail.

  A distressed look appeared on Ruth's face. "Something's gone wrong with your hot plate? I'm so sorry. I inspected Jeremiah myself just before you moved in. I'm sure I checked to see that everything was in order." Her agitation seemed to be increasing, as if she were personally responsible for the failure of my hot plate. "I'm very sorry you've had a problem. If I had known, I-"

  I stemmed her apology hastily. "Pardon me, Sister. There's no problem with Jeremiah's hot plate. I'm looking for the one that was in Mother Hilaria's cottage."

  Sister Ruth blinked rapidly behind her thick glasses, seeming not to hear. "But if your hot plate is functioning, you shouldn't require another." She folded her hands at her waist. "Perhaps Mother Winifred did not explain our rule. Each cottage, you see, is provided with only one hot plate so that occupants cannot prepare meals in their cells. All of our residents are expected to dine communally, and the hot plates are meant only for the occasional cup of coffee or-"

  "Excuse me, Sister," I said. "I don't want to cook on Mother Hilaria's hot plate. I simply want to look at it."

  "Oh, dear." She gave me a nervous half-smile. "I fear I have misunderstood. And I very much fear that you and I have made an unnecessary trip. The item you are looking for is no longer in our inventory."

  "Did the sheriff take it?"

  "The sheriff?" She opened her eyes very wide. "Why should the sheriff want it?"

  "Then it was discarded?"

  She shook her head.