Rueful Death

by Susan Wittig Albert

  "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 o
f 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.

  Father Steven began searching in the refrigerator and emerged with a pint of half-and-half. He sniffed it, made a face, and threw it in the garbage. "I doubt you'll discover anything about the fires. The arsonist is clever." He returned to the cupboard once more.

  "I was surprised to see you there," I remarked. "Wasn't it a little late to look for a book?"

  He shrugged. "Not really. I frequently suffer from insomnia, and when I do, I go for a drive. In fact, I was only a few miles from St. T's when I realized that I had left the book in the sacristy. I was just leaving when I heard the bell." He put a jar of powdered creamer on the table and sat in the opposite chair.

  I was watching him closely. His eyes were hooded, and the twist of his scarred mouth seemed bitterly sardonic. But that aside, there was nothing in his face that revealed whether he was telling the truth or not.

  I changed the subject abruptly. "Mother Winifred has also asked me to look into the five poison-pen letters."

  He pulled his brows together. "Five? Perpetua, Anne, Dominica, Miriam-" He glanced at me. "You know something I don't."

  Mother Hilaria received one as well."

  •"Hilaria?" The priest's surprise seemed totally genuine. I he were the letter-writer and this was an act, it was a good one. "What was she accused of?"

  "I can't tell you, because I haven't seen the letter. I can't:ell you what her penance was, either." 'Her… penance?"

  " "The letter-writer demanded a public penance of each of ±e sisters. Perpetua complied. The other three refused. Soon after, each of them lost something important to them."

  His eyes were watching me, unreadable. "You're suggesting that the letter-writer… that she is exacting a penance?"

  I nodded. "The only way to stop her is to reveal her identity." I gave him a direct look. "Do you know who she is?"

  "No, although I…" He shook his head. "What is said during confession is between the penitent and God."

  Client-counselor privilege. I knew all about it. I took the roster out of my purse and unfolded it. "I'm not asking for privileged information, Father. This is a list of the forty sisters at St. Theresa's. Can you point to any who might be able to help me?"

  He tightened his lips, and his mouth took on a grotesque twist. "I don't think so." The words came out almost in a squeak.

  I leaned forward, pressing the point. "I don't need to tell you how serious this is, Father. Someone who takes it on herself to write accusing letters and exact involuntary penance-she's playing God."

  The kettle began to whistle, and Father Steven got up and went to the stove. He came back with the kettle and splashed hot water over the coffee granules in my cup. He poured himself hot water, too, returned the kettle to the stove, and sat down again.

  "I suppose there are several who might help," he said

  with obvious reluctance. He took a pair of glasses out of his pajama pocket, put them on, and picked up the paper. "You should talk to Olivia. Rowena, Ruth, perhaps Rose. Yes, Rose-" He tapped the list. "Certainly John Roberta. And Perpetua."

  "Perpetua is dead."

  He blinked behind his glasses. "Yes, of course. Dead. That's too bad. She would have been willing to help you."

  "Did she know who wrote the letters?"

  He sighed. "She… made an accusation."

  "And you can't tell me whom she accused?"

  He took off his glasses and put them back into his pajama pocket. "What good would that do? She might have been mistaken. She was quite old. She was also a little crazy."

  But she might not have been mistaken. And now she was dead.

  "Who else has made an accusation?" I asked with greater urgency. Did John Roberta know what Perpetua knew? Was that what she had been so eager to tell me- and why she'd been so afraid?

  "No one." He stirred his coffee so furiously that it slopped out onto the already soiled tablecloth.

  And that was all I was going to get out of him. When I left a little later, he was standing in the kitchen, rubbing his wrinkled white toadstool of a head and scowling at the sinkful of dirty dishes.

  Chapter Eleven

  Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye pay thithe of mint and anise and cummin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law.

  Matthew 23:23

  Mother Winifred had given me a hand-drawn map that led me to the M Bar M, Sadie Marsh's ranch, a couple of miles north of St. Theresa's. I pushed the Dodge, but it was twenty to eleven when I pulled into the ranch yard and parked next to Sadie's blue Toyota.

  If I'd been expecting something like the Townsend plantation house, or even the more modest Texas-style ranch house at St. Theresa's, Sadie's would have disappointed me. The small frame house was weathered a silver gray that almost matched the gray of the metal roof. It sat in the middle of a square of unkempt, winter-browned grass. The yard had once been graced by a large tree, but there was nothing left of it but a sawed-off stump that served as the pedestal for a five-foot red windmill that turned creakily. Obviously, Sadie didn't care much for making things pretty.

  What did she care about? The answer lay to the right and behind the house: a large, new-looking barn with an attached paddock surrounded by a white-painted fence. The exercise and training area for the horses Sadie raised, I supposed. And beyond that, a much larger field, looped by more wooden fence. Expensive fence.

  The wind was blowing cold out of gray clouds, bringing

  with it needles of chilly rain. I pulled up the collar of my jacket and stuck my hands into the pockets. If it rained tomorrow, Tom might not want to go riding. At the thought, I felt a prickle of disappointment that caught me by surprjf e. Was I looking forward to it that much?

  Sadie opened the door at my first knock. She was wearing jeans and a red sweater and boots, and her steel gray hair was snugged back from her strong face with a red bandanna. "Glad you could make it." She motioned with her head. "This place is a bitch to heat when the wind's in the north. Com
e on-it's warmer in the kitchen."

  The kitchen floor was covered with scuffed gray vinyl, the wall over the sink was lined with open pine shelves stacked with crockery and canned goods, and the curtains at the windows were plain muslin. Pans and utensils hung on the wall over the gas stove. The only decorative touch was a red geranium blooming on the windowsill and a large Sierra Club calendar on the wall over the scarred pine table. It pictured two paint ponies running across a snowy meadow with mountains in the background. Through an open door I could see into a bedroom, the neatly made bed covered with a striped blanket, a dresser decorated with a lamp and a row of well-worn books between carved wooden bookends. Flannel pajamas and a purple bathrobe hung from wooden pegs on the wall. The house belonged to a ranch woman who didn't care whether her possessions were pretty as long as they did their job.

  Sadie had been working at the table. A sheaf of stapled pages was laid out there, next to a stack of posters advertising an organizational meeting for a local environmental group. "What would you like to drink? Coffee? Tea? There's peppermint, if you'd rather."

  "Peppermint," I said gratefully. I'd had enough caffeine to wire me for the whole day.

  She turned up the fire under the kettle. "I hear that you and Tom Rowan are old friends," she said.

  I glanced at her. It was a strange opening. "We knew

  one another in Houston," I said guardedly. "Eight or nine years ago." Who had told her? And why was it important?

  "Maybe you'll strike up the friendship again," she remarked.

  "I doubt it," I said. "I've got plenty else on my plate. And there's somebody else in my life."

  Did I imagine it, or was she relieved? "I'll get that deed," she said, and left the room. A minute later, she was back with a legal-size manilla envelope.

  The deed was dated twenty-five years ago, and began with the familiar know all men by these presents. It affirmed that, in consideration of the sum of one dollar, Helen J. Laney herewith granted, sold, and conveyed to the Sisters of the Holy Heart all that certain eight hundred acres of land more particularly described by metes and bounds as shown on the addendum attached, with the restrictions and upon the covenants, dedications, agreements, easements, stipulations, and conditions specified on the attached pages, et cetera, et cetera.