Shortly before seven, Sister Agatha took Pax out for a walk, put him away, then returned to join Tom in the dining room for the evening meal. That’s when Ernie Luna finally caught up to them. “I see you two have had a chance to talk,” he said quietly.
“Yes, we have,” Sister Agatha said. “And Tom was kind enough to show me around a bit.”
Ernie sat down on one of the empty chairs, looking tired and sad. “Tom, would you do me a favor and show Sister Agatha the library? I promised to do that before dinner, but I’m tied up here with problems in the kitchen.”
“Sure. Be glad to.”
Ernie glanced at Sister Agatha. “I had one of my staff“ build a fire in the fireplace to warm things up in there for you, so it should be okay.”
“I’m sure it is. Don’t give it another thought,” Sister Agatha said.
“All the crates are in there,” Ernie added, “but there’s no telling what shape their contents are in. If you need help moving anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’d like to get that squared away quickly because we’re scheduled to start renovating the library soon. It’s a wonderful room, but much too stark for modern tastes. The monks lived an austere life, and our guests love the rustic feel—just as long as there are plenty of amenities,” he added with a smile.
Hearing his name called, Ernie turned his head and nodded to the man wearing the chef’s hat. “I better go see what’s going on. This isn’t the way we normally dine here,” he added apologetically, as he gestured at the cold cuts and sandwiches on their plates. “But we had a problem with the main oven. With luck, tomorrow we’ll be up and running again.”
3
AFTER THEY FINISHED DINNER, WHICH, THOUGH COLD, was a feast to Sister Agatha in comparison to her simple monastery fare, Tom checked his watch. “I better show you the library. Gloria will be back here soon and she’ll want me to socialize.”
“Your wife’s attending the workshop?“
He shook his head. “She and Ginny Luna are friends, and this was a great excuse for them to get together.”
They had just started to go down the hall when someone called out Tom’s name.
“Too late,” he said.
Sister turned her head and saw Gloria waving from the entrance to the dining room. Gloria was a tall, beautiful blonde, but despite her spectacular looks she’d always been extremely insecure. Sister Agatha, Mary Lambert back then, had known Gloria back in high school, a lifetime ago, long before she’d even considered the vocation that had become the focus of her life. Gloria hadn’t changed nearly as much over the years.
Although they’d been married for ten years, Gloria was still extremely possessive of her husband—to the point of obsession at times. Gloria rushed over and gave Tom a quick hug and kiss, then smiled at Sister Agatha. The scent of her expensive perfume reached Sister Agatha at about the same time as the gesture. “What on earth are you doing here, Mary—Sister Agatha? It’s certainly a long way from Our Lady.”
“It wasn’t my idea, I can tell you that,” Sister Agatha answered with a rueful smile. “But His Excellency, Archbishop Miera, sent me to examine and evaluate the contents of some crates the monks who used to live here left behind. Since our host is busy dealing with a kitchen crisis, he asked your husband to show me to the library so I can get to work.”
“You don’t need Tom for that. I’ve been there with Ginny lots of times. It’s easy to find. Just go down that hallway—but be careful, since that’s in the section of the building that hasn’t been renovated yet. The library is the third doorway on the left.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the directions.”
Gloria looked up at Tom. “Honey, there are some mystery writers I’d love for you to meet. Maybe someday when you stop being a sheriff you can take up writing. Think of all the stories you have to tell.”
“Gloria, get real. You know I hate paperwork. Why do you think I have a secretary?“
Gloria smiled. “You could hire out as a consultant to writers. You never know what opportunities could come your way. But first you have to meet them.”
She glanced at Sister Agatha. “Tom’s been here for hours, but even though I only arrived twenty minutes ago, I bet I’ve met more people than he has! He’s hopeless when it comes to networking, though I’ve told him a jillion times how important that is to his career. It’s a good thing I look out for him.”
“Go ahead, you two,” Sister Agatha said quickly, hoping to reassure Gloria that she had no desire to monopolize Tom. “I’ve really got to start working.”
“See you later then, Sister,” Gloria said, gripping Tom’s hand tightly as she led him away.
Sister Agatha watched them go off together, relieved not to have to chitchat any longer. Talking with Gloria was about as restful as strolling through a minefield.
Holding to that thought, she hurried back to her room, greeted Pax, then placed him on his leash and led him down the hall. When she reached the section being renovated, she noticed how much darker the corridor was. Candle sconces were on the wall, but they hadn’t been lit. She imagined they were there for effect, because there was electricity, even here. There were small night-lights spaced at regular intervals along the wooden ceiling. But she no longer felt the warm flow of air from the central heating, and the temperature dropped noticeably once she’d left the brightness of the renovated areas. This section of the old monastery stood as it had since the early 1900s. The air smelled musty, like a room whose windows had been kept shut for far too long. There was a different feel to the place here, too, and she was glad to have Pax by her side.
She quickly found the library door, letting Pax lead the way. As she stepped inside, she was instantly aware of how cold the room seemed despite the crackling pine logs and warm glow of the fire in the large kiva—style fireplace. She felt along the wall for a light switch, flicked it on, then took a good look around, trying to find the source of the cold draft.
Pax sat, sniffing curiously, and she followed the direction of his gaze. The wind was blowing through an open door leading to some kind of breezeway or internal courtyard. Releasing the catch on his leash so he could move freely, she let Pax explore while she crossed the room and pulled the door shut, latching the bolt.
Just as she finished, there was a knock at the hall door. Pax was too well trained to bark, but he came to stand beside her as Ernie entered carrying a small metal serving tray that held a steaming mug. A stick of cinnamon stuck over the rim. “Wow, it’s cold in here. Sorry about that! I left the courtyard door open a few inches, hoping to get some of the stale air out of here, but I forgot to come back and close it.” Taking a quick whiff, he added, “But at least it doesn’t smell so stuffy anymore. The scent of pinon from the fireplace is helping, too. This room picked up an odd, damp smell when we carted the crates in here.”
“I’m sure it’ll warm up quickly,” she said, taking the tray from him. “This smells wonderful.”
“It’s cider, made fresh from local apples-1 hope you’ll love it as much as we do. Sorry, I don’t have anything for your dog.”
“He’s fine. His food and water dishes are in my cell—room. I can’t let him get spoiled. We’ve already got more luxurious accommodations than we’re used to. Right, Pax?“
The dog cocked his head and looked at her curiously, and they both laughed.
“Sister, would you like some help rearranging things in here?“
She glanced at the crates, wooden handmade boxes with hinges and metal clasps. They varied in dimension, and the largest were roughly the size of steamer trunks. She was uncertain where to begin. “I’m going to start with that one,” she said, pointing to the trunk that took up the most floor space. “Would you help me move it out from the wall? That way I’ll have some room to lay things out.”
Despite the small dolly Ernie had provided, it took several minutes to move the crate to the place she had in mind, and it was heavier to shift than she had expected. Pax watched from a spot he’d found
in front of the fireplace and was no help at all.
“If you’re working late or starting early and you find you need help, ask for Bill. He’s always around somewhere in one of the main buildings. I don’t think the man ever sleeps.” Ernie glanced around the room, virtually empty of books although three walls were lined with bookcases. “You have no idea how much I appreciate your help, so if you need anything at all, just ask. But please guard the real reason for your visit here. I don’t trust our local sheriff, Joseph Barela, not to exploit our trouble here to his own advantage. I’m surprised he hasn’t started hanging around asking questions. He’s supposed to be investigating Professor Lockhart’s disappearance, and this was the last place the professor was seen, according to Barela himself.”
“What do you have against Sheriff Barela?“
“Barela gave me a real rough time when we were kids growing up around here. Of course, nowadays, JB is all smiles and hand-shakes, looking for photo ops and headlines. It’s no secret he’ll do anything that’ll help his career.”
“So you think he’d make your problem public?“ Sister Agatha asked.
“In a New York minute, Sister. I know JB’s going to run for office someday from the way he promotes himself. In all fairness, he does have a good track record for solving local crimes, but I’ve got my inn’s reputation on the line, and he’s got his own career, not justice, in mind.”
“All right. Thanks for the heads—up,” Sister Agatha said.
Luna nodded. “I just wanted to warn you, because JB’s going to be dropping by. The mystery writers have invited him to participate in their workshops and share his expertise. You might want to keep your distance if you happen to run across him. He’s very perceptive.”
“How long have the writers been here?“
“The workshop has been going on for a week and has another week to run. The people conducting it, Tim Delancy and his agent, Vera Rudd, have been here for two weeks already, planning and so on.”
“Were those two people were here when the first theft was discovered?“
“Yes, along with a few of the instructors leading the communications workshop. That group’s made up of county and state government administrators and supervisors. Bureaucrats,” he added, then glanced at his watch. “Several of them came earlier for a series of organizational meetings before the conference, which just started tonight. I’ll get you a list tomorrow. Meanwhile, if you don’t need me, I better be getting back to my guests. For about a third of them, it’s their first night at The Retreat.”
After Ernie left, Sister Agatha picked up the mug of cider, noticed that Pax was sound asleep before the warmth of the fire, then returned to the crate she’d selected to open first. Although it was only her cover, she’d still have to catalog the contents. Her hands felt stiff as she tried to flip open the catch, made tighter because of the warped, dried—out wood. After several attempts, she was finally able to open the lid. Inside, along with the musty smell of penetrating dust, were dozens of books, paper—and—cloth—wrapped objects, and sheaves of paper, perhaps manuscripts, held together with twine. She started at the top, unwrapping a leatherbound book that had been secured inside pieces of a torn cassock.
From the hand—lettered title, this was one of the accounting books kept by Brother Ignatius, the monastery’s cellarer, the monk in charge of all the order’s finances. Since there appeared to be only one volume, she figured it had been packed in this crate by mistake. She leafed carefully through the yellowed pages, sipping from the delicious cider as she studied the records.
Sadness and empathy filled her as she realized that the advancing age of the older monks had cut into their productivity and eventually into their ability to sustain themselves. Medical expenses had piled higher and higher, leading them closer to bankruptcy.
She thought of her monastery, Our Lady of Hope, wondering if that was to be their fate as well. They were down to nine sisters, and new vocations were as rare as hen’s teeth. In the last twelve years, they’d only had one postulant who’d, so far, remained with them. The secular world called out to the young too loudly these days.
Sister Agatha unwrapped the next bundle and found a half—finished vested bulto of Our Lady of Guadalupe. The statue’s dress needed repairs, and the facial features were not completely finished. She wondered if the monk who’d crafted it had lost heart, or if he’d passed on before completing the project.
Near the middle of the box she found two handwritten journals. The books were a chronicle of the monk’s everyday life and his quest to grow closer to God. Although this document had been written well before her time, some of the experiences the monk had described struck a familiar chord—his doubts about his daily assignments and his ability to perform them, and the constant struggle between the good he wanted to do and what he actually achieved.
Enthralled, she continued reading and time slipped by. When she finally stopped to take a break, she was suddenly aware of how quiet the building had become. The sporadic bursts of laughter and conversation she’d heard drifting down the hall had now stopped. The stillness matched the Great Silence after Compline, the last liturgical hour of the day.
Aware of how cold the room had become since she’d let the fire go out, she checked her wristwatch. It was almost midnight. By now she would have been sound asleep at the monastery.
There was a sound in the hallway outside, like footsteps, and she looked through the glass in the door. Someone in a long, dark dress or robe had just walked by. Was another nun here?
Sister Agatha stepped out into the hall, hoping to catch up with the woman and see for herself. Pax looked up, but she whispered “stay,” Pax, prowling the corridor in the semidarkness, would give anyone who didn’t know him a heart attack for sure, and there was no sense in alarming whoever was there.
Closing the door behind her, Sister Agatha started briskly down the hallway, which was much darker than before. She had just turned past the partition delineating the construction zone when she heard the unmistakable swish of cloth coming from somewhere behind her. Somehow she’d managed to pass the woman in the long garment. With only a few night lights glowing along the hall for navigational purposes, it occurred to her that this was a perfect time for Ernie’s thief to strike. Sister Agatha stopped and listened, then reversed her course and moved forward as noiselessly as she could. A heartbeat later, she saw a woman wearing a veil and a long dress standing near the closed library door—about thirty feet away.
It was nearly impossible to see anything clearly, but her clothing seemed hopelessly out of date. It looked like something out of an old Western—definitely not a nun. The dim light reflected off her shawl like flashes of light captured by a sliver of glass.
A shiver cascaded down Sister Agatha’s spine. Something was wrong with what she was seeing. The woman didn’t belong here. She was out of... time. Before she could utter a word, Sister Agatha heard the sound of a choked sob, then soft crying.
“Are you all right?“ Sister Agatha called out hesitantly. “Is there something I can do to help you?“
The woman turned her head to look at Sister Agatha, but the dark veil she wore obscured her features. Then, without a word, the figure hurried around the corner.
Sister Agatha went after her, but when she reached the corner, a long, dark hallway loomed before her. She called out, but only her own voice echoed back.
4
SISTER AGATHA STOOD THERE FOR A MOMENT, SUDDENLY aware of the strong scent of lilacs that filled that section of the hallway. It was nearly overpowering, and certainly hadn’t been there a few minutes ago when she’d left the library. Trying to make sense of what she’d seen, Sister Agatha went a little farther down the dark hall, feeling her way along the wall with an outstretched hand. The illumination from the low-wattage bulbs in the other corridor didn’t reach into this section of the hallway, and if the lighting had been added here as well, it wasn’t turned on. Then, as she followed the thick adobe walls to the
next corner, she saw a flicker of light beyond, and what appeared to be an open doorway.
She headed toward it and discovered she had come upon the hall cabinet that held Our Lady of Sorrows, from the opposite direction. The open archway was the source of the light. Moving through the opening, she found herself in a small, beautiful chapel. This room, which had a rich wainscoting of dark, reddish hardwood, had been cleaned and apparently restored rather than renovated. There were no pews. Instead, there were hand-carved wooden seats in five rows of perhaps eight. Votive candles flickered on the altar. Though no longer used to serve Mass, the small altar still held vessels and books necessary for the service and had several sacred images on display.
Two vested bukos flanked the altar—one of the child Jesus, and the other of Our Lady of Guadalupe. The statues, exquisite in form and detail, were vested in jewel-decorated silk garments that shimmered in the glow of candlelight. A few feet to the side, in a recessed area, was a large statue of St. Joseph as he was normally depicted in the Southwest, carrying the Christ Child in one arm and a flowering staff in the other. Sister Agatha recalled the legend that told of how when the Virgin Mary’s suitors had come to the temple and left their walking sticks near the door, St. Joseph’s staff had bloomed as a sign that he’d been chosen to raise the Son of God. A stand of votive candles at the foot of the figure flickered softly, casting dancing shadows around the dimly lit room.
There was a serenity here in the chapel that wrapped itself around her, comforting her. The spirit of the old monastery filled this chapel with its own sense of peace.
Remembering that she’d come looking here for the veiled woman, Sister Agatha searched the room, then went behind the altar and the reredo, the traditional Spanish altar screen. This particular example depicted a multitude of images in individual panels that were arranged in a painted framework of columns and moldings.
Thief in Retreat Page 4