Hearing a sound from the back of the chapel, and aware that the scent of lilacs was still strong all around her, Sister Agatha looked around the screen and spotted a figure she hadn’t noticed before in the back row, hunched over one of the seats.
If it was the same person she’d seen in the hall, she’d lost her veil somewhere. This woman’s white hair gleamed in the glow of candlelight and Sister Agatha could hear her moving about,apparently searching for something on the floor. With her heart in her throat, Sister Agatha stepped around the screen. Not really sure whether the woman had heard her coming up, she coughed slightly.
As the woman straightened and turned to look at her, Sister Agatha saw her clearly for the first time. It was Mrs. Mora. Deep lines crisscrossed her face, but her eyes were alert. The woman smiled contentedly at Sister Agatha, totally at peace with herself. Her expression and her smile once again reminded Sister Agatha of Sister Clothilde.
“Either you came here to pray, or you’re lost, Sister,” she said, and extended her hand. “I’m Mrs. Mora. I dó general housekeeping here, and help with the meals. I couldn’t sleep, so I came to the chapel to pray the rosary. But I dropped mine.” She looked down at her feet.
“Can I help you find it?“ Sister Agatha asked, taking the opportunity to confirm that there was no trace of the lilac scent on the older woman, though a trace of fragrance still lingered in the air of the chapel.
Mrs. Mora bent down, then stood, holding up a pearl rosary. “Got it!“
“Maybe you can help me, Mrs. Mora,” Sister Agatha said. “I saw a woman in a long, old—fashioned dress and veil just a few steps from the library door. She was crying, so I tried to go talk to her, but before I could come close, she went down one of the hallways and I lost sight of her. Did you happen to see her come by here?“
Mrs. Mora sighed long and loudly. “You’ll never find that woman, I’m afraid.”
“What do you mean?“ she pressed. “Do you know her?“
“She’s our ghost.”
Sister Agatha suppressed a shiver. Clinging to logic, she shook her head. “No, this woman was no illusion or figment of my imagination. She was real.”
Mrs. Mora sniffed the air. “I smell lilacs. That’s her trademark,” she said and sighed. “I’m sure you saw our ghost, Sister. The description certainly fits her to a tee. Apparently she can seem quite real.” The elderly lady paused, then continued, “She’s never harmed anyone, but if she came by here, we better take a look around. She undoubtedly pulled a prank and left something behind that doesn’t belong here.”
“Like what?“
“It could be almost anything—a book, a glove, a tube of lip—stick, or even a newspaper. Look for something that seems out of place,” she answered. As they walked toward the entrance to the chapel, the lilac scent grew stronger. A moment later, Mrs. Mora pointed, “There against the wall, balanced on what used to be the holy water font. It’s the small basket we keep at the front desk with keys, glasses, and other items guests lose and our staff finds.”
“How could a ghost carry such a thing—and why would she want to pull pranks?“ The last thing she’d expected to see in the hallways at midnight was a woman wearing a costume and crying, and she certainly couldn’t buy that same ghost as a practical joker and petty thief. It made more sense to believe that Mrs. Mora had carried the basket here in a fit of absentmindedness, or intention-ally. Maybe Mrs. Mora was serving as a diversion for the art thief.
“I was skeptical too, at first. Then one night I saw her walking past my window. She’s real, believe me. I may be a little addled from time to time, but I know what I saw. I just wish she’d stop playing pranks. It upsets the Lunas. They’ve been kind to me—another employer might have already fired someone my age. They wouldn’t have said that was the reason, but they have ways of getting rid of someone like me. I owe the Lurtas, so if I could talk the ghost out of playing these pranks, I sure would.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to be going now. It’s past midnight, and I’ve got to try and get some sleep.”
“Do you live here at The Retreat?“
“Sometimes. Right now, it’s easier for me to stay here because we have so many guests, and breakfast is served at eight. Otherwise, I’d have to get up at five-thirty in the morning to make the trip here. I live on the other side of Las Vegas.” Mrs. Mora picked up the lost-and-found basket, then glanced back at Sister Agatha. “Come on, Sister. I’ll help you find your room.”
“Thank you. But first we’d better go get my dog. I left him in the library.”
“You have a dog? Here? I love dogs,” Mrs. Luna said, smiling broadly. “I used to have the sweetest cocker spaniel in the world...“
Sister Agatha nodded as Mrs. Mora continued to reminisce, sometimes forgetting what she was saying halfway through sentences. By the time they reached the library, she knew one thing: If Mrs. Mora was a criminal, she was a penguin.
Sister Agatha woke up the next morning at four-thirty. Although the bed and the accommodations were much more luxurious than anything she had back at the monastery, she’d found it difficult to sleep, even with Pax curled up at her feet. She’d grown too used to hearing Sister Bernarda’s snoring and Sister Ignatius’s frequent trips to the bathroom. And the habit of rising in time for Matins at five was thoroughly ingrained in her.
After washing up and taking Pax outside for a quick walk, Sister Agatha returned to her room and checked his water dish, then opened her breviary. “Father, let my prayer be heard in your presence.” As she began the liturgical day, she felt the power of the rituals that drew her spirit upward to God. No matter where she was, she belonged to God. She carried Him in her heart. And knowing He was there gave her courage to do the task at hand. Nothing was sweeter than knowing she worked only for Him.
Shortly after the sun had risen, Sister Agatha finished Lauds and her morning prayers. Picking up her shawl, she decided to take Pax outside again for a walk before resuming work in the library. She wanted to get to know The Retreat like the back of her hand. Light or dark, she was determined she wouldn’t lose sight of anyone she was following again—not a ghost, thief, or even a lost guest. As soon as possible, she’d ask for a small flashlight to carry with her, and she’d take Pax along from now on.
The lobby was empty, but she could hear voices from the direction of the kitchen and dining room, so she knew at least some of the staff had arrived. Standing by the front doors, she noticed that the locks could be opened from the inside by twisting the knob on the dead bolt, obviously a required safety feature of such a facility. It also meant that even with the building locked, someone on the inside could let someone else in. Whether that had any significance to the disappearance of the artifacts, she had no way of knowing yet.
Stepping outside, she noticed an early—morning haze. Here at higher altitudes, surrounded by forests, there was a lot more moisture available, even in a dry year. Every breath had the scent of pine, and the air was crisp and cool. It was the kind of morning Pax loved, and his nose was working overtime.
Hearing hammering in the distance, she walked toward the sound. She went through a wooden double gate and found herself in a courtyard much like the one outside the library. Against the far wall was a building that could have been a tack room, since it stood beside an old stable that was roofed over with corrugated metal and open to the interior of the courtyard. Beyond them, in the corner, was a large manure pile that had baked in the sun so long it had turned a silvery gray. She had no doubt that it was the world’s best compost by now, and was at least partially responsible for the quality of the grass around the gates. Pax took several deep sniffs, snorted, and looked away, his sign of displeasure, obviously.
Noticing that the hammering seemed to be coming from the building beside the stable, she entered through the open door and found Bill Miller standing beside the long workbench. The place now clearly served as a woodworking shop, replete with a table saw, worktables with clamps and vises, and dozens of ha
nd tools hanging from pegboard hooks. Bill appeared to be in the midst of nailing a flat roof onto a pueblo—style orange birdhouse.
Seeing Sister Agatha in the doorway, Pax standing at heel, Bill smiled and stopped his work. “Come on in, and bring your friend. Sister Agatha, right?“
She nodded.
“I thought I was the only early bird,” he joked, gesturing at the birdhouse. “Did my hammering disturb you and your dog—I forgot his name.”
“Pax. And to answer your other question, you didn’t bother us. We were already outside when I heard it. It’s nearly eight now, and after years of rising for prayers before dawn, I couldn’t sleep late if I tried. Habit,” she joked back.
Bill groaned, then tapped in a little dowel that would serve as a perch in front of the opening. “Sorry, Pax, it’s too small for a big dog like you, but what do you think, Sister? Is this a respectable enough residence for a bird?“
“If I were a bird, I’d be proud to live in it.”
He smiled. “It’s a gift for Ginny, Ernie’s wife. She feeds the birds every morning, and has been wanting a birdhouse that looks like an adobe home.”
“Well, you’ve done a great job.”
“Isn’t this an absolutely perfect morning?“ came a melodious voice from the entrance.
A tall, elegant woman with light brown hair and a gentle smile came in. Her smile grew even wider as she saw what Bill was working on. “Oh, is that for me, Bill? It’s so perfect!“
He handed it to her. “Think of it as an early Christmas present.”
“This is wonderful! Thank you very much.” Still smiling, she glanced at Sister Agatha and extended her hand. “You must be Sis-ter Agatha. I’m Virginia Luna. Call me Ginny.”
“It’s good to meet you.”
Ginny’s gaze drifted to Pax. “What a beautiful dog! I’ve never seen a white German shepherd.”
“I suspect that he’s got a little something else in his bloodline,” Sister Agatha replied. “Say hello, Pax.”
As she watched Ginny shake Pax’s paw, Sister Agatha was reminded of Gloria Green, the sheriff’s wife. Except for the hair color, there was a remarkable resemblance between them, but Ginny exuded an easy self—confidence that Gloria had never possessed.
“Now that our big stove is working again, breakfast should be more impressive than last night’s dinner. But I’d better be getting back to help,” Ginny said. “We serve the best huevos rancheros, Sister, so I hope you’re hungry. Glad to meet you, Pax.”
As Ginny walked away, still admiring the birdhouse, Sister Agatha’s mind drifted back to the crying woman she’d seen the evening before. Although the veiled figure’s head had been bowed, Sister Agatha was almost sure that she’d been about the same size as Ginny Luna. If only Pax had been with her, maybe he would have been able to keep up.
“You’re a million miles away, Sister,” Bill commented. “Shall we head to the main house? Ginny wasn’t exaggerating. Breakfast is fabulous here. There may even be table scraps for the big guy.”
Pax looked up at Bill, then back at Sister Agatha.
“We’ll see,” Sister Agatha said.
As they walked across the courtyard, a man wearing a baseball cap, tan slacks, a flannel shirt, and comfortable—looking hiking boots said hello and joined them. The path of pressed—down grass that led across the meadow showed he’d come from the nearby woods.
Bill introduced her to Paul Whitman, who seemed to be a bit older than Bill. “Paul’s here attending the communications workshop. But he’s also a frequent guest.”
“I work for the Forestry Service,” Paul said, extending his hand and shaking Sister Agatha’s as she introduced herself. He looked at Pax cautiously, then commented on his size and color.
“Were you three out for a walk as well?“ he asked, joining them but avoiding standing next to the dog. “I love early fall mornings in the woods. This is my favorite time of year.”
“Mine, too,” Sister Agatha answered.
Within a few minutes they arrived at the front door to the main house, and Bill led the way through the arched entrance into the large dining room. It was much brighter in here during the daytime, and Sister Agatha took a few minutes to look around. Everything was decorated simply, in the New Mexican tradition. The walls were whitewashed adobe, the floors brick. The only spot of bright color came from inside a large nicho that held a hand-carved nativity scene. Its bright colors were accentuated by the sunlight that poured through the open window.
Small, square tables were scattered around the room. And at the farthest end stood a buffet table filled with almost every breakfast dish imaginable.
“Have you met any of the other guests yet, Sister?“ Paul asked after Bill excused himself to go talk to Ernie Luna.
“No, not really, except for Sheriff Green.” Sister Agatha knew that she’d already been seen talking to Tom, so it would be better not to pretend otherwise.
“He’s in my workshop. He’s from Sandoval County, right?“
“I believe so,” she replied, wanting to make her connection with Tom seem as remote as possible.
“This probably won’t be the best time to talk to anyone for long, since we all have workshops starting right after breakfast,” he warned, “but let me take you around and introduce you to a few of the people I met last night.”
“Let me take Pax back to my room first. He drools.”
Paul laughed. “I’ll meet you back here in five minutes, then.”
When Sister Agatha returned, Paul took her to meet a large, middle-aged man in a faded blue blazer and turquoise-and-silver bob tie. He seemed as wide as he was tall. “Sister Agatha, this is Tim Delancy. He’s the author of several mystery novels set here in New Mexico. He’s hosting the writers’ conference taking place here now.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Sister,” Tim said, shaking her hand. “I saw your dog a while ago. He’s a beauty. Does he bite?“
“Only if I ask him to,” she replied.
The men exchanged glances, then laughed. “Good one, Sister,” Tim acknowledged. “I have an agent just like that.”
Sister Agatha studied the writer as they made small talk about The Retreat and its history as a monastery, which Delancy had apparently researched at one time. The man had a charming smile, but there was a wariness in his eyes that he couldn’t quite disguise. It was there when he looked at Paul, and when he glanced at the other guests. Despite an occasional humorous comment, he was keeping an emotional distance—being with the group, but more as an outsider or observer.
Sister Agatha had seen cops with that attitude, but usually they came across as cold and impersonal, and that wasn’t the case with Tim. She had never heard of him, although he apparently had been a writer even before she entered her order. She suspected that he’d had a rough time building his career. That could explain his wariness—if she was reading him right. Maybe that was the price pressure and disappointment exacted.
A vivacious young woman in her early thirties came up to them, smiling brightly. She had light brown hair and eyes too green to be real, probably a product of special contact lenses. Her exuberance told Sister Agatha that she was probably new at her job, whatever it was.
“I’m Charlee Lane,” she said, smiling at Sister Agatha. “I’m so glad to meet you. Maybe we could talk sometime. I’d love to know more about what a nun’s life is like. Maybe I’ll be able to use a nun character in one of my books.”
“Anytime,” Sister answered, but before she could ask if there was anything specific the younger woman wanted to know, Charlee strolled away to talk to Tom Green and his wife, who’d just come into the room. Today Tom was in his sheriff’s uniform.
“Well, I suppose that speaking to a sheriff is far more interesting than talking to a nun,” Sister Agatha said with a rueful smile. “Especially if you write mysteries.”
“Don’t give it another thought, Sister,” Tim said. “Charlee has the attention span of a housefly. If she could learn to
focus and maintain a little self-discipline, it would certainly help her writing. Her stories are just like her. They go all over the place.”
Sister Agatha watched Tim’s eyes as he spoke, and realized that Charlee’s writing wasn’t what was putting him in a bad mood. He was watching the well-dressed woman across the room who was chatting with Ernie Luna.
As Tim excused himself and left to talk to other guests, Paul followed Sister Agatha’s gaze and added, “That’s Vera Rudd, Tim’s agent. I’d introduce you, but I’d like to avoid her, if you don’t mind. She’s extremely pushy. Ernie showed her a short article I had published in a forestry department magazine on bear habitats and hibernation, and now she’s convinced that I can become the next James Herriot. It wouldn’t be so bad if she’d just take ’no’ for an answer, but she doesn’t accept the fact that I’m not interested. She says a forest ranger writing a suspense or mystery series that takes place in the woods would tap into some of the regional markets. I guess that means rural.”
“I think that part of her job is to turn noes into yeses.”
He smiled. “You’re just saying that because you’re a nun and you have to say nice things about people,” he teased. Seeing a few people leaving, Paul glanced at his watch. “The communications workshop people are leaving. I’d better grab a roll and a cup of Java and get going.”
As Paul left, Sister Agatha went to the buffet table, picked up a small plate, and helped herself to the huevos rancheros and a cup of coffee. Wrapping up a warm hot cross bun in a couple of paper napkins, she placed it in her pocket. It would be a treat for Pax, who was currently back in the room with only his kibble and a wa-ter dish.
Looking around for a place to sit, Sister Agatha decided to join the group of writers. There was an empty seat there, and since she’d been a journalist before becoming a nun, she wasn’t completely unfamiliar with their chosen profession.
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