Delancy, already there, introduced her to Bob Becker, Dominic Davies, and Teresa Kelly, all mystery or suspense writers attending the workshop. She wondered if any of them had actually been published, but decided it would be tactless to ask. She’d find out soon enough.
When their conversation didn’t resume, she suddenly wondered if having a nun at the their table had inhibited them. She decided to break the silence. “I never would have believed a group of writers could be so quiet.”
Dominic Davies groaned. “Writers tend to be night owls,” he said, grasping his coffee cup with the fervor of a desert survivor clasping his first drink of water in days. “Mornings are brutal. Right now, the screech of a pen across a sheet of paper would give me a headache.”
Laughing, she turned to look at him. He looked like he had a terrible hangover, and his rumpled slacks and pullover sweater looked like they’d been slept in. “Cheer up. There’s plenty of coffee left.”
Dominic had a round face, bright blue eyes, and long, pale blond hair. He also carried at least fifty pounds more than he should have. “At the monastery we consider this early afternoon,” she teased, and was rewarded when he cringed.
Bob Becker was a very tall, lanky man with thinning black hair and round glasses with wire rims. He was wearing an oxford dress shirt and black slacks, but no tie. He looked detached as his gaze wandered around the room. She had the distinct impression that his mind was off somewhere, daydreaming.
Teresa Kelly saw her watching Bob and leaned over. “He’s always like that. He’s been plotting his next book this entire week. Bob thrives on deadlines. Most of us like to take a break between projects, but to him writing is as necessary as eating.”
Sister Agatha turned and smiled at her. Teresa looked to be in her midthirties, with shoulder—length black hair and dark brown eyes. She was petite and had a pretty, delicate face. “I gather you’re more laid—back with your writing schedule?“ Sister Agatha noted her expensive, stylish wool—blend suit. Teresa was either very well paid or spent most of her income on clothes.
“When I’m on a project I’m very professional about deadlines, but I take time to live my life, too. Fortunately, my parents left me a small trust fund, and I don’t have to depend on my work to pay the bills. That’s where it gets tough for many writers—the uncertainty of it all can really drive you crazy. Literally. There was a study that claimed that highly creative people—writers, artists, and musicians—were prone to mental disorders.”
“I wonder how the study defined ’mental disorders,’“ Sister Agatha said. “People with regimented thought processes often have trouble explaining and understanding creativity and imagination in others. I wouldn’t pay too much attention to it.”
As she looked around the room, Sister Agatha decided to test people’s reaction to her ghostly experience last night. “This has to be the perfect place to stir a writer’s imagination. If I could write more than a ’to do’ list, I would have certainly come up with a story about the mysterious woman I ran into last night.” Sister Agatha told Teresa about the figure she’d seen in the hallway, and by the time she finished, all the others were listening, too.
Bob smiled. “I’m dying of envy here, Sister. I’d have killed for an encounter with the resident ghost. The only creatures of the night I’ve run into are two moths that flew in my open window last night.”
“She’s no metaphysical apparition, Bobby boy,” Dominic said. “It’s either a publicity stunt, a trick of the light, or just a vivid dream. Sorry, Sister, put me down in the skeptic column.”
“Dominic’s our Doubting Thomas, Sister. Or as some would say, one who’s imagination-challenged,” Teresa said, laughing. “From what I’ve heard, the ghost has been around, off and on, for years. The only thing I know for sure about her is that she’s said to be harmless. She plays pranks, which sometimes are a bit annoying to the victim, but other than that, meeting her is just another bonus for the paying guests.”
“Makes up a little bit for their depleted wallets,” Dominic added.
“Just out of curiosity, what was this otherworldly woman wearing?“ Bob asked.
“I’m not sold on the ’otherworldly’ part,” Sister Agatha said slowly, “but she had on a long, dark dress like what you’d see in an old Western movie. I didn’t get a very clear look, so I can’t be sure of the details because the halls aren’t well lit at night in that area of the building.”
“You weren’t supposed to get a good look, you know,” Dominic said. “That might blow her gig.”
“I hope she comes up behind you some night and grabs you by the shoulder!“ Teresa said.
Bob laughed. “Dom would jump right through the ceiling—or faint.”
“If everyone around here—well, all except Dominic the skeptic—accepts that she’s a ghost, has anyone found out who she supposedly was in life?“ Sister Agatha asked. “What’s her history?“
Everyone at the table stopped talking. The men looked at their plates and avoided even glancing in her direction.
“You don’t want to know, Sister,” Dominic said with a chuckle.
Sister Agatha caught Teresa’s gaze. “What on earth could be so terrible?“
“It’s just—well, you’re a nun.”
“I’ve noticed,” Sister Agatha said with a laugh. “But nuns don’t pop up out of a field fully grown. I did have a life before I entered the monastery, you know.”
Teresa smiled and then shrugged. “Okay. But remember, you asked.”
“Go on,” Sister Agatha encouraged.
“Long before a monastery was built on this land, there was a saloon in this meadow and mines and a mining camp in the nearby hills. The way I heard the story, the ghost you saw is supposed to be the restless spirit of the mining foreman’s wife. Her name was Juanita. According to local history, Juanita caught her husband making love to a local barmaid in the back of the saloon and tried to shoot them. There was a struggle for the gun and Juanita was the one who ended up dead. By the time the local sheriff arrived, the foreman had disappeared—along with the mine payroll and the barmaid.”
“So the foreman got away with murder, and now his victim roams the halls searching for her wayward husband,” Sister Agatha said with a smile. “I must admit, it’s a perfect ghost story.”
“The saloon burned down about a hundred and thirty years ago, but Juanita stuck around even after construction of the monastery,” Teresa said.
“Every old hotel and bed and breakfast has a tale like that to attract paying guests,” Dominic said.
“But this place offers more than a story,” Teresa answered. “A lot of people have reported seeing Juanita since The Retreat opened up to the public. Juanita’s old-fashioned clothing is what identifies her, and she’s also said to leave the scent of lilacs in her wake.”
“Well, if I see her again, I’ll suggest that she visit each one of you individually, preferably in your rooms late at night, and inspire you to do your very best writing,” Sister Agatha said, then excused herself to go check on Pax, then work in the library.
Sister Agatha didn’t count on getting lost. After making a wrong turn in the mazelike network of halls, she came across Ginny Luna, who was struggling to carry two paint cans, some brushes, and a tarp. Hoping for directions back to the library, she rushed to catch up to her.
“Can I give you a hand?“ Sister Agatha asked, coming up from behind and touching her shoulder.
Ginny gasped and dropped the rolled-up tarp and brushes. “Where on earth did you come from, Sister! I never heard you!“
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Sister Agatha said quickly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Virginia smiled. “I guess all the reports of a ghost around the place are getting to me. But you’re as quiet as a mouse. Were you walking on tiptoes?“
“No, not at all, but the soles of my shoes are made of hemp. Nuns have to walk quietly so we don’t disturb the silence of the monastery.”
Ginny g
lanced down at Sister Agatha’s alpargates, rope-soled sandals. “Wearing those, I bet you could even sneak up on a ghost!“
“Funny you should say that. I ran across a woman last night that some of the others are sure is your resident ghost,” she said and explained.
Ginny chuckled. “That sounds like Juanita, all right. Poor old girl! I bet you scared her silly. She must have seen your long habit in the dark and figured she’d run into another ghost.”
Ginny set the cans of paint down and stooped to gather up the brushes and tarp she’d dropped. Trying to help out, Sister Agatha took the cans of paint for her. “Let me give you a hand. Where to?“
“I’m on my way to a room down the hall and around the corner from the library. I’m doing some of the renovation work myself— not wiring and things like that—but I can paint as well as anyone.”
“From what I’ve seen, there are many rooms that still need to be renovated. This place is huge,” Sister Agatha said sympathetically. “Between taking care of the guests and working on the building itself, you must put in unbelievably long hours.”
“I do. I try to put the guests first, and work on the renovations when they’re busy in their workshops, or late at night when they’re all asleep.” She looked at Sister Agatha speculatively. “What’s really on your mind, Sister?“
“I was wondering if you’d ever seen the ghost?“
“Yes, quite a few times, actually, but I’ve reached the point now where she doesn’t frighten me anymore. I figure she’s got her own problems. As long as she doesn’t interfere with what I’m trying to do, I have no quarrel with her.”
“What about the things Juanita takes and relocates?“
“That’s a nuisance, of course, but it doesn’t do any real harm. It’s part of her charm,” she answered with a shrug.
“Do you think the ghost is responsible for stealing the retablo that’s missing?“
“Between us?“ Seeing Sister Agatha nod, Ginny continued. “No way. The ghost steals inconsequential things, Sister, not art. Ernie told me why you’re really here. I won’t tell anyone else, so don’t worry. But if you’re thinking that our ghost is no ghost, just a thief, I think you’re heading in the wrong direction.”
Moments later they stepped inside a small room that had obviously been one of the monks’ cells. There was a straw mat’ tress on a cot, but not much else except for the crucifix on the wall.
’Tm going to paint this room å sunny yellow. It’ll be much more cheerful, don’t you think?“
“If it were my cell, I’d like it,” Sister Agatha answered, setting down the cans of paint.
After getting directions back, Sister Agatha left Ginny to her work and went to rescue Pax from his confinement. Giving him the hot cross bun from her pocket as a reward for his patience, she watched him down it in one gulp, then took him for a quick walk on the grounds. When they finally arrived at the library, Pax took up his place before the fireplace, as he’d done last night, content to watch her work.
The second crate she opened was in better shape than the first. As she sorted through the contents, she found an old manuscript— a yellowed, dried—out journal left by one of the original band of monks who’d established the monastery. The accounts of day—to—day events made her realize that life here had been difficult right from the start. The fireplaces had backed up and pumped more smoke into the rooms than outside, and the roof had leaked despite constant repairs. Their small band had found their faith tested at every turn. Survival had required them to learn new crafts, and they’d become proficient at making icons and hide paintings in the old style. The sale of those pieces had brought in much-needed income.
Placing the manuscript aside carefully on a bookshelf, she worked her way through the rest of the crate, separating what would be discarded, like torn cassocks and frayed altar cloths.
After the crate was emptied, she padded the bottom and repacked the items that were worth keeping and sturdy enough tobe shipped. She kept the old manuscript out and several other leatherbound volumes, adding them to those she’d found in the first crate. Depending on their condition, she was prepared to hand-carry them home if necessary.
She’d been working steadily for a few hours when Ernesto Luna came in with a tray that held a cup of coffee, a sandwich, and a large soup bone. “How’s it going in here, Sister? I brought you some lunch—and a treat for Pax.”
“Thank you—from both of us.” She took the small tray from him and handed the bone to Pax, who’d come over, curious when he smelled the food. Offering Ernie half of her sandwich, she added, “Won’t you share?“
“No, thanks. I just had a bite in the kitchen.”
Suddenly aware of the downcast expression on her host’s face, she closed the library door and invited him to sit down. “What’s wrong?“
He took a deep breath. “I’ve got some bad news. You know that one of the bultos we have here is very special to the community because of all the miracles attributed to it,” he said, then paused.
“Our Lady of Sorrows? The one by the chapel? Sheriff Green , showed her to me yesterday.”
He took a deep breath. “It’s gone.”
5
ITHOUGHT OUR LADY OF SORROWS WAS KEPT IN A LOCKED cabinet?“ Sister Agatha said quickly.
“It was,” Ernesto said. “The bulto had to be kept behind glass because people kept wanting to touch it. It was always hard to say no, but I’d been informed by art experts that the oils from people’s hands would damage the colors. But the padlock we used on the glass door is gone, and so’s the statue. And no fake replacement was left to throw us off, either. There’s just an empty space.”
“I was walking around close to midnight, but when I visited the chapel, I walked right past the statue. Everything was fine. The theft had to have occurred after that.” Sister Agatha paused, lost in thought. “Have you had a chance to conduct a search? It’s possible this ghost of yours has moved up to the good stuff and is playing another prank.”
“I’ve tried to keep the disappearance a secret from the guests and staff, but Ginny and I have been searching everywhere since Eva, in housekeeping, discovered the buko was gone.”
“I know you don’t want to bring in the local police, but you might want to give Sheriff Green a photo of the bulto so he can pass it on to collectors, just in case somebody tries to sell it.” She paused for a long time before continuing. “When I was walking around last night, I only saw two other people about—The Retreat’s ghost, though I’m not really sure how ghostly she really was, and your senior housekeeper, Mrs. Mora.”
“The ghost would have no use for that bulto. Taking it is not a prank. So perhaps it is Mrs. Mora,” he said with a relieved sigh. “But she doesn’t have a key, which would mean it wasn’t just for—getfulness. She’d have to have planned it.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions. There could have been someone else around I didn’t see. Mrs. Mora and I left the chapel together—she showed me to my room. There’s no proof she returned to take the bulto, and she wasn’t carrying any burglar tools when she was with me.”
“You’re right,” Ernie said in a resigned tone. “And this just isn’t like her.”
“She’s very loyal to you,” Sister Agatha said, then after a brief pause added, “It’s possible someone saw us together and made a move on the bulto hoping we’d blame Mrs. Mora. Or that you’d blame me,” she said slowly, then added in a more positive tone, “But I have an idea that might help us find some answers. From now on, why don’t you let me use the library as my room? With the blinds on the windows, I’ll have my privacy and still be able to hear anyone moving in the nonrestored section of the inn, or around the display areas nearby. Since there are no guest rooms in use in this part of the building, the thief is more likely to pass through here. I’m a very light sleeper, and with Pax here, we can sniff out an intruder easily.”
“That sounds like a good plan. Are you sure you don’t mind?“ he asked.
/> “Not at all.”
As Ernie opened the library door and stepped out into the hall, a huge, longhaired white cat came strolling in.
“Well, hello. Where did you come from?“ Sister Agatha asked the cat, looking out of the corner of her eye toward Pax, whose ears had perked up.
Ernie also turned and looked at Pax, his eyes narrowed.
“I don’t think Pax will bother her,” Sister Agatha said quickly. “He was a police dog before we took him in, and he’s trained to remain stable around other animals. Do you think your cat will have a problem?“
“Truthfully? I don’t know. She’s not really mine. She belongs to this place.” Ernie stepped back into the library, watching for signs of conflict between the cat and dog. “She was here when we bought the place and has graciously allowed us to stay.”
“Does she have a name?“ Sister Agatha asked, laughing.
“We call her Carmen.”
Sister watched the cat stroll around the room majestically, tail in the air like a plume, taking stock of everything, especially the newly arrived crates. As she walked past Pax, she stopped, flipped her tail, and moved on as if he weren’t even there.
“I think it’s okay now,” Ernie said.
Bringing her thoughts back to the case, Sister Agatha turned toward Ernie and added, “Whoever is responsible for the thefts has exceptional timing, have you noticed?“
“Only too well, Sister. It always occurs when the building is all locked up and no one else is around. So either the thief is already inside, or we have a very skilled burglar who manages to avoid attracting attention—both coming and going.”
“He might have a partner inside—or a key,” she answered. “I think it’s time we made full use of Pax. I can keep him on a leash and walk around at night a few times after everyone’s gone to bed. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“No. I’ve heard about police dogs attacking suspects, then suspects suing the department. If you come across someone in the dark—a guest who couldn’t sleep, for example—and the dog gets away from you and bites that person, I could face an enormous lawsuit. I’ve got enough problems. I don’t need that on top of everything else.”
Thief in Retreat Page 6