Thief in Retreat

by Aimée; David Thurlo

  “Work is a four—letter word,” Carlos muttered under his breath, then walked over to a tray full of salt and pepper shakers and began to fill them.

  Sister Agatha picked up a wet rag and wiped down the counter without being asked. At first everyone remained quiet, but within a few minutes, their friendly chatter began again.

  “I say Lupe Mora’s the ghost,” the blonde with the mop said. “She wanders around, then forgets where she is. When I worked day shift, I found her lost in the hall one morning and had to show her the way back to the kitchen. My guess is that someone saw her wandering around those dark halls, got scared, and let their imagination run wild. Next thing you know, we had a ghost. Not many people would have admitted that they were scared wit—less by an old woman.”

  “Joani, you’re crazy. How on earth could anyone get Mrs. Mora mixed up with a ghost? She’s as solid as I am,” Dinah Leoni said. “And how do you explain that lilac smell?“ She looked at Sister Agatha and smiled. “If I were going to choose a good candidate for the role of ghost, I’d vote for you, Sister. At least you have the long dress, and your veil… well, in the dark it could be mistaken for a mantilla.”

  “True, but I wasn’t here when the ghostly visits started. Those date back a ways, unless you’re only considering the recent float-bys,” Sister Agatha replied with a chuckle.

  “You might have come here secretly before,” Dinah teased, then grew serious. “But I’ll never believe Mrs. Mora is our ghost.”

  Carlos nodded. “Yeah. She doesn’t smell like somebody barfed up a truckload of lilacs. Every time that ghost appears, I’m tempted to go out and buy a gallon of skunk de-scenter. If someone is playing ghost, we should be able to identify them because of that perfume. I doubt anyone could completely wash it off. But no one I’ve met here wears that scent.”

  “It’s possible it’s on the clothes, not on her,” Sister Agatha suggested.

  “Even so, some of the scent would get on her,” Carlos said.

  “One perfume can cover another,” Sister Agatha said.

  “Yeah,” Joani answered with a nod. “And almost all the women here wear perfume, especially the guests.”

  “We could start by eliminating the ones who don’t,” Dinah said. “Who around here doesn’t wear perfume?“

  Carlos smiled sheepishly. “Sister Agatha doesn’t.”

  Sister Agatha laughed. “Exonerated at last!“ Seeing Dinah preparing a tray of food, she added, “Who’s that for?“ With luck it would be for Bill Miller. She had a plan.

  Dinah shook her head. “It’s for our handyman, Bill. He lives in the small gatehouse.”

  “Why don’t you let me take it to him? You can finish up a few minutes earlier that way.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Sister,” Dinah said, handing her the tray. “But I should warn you that he hates interruptions. We usually just knock to let him know the food’s there and leave his tray on the front doorstep.”

  “Got it.”

  Picking up the tray, she stepped outside via the kitchen exit and set out across the grounds. With luck, this visit would give her some much-needed insights into The Retreat’s handyman. Recalling the words of St. Teresa, “Patience gains all things,” Sister Agatha reminded herself to take the investigation one step at a time. Trying to rush through everything just so she could solve the matter quickly would only muddy up the waters even more. Like the opening of a flower, some things couldn’t be forced.

  Sister Agatha walked across the well—lit grounds slowly, trying to balance everything on the tray. There was enough food there to feed a small army.

  The gatehouse was an adobe cottage that had been left the color of the earthen bricks used to made it, with wooden trim painted blue—that particularly vibrant shade that was popular in the Southwest because of legends claiming that it repelled evil spirits. She smiled, thinking that she had even better protection than that on a daily basis—the highest authority of all. The knowledge brought a prayer of thanks to her heart.

  As Sister Agatha approached the door, she could hear the sound of classical guitar music coming from within. She knocked lightly but remained where she was, intending to wait for Bill.

  A second later, the door opened and Bill reached for the tray. “It’s about time. I’m famished and—“ As his gaze left the tray of food and traveled up to her face, he stopped speaking abruptly. “Jeez, I’m sorry, Sister. I wasn’t expecting—“

  Sister Agatha smiled. “No problem. I’m just trying to make myself useful. Too much luxury can spoil a nun, you know.”

  Bill laughed. “Come in, Sister. I think you’ll like my place. It’s very spartan. A nun would feel right at home.”

  Sister Agatha studied the living room. There was a pine sofa that resembled a futon, plus a small television set on a matching end table. A large, well—used oak rolltop desk took up most of one wall. Beneath the window on the opposite side was a big pine table with a wooden stool before it. A few small jars of paint, brushes, and a half-dozen small carving tools and blades had been set out in an orderly fashion on the tabletop. In the center was a half—finished bulto.

  “That’s lovely,” she said, already noting that it depicted the child Jesus.

  “Behind it I’ll have a carving of the cross. I’m calling this piece Destiny“

  “I like it,” she said with a nod.

  She noted the relatively few tools and art supplies he had, and wondered if that was out of necessity or choice. “I’d love to see it once it’s finished, if I’m still here.”

  “It should take me at least another three weeks,” Bill said. “I’m slow. But I’ll have it ready for the show in Santa Fe, and that’s what’s important.”

  She watched him run his fingers over the bulto. He had an artist’s hands—long fingers that tapered gently, and yet gave the impression of strength tempered by a skill most couldn’t envision.

  “Are you looking forward to the show? I understand it’s your first big one.”

  He hesitated before answering. “I hate putting all my work on the line for one event,” he said honestly. “As an artist, I put my soul into what I do. But once my work’s out there, it’s at the mercy of critics, and some will spew venom on my pieces just to make their own tastes and preferences sound superior. It doesn’t take a lot of time or a sense of fair play for them to trash what you’ve put your heart into and spent months and months working on. Of course, after they finish, people look at the work with a jaundiced eye, even if the critic’s judgment is way out of line. If Hell has a hot spot, it’s reserved for critics.”

  “I’m sure unjust criticism can be heartbreaking,” she said softly.

  “It is,” Bill admitted. “But it’s the same in any creative profession. That’s why I feel so sorry for the writers in that workshop. The ones who’ve been in the business for a while, like Tim De-lancy, know that it’s a road paved with shattered dreams and broken promises, and there are always lots of corpses lying by the wayside. What feeds the dream that keeps artists coming is when one person makes it big. Others, encouraged by his success, try their luck, not realizing that even if they’ve got what it takes, they’ll pay their dues in blood.”

  “You were fortunate to be given a gift. No one said it would be easy after that.”

  He gave her a long look. “I suppose your life is even rougher. You don’t have any freedom as a nun.”

  “That’s not true. I’m doing what I want with my life. That’s as much freedom as anyone can ever have.” She looked at his tray. “You’d better start eating before it gets cold.”

  He glanced at the tray she’d brought him. “Care to join me for dinner? There’s plenty here and I’d be happy to split it.”

  “I’ve already eaten, thank you, but I’ll keep you company for a while.”

  “Then make yourself at home.” Bill pulled out the other kitchen chair for her.

  “Do you like working as a handyman?“ she asked, sitting down at the small table with h
im.

  “For now I do. Ernie and I go back quite a ways, and thanks to the flexible hours he gives me, I can make a living and also pursue my real work.”

  “What are your duties here? Are you involved with the renovations?“

  “No. This time of year I chop firewood and bring it in for the guests’ rooms. At night, I’m here to let in folks who’ve gone into town—usually Las Vegas or Santa Fe—and find themselves locked out. I also fix whatever needs fixing, unless it’s major plumbing or electrical work. For the most part, unless something breaks, I’m invisible to the guests. But I like it that way.”

  “But you’re an artist. What about the limelight?“

  He considered it for a while before answering. “My work speaks for me—let that have the limelight.”

  As they talked, Sister Agatha studied the artist’s home. There was nothing fancy here in the combination living room, studio, and kitchen. The furnishings, like his lifestyle, were simple, and none of them looked new. If Bill was the thief, he certainly wasn’t fencing the pieces and spending the money on luxuries, and if he was Lockhart’s murderer, it didn’t show in his demeanor.

  She glanced casually inside the partially open closet door. Inside was an open backpack stuffed with clothes, but there were only three items she could see on the hangers. There was an old but good suit—the one she’d seen him wear the night he’d come to dinner—and two dress shirts. On the floor she saw the boots that the ghost had supposedly stolen, and a cardboard box.

  “Do you ever sell any of your work to the guests? I bet some of them would be interested.”

  “It happens, but not often. Once in a while, Mrs. Luna sees something I’m working on and buys it for The Retreat. Have you noticed the hand—carved nativity scene in the dining room? That’s one of mine.”

  “I did and it’s beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Will you be going back to the main house right away?“ he asked as he took the last plate off the tray.

  “Yes, and I’ll be glad to return the tray and empty dishes,” she said, preempting him.

  Bill smiled. “That wasn’t why I asked.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll do it anyway,” she said with a smile. “But what were you going to say?“

  “I was hoping that you’d give Dinah the five bucks 1 owe her.” He reached into a canister and pulled out a large wad of bills.

  “Good heavens, isn’t that an awful lot of money to keep in here?“

  He showed her the canister. “What self-respecting thief would look in an empty lard container?“ he said. “I’m only letting you see it because, well, if you can’t trust a nun, who can you trust?“

  “Your banking secrets are safe with me,” she said, taking the money from him. “But you really should make it a point to go by a bank and deposit some of that cash.”

  “I don’t have a bank account right now. I’ve been burned a few times by bad investments, and I’ve decided that I’m better off han-dling my own money. Dealing in cash makes my life a whole lot simpler. If I need to have a check written for some reason, I give Ernie the money and he writes one for me. He’s a friend and I can always count on him.”

  Sister Agatha considered what she knew about Bill. His hopes and energies were tied to his upcoming show, and his lifestyle was modest. It seemed highly unlikely that he was the thief, although he was the only person she’d met here so far who had the skills necessary to make a passable art forgery.

  Making a spur—of—the—moment decision, she decided to bring up the topic of the missing art. Once the news of Professor Lock—hart’s murder—and his visit here just prior to that—became public, potential suspects would probably clam up, if they had any sense at all. The time for gathering information was at hand.

  “I spoke to Ernie tonight and asked him what he’d do if the ghost ever began targeting The Retreat’s real treasures. I think it’s just a matter of time before that happens, don’t you?“

  “We’re of the same mind, Sister. Ernie needs to put the valuable stuff away somewhere safe. I’ve spoken to him about it, but he won’t even agree to move them to a secure room at night. Ernie hasn’t said anything, but I know that one of the retabbs kept in a glass cabinet in the dining room disappeared, and now that bulto that’s so important to the community is missing, too. The story is that it’s being cleaned, but I don’t buy that.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “I know you can be trusted not to discuss this with the others, Sister.”

  He was either innocent, or extremely cool and calculating. She tried to keep her expression neutral. “Let’s both of us keep an eye on the art whenever we’re at the main house. Ernie’s been very kind putting me up for free while I go through what the monks left behind, so I’d like to pay him back by helping to protect his property.”

  “Ernie has done a lot for me, too, Sister. I’m happy to do whatever I can to help him.” He stood. “But now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work.”

  Sister Agatha picked up the tray and headed to the door. “Be seeing you, Bill.”

  “Take care of yourself, Sister, and watch out for the ghost on the way back. There’s no telling how she really feels about nuns,” he said, a subtle grin on his face.

  After a brief stop by the kitchen, Sister Agatha returned to the library. She spent the next hour cataloging the contents of a crate, then, hearing voices from the direction of the chapel, decided to take a break.

  Sister Agatha walked down the hall and found Dinah and Rita busy cleaning the stained-glass chapel windows. Hanging back and staying in the shadows, she listened to their unguarded conversation.

  “Have you noticed how polite Mr. Delancy is to ’Very Rude’ when they’re around the others, but when they’re alone together, whew, the sparks fly! I was picking up in the great room the other day and overheard them talking. 1 get the feeling that they really don’t like each other. The thing I can’t figure out is why they’re working together.”

  “For the same reason I’m working with you. I have to,” Dinah said sharply, then smiled to soften the impact of her words. “I’m just teasing. But stop calling her ’Very Rude.’ Her name is Vera Rudd.”

  Sister Agatha slipped away quietly. What she wanted to do now was try and find out more about Delancy and Rudd. The more suspects she could eliminate, the better her focus would be on those still on the list.

  Hearing a soft noise coming from one of the conference rooms she was passing, Sister Agatha peeked inside and saw Ginny Luna on a ladder, painting a design on the wall just below the ceiling. Sister Agatha stepped into the room to say hello, but cleared her throat first so she wouldn’t startle Ginny.

  “Can I help?“ Sister Agatha asked her.

  “Hello, Sister. Thanks for the offer, but I’m just painting in a design I stenciled on earlier. I actually enjoy doing this part. It helps me relax. Most of the guests have gone to their rooms for the evening. That’s why it’s so quiet, and what makes it the perfect time for me to get this work done.”

  “Quiet times are good. It’s the only chance we have to tune in to God and hear His ’still, small voice,’“ Sister Agatha said, thinking of how seldom she found true silence anywhere outside the monastery.

  “Personally, I want to lock up the knives every time I hear someone claim that God is speaking to them,” Ginny teased. “But then again, I don’t think God’s much of a conversationalist. You can talk to Him all you want, but it’s usually one—way, unless you’ve got a touch of schizophrenia.”

  “He’s never spoken directly to me, nor pointed me to the nearest burning bush, but we communicate just the same. I can live with that,” Sister Agatha answered. She watched Ginny work for a few minutes longer, then added, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, are there any computers with Internet access here at The Retreat?“

  “I didn’t think nuns ever messed with anything high—tech,” Virginia joked.

  “Actually, it’s as much a part of my life as it is anyone else�
�s. The scriptorium at our monastery provides services transferring documents, manuscripts, and art to electronic formats. It’s one of the ways we make our living. We also order supplies through the Internet, and have a Web site where we feature the quilts we sew to raise money. Sister Maria Victoria does absolutely spectacular work, in case you’re interested.”

  “I’ll have to look up your Web page.” Ginny reached into the pocket of her smock and brought out a set of keys. “Go down to the end of the hall, turn to your right, then walk all the way to the last door on the left. That’s my office, and the long brass key on this will get you in. I’ve got a computer, a combination copy machine, printer, and fax, and a phone in there. But there are a lot of renovation supplies crammed in there, too, so watch your step.”

  “Thanks!“

  Sister Agatha hurried down the hall, stepped around a screened partition, and reentered the nonrenovated wing of the building. The farther she went, the more the building resonated with the simplicity that had defined the lives of the monks who’d once lived there. The scent of incense still clung to the whitewashed walls, a reminder of masses and special celebrations long past. She stopped and took a deep breath. Here she felt at home. She considered begging Ernie to let her have a room in this section; then she re-membered the reason why she’d chosen to stay in the library. She was here to unmask a thief—who could be a killer as well—and the library was more centrally located.

  As she approached one dimly lit corner, she was surprised to hear familiar voices up ahead. It was Bob Becker and Charlee Lane. She stopped and pretended to be closely inspecting a landscape painting on the wall beneath one of the light fixtures while she eavesdropped.

  “What makes you so sure that whoever is playing ghost is hiding out on this side of the building?“ Bob asked.

  “It makes sense. There’re no workshops or sitting rooms in this section. No one’s ever around here except the owners and the handyman. Most of the rooms here have yet to be scheduled for renovation.”