“This section of the building is a mess. Are those mouse droppings? We’ll catch the plague. It stinks in here, too—like a shallow grave.”
“Bob, you’re such a wuss. Aren’t you at least curious about this part of the old monastery?“
“Frankly, I don’t care. The ceilings are low, and every time I go under a doorway I get spiderwebs in my hair. Check with the flashlight and tell me if that’s a spider crawling on my neck.”
“Hold still. It’s just a daddy longlegs. Here, I’ll brush it off. Now relax and help me look around.”
“Charlee, look around for what? You don’t even know what you’re searching for.”
“Sure I do. My manuscript and something ghostly.”
“Cut the crap. You’re just hoping to find something that’ll impress Rudd. But unless you find absolute incontrovertible proof of the afterlife, along with a notarized, signed affidavit from God, you don’t have a prayer. That woman’s cold.”
“1 don’t agree. Rudd represents Delancy and he’s on his way down. She needs new blood. That stuff Tim was spouting today about him getting away from commercial projects so he can write real literature is just bull. He used to make big money, but since his publisher stopped backing him with six—figure promotional budgets, his hardcover sales are in free fall. These days, he’s scrambling just like the rest of us.”
“Better to be a has—been than a never—was,” Bob answered. “But if that’s the way you feel, why on earth did you come to his workshop?“
“Duh. To network with his agent, Rudd. She’s a two—faced shark, but that woman is really good at what she does. She closed some really big deals for a couple of her clients recently. I want her to do the same for me.”
He laughed. “You’re talking fairy godmother time.”
“You haven’t read my manuscript.”
“I’m sure it’s the next Gone With the Wind—parts three, four, and five. Why is it so … thick?“
“What would you know? You write pamphlets. What, two hundred pages, barely?“
Bob groaned. “Look, I’ve had it for tonight, Charlee. It’s hot, dusty, and I smell like a middle-school locker room. I may never come out of the shower again. If you have a brain cell left, you’ll give up, too. This place is like a labyrinth. If we get lost, it could be weeks before anyone found us.”
“You’re such a weenie. It’s no wonder women today need romance novels to fulfill their fantasies. The last macho man in the world was John Wayne, and he died last century. I give up. Here, I’ll lead the way so I can fend off the predatory moths.”
“How noble—considering you asked me to come with you because you were afraid to roam around back here all alone.”
Sister Agatha heard the argument continue as they moved down the hall, and smiled. They had as much in common as fire and water, but she had a feeling that despite that, they were destined to become good friends.
On the spur of the moment Sister Agatha decided to take a detour from Ginny’s office and take a look around. Despite Bob’s protests about the dust and cobwebs, she loved the feel of this side of the building. It reminded her of the catacombs she’d always read about, minus the skeletons, of course.
Sister Agatha visited a few of the empty monks’ cells, then identified the infirmary from the original furnishings still there. She also found their scriptorium, although that particular room had not been outfitted for computers like the one at Our Lady of Hope Monastery. She was about to head back when she heard soft footsteps somewhere behind her. Regretting not having gone back for Pax, Sister Agatha spotted a black-and-white sketch of St. Michael the Archangel, God’s warrior, on the wall, and said a quick prayer. “Saint Michael, Archangel, defender in battle, be our safeguard.” Then, with a burst of courage, she stood at the entrance of the scriptorium and, in a loud voice, called out, “Who’s there?“
No one answered.
She didn’t like this at all. Sister Agatha hurried down the corridor with her flashlight on, but there was no one around. Then, for a brief moment, she thought she heard soft breathing sounds just beyond the next corner. Sister Agatha froze and listened carefully, but the sound seemed to have stopped suddenly. A cold chill spread through her. Without Pax, she felt exposed and vulnerable, especially knowing that a killer had struck recently less than fifteen minutes’ travel time from where she was standing.
Sister Agatha hurried down the halls, searching for Ginny’s office. Finding it a few minutes later, she unlocked the door quickly and went inside, latching the door behind her. Alone, her back against the door, she finally drew in a deep breath. Whoever had been out there had done a good job of frightening her—whether he or she had meant to or not. But now her own cowardice shamed her.
If she allowed fear to determine her actions, she’d fail. She was here to solve a mystery, because by using her talents she’d be giving glory to God and His Son. She had to stay focused on that. If she made an effort and refused to see her task in any other light, she’d succeed.
9
DESK LIGHT ON, SISTER AGATHA SAT DOWN IN FRONT of Ginny’s computer. It was different from those at the abbey, but had a similar operating system, so she was able to log onto the Internet quickly. A search on Tim Delancy revealed that he hadn’t had anything new published in several years.
Another search in a publishing database using Vera Rudd’s name showed that none of her writers were particularly well known—at least, Sister Agatha didn’t recognize any of the names, though as an extern, she had contact with laypeople, newspapers, and book displays in stores. She was fairly certain that none of Rudd’s clients were pulling down the advances and royalties that Delancy had commanded seven or more years ago.
Sister Agatha leaned back and stared at the screen, lost in thought. It was entirely possible that both Tim and Vera were in need of money. The fact that they were out here at a workshop in north-central New Mexico rather than meeting with editors and publishers seemed to support that theory. Their personalities didn’t quite fit in with that of selfless individuals anxious to share their expertise. But were they potential killers?
Hearing someone trying to turn the doorknob, she looked up. “Who’s there?“ Her heart was hammering but her voice was firm. If it was the person who’d followed her earlier, he’d find her in a very different frame of mind now. And ghosts didn’t need to use doors, so that notion could be ruled out immediately.
“It’s me,” a familiar voice said quietly.
She hurried to unlock the door for Tom—Sheriff Green. “Ginny said I might find you here.”
“What’s going on, Tom?“
“I wanted to compare notes. I haven’t made any headway today, either tracking down the thief or unmasking the ghost. And I haven’t been able to contact Sheriff Barela since the body turned up. Have you made progress?“
She told him what she’d learned about Tim and Vera, and then thought about mentioning what had happened to her in the hall before coming to Ginny’s office. But her earlier overreaction seemed silly now, so she decided not to bring it up. “I was just about to do a little more digging. This computer has The Retreat’s accounts stored in it. I saw them listed in a separate subdirectory that has accounting software. It might be important to know whether Ginny and Ernie have anything to gain by the thefts. I’m not exactly guilt—free on this, but I think I should take a peek.”
“The fact that Ernie was the one who first suspected the thefts and invited the professor here does tend to put him on the innocent list.”
“I’m going to take a look anyway.”
It didn’t take long to find out from the monthly account summaries that the Lunas were deeply in debt. “What really surprises me is that he still contributes so generously to the Church,” Sister Agatha said thoughtfully. “He doesn’t have the money to spare.”
Tom nodded slowly. “He may have other sources of income that aren’t reflected in The Retreat’s records—like a separate savings or investment account. But
whether he does or not, Ernie’s family has maintained that tradition of charity for generations, and it’s probably expected of him—a matter of pride, I guess. Not to do it, or to cut back, would mean admitting he can’t afford it, and I don’t think he’d ever do that willingly. But Ernie does seem to be spending a lot more than he takes in here at The Retreat, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where that’ll lead him sooner or later.”
Sister Agatha leaned back and studied the figures before her. “Do you think he could be orchestrating these thefts and selling the art to collectors, and his ’discovery’ of the thefts was just a way of directing suspicion away from him and Ginny?“
“I don’t think so. With The Retreat’s reputation at stake, and considering that the pieces themselves aren’t worth enough to set him up for life, he has more to lose than to gain.” He met her gaze and held it. “Now I need you to answer a question for me. Why did you lock the office door? Are you afraid of something? Do you think the person who killed Professor Lockhart is here at The Retreat?“
She hesitated, and before she could decide how to answer him, a knock sounded at the door. Sister Agatha quickly pressed a few keys and returned to the main desktop screen as Tom went to open the door, though it was now unlocked.
A moment later, Sheriff Barela came in, flashlight in hand. “I was walking around the building tonight, hoping to find clues among the art collection here that would help me solve Professor Lockhart’s murder. Ernie told me that Lockhart suspected a few of the works had been replaced with copies somewhere along the way. But it looks like I’m not the only one roaming around. What on earth are you two doing in here?“
“I came to use Ginny’s computer to check up on my monastery’s Web site. Sheriff Green saw me headed in this direction and decided to follow, wondering what I was doing,” she said, looking from Tom to Sheriff Barela. “Are law enforcement people always this nosey?“
Barela glanced at Tom, then both men laughed. “Oh, yeah, Sister. It goes with the job.”
“Don’t tell me. You two have decided that I’m the one playing ghost.”
“I don’t know about Tom, but I sure considered that possibility for a few moments,” Barela said, a twinkle in his eye. “But then I discarded it. I went to Catholic school. I’ve been programmed to think of nuns only in the best possible light.”
“They trained you well,” Sister Agatha said, and led the two sheriffs out of the office, locking the door behind her. As she expected, the two men accompanied her as she made her way to the library.
“What do you make of what’s been happening, Tom? Is there a thief and killer working here, or just ghostly pranks that are distracting me from the real crime? And how does an eight-hundred-page manuscript get lost in the first place?“ Barela asked as they walked.
“Beats me. That much paper isn’t easy to hide,” Tom answered. “Unless—and please don’t tell Charlee I suggested this—it has gone up in smoke in one of the fireplaces.”
“I’ve been thinking that maybe my old pal Ernie is trying to scare up some business with this ghost of his. I don’t think he realizes how badly this kind of thing can backfire. Before we have tabloids and ghost hunters descending on us, especially when we have a killer roaming the countryside, I’d like to debunk the entire thing. I don’t want wackos coming here to wander through our graveyards, trying to take ghost pictures and nonsense like that. A lot of our local merchants feel the same way. We’re a traditional, conservative, and religious community.”
As they reached the library, Tom glanced at Barela. “JB, what do you say you and I go have a few beers and tell lies for a while?“
“Sounds good to me.”
As soon as the two men said good night and walked off, Sister Agatha stepped into the library and closed the door. Alone, she sat behind the desk and rubbed her eyes. She was unhappy with tonight’s efforts. Despite some new revelations, she wasn’t working fast or efficiently enough, and if Professor Lockhart’s death had nothing to do with the thefts here, she was going off in the wrong direction just like Sheriff Barela.
Sensing her mood, Pax came over and laid his head on her lap. “Rest up, Pax, because you’re going to work with me later tonight.”
Aware that she had yet to say the prayers for Compline, she stepped out into the courtyard and found a comfortable place to stand out of the breeze. Alone out here, with a mantle of stars above her, she could withdraw spiritually and give herself to God. Making use of the light coming through the glass windows in the door, she opened the breviary and prayed, turning her heart and the trials of the day over to God.
Sometime later, as she finished the last canonical hour, she heard someone opening the outside gate. Tim Delancy walked casually into the courtyard and greeted her. “I didn’t realize this courtyard led back into the library. I sure hope I didn’t interrupt you, Sister. I thought I was the only one still up.”
“It is late,” she said, wishing all she had planned for the rest of the night was sleep. But she’d be patrolling the hallways later with Pax. “What brings you here?“
“I was just out exploring, tossing ideas around in my head, and I managed to come up with a new theory,” he said softly. “Would you like to hear it?“
“Ofcourse.” She sat down on one of the small wooden benches, and he sat on another one opposite hers.
“I don’t believe you came here just to go through the property the monks left behind, Sister.”
“Why on earth do you think I’m here, then?“
“I’ve done a little background search on you, Sister. There wasn’t much, but what I found was really interesting. When I first met you, I thought your name sounded vaguely familiar.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not Agatha Christie,” she said with a tiny smile.
He laughed. “Yes, I know that. But I did a search among the state newspapers. Several months ago, a Sister Agatha from a monastery near Bernalillo got a lot of press for helping the police shut down a pawnshop selling illegal merchandise. Then, it appears that earlier today, you found a body by the side of the road. Professor Lockhart, to be precise.”
She groaned. “In both cases it was all a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And about that article in the newspaper. I wasn’t part of the sting operation the police had going on.”
He nodded. “I know. I have a friend who works in Bernalillo, and I called her earlier to check you out. She gave me a different story. But I understand detective work is in your blood and you really helped the parish when a priest was murdered.”
“Of course I helped the parish. I’m a nun. It’s one of the things I do.”
“No, it was more than that, and I believe that’s why you’re here. You’re on a mission and it has something to do with the professor’s death. He was the curator of the museum that’s getting The Retreat’s art collection—which currently is Church property. What do you have to say about that?“
“Why don’t you come into the library and take a look at all the crates in there? That’s my mission. There’s more work in there than you can possibly imagine.”
He smiled, then shook his head. “I don’t buy it, Sister. You’re here as more than just some glorified librarian/historian.”
She looked at Delancy, forcing herself to meet his searching gaze with a steady one of her own. Tim was one of her prime suspects.
She had to try to defuse the situation with a little carefully chosen honesty.
“It’s true I like puzzles, Tim, so sometimes I stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. I was a reporter, then a journalism professor before I became a nun. My curiosity is as alive now as it ever was, so sure, I’d like to figure out what the deal is with this ghost. But my job is to sort through all those crates and see what needs to go back to the diocese, and what needs to be discarded.”
“So I’m supposed to believe that the reason you’re here has nothing to do with the church’s art collection?“ He shook his head.
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br /> Sister Agatha sighed. “My work here is really very simple. M31 life is not nearly as complicated as yours.”
He gave her a long, speculative look. “What makes you think mine is complicated?“
“You don’t have to be a writer to realize that any job that depends on satisfying the everchanging tastes of the public has to be a roller—coaster ride.”
“You’re right about that,” he conceded. “People believe that writing is just a matter of sitting down in front of a computer and typing out whatever comes to mind. If only it were that simple. Creating an entire book is very hard work, and it doesn’t end with the final page. Writing is a business, and we end up competing for virtually everything—finding a good agent, winning a slot on a publisher’s list, placement in prime locations inside bookstores, wholesale distribution, and a decent advertising push by the marketing department. You have to develop the hide of a rhinoceros in order to survive.”
“If you had to do it all over again, would you still have chosen writing as a career?“
He nodded. “I think anyone who’s ever made a living writing would tell you the same thing—we hate the business end of it, but we love the writing itself. Every time you begin a book, you’re exploring your imagination. You’re putting emotions on a page and touching the minds and hearts of people you’ll never meet, except through your work. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. But the path to success is a hard one, and by the time you reach the end of the road, you may not recognize who you’ve become.”
“But that can’t happen to anyone who’s well grounded. You have a firm handle on yourself, for example.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Tim said, shaking his head. “One of the first things I learned about writing is that you have to project confidence. You see, writers take the raw material that comes from their own lives and transfer that into their work. That makes them very vulnerable to critics—and the public.”
“Charlee sure has confidence in her work,” she said with a smile.
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