If a man be anointed with the juice of Rue, the poison of Wolf's-bane, Mushrooms, or Tode stooles, the biting of Serpents, stinging of Scorpions, spiders, bees, hornets and wasps will not hurt him, and the Serpent is driven away at the smell thereof.
John Gerard The Herbal or General History of Plants, 1633
I had hoped to talk to Rowena after Sunday night supper, but she didn't appear. Maybe she'd stayed at the hospital with John Roberta. Dwight didn't show up-probably still in town. And Maggie wasn't there, either. Mother had said she'd decided to extend her personal retreat and was taking her meals alone. I was glad for her. Coming back to the inner life from the outer world was a major move. It was good mat she could settle into it at her own pace.
But Maggie knew the monastery's history, and I knew I could trust her. I wanted to get her opinion on some of the questions I was turning over in my mind. I needed to talk to her as soon as she surfaced again.
I ate quickly-the meal was tomato soup with basil, grilled cheese sandwiches, cabbage slaw seasoned with caraway, and a beautifully ripe apple-and went back to Jeremiah. After the day I'd had, I was ready to pamper myself. I lit a vanilla-scented candle, added lavender oil to a tubful of warm water, and climbed in. I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting the thoughts go, letting my body soak in
the lavender-scented silence. After a long while I scrubbed with rosemary soap and a loofah, relishing the gentle ras-piness. When I toweled off, I pulled on a pair of silky pink pajamas-how long had it been since I'd worn anything but a ratty old tee shirt to sleep in?-and climbed into bed with the Agatha Christie mystery Dominica had given me. The sheets were smooth, the light fell on the pages exactly the way I like it, and the cottage was so quiet I could hear the rippling murmur of the river not far from my door.
But my mind kept returning to the real-life mysteries at St. Theresa's, the plots of which had gotten considerably more tangled in the last twenty-four hours. With luck, I had managed to solve the simplest puzzle, the business of the fires. By tomorrow, the affair would be in the hands of the Carr County authorities and Dwight's plot would be closed out.
The other plot, though, was as mazelike as one of Agatha Christie's mysteries. I found a piece of scrap paper and jotted down its basic elements-the ones I knew about so far, anyway. The poisonous letters to Perpetua, to Anne, to Dominica and Miriam, and the letter to Mother Hilaria, missing and presumed destroyed. Mother Hilaria's diary, with its cryptic references to talks with Sister Olivia and Sister R. The bloody swimsuit had proved to be a red herring, but Anne's mutilated tennis racket and Dominica's burned guitar had yet to be accounted for. And Mother Hilaria's hot plate, missing since Rowena had inquired about it. I frowned. That hot plate bothered me. I kept thinking about Ruth's remark about the bare wires.
I reached into die drawer of the bedside table for the roster and wrote down the nine R names. I had already met three of them: Rachel, the sister who had deplored Perpe-tua's autopsy; the housekeeper, Ruth; and the elusive John Roberta. There were six others I hadn't yet encountered: Rowena the infirmarian, Rosabel, Rose, Rosaline, Ramona, and Regina. I felt as if I were snared in a sticky cobweb of Rs.
Muttering a curse, I stared at the list. Wasn't there a way to narrow it, or at least focus my efforts? I found the room roster and checked to see which ones lived in Hannah. Of the nuns I hadn't yet talked with, four were St. Agatha sisters: Rowena, Ramona, Rose, and Regina. I'd speak with them tomorrow.
And of course, there was the ubiquitous Sister O. I wrote the name Olivia and drew curlicues around it. I'd be waiting for her the minute she got back from her visit to the motherhouse.
And then, as an afterthought, I added Father Steven's name to the list. In his role as confessor, he would have talked to all of these women. The relationship between priest and penitent is as sacred as that between attorney and client, but he might have picked up something he would be willing to share. Anyway, I knew nothing about the man. Maybe he was a more significant player than I had imagined. Maybe-
I woke up with a start when my book slid onto the floor. I looked at the clock. It was only nine, but suddenly I was too tired to read. I had a right to be tired, though, and satisfied to boot. I hadn't learned as much about the letters as I would have liked, but I'd figured out the identity of the arsonist. By this time tomorrow, Dwight would be in Stu Walters's hands, and the deputy and the county attorney could figure out what they wanted to do with him. I slid under the sheets, turned off the light, and stretched out, feeling quite pleased with myself.
I didn't get to sleep long. I was awakened just before 10 p.m. by the frantic clanging of St. Theresa's bell-four hard clangs, a missed beat, then another four clangs. I jumped out of bed, pulled on my jeans and a sweatshirt, and grabbed my flashlight.
Halfway up the path to Sophia, sprinting, I caught up with Maggie. Her jacket was on inside out over her flannel pajamas, and she was carrying a small fire extinguisher.
"What's happened?" I gasped, tugging at her jacket. "Why is the bell ringing?"
"It's die fire bell!" she cried. She flung up her arm, pointing. "It's Sophia! It's on fire! Oh, God," she wailed. "We can't lose SophiaV
But when we got to the scene, along with a half-dozen other sisters, we could see that there wasn't much danger of that. The fire was small and confined to the porch. Someone had piled some rags-oily rags, probably-on an upholstered rocking chair. Lit, they had blazed up immediately. The upholstered seat had been harder to ignite, but when it did, it produced a pall of black smoke. It was the smell of something burning that had awakened Mother Winifred, sleeping with her window open-and it was Mother, still dressed in her long-sleeved, high-necked nightgown, a coat thrown over her shoulders, who had reached the bell first and sounded the alarm.
Gabriella ran into the refectory and grabbed a fire extinguisher. That, together with the one Maggie had brought, proved to be enough to smother the flames. By that time, all of the sisters had arrived on the scene and were milling around in nightwear, slippers, and coats. They were shivering with cold and apprehension, and their white faces were pinched and frightened. With them, surprisingly, was a man in his late sixties. He helped me drag the smoldering chair off the porch and into the yard while Gabriella emptied the extinguisher onto it. The man's skull was totally bald and the left side of his face was scarred so badly that his mouth had a permanently cynical twist. He was wearing a dark woolen sweater and a clerical collar.
"Father Steven!" Mother exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
He surveyed the ruined chair with distaste. ' T left a book in the sacristy this morning. It belongs to someone else, and I promised to return it. So I came back to get it-and saw this." His face twisted. "How can this be happening again? Someone must be… quite mad!"
There was a commotion among the sisters, and Sister Miriam pushed her way to the front of the group. "Look!" she cried in an anguished voice. "It's my portrait!"
Then I realized that among the charred debris were fragments of an artist's canvas. "Your portrait?" I asked.
"Of Mother Hilaria," Miriam said. Her voice was full of despair. "I worked on it for months. It was finished just yesterday. We intended to hang it first thing tomorrow in the chapel entry."
"Where was it?" I asked.
"In the hallway, inside Sophia," Miriam said. "That's where the rags came from, too-they're my paint rags. I put a box of them beside the door so they could be taken out tomorrow for disposal."
I'd been wondering why the arsonist had added Miriam's portrait to the kindling, but that answered my question. It made good fuel.
Mother put her arm around Miriam's shoulders. "I'm so sorry, my dear," she said softly. "But there's nothing you can do about it tonight." She raised her voice and spoke to the group. "We must all go back to bed, Sisters. The fire is completely out and there is no more danger."
"There is always danger where there is a disregard for the holy will." The thin, high voice belonged to Ruth. She was huddled under a heavy shawl, her glasses reflecting the last flickers of the dying flames. "No one among us is safe when-''
"That's enough. Sister." A large, heavyset woman with a determined face interrupted her. She put an arm around Ruth's plump shoulders. "We can't answer any questions tonight. We must all go back to bed-and pray for forgiveness for our sins."
But there was one question I had to answer. I looked around.
Where was Dwight?
The morning dawned bleak and chilly, with a strong wind blowing out of the north. I dressed in gray cords, a thick blue sweater, and a fleece-lined jacket, and headed for the parking lot to look for Dwight's truck. But the big GMC was still missing, as it had been the night before. My knock on Dwight's door went unanswered, again. When I pushed it open and went in, the cottage was empty.
"I have no idea where he is," Mother Winifred said when I caught up with her on the way to breakfast. Her forehead was deeply furrowed. "I know he left yesterday afternoon, because he waved as he drove past. Maybe he found out that you suspected him of setting the fires and ran away."
"If that's true," I asked grimly, "who set last night's fire?"
It was a crucial question. In each of the other three instances, Dwight had been first at the scene, eager to prove how handy he was by putting the fire out-but not last night. Last night, he was conspicuous by his absence. He hadn't been there.
Or had he? Had he discovered I was onto him, and changed his MO to confuse things? That was probably what had happened. He had merely gathered up an armload of the nearest fuel-Sister Miriam's painting and the box of rags that had fortuitously been left in the hall-dropped it into the chair, and touched a match to the pile. Then he stayed back in the shadows, watching us while we put out the blaze.
That was how I had settled it in my mind by the time breakfast was over and I found the truck Mother Hilaria had promised me, a rusty green Dodge four-on-the-floor that steered like a World War II tank and roared like a 727 under full throttle. I wasn't too happy with the explanation, but it fit the facts, more or less.
I drove into town and parked the truck in front of the sheriff's office, which was located in the basement of the Carr County courthouse. The office, painted institutional
gray and lit by flickering fluorescents, was manned by a frizzy-haired, bubble-gum-chewing dispatcher whose fuchsia lipstick was an off-key jangle against her fire-engine-red blouse.
"Depitty Walters?" She fished a pink Dubble Bubble out of her pocket and added it to the wad in her mouth. "He ain't bin in yit. Try Bernice's. That's where he us'ally hangs out this time o' mornin'."
Sure enough, I found Stu Walters at Bernice's, his boots propped on a chair. He was swapping cop stories with a couple of good old boys over coffee and the remains of a short stack, egg, and bacon. Grudgingly, he followed me to a table at the back, where the cigarette smoke wasn't quite so thick and we could talk privately. I grinned at Bernice, chic in a maroon I'm an Aggie Mom! tee shirt and tight white jeans, and accepted a cup of coffee. It was hot and black and bitter and I shuddered as it went down.
Stu Walters gave me a condescending look. ' 'Put hair on your chest," he said.
"Not on my chest," I said firmly. To the tune of Buddy Holly's "Peggy Sue," I reviewed the situation, described Dwight" s run-in with Mother Hilaria, and offered my take on his motive for the torchings-four of them, now. When I was finished, I handed over the evidence in two neatly labeled plastic bags.
"I'll be glad to swear out a statement on the aggravated assault charge, if you decide to go for it."
"Dwight?" he asked disbelievingly. He poked the bag with his finger, staring at the contents. "You're sayin' it was Dwight who set those fires?"
I nodded. "The probation officer said for you to call her if you've got any questions about his prior. It appears that he fell out with an auto mechanic in Fredericksburg and fired his garage-and just happened to burn down the senior citizens center next door."
"Sure coulda fooled me," he muttered.
"The only trouble is that I didn't see him around during
last night's fire," I said. "I figure he was probably back in the cedar brake, watching."
"Did ya see him this morning?"
I shook my head. "Could you track him down? And would you let me know when you and the county attorney have decided what to do about that assault charge?"
I was about to push my chair back when we were joined by a gray-haired, deeply tanned man in a dark sport jacket and string tie. He might have been in his sixties, but he was tall and lean and handsomely distinguished.
"Mornin', Stu," the man said.
Walters gave the man an uneasy grin. "Mornin', Mr. Townsend."
Ah. Carl Townsend, I presumed. I held out my hand. "Good morning, Mr. Townsend," I said pleasantly. "My name is China Bayles. I'm visiting out your way and drove past your ranch yesterday. Beautiful-a real showplace."
I was watching for a flicker of recognition when he heard my name, but I didn't see it. If he'd paid Dwight to take a shot at me, you'd never guess it from his smile. He took my hand, holding it a second longer than necessary.
"You like the place, huh?" He took off his hat, pulled out a chair, and sat down. His smile showed a lot of teeth. "We've put plenty of work into it."
The deputy was about to interject something-probably a remark about who I was-when Bernice yelled that he had a phone call. With a narrow-eyed glance at me, Walters left the table. Another piece of luck, I thought. I'd better take advantage of his absence.
"Yes, a great spot out there," I said. I leaned toward Townsend. "Perfect country for tourists. In fact, I hear there's some interest in developing the area. A retreat center, conference center, something like that?"
Townsend hesitated, as if h% were debating how to handle my question. But I was friendly and he was by nature a boastful man. He was also a man who enjoyed women. He moved his leg an inch toward mine. "So you've heard
what they're plannin' to do with the monastery on the other side of the river?''
I nodded. "The garlic farm, you mean?"
"That's what the nuns are doin' right now," he said. "But the head honcho of the order-she's out in El Paso- has talked to me about the possibility of turnin' it into a resort. Golf, tennis, swimming, conference facilities, even a heliport." He settled back comfortably and his leg came another inch closer. "Of course, she's thinkin' mainly about invitin' the Pope for a vacation, but I'm thinkin' about all those bankers and business types in Houston and Dallas." The smile showed more teeth. "Folks are tolerant these days. No reason we can't mix and mingle."
"Well, sure," I said. "And any kind of development out that way is going to enhance the value of the neighboring ranches. And I understand that vacation ranches are big tourist attractions these days. More money in that kind of thing than there is in cows."
"You bet." He was emphatic. "I tell you, the best is yet to come. This little town, it's gonna see some real changes. We're all gonna get rich." He waved at Bernice. "Hey, darlin', how about some of that black tar you're pourin'?" Bernice bore down on us with the coffeepot.
"And you're on the County Commissioners Court, aren't you?" I said admiringly. "With you behind the idea, the development will be a lot easier. You can push the highway improvements and handle the environmental stuff that usually gives developers fits. I'm sure there won't be any delays with you at the wheel, so to speak."
"You got it," Townsend said sunnily. "Fixin' to jump on it like a frog on a pond lily. Soon as we get word from the big chief nun that she's goin' to dump some dollars into the project." He circled Bernice's waist with his arm as she poured his coffee. ' 'Hullo there, Bernice. Been missin' me, darlin'?"
"Not too much, t' tell th' truth." Bernice wriggled out of his grasp and took a safe step away. "Say," she said to
me, "how you doin' out at the monastery? Got that bucket by your bed the way I told you?"
Townsend frowned. "Monastery?"
"You get tired of that nun-type food, you just come on in here and I'll feed you," Bernice said cheerfully. "Y'hear now?''
Townsend's warmth had cooled faster than a blue norther. "You're one of that bunch out there?" he demanded. "Why didn't you let on? You pumping me for information or something?"
I pushed my chair back and stood up. "It was really nice meeting you, Mr. Townsend. Sorry I can't stay to chat." I was just leaving when Stu Walters finished his phone call and strode back to the table.
But I didn't quite make my getaway.
"Hey," Walters said. He was grinning, not pleasantly. "You know whut, Miz Bayles? Turns out yer wrong 'bout Dwight. He didn't do it. He's cleaner'n a whistle. Like I tole you, it's gotta be one o' them nuns."
I stopped. "He didn't do it?"
"Didn't do what?" Townsend asked.
"What do you mean he's clean?" I demanded.
"What the hail didn't he do?" Townsend roared.
Walters gave his belt an uneasy hitch. "Set them fires at the monastery. Miz Bayles was hired to find out who done it. She fingered Dwight."
Townsend fixed his eyes on me, all geniality gone, a scorpion about to strike. "Who hired her?" he growled.
"The nuns," the deputy said.
Townsend's face was getting red. "Sheriff know about this?"
"Yessir, he does," Walters said uneasily. "He an' me, we figgered it couldn't hurt none, though. She wadn't likely to come up with anythin'." His grin showed a gold tooth. "We was right too. There was 'nother fire last night. An' Dwight, he was somewhere else."
"How do you know?" I asked.
" 'Cause that was Joe Bob on the phone jes' now." His voice was filled with triumph. "Joe Bob is the night-shift deppity. He picked Dwight up 'bout nine last night in Bimbo's parkin' lot. 01' Dwight was drank as a skunk, an' Joe Bob pitched him in jail to sleep it off. He's bin there all night. Fact is, he's there right now."
It was one of the more humiliating moments of my recent life. I had been so dead-set on proving that Walters was wrong and the arsonist wasn't one of the sisters, that I had violated a rule I had learned a long time ago: God will forgive you for fooling the judge and the jury. God won't forgive you for fooling yourself.
I got out of there as fast as I could. But when I reached the door I could hear Walters and Townsend guffawing. The sound was still ringing in my ears when I got to the Carr County Hospital, on the east side of town.
The hospital was a small, one-story building on the corner across from the elementary school. There were a half-dozen cars and pickups in the front lot, but no other sign of life. Inside, the small lobby was empty except for a fax machine, a phone, and a computer, angled so I could see the monitor. A yellow happy face was bouncing around the blue screen, urging me to "Have a Heart-Healthy Day."
I checked my watch. It was nearly nine, and mere were several more items on my list of errands. I didn't have time to waste. I went to the double doors at one side of the lobby, pushed them open, and walked down the empty hall to the nurses' station. I was greeted by a starched nurse in wire-rimmed glasses with the scowl of someone annoyed with the world in general and her corner of it in particular.
"I'm looking for a patient by the name of Sister John Roberta," I said. "She checked in yesterday afternoon. Can you tell me what room she's in?"
The nurse gave me a waspish look. "Patient location information is available at the lobby desk."
"I would have got it there if I could have," I said. "The
problem is, there's nobody at the lobby desk. Just a phone and a fax and a computer." Somehow, I'd thought that a small-town hospital would be more friendly than hospitals in the big city. I guess institutions are institutions, wherever you find them.
"Go back to the lobby and wait," the nurse commanded. "I'll get somebody to help you."
A few minutes later, a dark-haired young woman in a plaid shirt and denim wraparound skirt appeared, "Cherie Lee" printed on her happy-face name badge.
"Sorry," she said brightly, and set down a steaming mug of coffee. "We don't get a whole lotta traffic on Monday mornings. My cousin Alma stopped in-my mama's brother's oldest girl, who I haven't seen for months an' months-and I took a break. Who was it you was askin' for? We'll just have a look right here in the computer and-" She made an exasperated noise. The happy face had been swallowed by a blank screen. "Well, darn it. Wouldn't you just know? We're down again. Can I get you some coffee while we're waiting?"
The coffee-three ounces of a pale brown liquid that tasted like the water they'd used to wash out the pot-came in a white plastic cup. While I sipped it, I thought about what had transpired in the cafe a little while ago.
If it was true that Dwight had spent the night in jail, I had to eliminate him as an arson suspect. Of course, he still might have taken a couple of shots at me, but why? I was back to square one, with two big questions staring me in the face.
If Dwight hadn't set the fires, who had?
If Dwight hadn't shot at me, who had?
They weren't questions I was going to answer sitting around in the waiting room. I went to the desk and persuaded Cherie Lee to ask the starchy nurse to check the charge sheet. It showed that Roberta, Sister John had already been released-at 8:45 A.M., while I was talking to Carl Townsend at the cafe. When I spoke to yet another
nurse, the one who had actually overseen the discharge, I learned that die patient had left with a woman in street clothes. A nun? The nurse didn't know.
"I was worried about her," the nurse said. "She was crying. It's not good for asthmatics to be upset, you know. Emotional events are likely to trigger an attack. I wondered whether it was a good idea to release her, but Dr. Townsend had already approved it." She looked up as a man approached. "Oh, hello, Dr. Townsend."
Royce Townsend had none of his father's affability and good looks. He was round and short-shorter than I, and I'm only five-six-with brown hair and dark eyes, closely spaced. His upper lip was fringed with a sparse mustache and his chin receded behind a small, nattily trimmed beard. He wore a white lab coat, a stethoscope, and a pair of five-hundred-dollar eelskin cowboy boots.
"This is Ms. Bayles, doctor," the nurse said deferentially. "From St. Theresa's. She's asking about Sister John Roberta."
Royce Townsend, MD and JP, looked me up and down, and a furrow appeared between his eyes. "From the monastery?" His voice was surprisingly deep for such a small man.
"Yes," I said. "I particularly wanted to talk with Sister John Roberta-"
"You've missed her," he said brusquely, still frowning. "You aren't by any chance staying in the cottage by the river?"
"As a matter of fact, I am. Why do you ask?"
"Because I recognize you. You were messing around down at the river Saturday afternoon. I was having some target practice up on the cliff and-"
I sucked in my breath. "You're the one who shot at me!"
"I did not shoot at you," he said with some dignity. He balanced on the balls of his feet. "I was sighting in my new rifle and heard you screaming-your hysteria was quite unnecessary, I might add-and glanced down and saw
you." His voice became petulant. "I must say, Ms. Bayles, you were never in any danger."
"How was I supposed to know that?" I retorted.
He smiled thinly. ' 'My brother and father and I use that cliff quite frequently for target practice. I suggest that you stay clear of our range, particularly on weekends. I don't enjoy treating gunshot wounds, especially on my day off." He turned on his heel and walked away.
I was angry enough to go after him, but the nurse put a restraining hand on my arm. "It won't help," she said in a half-whisper. "He'll never admit he's wrong. Whatever you say to him is like water off a duck's back. Better just forget it."
Forget it? I wished I could. But it wasn't just anger that made my face burn. I knew now that I had been wrong on two counts. Dwight hadn't shot at me, and he hadn't set the fires. I had accused an innocent man.
Some detective I was.
Of course, Dwight wasn't innocent of the theft of Mother Hilaria's journal, I reminded myself as I parked the truck in front of Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church. But that recollection didn't do much to redeem my self-esteem. When I got back to the monastery, I'd have to let Mother Winifred know that I'd been wrong. Worse yet, I'd have to tell her that the arsonist was still at large. That was the worrisome part, of course. So far, the fires had been small ones, but what if a little fire got out of control?
And now tiiat I knew Dwight wasn't involved, there was something else I had to consider-a possible connection between the fires and the letters. The fire in the chapel had burned Dominica's guitar. Last night's fire had destroyed Miriam's painting. There was a link here, and it was on my mind as I went to look for Father Steven.
The church, which stood on one corner of the square, was a narrow, white-painted frame building with stained-glass windows down both long sides, four steps up to a pair
of double doors in front, and a steeple on top. I followed the path around the building to a gray stucco cottage behind a privet hedge. A ceramic goose planter filled with frost-killed marigolds sat by the front door, and on the grimy stucco wall beside the door hung a cross made out of cholla cactus. Under it was a handprinted sign with sloping letters that announced that Father Steven Shaw lived there. Father Steven, who had been present at last night's fire.
The priest still had traces of sleep on his eyelids when he answered the door. The ugly, wrinkled scar on his face extended up the side of his neck and across the left side and top of his head. His hair grew patchily, I guessed, and he had shaved his head bald. He was quite tall and very thin, almost emaciated. He was wearing a striped pajama top, drawstring cotton pants, and corduroy house slippers. Over his pajamas he had drawn the sweater he'd worn last night, which still bore the acrid odor of burning rags.
"China Bayles?" he repeated, when I introduced myself. He had a thin, high voice that sounded curiously off-key. He rubbed one eye with the back of his hand. "Oh, yes. China Bayles. You're the one Mother Winifred asked to look into the fires." His eyes narrowed. "Do you know what happened last night?"
He obviously didn't recognize the woman he had helped to pull the chair off the porch. "I was there," I said. And so were you, I reminded myself silently. You were present at all the other fires too.
"The whole thing is horrible." His nostrils flared. "I hope you'll be able to stop… whoever it is."
"I wonder if I might talk to you, Father. About the fires, and another matter."
He stepped back, reluctantly, I thought. "I suppose you'd better come in, then."
I followed him to the kitchen, where he motioned me to a chair at the kitchen table while he hunted for a clean coffee cup. He found one in the dish drainer, then ransacked the cupboard for instant coffee, which he finally
discovered in the refrigerator freezer. After another search, he located the kettle on top of the refrigerator and the matches behind an open loaf of bread on the cluttered counter. I was glad I'd already had coffee. It might be a little while before this cup was ready.
"Things are rather a mess," he said, striking a match under the kettle. "My housekeeper had her seventh baby on Saturday, and I'm eating my meals at Bernice's." He glanced at the full sink, and I could read the distaste on his face.
I was tempted to suggest that there were several surefire ways to ensure that the housekeeper was always around to cook and wash up, but my recommendations would almost certainly reveal that I was on the devil's side of the birth control question. I made a noncommittal noise.
Father Steven began searching in the refrigerator and emerged with a pint of half-and-half. He sniffed it, made a face, and threw it in the garbage. "I doubt you'll discover anything about the fires. The arsonist is clever." He returned to the cupboard once more.
"I was surprised to see you there," I remarked. "Wasn't it a little late to look for a book?"
He shrugged. "Not really. I frequently suffer from insomnia, and when I do, I go for a drive. In fact, I was only a few miles from St. T's when I realized that I had left the book in the sacristy. I was just leaving when I heard the bell." He put a jar of powdered creamer on the table and sat in the opposite chair.
I was watching him closely. His eyes were hooded, and the twist of his scarred mouth seemed bitterly sardonic. But that aside, there was nothing in his face that revealed whether he was telling the truth or not.
I changed the subject abruptly. "Mother Winifred has also asked me to look into the five poison-pen letters."
He pulled his brows together. "Five? Perpetua, Anne, Dominica, Miriam-" He glanced at me. "You know something I don't."
Mother Hilaria received one as well."
•"Hilaria?" The priest's surprise seemed totally genuine. I he were the letter-writer and this was an act, it was a good one. "What was she accused of?"
"I can't tell you, because I haven't seen the letter. I can't:ell you what her penance was, either." 'Her… penance?"
" "The letter-writer demanded a public penance of each of ±e sisters. Perpetua complied. The other three refused. Soon after, each of them lost something important to them."
His eyes were watching me, unreadable. "You're suggesting that the letter-writer… that she is exacting a penance?"
I nodded. "The only way to stop her is to reveal her identity." I gave him a direct look. "Do you know who she is?"
"No, although I…" He shook his head. "What is said during confession is between the penitent and God."
Client-counselor privilege. I knew all about it. I took the roster out of my purse and unfolded it. "I'm not asking for privileged information, Father. This is a list of the forty sisters at St. Theresa's. Can you point to any who might be able to help me?"
He tightened his lips, and his mouth took on a grotesque twist. "I don't think so." The words came out almost in a squeak.
I leaned forward, pressing the point. "I don't need to tell you how serious this is, Father. Someone who takes it on herself to write accusing letters and exact involuntary penance-she's playing God."
The kettle began to whistle, and Father Steven got up and went to the stove. He came back with the kettle and splashed hot water over the coffee granules in my cup. He poured himself hot water, too, returned the kettle to the stove, and sat down again.
"I suppose there are several who might help," he said
with obvious reluctance. He took a pair of glasses out of his pajama pocket, put them on, and picked up the paper. "You should talk to Olivia. Rowena, Ruth, perhaps Rose. Yes, Rose-" He tapped the list. "Certainly John Roberta. And Perpetua."
"Perpetua is dead."
He blinked behind his glasses. "Yes, of course. Dead. That's too bad. She would have been willing to help you."
"Did she know who wrote the letters?"
He sighed. "She… made an accusation."
"And you can't tell me whom she accused?"
He took off his glasses and put them back into his pajama pocket. "What good would that do? She might have been mistaken. She was quite old. She was also a little crazy."
But she might not have been mistaken. And now she was dead.
"Who else has made an accusation?" I asked with greater urgency. Did John Roberta know what Perpetua knew? Was that what she had been so eager to tell me- and why she'd been so afraid?
"No one." He stirred his coffee so furiously that it slopped out onto the already soiled tablecloth.
And that was all I was going to get out of him. When I left a little later, he was standing in the kitchen, rubbing his wrinkled white toadstool of a head and scowling at the sinkful of dirty dishes.