Rueful Death

by Susan Wittig Albert

  been done. The sisters had to remove the dirt, dry the plants, separate the bulbs from the tops… People who buy garlic in little cellophane packages have no idea what they're missing.

  She chuckled. "You bet. But we were new in the business and everybody was willing. A couple of years later, though, we doubled the acreage, and I started to hear grumbling. Mother Hilaria tried to convince the sisters that they'd get a couple of extra days in paradise for every garlic bulb they dug, but they didn't buy it. So when we doubled the acreage again, I went looking for an old-fashioned chisel plow, like the one my grandfather used to have back in Kentucky." She gestured at a piece of equipment in the corner. "Found it in a junkyard over in Johnson City. All that was wrong with it was a quarter-inch of rust and a broken strap. Now, I just set the tractor tires into the irrigation furrows and drop that plow-point between the rows. The plants still have to be pulled, but at least they're loose. No more spadework."

  I grinned at the picture of tall, strong Sister Gabriella poking around a Johnson City junkyard looking for a secondhand chisel plow. "What happens after the garlic's pulled?"

  "We used to cart it up here in wheelbarrows and dunk it in a tub to wash off the dirt. Then we'd lay it out on that cement over there to dry." She shook her head pityingly. "Lord sakes, that was work. Happy garlic grows three feet high, and we harvest the whole thing, not just the bulb. That's a lot of leaf to be totin' around."

  I shook my head, imagining the size of the job. "It was a good thing you had conscripts," I said. "You probably couldn't have found enough people willing to work that hard for what you could pay."

  Gabriella grinned. ' 'We had a good crop of novices those years. And Sadie, bless her heart, donated a beat-up old Ford pickup, which we traded for a front-end loader for our tractor." She gestured in the direction of a dusty, antique-

  looking dinosaur of a tractor. ' 'Then we built some garlic flats-chicken wire on board frames, six feet long by three feet wide by two feet deep-that we lay on the loader. Now, after the field's plowed, we pull the garlic and lay it in a rack. When one rack's filled, we stack on another. When they're all filled, I haul the load up here. We restack the garlic into those thirty-foot-long storage racks in that cement block building over there."

  "It looks like a great system," I said.

  She nodded. "There's still plenty of toting and hauling. From planting to market we handle the garlic eight times. If we braid it, we handle it twice more. In a good year, we'll move over two tons of the stuff."

  I whistled. Two tons of St. T's famous rocambole. "It's all gone by spring, I suppose."

  ' "The biggest cloves are back in the ground by October. The market-grade stuff we sell as bulbs, retail and wholesale. The plants with the best tops we braid into ristras and wreaths and swags, along with chilies and dried flowers. Buckwheat, statice, strawflowers, cockscomb-the usual stuff. Sister Cecilia is in charge of that part of it. She also grows a few specialities. Chiles, gourds, strawberry popcorn. With the garlic, they make nice wreaths."

  I looked around. "You've got lots of storage, plenty of labor, decent equipment. You've got water for irrigation and room for more fields. How big could the operation get?"

  She grew thoughtful. ' "That depends. We could plant another acre or two of garlic and sell it easily. With an expanded marketing effort, we might sell fifty or a hundred percent more. We could grow more flowers and market fhem with the garlic, and just about double our revenue." She lifted her broad, capable shoulders, let them fall. ' 'We could get big, sure. We could make a lot more money. But why?"

  I cocked my head at her. ' 'Why?''

  "Well, sure. Work is good for the soul, and we can al-

  ways use a little more money. But we need time for prayer and study more than we need money." A half-grin cracked her weathered face. "Woman does not live by work alone, you know."

  I thought of the shop back home and the hours I'd poured into it last fall. Had I been brought all the way to St. Theresa's just to hear this bit of advice?

  She grew sober. "Anyway, you know what's happening here. The garlic operation isn't likely to expand. In fact, the crop in the ground may just turn out to be our last."

  "That would be a loss," I said. "A lot of people think St. T's rocambole is better than anything else on the market."

  "The garlic won't be too happy about it, either," Ga-briella said. We were at the far end of the barn now, and she opened the door to a large, chilly room furnished with worktables, shelves of neatly arranged supplies, and racks filled with dried flowers, chilies, and whole garlic plants, stalk and all. "This is Sister Rosaline's part of the operation. It's where her crew braids the ristras and makes the wreaths, swags, baskets, things like that. A dozen or so sisters work here half-days all year round. August to December, Rosaline recruits an extra half-dozen. They take a rest after the holiday, but they'll be back tomorrow, starting on our spring orders. It's work they enjoy."

  "I'd enjoy it too," I said. Crafting is a lot more fun than standing behind a counter all day.

  "It's creative work," Gabriella said, "and worth it. The simplest arrangement sells for ten times the value of the garlic in it." Her voice grew acerbic. ' 'It beats baking bread or making altar cloths or selling rosaries, which is what other monasteries do to make a living. And it sure as sin beats playing host to a bunch of bishops."

  I glanced around. "This is the room where the fire occurred last fall?''

  ' 'See where those two walls have been replaced, and that big patch in the ceiling?'' She pointed. ' 'We had to repaint

  too. There wasn't a lot of damage, but it cost Rosaline a couple of days' work while we cleaned things up."

  "What happened?"

  ' "There was a work light hanging on that wall. It shorted out. At least, that's what Dwight says."

  "You don't agree?"

  She shrugged. "The light was new. After the fire, it disappeared. But I don't have any suspects in mind, if that's what you're asking. It happened on a Sunday afternoon when nobody was here. If it hadn't been for Dwight, we'd have lost the barn." She glanced at her watch. "Let's go to my office. Sadie will be here in a few minutes."

  Gabriella's office smelled of woodsmoke. It had once been a tack room, and various pieces of riding gear-bits, bridles, curry combs-still hung on the splintery walls. The rustic decor wasn't enhanced by her gray metal desk and fifing cabinet, or by the incongruous-looking computer on the shelf behind the desk. But the woodstove in the corner, topped with a steaming kettle, radiated heat. Next to it sat an old rocking chair with a wicker seat. Gabriella opened the stove door, thrust in a stick of cedar from the stack in a wood box, and adjusted the damper.

  "When the wind's out of the north, the smoke blows back down the chimney," she said. "But it keeps me warm."

  A moment later, Sadie Marsh arrived. She was a wiry, steely-haired woman of nearly sixty with commanding gray eyes, high cheekbones, a jutting nose, a forceful jaw. Deep vertical creases between her eyes suggested prolonged periods of concentration-or a bad temper. A determined person, I guessed, perhaps a difficult one. She wore jeans and scuffed cowboy boots, a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a Navajo vest striped in reds, greens, and blues. Even in Texas, it wasn't the kind of outfit you'd wear to Mass, so I guessed she'd come here straight from home.

  Sadie fixed her eyes on me as she lowered herself into

  the rocking chair beside the stove. "Winnie-Mother Winifred-has been telling me about you. Lawyer, huh?"

  "I used to practice law," I said. "I own an herb shop now."

  Gabriella picked up the kettle. ' 'Coffee?'' she asked. Sadie and I nodded. I pulled up an old wooden dining chair with a broken spindle in the back and sat down.

  "Once a lawyer, always a lawyer," Sadie said. "Still keep up your credentials?" Her West Texas twang had a biting edge. She wasn't making idle conversation.

  "I keep current," I said. It's probably silly to pay the Bar Association dues and meeting
the annual professional development requirement, especially with Thyme and Seasons doing so well. But I've wanted to have something to fall back on, just in case.

  "What do you know about our situation here?"

  Our situation? "Are you referring to the litigation over the will or to what's going on here at St. T's?"

  She hooked one ankle over the other knee. ' 'Both. Tell me what you know."

  I felt as if I were being interviewed for a job. "I know that the court case was settled last spring and that the foundation finally has control over the trust assets," I said cautiously. "I've been told about the merger of St. T's and St. Agatha's, and I'm guessing that it will have a bearing on the foundation's fiduciary activities and investment plans."

  "That pretty well covers it, I reckon," Sadie said. She took the chipped mug Gabriella handed her and rocked back and forth for a minute. "I'm a charter member of the Laney board," she said. "Is there any thin' you want to know about the way it operates?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes," I said. I thanked Gabriella for my coffee and cradled it in my hands. I prefer tea, but coffee will do. "Who else is on the board? How is it set up?"

  "There are five members. Winnie, of course. As actin'

  abbess, she took Hilaria's place. And Gabby here." At my half-surprised glance at Gabriella, Sadie added, "Hilaria appointed her last August to replace Perpetua, who wasn't too well. Tom Rowan Junior, who's taking over for his daddy at the bank, is number three. Number four is Cleva Mason, a woman from the local parish who's missed the last couple of meetings-she's about to be replaced. And I make five. I'm the only one who's actually on the board by name, and I'm on it until I die." She rubbed her palm along her blue-jeaned thigh.

  "If another abbess were to be chosen, would she have the power to appoint new board members?" Mrs. Laney would probably have set it up that way, to give the abbess a strong hand.

  "Yes," Gabriella said. She pushed her desk chair over to the stove and sat down. ' 'If Olivia were elected tomorrow, she would appoint two new members-one to replace Cleva, the other to replace me."

  " So if it came down to a vote on some crucial issue-''

  "It would be three to two," Sadie said. "Assumin' Tom Junior voted with me. That isn't an assumption I'd stake my life on. His father and I are old friends, but we've never seen eye to eye. No reason to believe Tom Junior will be any different. It could be four to one."

  Basically, then, Olivia could count on the Laney Foundation providing the capital she needed to fund the retreat center. "Who's the fiduciary officer?"

  "Tom Junior, as of a couple of weeks ago. Carr State Bank manages the investments." She eyed me over the rim of her coffee mug. "Anythin' else?"

  There was something. It had occurred to me last night in bed, just before I drifted into a dream where I was riding through a garlic field with Tom Rowan while Olivia walked behind us with a tape measure, staking out a parking garage.

  "When Mrs. Laney deeded the eight hundred acres to

  St. Theresa's," I said, "did she impose any restrictive covenants on the property?''

  Sadie sat very still, watching me. Her eyes were bright. "What makes you ask that question?"

  "Just a hunch." Helen Laney and Mother Hilaria had been determined women, and neither of them had trusted the Church. They would have tried to guard against every possible eventuality.

  "You got good hunches." Sadie grinned.

  I grinned back.

  Sister Gabriella put down her coffee cup and stood up. "You two ladies finished your business?" she asked mildly.

  "Just about." Sadie looked at her watch. "What time's lunch?"

  "Same time as always," Gabriella said.

  "Probably same garbage, too," Sadie replied tartly. "Glad to hear Margaret Mary's decided to come back. Make it worthwhile to drive over here for Sunday dinner." She put both feet on the floor and glanced at me. "You want to have a look at that property deed sometime soon?''

  "Do you have a copy?"

  "Yep. How about this afternoon?"

  I thought. I'd agreed to talk to John Roberta at one-thirty, I had to find Olivia, and I needed to put in a call to DWight's probation officer. "How about tomorrow morning? Around ten-thirty?"

  "That'll do," Sadie said. She hoisted herself out of her chair.

  I stood too. There was one other question on my mind. "The Reverend Mother General who heads up the order now-is she the same one who was there when the deed was executed?"

  Sadie shook her head.

  "Do you know whether she's looked at the deed?"

  Sadie's eyes were very bright. "I doubt it. It's more than twenty years old. Who cares anymore?"

  "That's a good question," I said.

  Sister John Roberta wasn't in the refectory for lunch while I was there, which I took to be a bad sign. But I didn't see Olivia, either, or Maggie. It was probably just my timing. But I did see Mother Winifred, who ate with Gabriella, Sadie, and me. She seemed subdued, and even more drawn than she had this morning. Sadie seemed to think she was grieving over Perpetua.

  "It's too bad about poor old Perpetua," Sadie said. "We'll all miss her." She patted Mother's hand in sympathy. "When is Father Steven saying Mass?"

  ' 'When we have a body to say it over,'' Mother Winifred said. "We haven't heard when the autopsy will be done."

  "Autopsy?" Sadie scowled. "What's that damn fool Royce doin' that for?"

  "He wants to know how she died," Gabriella said. "It's a perfectly natural request for a doctor to make."

  "He wants to make trouble, that's what he wants," Sadie muttered. "Which is perfectly natural, if you're a Town-send." She gave Mother Winifred a darting look. "How did Perpetua die? Heart?"

  Mother spoke almost reluctantly. "It does seem to have been her heart. She had been suffering from cardiac arrhythmia. But at the end, she was quite dizzy and nauseous and had a convulsive seizure of some sort. Perpetua was in her late seventies, you know. It's entirely possible that she was having a stroke."

  Cardiac arrhythmia, nausea, dizziness, convulsions. A stroke? Maybe. But another explanation came to mind. I curbed the impulse to mention it. I would ask Mother Winifred about it privately. I had to talk to her anyway, about what I had found in D wight's room.

  Lunch was over at twelve-thirty. I still had an hour before I was scheduled to talk with John Roberta, so after we said good-bye to Sadie, I walked with Mother Winifred back to her cottage. We were accompanied by two other sisters on their way to the herb garden, so we couldn't talk.

  When we reached her cottage and she said, "Would you like to see the stillroom now?" I was glad of the opportunity.

  The stillroom was once a screened porch, now closed in, that enlarged the small square cottage into a rectangle. It had a terra-cotta floor that was warmed by the sun streaming in through two large casement windows. Some of the floor-to-ceiling shelves held large amber-colored jars, crocks, and urns, all labeled. Other shelves held dark glass bottles full of prepared tinctures and jars of oils and other materials used to create salves and lotions. There were rows of vials and jars of empty gelatin capsules arranged beside baskets filled with scoops, glass droppers, atomizers-all the paraphernalia of an old-fashioned stillroom, the household apothecary shop. A workbench stood along another wall, near a small two-burner gas countertop stove for heating herbal preparations. Above the workbench was an extensive shelf of reference books, old and new, and above that framed botanical prints. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling.

  "This is very pleasant," I said, looking around. Perhaps, I could make a room like this for myself-if I had the time. "How many sisters work here?"

  "Eight or ten," Mother said. "We have class once a week, and I assign them individual projects. They come here for two hours a week, on their own, to work. It's good experience for them, very educational, and of course they help prepare the salves and ointments and lotions that we use for…" Her voice trailed off. She brushed some loose leaves off the worktable and into a basket
on the floor.

  I regarded her. "You haven't been experimenting with foxglove, have you, Mother Winifred?"

  She looked at me, and I noticed once again how pale and drawn she was. Her skin seemed cracked, like old glaze on a piece of pottery. "No, of course not." She straightened a row of lidded canisters, not looking at me. "You don't think… You really can't believe…"

  "The symptoms of Sister Perpetua's illness," I said gently. "They sound like the symptoms of digitalis poisoning. Wouldn't you agree?"

  Her mouth trembled. "Yes," she said finally, almost in a whisper. She turned to look out the window, across the sunny garden, where the two nuns who had accompanied us were bent over the culinary bed, cleaning off the frostbitten foliage. "To tell the truth, that thought did occur to me. In fact, it kept me up late last night."

  "Had the doctor prescribed digitalis?"

  "Not as far as I know." She turned around. "You can ask Sister Rowena, who manages the medications. But no, I'm sure he hadn't"

  It was entirely possible that we were going in the wrong direction. But it wouldn't hurt to pursue it further-especially since a nonprescription source of digitalis was growing right in front of our eyes. "How many foxglove plants do you have in your apothecary garden?"

  "Two," she said faintly.

  "So it's possible that someone-perhaps one of the sisters who works here in the stillroom-could have harvested the leaves and prepared a tincture from them?" I glanced up at the row of jars. "Or filled some of those gel caps with the powdered leaf?"

  "I suppose," she said slowly. "But you don't think that one of our sisters deliberately…"

  "It might have been an accident," I said. "The leaves look something like comfrey. The two have often been confused."

  "The comfrey is on the other side of our apothecary plot, well away from the foxglove. Both plants are clearly labeled. I don't see how anyone could have…" She gave a heavy sigh. ' 'I suppose I should tell you. A few weeks ago, Sister Dominica was weeding the apothecary garden. She brought me a foxglove leaf and asked me about it."

  "What did she want to know?"

  "She asked whether the toxin was in the leaves or the