I went around the table and sat down beside Sister Ga-briella, who was talking to a plump, brown-haired woman in a too-tight lipstick-red suit with a fussy blouse and pearls. She turned out to be Cleva Mason, the one who had missed the last four board meetings. She slanted a glance around the table, licking her lips with a nervous tongue.
There was a stack of papers in the middle of the table, probably the board's agenda. Tom finished talking to Mother Winifred, looked at his watch, then at the clock. He seemed unusually jittery. He glanced around the table and cleared his throat.
"If everyone's ready…" he said.
"Sadie's not here," Sister Gabriella said.
"Oh, okay," Tom said, and I had the impression that he'd been hoping to start without her. He looked at his watch again. "I guess we'll have to wait, then."
"There's plenty of coffee," Mother Winifred said, gesturing to a table at the end of the room where coffee and cups had been set out. "She'll probably be here in a few minutes."
But at ten-fifteen, we were on our second cup of coffee, we'd almost run out of small talk, and Sadie still hadn't arrived. Tom was more tense and withdrawn than I had seen him, with a wary, nervous look. I wondered once again whether he knew what Sadie was going to bring up this morning. From the look of him, I'd have said yes. But how had he learned it? Sadie had kept her intentions to herself.
Gabriella touched my arm. "It's not like Sadie to be late," she said quietly. "She had a lot riding on this meeting."
"Maybe we'd better call her," I said. "She might have slept through the alarm."
Gabriella left the room. A few minutes later, she was back. To Tom's questioning glance, she said, "Nobody answers the phone."
"She's on her way over, then," Tom said. He shuffled the papers, obviously anxious to begin. ' 'There are several information items on the agenda. We could handle those first. She'll be here by the time we're ready to get to the substantive issues."
But the information items-mainly having to do with paying the legal bills in the aftermath of the lawsuit-were read and discussed by ten forty-five, and Sadie still hadn't arrived. Tom looked up at the clock again. He seemed to be debating what to do. "I think we should go ahead without her," he said finally.
I pushed back my chair. "Sadie has some vital information to present. She'd be here unless something happened. It is okay if I borrow the truck again, Mother Winifred? I'll drive over and see what's keeping her."
Tom licked his lips nervously. "It's not a good idea to drive that old truck over there," he said. "If it didn't start, you'd be stranded. We'll take a break, and I'll drive you."
I frowned. At best, being alone with Tom would be uncomfortable.
Gabriella leaned toward me. "Go, please," she urged in a low voice. "Sadie wouldn't be late if she could help it. I'm afraid something's wrong over there."
Tom's cream-colored Chevy Suburban made the trip in something under ten minutes. We didn't encounter Sadie along the way. We didn't say much to one another, either. Tom's face was set and his jaw was working, and I couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't lead us back to the subject we had closed last night. Anyway, I shared Gabriella's apprehension about Sadie. She had planned carefully for the board meeting, and she'd been looking forward to it. She wouldn't have missed it unless-Unless what? What was wrong?
The M Bar M was deserted when we drove in. Sadie's blue Toyota was parked on the gravel apron in front of the house, so she was still around, somewhere. Without a word, Tom and I got out, went up to the front door, and knocked; then knocked again.
Nothing.
Tom tried the knob, but the door was locked. We went around to the back door, which stood partly ajar. I stepped inside and called, but there was no answer. A couple of minutes' searching was enough to convince us that Sadie wasn't inside. We started for the outbuildings, calling as we went. Tom strode ahead, moving fast. I had to run to keep up with him.
The metal-roofed barn was a long, narrow building, lined up on a north-south axis, with double doors at both ends. The floor was hard-packed earth. The west side of the barn was stacked to the roof with baled hay and feed sacks. The east side was lined with a row of wide stalls that opened at the back into the fenced paddock. Three of the stalls were occupied, two by decorous paint ponies that thrust out their noses inquisitively, looking for carrots. The third contained
a brown horse with a silky dark mane, wearing a leather bridle. The horse was skittish, prancing, his eyes rolling.
"Goliath," Tom said over his shoulder. "Sadie's horse."
We found her in Goliath's stall. Her jeans-clad, denim-jacketed body was sprawled facedown on bloody straw, head twisted unnaturally to one side, steel gray hair matted with blood. One arm was pinned under her, the other flung out. Goliath tossed his head with a shrill whinny and shied away from us against the fence.
"Jesus," Tom breathed out.
He shoved the gate open, rushed in, and grabbed the horse's bridle. As Goliath reared, he yanked. "Out of the way," he gritted. "I've got to get this killer out of here."
While Tom was locking the horse into the next stall, I ran in, knelt in the straw beside Sadie, and felt at her neck. A moment later, Tom joined me.
"Is… is she alive?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "There's a pulse. Not much of one, but a pulse."
He rocked back on his heels, his face blanched. "She's alive," he whispered, as if he were dazed. "What'll we do?"
"We've got to get help." I yanked off my jacket and spread it over Sadie. "Give me your coat. There's got to be a phone in the house. How quick can the EMS get out here?"
Tom didn't answer. He seemed dazed. He dropped his head into his hands. "She's alive," he whispered again. "Dear God, she's-"
"Tom!" I shook him. "Get the EMS! Tell them we've got a head injury here, possible brain trauma. Tell them she was kicked in the head by a horse."
His head came up swiftly, and his staring eyes connected with mine. "Yeah," he said. He swallowed. "Yeah, right." He scrambled to his feet, energized, peeling off his suit
coat. "There's a phone by the barn door. I saw it when we came in." He tossed me the coat.
I turned Sadie on her side, rolled Tom's coat into a pillow, and propped up her head, touching her wound. She had sustained two crushing blows to the head, one above her ear and slightly forward, the other lower, behind the ear. The blood was dark and crusty; the edges of the wound were dried. Her face was drained of color, the leathery skin slack and gray and very cold. She'd been lying there for some time-how long, it was hard to tell. I stared down at her, feeling a sharp, poignant sadness. All her schemes and dreams, all her passion, all come to nothing. All come to this.
Tom was back. "They're on their way," he said. He glared at Goliath, who was standing, head hanging, in the nearby stall. "I ought to shoot that animal. He's always been vicious. Don't know why Sadie keeps him around."
Sadie moaned and stirred and I bent over her. "Sadie," I said into her ear. "Just be still. Help is on the way. You're going to be all right."
Her eyelids nickered. She tried to speak but the words wouldn't form. Her eyes closed.
Tom dropped to his knees and took her hand. "How is she?" he asked.
"She came around for a minute, but she's out again."
His face tensed, jaw muscles working. "Did she say anything?"
I shook my head and stood up. "She's in shock. We need blankets."
"You go," he said. "I'll stay with her." Holding her hand, he bent over her. "Sadie," he whispered urgently. "Sadie, can you hear me? You're safe now. The horse can't get you."
I sprinted. In the bedroom, I tossed aside a purple bathrobe and grabbed two blankets off the unmade bed. I was on my way back through the kitchen when I saw the white envelope on the table. I grabbed it and jammed it into the
pocket of my slacks. Then, just outside the door, I saw something lying on the ground and picked it up. It was a white and blue rectangle, immediately recognizable. It wa
s an airline boarding pass with Olivia's name on it.
I stared at it. When I'd first seen Olivia driving die Honda last night, turning into St. Theresa's lane a little after ten, she had been coming from the direction of the M Bar M. In the parking lot, she had been frantic, half-hysterical. She'd practically run away from me. And now I knew why.
I knew that Olivia had been here last night, with Sadie. She had come here straight from the airport and fresh from her discussion with the Reverend Mother General. And I knew what the two women had said to one another. I could see them sitting at the kitchen table talking, could imagine Olivia's pleas for time, her desperate efforts to persuade Sadie not to reveal the deed restrictions. I could hear her begging Sadie to give her a chance to work out some sort of deal.
And I could imagine Sadie's response. She'd have been impassive and poker-faced at first. She'd have hidden her enjoyment of Olivia's frantic pleas. But in the end she wouldn't have been able to conceal her triumph at having Olivia and the order exactly where she wanted them. I could see, as clearly as if I'd been here, Olivia's fear, her tightfisted anger, and finally her fierce, uncontrollable outrage. I could hear Sadie's chuckle, spiraling into a derisory laugh, and picture Olivia's face, wrenched with passion-
But could I imagine Olivia following Sadie out to the barn? Could I picture her smashing her victim in the head, then dragging her into the stall? Could I see her, ignited by a compelling sense of purpose and inflamed by a vision of-
Yes, I could. Bloody hands have administered the sacraments and bloody hearts have ruled the Church. Bloody murders in the name of all that's holy are woven into the history of Christianity. It didn't take much imagination to
see Olivia transfigured, in a moment of raging impotence, mto an instrument of vengeance.
But neither this boarding pass nor my testimony about Olivia's behavior in the parking lot would be enough to convince a jury that a woman who had spent her life serving God had suddenly gone berserk and attempted to murder her neighbor. Evidence that she had been in her victim's kitchen wasn't enough. Evidence that she had been in the barn with Sadie-that was what I needed.
Back in the stall, I spread the blankets over Sadie's motionless body. ' 'Any change?'' I asked breathlessly.
Tom shook his head, his face strained, eyes shadowed. "Her pulse is erratic. Her breathing's shallow. She'll be lucky to pull through. Damn horse-I'll see that he's shot!"
I pulled the blanket up and turned her head slightly. 'Tom, look," I said. "Sadie is taller than I am, and Goliath isn't all that big. Could he have inflicted these wounds?"
"He could have if she was down." He nodded toward a bucket of half-spilled oats in the corner. "See? She came in here to feed him and bent over with the bucket. Something spooked him and he reared up. Sure, he could kill her. Those forelegs are like sledgehammers."
"But if he'd got her down, would he have stopped at that?" I asked. "She was helpless, bleeding. He'd surely have trampled her. But there's not another mark on her body. And when we came in, the horse was as far away from her as he could get, at the back of the stall."
Tom's face was grim. "Are you suggesting it wasn't the horse?''
I got to my feet, opened the gate, and went into the paddock. Goliath was calmer now, standing beside the fence, his head hanging. As I approached he nickered, an anxious, questioning sound. I don't know much about horses, but this one didn't look like a killer. Frightened, yes, sides heaving, eyes rolled back. But not savage, not vicious. Not like a horse who had tried to kill his owner.
Tom scrambled up. "Stay away from that animal," he cried. "He's dangerous!"
"I don't think so," I said. I made a soft noise in my throat and reached up to stroke Goliath's neck under the long, rough hair of his mane. "That's a good boy. Steady now." I stood for a moment rubbing his shoulder, then slid my hand down his leg until I was kneeling and looking closely at his left foreleg, his hoof. I ducked in front and examined his right foreleg, his hoof. Then the hind legs, the hind hooves.
What I saw confirmed my suspicions. There was no blood on the horse, no physical evidence that he had touched Sadie. It wasn't proof that Olivia had struck her down, but the knowledge moved me one step closer to that conclusion.
"Damn it, China!" Tom had opened the gate and was coming at me. "Do you want the horse to kick you too?" At the sound of the loud voice, Goliath snorted and shied. I backed away, and Tom grabbed my arm.
"Damn bullheaded woman," he muttered. "That's all I need, to have you trampled by a killer horse."
I pulled free. "He's not a killer, Tom. If the horse did it, there'd be evidence embedded in the wound-dirt particles, straw, stuff like that. But it's clean, as clean as those hooves. The horse didn't do this. Somebody tried to kill her."
Tom gave a harsh, strangled laugh. "That's crazy, China."
I heard the wail of a siren. The ambulance was coming up the lane.
Chapter Fifteen
I wear my rue with a difference.
William Shakespeare Hamlet
I ran out of the barn, waving at the orange and white EMS ambulance. A few minutes later, two uniformed attendants, their faces grave and intent, were working swiftly and competently, taking Sadie's vital signs, starting an IV, conferring by cell phone with the hospital. In another couple of minutes, they were easing her onto a gurney. While I watched, I saw something small and silvery fall from her clothing onto the straw. I bent over to reach for it at the same moment that Tom did. I clasped his hand.
"Don't touch it," I commanded.
He froze, immobile, his eyes locked on mine. I let go of his hand and stood up. The attendants were watching us curiously. "Do you have a piece of paper?" I asked.
One of them fished in his shirt pocket and pulled out a card with carr county hospital printed across it. As they began to maneuver the gurney out of the stall, I knelt and slid the card under the object. It was a small silver cross- not a pendant, but a lapel pin-with some sort of emblem in the center. It was what I needed. The evidence that proved that Olivia had been in the barn with Sadie.
Tom glanced at it and looked away again. "It's just…" The words stopped. His mouth was drawn tight and I couldn't read his eyes. He cleared his throat as I folded the card into a square packet and put it carefully into the pocket
of my slacks. "It's just Sadie's cross. Why… are you going to all that trouble?"
"Because it might not be Sadie's cross. And the owner might have left prints on it." Confronted with the cross and the boarding pass I had found in the kitchen, maybe Olivia would confess.
One hand steadying the IV, the chief attendant turned. "We're ready to roll. Are you two riding with us?"
Tom scrambled to his feet. "We'll follow in my car."
I shook my head. "You follow. I'm going to notify the sheriff's office. I'll stay until Walters gets here."
Tom opened the gate and stood back so I could step out of the stall. His jaw was tight. "You're making more out of this than it is, China. Accidents happen all the time in ranch country. Walters isn't going to drive out here just to look at the place where Sadie got kicked in the head by a horse."
I stayed firm. "This is a crime scene, and that's how I'm going to report it. Walters needs to get his butt out here and do a search. There may be other evidence that could identify Sadie's attacker."
We reached the ambulance just as one of the attendants was climbing into the rear with Sadie. As the other closed the doors, I heard a cell phone buzz. The attendant spoke into it, listened, then turned to Tom. "If the dispatcher got the name right when you called in, you must be Tom Rowan?"
"Yeah. I'm Rowan."
"That was the hospital calling. You need to come with us, sir. Your father's just been admitted."
Tom looked as if he had been struck by lightning. ' 'Dad? But how… why…?"
"Sorry, sir. I don't have any details. We'll be running the lights and the siren. Stay with us."
Impulsively, I reached out to Tom. "Oh, To
m, I'm sorry. Your father's a fine man. He-"
"Yeah, sure." He pushed me away.
The attendants were already in the ambulance, revving the motor. Tom sprinted for his car and was gone.
When I got through to Stu Walters, he answered with gruff irritation. Being wrong about Dwight had obviously earned me no brownie points.
"What is it this time?" he growled.
"I'm at the M Bar M. Sadie Marsh has been attacked."
That got his attention. "Attacked?" I heard the scrape of a chair being shoved back. "Who attacked her?"
"Hard to say. Tom Rowan and I found her a little while ago, in a horse stall in the barn. Head wounds, serious. Tom says her horse kicked her. I think she was bludgeoned. EMS is taking her to the hospital now. The crime scene needs to be secured. And it would be best to have a forensic physician examine the wound before it's cleaned up and-"
"This ain't Houston, lady," he said, with barely disguised sarcasm. "We ain't got no forensic-"
I cut in. "Then tell the doctor who treats her to inspect the wounds carefully, save samples of any debris he removes, and be prepared to testify in court to the nature of the instrument used in the attack."
He was heated. "Now just a goldurned minute here! Who do you think you are to-"
"Excuse me, Deputy Walters," I said crisply. "I don't have time to argue this matter. I've found evidence that suggests that one of the sisters at St. Theresa's may be involved. I'd like your permission to talk to her informally and see if I can determine the extent of her involvement."
When he spoke at last, Walters was incredulous. "You're sayin' that one of them nuns bashed Sadie Marsh over the-"
"That's what I intend to find out," I said. "Unless, of course, you want to handle the questioning yourself. In that event, I'll be glad to arrange it." I paused, giving him time to catch up. "I'll stay with you while you interrogate her.
Of course, Mother Winifred will also want to be there, so she can report your questions to the Reverend Mother General. And perhaps we should tape the interview, just in case the bishop has any concerns." I paused again. "Although, come to think of it, the bishop will probably want to send one of his lawyers."
Rueful Death Page 22
