by Aimée Thurlo
“Aren’t we?” Sister Agatha asked her, surprised.
“No, our real home is in God, and He can’t be taken from us. The monastery’s just a building,” she answered, turning onto the highway.
“Is it really so easy for you to start anew someplace else?” Sister Agatha whispered.
Sister Bernarda hesitated, then, in a slow voice, answered, “No, but it’s a matter of duty. Honoring that requires us to follow where He leads.” Sister Bernarda pulled to the right to allow a faster-moving vehicle to pass.
Sister Agatha stared out the window, lost in thought. Although she knew that Sister Bernarda was right, the prospect of leaving Our Lady of Hope was still heartbreaking to her.
Twenty minutes later, they entered a long asphalt driveway that led to Mayor Garcia’s home. Vehicles were parked almost everywhere. People in their Sunday best could be seen walking toward the house with flowers or food containers, and others were returning to their cars, having ended their courtesy calls.
The sprawling ranch-style home was surrounded by an enormous lawn, and the circular drive had a large fountain in its center. Though vehicles lined both the inside and outside curbs, Sister Bernarda saw a driver pulling out and was able to slip into the vacated place.
Once they’d stepped out of the car, Sister Agatha glanced across the hood at Sister Bernarda. “After I present the Cloister Cluster Cookies to whomever is accepting the food, I’m going to stay in the background as much as I can. I’ll track you down when it’s time for us to go.”
“Roger that,” she said, in her best Marine Corps bark.
Sister Bernarda’s stride was purposeful and steady as she made her way through the foyer into the spacious kitchen/family room. Flowers of every variety and color rested atop nearly all the flat surfaces. There must have been a hundred people at the house, most of them gathered in small groups and speaking in hushed tones. The majority of them had either a cup or a plate of food in their hands. Three women in white coats stood behind the black marble breakfast counter, helping serve food to the guests.
True to her word, Sister Agatha took an offered cup of tea, then hung back, getting close enough to each group to get the gist of their conversation before moving on to the next. There was one overriding theme—Robert’s sudden and unexpected death—and nearly unanimous agreement that the sheriff was guilty of his murder.
One woman, whom Sister Agatha recognized as a florist, briefly floated the theory that Robert had struck the sheriff, then committed suicide. Her companions quickly squashed that by calling for a motive the florist couldn’t produce.
Moving on, Sister Agatha heard the name Mike being called by a young man standing next to the open French doors. In response, a twenty-something man next to the mayor moved across the room. Sister Agatha made her way toward him and soon was standing beside a floor lamp near the corner of a seating area, close enough to eavesdrop.
“There’s no way Green is going to get away with this, bro,” Mike said. “My father-in-law’s out for blood.”
Sister Agatha smiled. Her guess had been right. This was Mike Herrera.
“From what I’ve heard, it was self-defense,” the other one said. “If someone came up and clubbed you across the skull, you’d fight back, wouldn’t ya? I can understand that Robert was a relative, and you have to look after family and all, but Green was just protecting himself. The mayor needs to face facts and move on.”
“Green and my father-in-law have a history. JD doesn’t like anyone who disrespects the Garcias, and Robert and the sheriff have been in each other’s faces for years now. I’ve got a feeling that there’s a lot more to it than I’ve been told. I’m not very tight with JD, in case you haven’t noticed. There’s no way I’ll ever be considered part of the Garcia family. Hell, if I hadn’t married Cindy, he wouldn’t hire me to mow the grass.”
“Hey, she chose you. JD’ll just have to live with it,” the taller one said.
A moment later, a young brunette came into the room from the patio. “There you are, Mike. Hi, guys.” She nodded to Mike’s friends. “We need your help outside, Mike. No one can find RJ,” she said, taking his hand in hers.
“Victoria needs to give that kid some space, Cindy. Your aunt’s smothering him,” Mike said.
“That’s not our problem. Our problem is that Dad’s having a fit because RJ’s not here with his mom greeting people, and when Dad’s unhappy, he takes it out on everyone.”
“That’s for sure. Okay, Cindy, I’ll go help you look,” he said, rolling his eyes. Mike nodded to his friends, then left with his wife.
“His ol’ lady leads him by the nose,” one of the men muttered.
“Hey, you gotta pay your dues. Mike’ll never worry about money again, but he can kiss his cojones good-bye.”
As they moved off across the room toward the food, Sister Agatha saw Mike and Cindy come back inside from the patio. The two stopped to talk to Al Russo, whom Sister Agatha had noticed earlier seated in an armchair. When Mike and Cindy continued upstairs, presumably looking for the boy, Russo stood, glanced around the room, then proceeded outside. Sister Agatha followed him and, standing by a red plum tree, saw him leave the brick patio and make his way across the spacious grounds.
Russo seemed to know precisely where he was going. Sister Agatha followed him across the lawn, keeping her pace slow as if she were simply going for a stroll. Soon she saw Russo enter a fenced-off area containing a riding arena and horse stalls.
Taking a seat on a cedar garden bench, she turned to one side, her right ear in the direction of the stables, watching out of the corner of her eye.
Russo stopped by a hitching rail and called out to the boy. A moment later, a small, dark-haired seven-year-old boy with glasses peered out over the solid wooden gate of one of the stalls.
“I don’t want to go inside,” he yelled.
Al nodded calmly. “Me neither, RJ. Just a lot of strangers in suits and Sunday dresses hanging around, eating and looking bored. It’s pretty awful right now.”
The boy, looking relieved, nodded. “Yeah.”
“What did you do with your ball, slugger? We can play catch.”
RJ shook his head. “Dad took it at the picnic and gave it to Mom to put away. He said I’d have to crush a bunch of cans for the charity drive to get it back. It was signed, too.”
“You get in trouble again?”
“Nah. Just the same old thing,” he said with a shrug. “He takes my stuff, then I have to earn it back by learning some kind of lesson. He says I’m ‘building character.’ ”
“Yeah,” Al said. Sister Agatha watched the man’s face harden.
“Mitch the Missile signed it himself,” RJ said indignantly. “Plus he signed a ’Topes roster for me, with my name on it and everything, and Dad took that away, too.”
Al smiled at the boy. “You mean this one?” Russo produced a pamphlet with the distinctive Albuquerque Isotopes logo from his inside pocket. The kid’s face lit up instantly. “Just remember to put it in your special place when you get home. If you ask your Mom, she’ll give you back the ball.”
“Thanks, Al!” He looked at the roster, then back up at Russo. “Do I still have to go back inside?”
“Whatever for? I never saw you. A word of advice, though. Stay out of sight for a while. Mike and Cindy are on your trail.”
As Al Russo headed back inside, Sister Agatha avoided eye contact with him, looking down as if praying. The little boy had a good friend in Russo. Yet what she’d just heard from RJ had raised even more discouraging questions about Robert Garcia’s character.
Sister Agatha walked back across the lawn and entered the main room off the patio. Spotting Sister Bernarda, and not seeing the mayor anywhere, she went to join her fellow extern. Sister Bernarda was standing near Victoria Garcia, who was seated at the end of one of the big leather sofas, a plate heaped with food on her lap.
As Sister Agatha drew near, Victoria turned, and their eyes met for a moment. Alt
hough a trail of tears marked the makeup on her cheeks, Victoria’s eyes were dry and clear, not red.
Victoria then turned to accept condolences from an elderly woman. She dabbed her eyes, and Sister Agatha heard Victoria’s voice break as she spoke to the woman.
“There’s something not quite right there,” Sister Agatha whispered, coming up beside Sister Bernarda.
“I know what you mean,” Sister Bernarda said in a barely audible voice. “Maybe the enormity of what’s happened hasn’t hit Victoria yet, so she’s just doing her best to act the part.”
Sister Agatha looked down at Victoria’s plate. On it were lettuce, cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, and spinach leaves, topped by two big fresh, pungent onion rings. The serving looked untouched, and the woman had no eating utensils, at least none visible.
“Looks like she’s getting help producing those tears on command,” Sister Agatha replied, nodding toward the plate.
A murmur went around the gathering as JD Garcia and Al Russo stepped into the living room from an adjoining hall.
“You still want to stick around?” Sister Bernarda whispered.
Before she could answer, Sister Agatha saw Al Russo’s gaze fix on Victoria Garcia. Their eyes met for an instant, and Victoria gave him a gentle, knowing smile. For those very brief seconds, Sister Agatha saw awareness shimmering there, and something more . . . perhaps intimacy.
“Now that was real—and very interesting,” Sister Agatha said.
5
I’D SURE LIKE A CHANCE TO SPEAK TO VICTORIA BEFORE WE go,” Sister Agatha said.
“Don’t look now, but Al Russo’s coming over,” Sister Bernarda warned, looking over Sister Agatha’s shoulder, then back at her.
A heartbeat later, Sister Agatha felt a hand on her shoulder. “Sister Agatha, under the circumstances, I’m surprised to see you here. JD’s been told that you’re working to clear the sheriff,” Al Russo said quietly.
“Though he may not realize it, Mayor Garcia and I are on the same side. We all want justice, and that’s going to require looking well beyond the surface of things,” Sister Agatha said, walking out to the patio.
Al followed as she stepped outside. “If you’re here to question people, you couldn’t have picked a worse time,” he added pointedly. “It’s in very bad taste.”
“Murder is never in good taste, is it, Mr. Russo? But please don’t be concerned. I’ll be leaving shortly.” Before he could comment, she added, “Do you mind if I ask you something before I go? You were the first to arrive on the scene, and you called the authorities, right?”
“Yes. It was a big campaign day for Robert, and I noticed his absence almost right away.”
“Think back. Do you remember seeing any transients wandering around the park?”
Al considered it for several long moments, then shook his head. “I didn’t notice anyone, but that’s not to say they weren’t there. I had my attention focused on other things.”
“How did you happen to arrive on the crime scene when you did?” Sister Agatha asked.
“One of our biggest campaign contributors showed up late, just in time for the fireworks. I wanted him and Robert to meet face-to-face, but by then Robert had slipped away. I searched around the park looking for him, but . . . I was too late,” he added, shaking his head.
She was about to press him for more details when she saw Mayor Garcia working his way toward them from across the room. His look made it clear that she was as welcome as bubonic plague.
“If the sheriff’s claiming it was self-defense, Sister, he’s got a big credibility gap to cover,” Russo continued. “Even with the stick Robert was holding, the sheriff could have easily overpowered him. He could have just sprayed him in the face, for one. I saw the can of Mace, or whatever, on the sheriff’s gun belt.” He paused. “If I were you, I’d concentrate on saving souls and let law enforcement officers solve the crimes. Your interference will only complicate matters in this community. Why don’t you go home, Sister Agatha?”
“We came to let the family know we’ll be praying for them and everyone who’s involved in this tragedy, Mr. Russo.”
“That’s not the only reason you’re here. You came hoping to learn something that might help you get the sheriff off the hook. I’m used to putting spin on just about everything, Sister, so don’t try to kid a kidder.”
Glancing past Russo, Sister Agatha saw the mayor pointing her out to another man, probably one of his security staff.
“I don’t want to be responsible for unsettling the family, so I’ll leave now,” Sister Agatha said.
“Excellent decision,” Russo answered.
Signaling Sister Bernarda, who’d been watching them, she hurried to the door. Less than five minutes later, they were in the Antichrysler heading down the highway.
“I think the mayor would have had you escorted off the property if we’d stayed even two more minutes,” Sister Bernarda said.
“Yeah, I saw what was going on. That’s why I figured it was time for us to go.”
“I’m going to stop by Smitty’s on our way back,” Sister Bernarda said. “I promised to pick up a few things for Maria Victoria.”
“Please tell me it’s not more salsa,” Sister Agatha said with a groan.
Sister Bernarda smiled. “No, we lucked out on that. Maria Victoria wanted us to see if Smitty could be persuaded to donate some fresh green chiles. One of our neighbors brought us a huge roasting chicken, and Sister is making chicken enchiladas tomorrow.”
“Make real sure that they’re mild chiles, will you?” Sister Agatha asked. “Those last burritos of hers nearly burned through the roof of my mouth.”
“That’s because Maria Victoria used green chiles from Mrs. Serna’s garden. To the Sernas, that is mild.”
“I grew up eating green chiles in this part of the country,” Sister Agatha said, “but if that wasn’t hot, I’d sure hate to taste what is. I was sweating, and my eyes were tearing. And did you see poor Reverend Mother’s reaction? She took a bite, gasped, and reached for her water—which, of course, is the worst thing she could have done. Crackers or bread puts out the fire; water just spreads it around.”
Sister Bernarda’s lips twitched; then she burst out laughing. “The only one who came out okay that day was Sister Ignatius, who’d been feeling under the weather and decided to have Sister Clothilde’s chicken soup instead.”
“I really miss Sister Clothilde,” Sister Agatha said quietly. “Despite her vow of silence she was always there for us whenever it mattered most. She has such a loving nature.”
“I miss her, too,” Sister Bernarda admitted. “We’re a family, and being separated from any of the other sisters makes everything twice as hard. I think once we’re all in the same place things will settle down, and we’ll adapt. Agnus Dei will be a good place to live, too. Their monastery is involved in a mail order crafts business called Heavenly Goods. It sound like fun work. They have everything from woodworking to quilting.”
“When it becomes ‘our’ monastery instead of ‘their’ monastery, that’s when we’ll know we’re really home,” Sister Agatha said gently, wondering if it would ever feel that way to her.
“I need a favor,” Sister Agatha added, as they pulled into the parking lot beside Smitty’s Grocery Emporium. “Can you help me get Smitty to myself for a few minutes? He’s always busy, but I need to speak to him privately.”
“I’ll do my best. What kind of information are you looking for?”
“Smitty knows a transient they call Scout who lives in the bosque,” Sister Agatha explained. “I’m hoping Smitty can suggest a few places where I might find Scout and, more importantly, give me an idea of how to approach without scaring him off. When Chuck and I tried to talk to Scout before, he took off like a jackrabbit.”
“The homeless are often . . . damaged people. If he doesn’t want to talk to you, you can’t really force it,” Sister Bernarda said.
“Still, I have to find a way. There’s no
telling what he saw the day of the murder. Finding a witness may be the only way we have of clearing the sheriff.”
“Even if Scout told you precisely what you wanted to hear, you’d still have to find someone who could corroborate his story,” Sister Bernarda said. “A person like that is rarely a credible witness. If you can’t even get him to talk to you, imagine how he’d be with the police or on a witness stand.”
“You’re right,” Sister Agatha admitted grudgingly. “Still, even if no one else believes him, it’s possible he’ll be able to give me a lead I can follow. At the moment, he’s the only shot I’ve got. The Garcias certainly don’t want to cooperate. In fact, they’ve made it clear they’ll do all they can to get in my way.”
As Sister Bernarda turned off the engine, the Antichrysler backfired loudly. An elderly man carrying groceries to his car nearly dropped his bag. Apologizing as they climbed out of the car, Sister Agatha and Sister Bernarda made sure he was all right, then entered the large grocery store.
Smitty’s office was in the back, and, walking down the first aisle, they headed directly there. Sister Agatha knocked on Smitty’s open door.
Smitty, a tall, slender, bald-headed man in his early sixties, looked up from his computer and smiled broadly. “I’ve never been so happy to get an interruption!” he said. “My bookkeeper’s on vacation, and I’m trying to keep our accounts updated. Unfortunately, I can’t understand her instructions.” He gestured toward a spiral notebook with a long list of commands and keystrokes. “Bring back the adding machines, please!”
“I wish I could help,” Sister Agatha said.
Smitty regarded her for several seconds, his kind blue eyes narrowing. “Ah, but you’re the one who needs help. I recognize that look on your face. What’s up?”
“While you two are busy talking, do you mind if I pick up a few things, Smitty?” Sister Bernarda asked him. “Like some green chiles?”
