by Aimée Thurlo
Sister Agatha sighed. “I know that patience is a virtue, Sister, but I’ve got to hurry—”
“That’s vanity speaking, Sister Agatha,” Sister Bernarda said in a quiet and resolute voice. “You don’t have to do anything except get out of God’s way and let Him do the work. Remember this morning’s reading from Philippians? That’s one of my all-time favorite quotes—‘For it is God who worketh in you, both to will and to accomplish, according to His good will.’ ” She paused. “So stop telling God how you think things should work out and quit making demands. Open your heart and listen to Him first, then act.”
The simple truth behind Sister Bernarda’s advice touched her heart. “You’re so right, Sister.”
Before she could say more, the Maria bell announced Vespers.
11
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, AFTER THE END OF THE Great Silence, Sister Agatha went directly to the parlor. With Sister de Lourdes already in Denver and Sister Jo, who’d only had a brief stay at Our Lady, transferred to a teaching order in Albuquerque, Sister Bernarda hadn’t had a break from her portress duties in days. She hadn’t even been able to go for private prayer in the chapel.
This morning Sister Agatha had agreed to take over for a half hour so Sister Bernarda could spend quiet time in adoration. It was in those moments that the soul affirmed its total dependence on God. Now, in the midst of all the troubles they were facing, times of contemplation in chapel had become a necessary lifeline.
The phone rang shortly after eight thirty, and Sister Agatha picked it up. She recognized the caller’s voice even before he identified himself.
“Sister Agatha, you and I need to talk. This is Frank Marquez.”
“Is something wrong?” she asked quickly.
“You tell me. We had an agreement. You were going to pass on whatever you uncovered, but even though you’ve been working the case for two days now, I haven’t heard a word. I hope you don’t expect me to believe that you’ve uncovered absolutely nothing.”
“If I’d found out something definite, I would have called you, Frank. All I’ve really got at this point is gut feelings based on rumors.”
“Rumors can sometimes lead to facts, and gut feelings to suspects. How about meeting me at the Java Shack, the coffee shop across from the station, at around ten thirty?”
She’d heard of the place, of course. It was supposed to sell some very upscale coffee. Young professionals and upper-class business owners flocked to it. It surprised her that Marquez had suggested the place. Almost all the officers she knew preferred coffee that didn’t require an entire hour’s wages.
“Don’t worry, I’m buying,” he said.
“I’ll be there,” she answered cheerfully.
Sister Agatha placed the phone down and had just started dusting the parlor’s desk when she heard the sounds of happy barking outside. Standing by the window, she saw Pax making the most of the cool morning temperatures. Two quails with their question-mark bonnets were walking along the top of the wall while Pax lunged and jumped, trying in vain to reach them. Animals and children . . . even the simplest things could renew their zest for life.
As her thoughts wandered, she thought of Robert’s son, RJ. Sister Agatha wondered how Robert’s death would affect the boy over time. Would he draw closer to his mother, or not? Now that Robert’s cruelty was no longer a part of their lives, would RJ and Victoria drift apart? Without a common threat, the need to band together was no longer there—at least not to the same extent—and the boy seemed primed to rebel already.
By the time Sister Bernarda came into the parlor, Sister Agatha had made up her mind to go speak to Victoria. Regardless of what Crystal, the housekeeper, had said, an abused wife always had a strong motive for wanting to ease her suffering—one way or the other.
“I’m ready to take over, Your Charity,” Sister Bernarda said. “Thanks for taking care of things here so I could have time in chapel.”
“Anytime, Sister—and I mean that.”
Sister Agatha and Pax left the monastery five minutes later. Unsure whether Victoria was still staying at her brother-in-law’s house, she passed by Victoria’s home first, since it was on her way.
Seeing a car there, Sister Agatha drove up the long driveway and parked. A few moments later she and Pax, on a short lead, passed through the turquoise blue gate leading into the walled courtyard, then walked up to the heavy carved door. Pax remained at heel, seated on the flagstone step as she rang the doorbell.
As she waited, Sister Agatha studied her surroundings. This wasn’t a particularly large house, but it was well appointed—a modern frame-and-stucco version of the classic Southwest adobe home. The private courtyard was filled with colorful desert shrubs and indigenous flowers that flourished in the dry climate. Carefully positioned sandstone boulders accented the enclosure. The effect was cool and soothing.
When there was no answer, Sister Agatha rang the bell again. A minute later, she heard running footsteps, and the door was opened.
“Sister Agatha, I’m surprised to see you!” Victoria said, still catching her breath. “I was expecting the parcel express man.”
Sister Agatha wasn’t sure how to respond. Did that mean that she wouldn’t have answered had she known?
“Come in,” she said, waving her inside. “The dog, too.” She walked to the doorway leading to the den, then stopped and glanced back at Sister Agatha. “Since you’re here, how about giving me a hand in RJ’s room? My housekeeper’s running an errand, and I could sure use an extra pair of hands. I’m trying to hang up a poster I know RJ will just love. It’s a surprise for when he gets back from day camp.”
“I’d be happy to help.”
Sister Agatha followed her down the hall, and soon they entered what could only be described as a little boy’s dream room. From floor to ceiling, it was filled with everything baseball. There were posters of Major League players on every wall, autographed team photos, a full-sized cardboard cutout of an apparently famous player swinging a bat, and half a dozen pennants of the local minor league team, the Albuquerque Isotopes. There was even a huge teddy bear on the shelf, dressed up in a pin-striped baseball uniform and cap. A new-looking baseball glove sat beside it, along with an autographed ball inside a plastic case. In the opposite corner stood a wooden bat that had to have been at least as tall as Robert Jr. Beside that was a well-used plastic bat and ball, more suitable for a child just learning the fundamentals.
“I want to hang the poster just to the right of his bed. We got RJ’s favorite player, Mitch the Missile, to sign it for him.”
“We?”
“Al Russo helped. I think you’ve met him. Al figured that RJ needed a little boost right now.” Victoria handed her a big rolled-up poster, then reached onto the top of a large dresser for several push tacks.
“How’s this?” Sister Agatha said, unrolling the poster halfway and holding it up against the wall.
“Could you move it about six inches to your left and lower the right side about an inch?”
Sister Agatha made the adjustment, then eyeballed the top edge, trying to get it level.
“Close enough. Just hold it there so I can put two tacks into the top,” Victoria said, coming up from behind her.
“I imagine your son is taking his father’s death really hard right now,” Sister Agatha said, stepping to the side enough so Victoria could put the tacks in place.
“My son and I will get through this. It won’t be easy, but we’ll manage,” she answered.
Together, they unrolled the remaining portion of the poster, and Victoria placed four more tacks in place.
Victoria then stood back to survey their work. “That’ll do it for now. If RJ wants it elsewhere, it won’t take long to pull it free.” She glanced at Sister Agatha. “Thanks for the help, Sister. Now what can I do for you?”
“I came hoping for a chance to speak to you alone.”
“We’re not actually alone, but we won’t be overheard,” Victoria s
aid. “My sister-in-law, Alyssa, kept us company last night. She’s staying in the guest bedroom. You don’t have to worry about our privacy, though. Alyssa took one of her pills, so she’ll be out till noon, at least.”
Victoria led the way back to the big, open front room and offered Sister Agatha a seat on a comfortable-looking sofa. “So what brings you here?”
Sister Agatha decided to get right to the point. “I’ve heard some disturbing stories about the way your husband treated you,” Sister Agatha said gently. “Including physical abuse,” she added.
“I loved Robert, Sister Agatha. Why else would I have stayed with him? He had a temper, ask anyone, but he was a great provider. I never lacked for anything, and, more importantly, neither did my son. Sure, Robert had his faults, and getting too rough with the people he loved was one of them—but he had a good side, too. He always made sure my son and I had the best of everything.” She stood, her eyes cold and focused. “I think you should leave now,” she said, walking to the front door and holding it open.
“I’m sorry if I offended you,” Sister Agatha said, seeing the woman’s hand shaking.
“Just go,” Victoria said, pointing down the walk.
Sister Agatha walked back to the motorcycle with Pax and reached for her helmet. “Seems I touched a nerve, boy,” she commented. “Or did it seem to you that she was just putting on an act? I’m not convinced her indignation was as sincere as she wanted us to believe.”
Pax looked at her and cocked his head, almost as if pondering the question.
Sister Agatha reached out and patted him on the head. “Never mind. Sidecar ride, get in!” He jumped in immediately and sat up so he could see around the cockpit’s small windshield.
Easing back onto the saddle, Sister Agatha considered the various impressions she’d gotten during her short visit while they were still fresh in her mind. Though she hadn’t been there long, one curious fact had come to the surface. Victoria had repeatedly referred to RJ as “my” son, not “our” son.
Although it might have simply been an act of independence, or defiance, Sister Agatha intended to look into that some more. She’d start by comparing how long Robert and Victoria had been married with RJ’s age. If Victoria had been carrying someone else’s child, that could certainly explain Robert’s resentment—though it still didn’t justify his abusive behavior.
She was just about to put on her helmet when Frank Marquez, now driving an unmarked sedan, pulled up beside her. “Interesting that I should run into you here, Sister.”
“I might have said the same thing if you hadn’t beaten me to the punch,” Sister Agatha said with a sheepish smile.
“You coming or going?”
“Just leaving,” she said.
“Then we’ll talk more about this later,” he said. “Right now I need to talk to Mrs. Garcia.”
Sister Agatha then put on her helmet and started the engine, watching as Frank climbed out of his car and walked through the courtyard gate. She would have loved to ask him what had brought him here . . . and maybe she would, later.
Driving slowly down the street, she noticed a woman wearing jeans and a T-shirt working in the yard of the house next door. On impulse, Sister Agatha decided to go talk to her. A snoopy neighbor could be worth his or her weight in gold.
As she drove up the adjacent circular driveway, the woman heard the Harley, waved, and walked over to greet her. “Sister Agatha, I presume?” she asked with a smile. She was tall and very thin, and her silver hair was styled in a simple pageboy. Sister Agatha guessed that she was in her midsixties.
“That’s me,” Sister Agatha answered, taking off her helmet so they could see each other face-to-face. “Have we met?”
“No. My nephew works in the mayor’s office, and he once described you to me. My name’s Kathy Duran.” She shook hands, then, cocking her head, invited Sister Agatha and Pax into the house. “Let’s get out of the heat for a bit. It’s time for my break. Gardening keeps my blood pressure down, but I have to take it in increments, especially this time of year.”
The conventional pitched-roof, ranch-style home was decorated in warm earth tones. The peeled log furniture appeared to be handmade, with carved Western images of cattle and rearing horses adding detail to the simple but functional style.
“Those are just for decoration,” she said, pointing to two large, antique-looking enamel coffeepots on the kitchen’s center island. “I don’t drink coffee or tea, but I have apple and orange juice if you’d care for something to drink.”
“Apple juice would be nice,” Sister Agatha said. She wasn’t particularly thirsty but had learned over the years that the simple act of sharing a refreshment with someone often worked wonders. People relaxed, and conversations flowed more freely.
“Now tell me what brought you here. I heard the motorcycle and saw you visiting with Victoria a while ago.” She stood at the kitchen island, a heavy wooden table fitted with drawers and cabinets. “I also noticed that you didn’t stay long. I imagine your visit didn’t go well, particularly since Alyssa’s there.”
“You’ve got me curious. Why would you say that?” Sister Agatha asked.
“Alyssa wouldn’t risk getting her husband angry by talking to you,” Kathy replied matter-of-factly.
“No one would have had to know,” Sister Agatha protested. Kathy smiled. “Ours is a small town. We all know each other’s business.”
Knowing the truth when she heard it, Sister Agatha nodded but said nothing.
“In that family, men run things, too,” Kathy said in a slow, thoughtful tone. “The women . . . well, they’re more like window dressing, if you ask me. Trophy wives. Although Alyssa and Victoria are different in a lot of ways, they have one thing in common. They live under their husband’s thumbs. I don’t waste time feeling sorry for them. When your toys are more important to you than your freedom . . .”
“Some women don’t mind taking a backseat to their husbands. It spares them the responsibility of making their own decisions—and relieves them of all accountability,” Sister Agatha said.
“Sister, both of those women are gluttons for punishment—especially Victoria. I’ve seen a few of her fights with Robert, and heard even more. One time she ran out the back door, crying like a baby. Robert grabbed her by the arm, twisted it behind her back, and practically threw her back inside the house. I called the sheriff’s department, of course.”
“What happened?”
“After about a half hour, a deputy finally came out, but nothing was done from what I could tell. The next day I was out watering the tomatoes when I saw Victoria in the backyard wearing shorts and one of those tank tops, sunning herself on a lounger. Even though there’s a fence between us, I could see the huge bruises on her arms and shoulders. Of course, when she went to town later, she covered all those up with a long-sleeved blouse.”
Sister Agatha shook her head slowly. “I can’t understand why she never tried to get help.”
“And create a scandal?” Kathy shook her head. “That’s not the way things work, not for the Garcia women, at least.”
“How did the family get their money, do you know?”
“I understand that JD and Robert’s grandfather made a bundle selling black market gasoline and ration coupons across the West during World War II. He then used that money to buy legitimate businesses. Since then, each generation has done better than the last.
“Prospering is a matter of pride to the Garcias. Their men don’t bother with the rules, and they compete against each other almost as hard as they do against outsiders. Take a look at JD and Robert. They both married beautiful women, though neither man is much to look at. I’m sure that deep down they know their wives married them for their money, and maybe that’s why they treat them like . . . crap,” Kathy said at last, then shrugged. “But that’s just my opinion.”
“Do you think it’s possible Victoria really loved Robert, despite the way he treated her?” Sister Agatha asked.
“Stranger things have happened, I suppose. I can tell you one thing for sure, though. She’s not acting like a grieving widow now.” Kathy paused and took a deep, shaky breath. “Believe me, I’d know those signs better than almost anyone else. When my husband of forty-five years died last year, I was devastated. I sat in his favorite chair in our living room and stared at the wall for hours. I prayed I’d die, too. It wasn’t until my daughter and her husband moved in with me for a while that I was able to climb out of that dark place and find a reason to go on.
“After the death of someone you truly care about, you’re never the same.” Kathy swallowed hard, then continued. “I don’t see any of that happening to Victoria. Instead, when I look at her, I see a young mother who finally has the backbone to stand up for herself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yesterday afternoon I was out on my balcony, reading. The Garcias were out on Victoria’s back patio when Robert Jr. hurt himself on something and started crying. Victoria immediately tried to comfort the boy, but JD pulled her away from him, kind of rough, saying that she was going to turn the kid into a cry-baby. JD shook the boy and told him to go to his room and not come out until he could act like a man instead of a sissy girl. It took her a second or two to get herself together, but as soon as the boy went inside, Victoria turned on JD. She told him never to disrespect her in front of her son. JD laughed and told her to remember her place. She’d married a Garcia, but her son was the genuine article. He had standards to meet, and no man in his family was going to grow up whining like a woman.”
“How did she take that?” Sister Agatha asked.
“Victoria got in his face and, in a voice loud enough to be heard all the way down the street, told him no blanking Garcia would ever tell her what to do again. She said she had Robert’s life insurance and that was all she and her son needed now. They’d be taken care of without any more of the blanking Garcia money, so if he didn’t like the way she was raising RJ, he could get out and not bother coming back.”
