“Pax isn’t like that. He was retired from police work for insufficient aggression, so you shouldn’t worry. His senses, on the other hand, are as sharp as ever. He’d hear things no human being would ever notice. Tom Green can vouch for his behavior and training.”
“Let me think about it.” He looked around the room. “But your suggestion that you two sleep in the library does make a lot of sense. It’ll also allow your dog to have direct access to the outside. With the enclosed courtyard, you can give him some freedom without worrying that he’ll encounter any guests by accident. I’ll arrange for a bed and a dresser to be moved in immediately.”
“Will you also get me a small flashlight? This part of the building can be very dark at night, and I don’t want to use a candle and set off one of the smoke alarms.”
“Done. Anything else? Maybe a key for the library door? This room does lock. It’s one of the few in the entire place that does.”
“Good. And how about a key for the door leading into the courtyard? I used the barrel bolt before, but there’s a deadboit as well.”
“Right. Code requires one since it’s an exterior door. I’ll get you a key.” With a nod, he turned and left the room.
A short time later, she received the flashlight she’d asked for and keys to the doors. Then two men brought in the bed and dresser she’d been promised. While Pax kept a careful watch on the newcomers, Sister Agatha hurried to help the workmen make room for her bed against the far wall.
After they left, Sister Agatha hurried back to her old room to retrieve her belongings and Pax’s supplies. She’d just finished transferring everything into the library when Tom appeared at the hall door.
“I was just told about the loss last night. Have you turned up anything?“ the sheriff asked. Pax came up to him, and Tom idly scratched the dog between the ears as he talked.
Sister Agatha shook her head. “I was thinking that I should check on Mrs. Mora first,” she said, telling him what had happened the night before. “Maybe she saw something that would help but doesn’t realize it. The right questions might do wonders for her memory.”
“Good plan,” he answered. “I’ve got to attend a workshop session this afternoon. When that finishes, I’ll mingle with the guests and see if I can come up with a lead. We need to find out where everyone was after midnight last night, right? With luck we’ll find someone who stayed up late playing cards or sitting by the fireplace.”
After Tom left, Sister Agatha looked regretfully at the third crate, wishing that sorting through these relics was her only task here. The contents, so far, had been far more interesting than she’d expected. But there was work to be done.
After doing the Divine Office she felt more at peace. As long as God stayed first in her thoughts and in her heart, she’d find the answers she needed. He was her center.
Feeling the peace that only He could give her, Sister Agatha took Pax out into the courtyard, which was enclosed by a four-foot-high wall and a wooden gate, then made sure his water dish was full and in a shaded location. Then she left the library and made her way along the network of halls to the great room at the front of the main house. As she approached the doorway, she heard angry, muted voices coming from inside.
“That’s enough,” a woman said in a harsh whisper. “It’s no one’s fault. Just tend to your dusting.”
“You can’t just ignore it,” another woman answered.
Sister entered the great room a moment later. Mrs. Mora and several members of the housekeeping staff were there working. Here, as in other places in The Retreat, nichos held small bultos or displayed paintings of various saints done on hide. She’d read the history of such items in one of the monk’s journals. Friars in the 1700s who had traveled to the various missions had needed easily transportable visual aids to use for catechism classes. That need had given birth to paintings on hide. Paint soaked into hide didn’t flake off. And besides being readily available, hide could be rolled up and taken anywhere. Though the monastery here hadn’t been established until the 1900s, the brothers had sought out teachers from among the friars in the region. Those crafts had helped them to be self-supporting for many years.
“Hello, Sister,” Mrs. Mora said. “Do you need help?“
“No, I was just going a little stir—crazy, sorting through all the things in those crates. I was wondering if I could help you with your cleaning. It’s what I would have been doing right now back at the monastery.”
“If you really want to, just grab some rags and help me with the window,” Mrs. Mora said.
She’d expected the housekeeping staff to chatter and gossip as they worked, but nobody seemed to have a word to say after she joined them.
“I hope you’re not all minding the Rule of Silence because of me,” Sister Agatha joked, hoping to encourage the conversation to start again.
Mrs. Mora chuckled softly. “It’s not you, Sister. We’re all just a little tense today.”
“A little tense? I’m about ready to quit,” one of the house-keepers, a petite Spanish woman in her midtwenties, said. Her name tag read EVA SANCHEZ. “I know about that ghost woman pulling pranks with our mops, but now the Virgencita has disappeared from the cabinet. Mr. Ernie said she’s being cleaned, but she wasn’t dirty. My bet is that she left on her own. I think she was upset because we’re paying more attention to this ghost than to her. After all the miracles she’s done for this community, I don’t blame her for being upset.” She looked at Sister Agatha, then added, “I know the Church doesn’t think they’re miracles, but around here we do.”
Sister Agatha smiled. “A miracle is simply a blessing from God. And if Our Lady of Sorrows played a part in the wonderful things that have happened in this community, then I can certainly understand why she’s so loved.”
“Until now all the ghost did was hide things like mops or office things. But what if she took the bulto and Mr. Ernie isn’t saying ’cause he’s afraid if people find out, the ghost won’t be so popular anymore,” a redheaded housekeeper said. Her name tag read RITA GAVIN.
“The bulto will return,” Mrs. Mora said firmly. “Stop letting your imaginations run wild.”
“That ghost is just so annoying,” Rita said.
“Does anyone remember when the current wave of misplaced household items began?“ Sister Agatha asked. “Was it about a week or so ago?“
Lupe Mora spoke first. “About that, I think. I remember it was right around the time Mr. Delancy and Miss Rudd arrived.”
“I personally think that the person taking our mops and things is Tim Delancy,” Eva said. “He probably wants to teach the other writers how to play detective.”
“If that’s true, maybe he’s trying to make the writing lessons more interesting by giving them a puzzle to solve,” Mrs. Mora said. “It may not be malicious at all.”
“I don’t care how you try to excuse it,” Eva said. “The ghost has to go, It’s just... unnatural!“
Mrs. Mora gave the women a stern glance. “What we need now is less talking and more working, ladies.”
Sister Agatha nodded. “You’re right. I’ll help you finish this window, then I’d better get back to my own job.”
Sister Agatha was on her way back to the library when she saw Vera Rudd, the literary agent, strolling along the hall with Teresa Kelly, studying the nichos.
Sister Agatha hurried to join them. “What are you two up to this fine afternoon?“ she asked.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the mysterious disappearances taking place around here. Nothing valuable, just a few mops and things. But we’ve been trying to find the kleptomaniacal ghost’s motive,” Vera said with a smile.
“Sooner or later, people are going to start thinking that; someone in our writers’ group is responsible,” Teresa said with a belea—guered sigh. “Our workshops are all about crimes—writing for the mystery and suspense genres.”
“I don’t know what to think. It’s like arriving at the theater thirty minutes
after the movie started,” Sister Agatha replied, refusing to speculate out loud. Then she excused herself. Most of the guests were attending workshops now, and it was the perfect time for her to return to the library and make some progress sorting through the crates.
The work was a bit like a treasure hunt. When she opened the third crate, she found it filled with personal items that had belonged to the deceased members. Inside were breviaries, rosaries, crucifixes of all sizes, cassocks, and bibles, and nestled between them were numerous volumes—works on theology, and the writings of St. Benedict, Anselm of Canterbury, and Gertrude the Great. As she looked through those books, she found several exquisite handcrafted bookmarks. Some were done on hide and others on vellum paper, an imitation of parchment.
She smiled, thinking of how the sisters back at her monastery would love these bookmarks. She wasn’t sure if anyone at the archbishop’s office would consider these little tokens valuable but, if no one there was interested in keeping them, she’d ask if they could go to the sisters.
Time slipped by, and when Sister Agatha at long last stopped working and looked around, it was already dark outside. She could feel a cool breeze coming in through the halfway-open courtyard door. She’d left it open so Pax could come and go, but he’d curled up in front of the fireplace, as usual, and was asleep, judging by his gentle snoring. Getting ready to quit for today, she stood up, stretching her aching muscles and flexing her cramped and swollen hand. Suddenly a bloodcurdling scream pierced the air.
6
FOR ONE BREATHLESS MOMENT SISTER AGATHA FOUND IT impossible to move. Then, as adrenalin shot through her system, she bolted out of the library and raced down the hall toward the chilling sound. As she reached the renovated section of the building, she saw a group gathered outside one of the guest bedrooms. Pax, who’d followed automatically, came up beside her. Suddenly aware of his presence, she took hold of his collar to reassure everyone that she was in control of him.
“What happened?“ Sister Agatha asked Teresa, who was standing in the doorway. But even before Teresa could answer Sister Agatha knew. The scent of lilacs filled the air, making Pax snort and sneeze.
Teresa looked both embarrassed and a bit annoyed. “I asked housekeeping to send me some fresh towels. A few minutes later, there was a knock at my door. Then, before I could answer, I heard that scream. Scared me half to death!“
“It was the lady that haunts this place,” said Eva, the petite housekeeper Sister Agatha had met earlier in the great room. “I never thought she was a real ghost, but this time I saw her close up. She was gliding over the floor! No human being moves like that,” she said in a shaky voice.
Tom, who’d quietly joined the group, looked at Sister Agatha and mouthed the word “gliding“ with a questioning look on his face.
Sister Agatha shrugged, then asked Eva, “Where was this ’ghost’ when you saw her?“
“She was going down the hall, that way, Sister,” Eva said, pointing. “Then I saw her stop and go into one of the rooms.”
“Which one?“
“The third one down—there,” she pointed again.
“That’s my room.” Bob Becker rushed down, threw the door open, then a second later cursed loudly. “Oh, man, right on my clean clothes!“
Tom and Sister Agatha were the next ones down the hall. She had to hold onto Pax tightly—all the excitement and chatter among the humans was getting him fired up as well. When she looked through the doorway into Bob’s room, Sister Agatha saw that a pair of muddy rubber boots had been placed inside the top drawer of the dresser.
“My shirts are all in there,” Bob moaned.
Ginny Luna excused herself as she passed through the crowd of onlookers, then came into Bob’s room for a look. “Please don’t worry. We have a laundry room right here on the grounds. I’ll have your shirts laundered at no charge, then returned to your room first thing in the morning.”
Somewhat mollified, Bob took a newspaper off his bed, set it on the floor, then lifted the hoots out of the drawer and placed them on the paper. “Whose boots are these anyway?“
“Mine,” said Bill Miller, who’d just arrived. “I left them on the step outside the service entrance when I came in a little while ago. Mrs. Mora would have skinned me alive if I’d worn them inside.”
He grabbed his boots from where Bob had set them, along with the newspaper, and stalked off again, scowling fiercely. Sister Agatha noted that Miller was wearing an old pair of moccasins.
“Well, the excitement is over for now, folks,” Ginny said, handing three mud-encrusted shirts to Eva, who wrapped them in a towel so they wouldn’t soil anything. “We can all relax now and get back to our plans for the evening.”
As Eva rushed away with the soiled shirts, most of the other spectators started drifting away as well. Virginia glanced over at Sister Agatha and smiled. “Eva sure has a good scream, doesn’t she? I was in the dining room, going over the menu with our cook, and nearly had my first and final heart attack. I always thought these adobe walls would absorb sounds better than that.”
Sister Agatha chuckled softly. “Well, at least we know she has healthy lungs.”
Deciding there was nothing more she could do here, Sister Agatha returned to the library, still keeping Pax at heel. He was alert and anxious for more action, but fortunately very trustworthy. Once they were alone again, he walked over to his dish for some water. As soon as Sister Agatha sat down, there was a knock on the door. This time she put Pax on “stay,” then went to see who it was. Her visitors were Ernie Luna and Tom.
“I don’t know whether to thank the ghost or have her exorcised,” Ernie said as Sister Agatha gestured for the men to enter. “She’s helping us keep everyone diverted from our search for the art thief and is giving us an excuse for keeping watch and asking questions. But she’s also making me crazy.”
“Most of your guests seem to actually enjoy the idea of a ghost who plays pranks,” Sister Agatha said. “And I think that kind of local color is going to overshadow everything else that happens here—at least for a while.”
“I did some research on the history of this property before I bought The Retreat, and the story about Juanita is true. She was killed on this site.” He glanced at the journals Sister Agatha had taken from the crates. “Let me know if the monks mentioned any-thing about the ghost in the records they left behind, will you? I’d like to know how they handled it.”
“Your handyman was sure ticked off when he realized that the ghost had taken his boots,” Tom commented.
Ernie sighed. “Bill doesn’t have a big salary and those boots probably cost him plenty.”
“What do you know about your handyman?“ Tom asked before Sister Agatha could.
“I’ve known Bill Miller all his life. He and I grew up together in this town. Bill may not have much to show for it, but he’s a hard worker. He’s spent nearly all his adult life trying to break out as an artist. He does good work, but he’s always had to have a second job to pay the bills. Now, finally, he’s about to get the opportunity he’s needed. In the past six months or so, his santos have begun to attract the attention of some influential people—the kind who can lead to the big break artists are always looking for. He’s got a major show coming up in Santa Fe in about a month at a prominent studio. If that goes well, he could be on his way to better things.”
Ginny Luna came in just then. “Ernie, I need you out front. Our last communications workshop participant has arrived. He’s one of the assistant directors of the state correctional system.” She looked back and forth between her husband and Tom. “It’s his first visit here, and I think you should come and greet him. Tom, Gloria suggested you come out, too. She said it’d be good for your career.”
Sister Agatha remained behind. The answers lay with those al-ready here, not with new guests. And finding out that Bill Miller was a competent artist meant that he was now at the top of her suspect list.
It was time she and he got to know each othe
r. Leaving Pax in the library, door propped open so he could go outside, she walked down the hall. She’d only gone a few doors down when she ran into Tim Delancy. “Hey, Sister, I’m out to do a little ghostbusting. Want to come along?“
She smiled and shook her head. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
He shrugged. “Me neither, but I’ve learned that one of the local treasures—the Our Lady of Sorrows statue—isn’t in its case. According to the staff, it’s out being cleaned, but when I heard that it had never been sent out for ’cleaning’ before, that got me thinking. Maybe we’re not getting the real story. It could be that Ernie doesn’t want to admit that the ghost decided to up the stakes on her game of hide-and-seek. My brain’s geared for fiction, so take my speculations with a grain of salt, but, still, it couldn’t hurt to take a look around the place,” he said with a tiny grin. “Tell me, Sister, if you were hiding the missing statue, where would you have put it?“
It all of a sudden occurred to her that maybe the writer was responsible, and planning on ensuring himself an audience for his subsequent recovery of the missing bulto.
“I’m not sure. You know this place better than I do. Where would you hide it?“ Sister Agatha asked, turning the question on him.
Tim appeared to consider her question for a moment, and his pensive pose reminded her of a stage actor. “My guess is that it’s right underneath everyone’s noses. The ghost obviously relishes the notion of making us mortals look silly. Wait—I know. The chapel,” he said.
“If it’s really missing, I imagine that’s been searched already,” Sister Agatha answered.
“In the obvious places, sure. But I’m thinking of other locations, like on top of the light fixture, among the other statues or paintings, behind the altar screen, or even beneath the altar.”
Thief in Retreat Page 7
