Thief in Retreat

by Aimée; David Thurlo

  “Let’s go take a look,” Sister Agatha said, wondering if the latest stolen item could be recovered so easily.

  Together they searched every nook and cranny in the chapel, but like the ghostly presence last night, the small statue of Our Lady of Sorrows was nowhere to be found.

  “Well, it was a good try, Tim,” Sister Agatha said at long last, wanting to encourage him if his search was legitimate and not part of a thief’s plan to mislead others.

  “We may not have found it, but I still stand by my theory. We’re dealing with a ghost who has a sense of drama, and one who’s determined to make a name for herself. What do you think?“

  “I’m out of my league here. I’m not much into drama. The one time I had a part in a school play I threw up during dress rehearsal, so they replaced me.”

  He gave her a long, speculative glance. “You know what, Sis-ter? I have a gut feeling that there’s a lot more to you than meets the eye. I’ve seen the way you watch people. You remind me of an undercover reporter I met once. He got his stories by maintaining a low profile while keeping his eyes and ears open to everything around him. I’d be willing to bet that like him, you’re full of surprises.”

  “Reverend Mother says that all the time—unfortunately, it’s seldom meant as praise.”

  He laughed. “Ah, so you are human like the rest of us. Get in a lot of trouble, do you?“

  “Constantly,” she said, enunciating the word for emphasis. “It’s my lot in life.”

  Tim laughed even louder. “You’re up to something, Sister, but I like you anyway.”

  After he walked away, Sister Agatha decided to search for Bill, the handyman, but, unable to find him, she returned to the library. At least she’d learned something useful this afternoon. From now on, she’d have to be careful around Tim. He was a good observer. He hadn’t been far off the mark when he’d compared her to an investigative reporter. That’s exactly what she’d been—once.

  An hour later she was up to her elbows in another box when she heard a knock at the open hall door. Pax, who’d been snoozing just outside the other door leading into the courtyard, came in immediately and sat beside her. Seeing Ernie Luna standing in the half-open door, she smiled. “Come in.”

  “I just wanted to tell you that we’ll be serving dinner at seven-thirty, Sister. You skipped lunch today, so you should definitely join everyone tonight. The conversation promises to be lively. All the guests have heard about our ghost by now and each of them will no doubt have a theory.”

  “I’ll be there,” she answered, checking her watch and thanking him. “Has there been any news on Professor Lockhart?“

  He shook his head, “And 1 can’t tell you how much that worries me. I’m hoping that Sheriff Barela is right and that it was the result of a carjacking. Not that I wish any harm to the professor, of course. But on the face of what’s been happening here, it really worries me that his disappearance may be related to the thefts.”

  “Investigations can be as stinky and slow as peeling an onion. The more you uncover, the worse it smells, and the harder it gets to continue the search. But we will find the truth. God is always on the side of right, and that gives us all the power we need.”

  “I wish I had your faith, Sister,” he said. Then, with a downcast expression he left.

  Sister settled back in her chair, absently scratching Pax between the ears. She was gazing across the room, lost in thought, when the cat, Carmen, slipped in through the open courtyard door. The screen door that had once been in place had been removed, probably to be repaired, and although insects could get in easily, she’d decided to risk it so she could enjoy the fresh air and the pinon scent that wafted into the library.

  Carmen, watching Pax the entire distance, came over to Sister Agatha, nibbed up against her leg, then, before Sister Agatha could reach down to pick her up, nimbly jumped onto a low bookcase and sat there grooming herself. Pax flinched when she leaped up, but didn’t break his training.

  “Vanity is a sin, Carmen,” Sister Agatha said. “Right, Pax?“ The cat gave her a haughty look, then continued grooming. Pax looked away, then sank down to the floor, his muzzle resting between his^ front paws, and sighed loudly.

  As dinnertime drew near, Sister Agatha made certain Pax had food and water. “I’ll be back soon, Pax.”

  When she opened the door, Carmen jumped down from her perch and rushed out into the corridor. Sister Agatha looked back at Pax, who’d realized he had to remain behind and had obviously decided to drown his sorrow in kibble. As her gaze drifted back to the cat, she had to admit that Carmen had an air of elegance about her, but she preferred the kind of rapport she had with Pax. He’d become a friend to her, one she could always depend on.

  Sister Agatha went to the bathroom down the hall, showered, changed into a clean habit, and was soon on her way to dinner. She’d just reached the junction of the main hall that led to the lobby when Teresa caught up to her.

  “Is dinner a formal affair?“ Sister Agatha asked, seeing her wearing a black broomstick skirt and a long, cream—colored blouse fastened at the waist by a concha belt.

  “Well, I suppose by New Mexico standards it is. A jacket for the men, and the women wearing dresses or pantsuits.”

  Sister Agatha smiled. “Well, I prefer formal attire myself. Nothing like black and white—floor—length,” she said, gesturing at her habit.

  “You’ll put all of us to shame,” Teresa said, chuckling.

  A moment later they reached the dining room. The tables were covered with ivory-colored lace tablecloths. In the glow of the soft lighting created by strategically placed candles, dishes and glasses sparkled, giving the room an almost magical air. She noted that none of the guests had been seated yet. There were a few in the group by the bar she hadn’t met, but at the back of the room was a group she did recognize—the writers, and Tim’s agent. Teresa hurried off to join them.

  Closer to where Sister Agatha was standing was a group that included a few more familiar faces. Paul Whitman was there, as were Tom and his wife, Gloria.

  Catching her eye, Gloria waved and, to Sister Agatha’s surprise, came over to speak to her. “Come and join us, if you don’t mind being bored to tears by the men. They’re talking shop. It started with an interesting discussion about the ghost, but Joseph Barela and Tom are both cops and before I knew it, they’d forgotten all about the ghost and were discussing fingerprinting techniques and directed patrol strategy—whatever that is. Police officers can’t seem to leave work behind for even a second,” she said with a weary sigh.

  “Well, actually, it’s a trait that seems to go with uniformed professions,” she teased. “You can say that it’s a bad habit we all share,” she added with a grin.

  Gloria groaned good—humoredly. “Bad pun, Sister.”

  “It’s the best I can do on an empty stomach,” Sister Agatha said. Before moving to join the group, she took a moment to watch the man Tom was speaking to, wondering if he was Sheriff Barela. The lean, sharp-featured man in his late forties was dressed in a dark blue Western-cut suit and bolo tie, and seemed to have a permanent, almost frozen smile on his face.

  “I see you’re looking at Sheriff Barela,” Gloria said with a tiny grin. “I guess that proves that the feminine side of you is still alive and well after all.”

  “Huh?“ Sister Agatha turned to look at Gloria.

  “He’s really drop—dead gorgeous, isn’t he?“ she sighed. “Tight abs, tight butt. Absolutely perfect packaging.”

  “Really? I was noticing his smile—it’s off somehow.”

  “What are you talking about? He’s got a killer smile, and when you get close, notice his hazel eyes. That little bit of gray around his temples makes him look really distinguished, too.”

  Sister Agatha took another look, wondering if perhaps she’d lost the ability to even recognize a handsome man after so many years at the monastery. Finally she decided that he just wasn’t her type, and shook her head. “1 just don�
�t see it.”

  “Maybe they did extinguish that spark in you at the monastery after all,” Gloria said, sounding pleased at the idea as she walked back to join her husband.

  Sister Agatha ignored the remark, watching Sheriff Bareia a while longer without making it obvious. He had presence, she’d give him that, but hours and hours of contemplation back at the monastery, that special devotion when her heart reached up to God and His Son without words, had changed her forever. It had given her an awareness of what was real—what mattered—and what was inconsequential. In her opinion, there was very little that was real about Sheriff Bareia.

  “You seem lost in thought,” Teresa said, joining her again.

  Sister Agatha smiled. “I was just looking at all the faces. There are a lot of people here I haven’t seen before.”

  “I’ve had a chance to meet just about everyone by now. Why don’t you let me introduce you around?“

  “I’d like that,” Sister Agatha said.

  She was introduced to most of the people attending the communication workshop, but out of that group only Paul Whitman was a potential suspect. The others were relative newcomers, except for a couple of the leaders, who had been out to the inn for planning sessions before the conference began. But those leaders were unlikely suspects because they hadn’t spent more than daytime hours at The Retreat so far.

  Tonight the tables had been moved together so eight could sit together, and Sister Agatha found a place by Vera Rudd. Vera talked nonstop, even as Sister Agatha tried to say grace.

  Although it was a feat, somehow Sheriff Barela managed to get in a word edgewise. “I want a detailed description of this ghost,” Joseph said deadpan. “I’ll put out an APB on her and do my best to take her into custody. I have a million questions I want to ask her—and that’s before I even get to the part about the muddy boots!“

  “You just want to add another entry to your résumé— ghostbuster,” Dominic said.

  “Hey, that might give me some serious clout in certain constituencies. Of course, I’m going to have to find a pair of handcuffs that can hold a ghost.” Barela looked at Sister Agatha, and graced her with his best smile. “But maybe we better show the other world a little more respect, right, Sister?“

  “Don’t worry. If you get into trouble, I can track down a good exorcist.”

  Sheriff Barela laughed and continued smoothly, entertaining the writers with a few more ghost stories that were famous in the area. As he continued to dominate the conversation, Vera Rudd leaned close to Sister Agatha. “He sounds like he’s running for governor, doesn’t he?“ she whispered.

  “He’s clearly a man determined to go places,” Sister Agatha sighed. “Too bad he can’t leave sooner instead of later,” she added with a wry smile. If the man kept talking, she’d never get to hear anyone else’s thoughts about the ghost.

  “Does the lady ghost always appear in the same part of the building?“ Teresa asked Ginny. “One of those dark halls?“

  “Not according to recent visitations. She’s been seen outside in the garden, in the great room, in the parts of the building still being renovated, and by the guest rooms, as you now know,” Ginny said.

  “Then a trap won’t work. We’d need to have some clue where she might pop up next.”

  “You make her sound like a bag of Orville Redenbacher,” Sister Agatha teased. “Then again, since we’re all blowing hot air, maybe that’s not too far off the mark.”

  “I appreciate your tongue—in—cheek perspective, Sister,” Dominic said, laughing. “Do you believe in benevolent apparitions— or, more to the point, poltergeists?“

  Sister Agatha paused, unwilling to lie about a spiritual matter. Ginny and Ernie both wanted her to say yes, she could see it in their eyes. “I did see a woman in the hallway last night, and since then others have suggested that it was the ghost. I personally can’t swear to that, but 1 did hear her crying, and her sadness seemed very real to me. As far as I’m concerned, Christian charity demands that we try to figure out who it was, and see if we can help her in some way.”

  “Even though she’s a bit of a kleptomaniac?“ Dominic asked.

  “I think that might be too harsh a label. She reminds me more of a child who desperately wants attention,” Sister Agatha said quietly. “I feel sorry for her. Whether she’s a ghost or not, her sadness seemed real.”

  As the conversation continued, Charlee Lane came up behind Vera Rudd and crouched down by her chair, trying to get a conversation going between the two of them. Vera avoided looking at Charlee, and Charlee seem disturbed by the fact that Vera was doing her best to ignore her.

  “It’s really a groundbreaking novel,” Charlee said. “A classic in the making, if ever there was one. I can see it going straight to the top of the best—seller lists. It’s eight hundred pages of the steamiest romance you can imagine, and it has that edginess that’s so hot in publishing today. If you think the editor will want a cliffhanger leading to a sequel, I can expand the subplot about the identical triplets. They’re being stalked at the beach house by the TV news anchor. He murdered their mother years before when he was a male—model—slash—serial—killer. You’ve just got to see the first chapter. I can get it from my briefcase so you can give it a quick read in your room after dinner.”

  “We’ll talk later,” Vera said firmly, then shifted to face away from Charlee.

  “I’ll get it now so you can take it with you. You’ll see. It’ll grab you from page one,” Charlee said, hurrying away.

  Vera shook her head in exasperation. “I’ve been avoiding this for the past week, but it looks like this time I’m a goner. Eight hundred pages of romance, triplets, and serial killers? Why doesn’t she just open the window and shove me out?“

  “Well, since this is a one-story building, all you’d probably get are grass stains on your forehead,” Sister Agatha said.

  Vera laughed. “Save me, Sister Agatha. Try to convert her. With her hair color and cornflower-blue eyes, she’d look great in basic black. The world would be a better place for it. Trust me on this.”

  “Can’t help you there. It looks like she’s decided to become a novelist instead of a novice. But look at the bright side. Maybe her confidence is justified. Her manuscript may truly be brilliant.”

  “Sadly, they seldom are. Just full of clichés, bad grammar, and descriptions that go on and on.”

  “Well, there’s always a first time.”

  “I envy you, Sister. Is it your faith that makes you such an optimist?“ Vera asked.

  She thought about it for a moment. “I never thought of it that way, but I think you’re right. I trust God to take care of everything that concerns me, so that doesn’t leave any room for pessimism.”

  “But tell me. How do you keep believing in God, maintaining your faith and loyalty to Him, when there seem to be so many awful things happening around us every day?“ Ginny asked, joining their conversation.

  Sister Agatha noticed that all the other conversations at the table seemed to have stopped. Everyone was waiting for her answer. “Think back to last year when we hatd forest fires all around us. The air quality got so bad we couldn’t see the mountains. Some’ days even the sun faded away, and for New Mexico, that’s very uncommon. But despite those difficult circumstances, we all knew that the sun was still out there, as bright as ever, and that the mountains hadn’t packed up and left.” She paused, then added, “What we know to be true isn’t always dependent on what we see“

  7

  ABOUT TEN MINUTES LATER, THEY ALL ADJOURNED TO the great room, and scattered to form new groups sitting on the sofas, wooden benches, and tall—backed chairs lining the walls. Sister Agatha had just taken a seat when Charlee came rushing in, tears in her eyes. “My manuscript is missing. I left it in my briefcase in the coat closet outside the dining area. Just in case, I retraced the route I’d taken from my room, and even checked at the front desk in their lost—and—found box. But it’s gone.” Charlee stared ac
cusingly at the other writers.

  “Hey, don’t look at me,” Bob said. “What would 1 do with a romance novel? I’d rather read the dictionary.”

  She turned to Teresa, who shuddered. “What, you think I did it? You’ve got to be kidding. I’m gay. If the only choices of reading material at the dentist office are a romance novel or a fishing magazine, hey, I’m going fishing every time.”

  “Somebody here took it!“ Charlee insisted.

  “Probably the ghost,” Teresa offered. “After all, she’s taken other valuable items, like muddy boots and mop buckets.”

  Charlee glared at her, and if looks could have killed, Teresa would have fallen over in a dead heap.

  “Maybe Juanita is a ghostwriter?“ Dominic suggested with an impish grin, and several of the people listening groaned almost in unison.

  Charlee took a deep breath, then continued, “That novel has the potential of being a NewYork Times best-seller. I knew it in my heart the moment I typed The End.’“

  Vera Rudd leaned over to Sister Agatha. “I told you it was too long,” she whispered. “By the time she finally finished, Charlee was hallucinating.”

  Sister Agatha bit her lip to keep from smiling. It was obvious that Charlee was in genuine distress. “I’m sure it’ll turn up soon,” she said gently. “Maybe the ghost is a fan of your work.”

  “That could be, you know,” Ginny said. “Juanita had a thing for writers. She wanted to be one, but in her day, women didn’t do things like that. It’s all in her journal. We’ve got that somewhere around here—I think maybe in the library. That room’s not cur-rently open to our guests, and Sister Agatha is using it as her quarters while she does her work, but I can find it for you if you’d like to read it.” Ginny looked sympathetically at Charlee, and apologetically at Sister Agatha.

  “I’m not interested in someone else’s book right now. I want my own back,” Charlee whined. “I put everything I had into that novel.”