Thief in Retreat

by Aimée; David Thurlo

  “Thanks, Sister. I haven’t really read it completely through myself. I think I’ll keep it out of circulation until 1 can hand-scan it and print a copy.”

  “Good idea,” Sister Agatha said.

  “Where are you off to now?“ Ginny asked.

  “To town. I’m taking Pax along, and we’re going to do a little sightseeing.”

  Ginny smiled. “Hopefully you won’t have the same experience you did last time you and the dog went for a drive. You’re really not like any other nun I’ve ever known, Sister.”

  “I have a feeling the Church considers that an enormous blessing,” Sister Agatha joked, silently praying that she never again found another dead person.

  Ten minutes later, with Pax comfortable in the sidecar, Sister Agatha started up the bike and drove out the gates of the former monastery.

  Fifteen minutes later she arrived in the small New Mexico town of Las Vegas. Some people glanced at her and smiled as she zoomed by; others shook their heads. Finding a parking place in front of a laundry, Sister Agatha took off her helmet, then climbed off the cycle and walked around to the sidewalk. “Okay, boy, come.”

  Pax leaped out of the sidecar and trotted over beside her, sitting, but obviously eager to stretch his legs. Within seconds they were on the move. They walked about half a block, coming to a narrow bookstore sandwiched between a furniture store and a mortgage firm. Keeping Pax on his leash, she walked inside, then put him at “down and stay“ right by the door.

  “He can come in,” said the clerk, a woman in her late forties with bright red hair. “I saw you two coming up the sidewalk. He’s a beautiful dog, and obviously very well trained.”

  “He lives with us at Our Lady of Hope Monastery, near Bernalillo. Reverend Mother likes for the extern sisters to take him along when we’re far from home.” Sister Agatha walked around the small room, reading titles on the bookshelves.

  “Can I help you find something?“

  Sister Agatha shook her head. “No, I saw your sign when I drove by, and decided to come in to take a look around. Are you the owner?“

  “Yes, I’m Lisa Garfield.”

  “I’m Sister Agatha,” she said, shaking the woman’s hand. “I’m doing some work for the Church over at The Retreat, which you probably know used to be a monastery. I was wondering if you handled old journals and books—just in case the church decides to sell some of the ones I’ve found in the crates the monks left behind.”

  “Journals written by monks from St. John?“ Seeing Sister nod, she added, “I’d love to buy those. If the church decides to sell, please contact me first. I’d very much like to see the materials, and then make an offer.”

  “Great. I’ll pass that news on to the archbishop’s office.” Sister Agatha stopped by the coffee machine on a back table. There were several foam cups and plastic spoons beside it.

  “Help yourself to a cup, Sister, if you’d like. I keep that pot going for my customers.”

  Sister Agatha nodded. “Thanks. It can get brisk on the motorcycle this time of year.”

  “What on earth is a nun doing on a motorcycle?“

  “Our monastery’s old station wagon is constantly hovering near death. So when a parishioner donated the Harley, it offered us a much-needed alternative. I had a brother who taught me about motorcycles, so I was put in charge of this one.”

  Sister Agatha casually picked up a copy of Luck, Beans, and Chile, a book that had been written by Tim Delancy. “This man’s giving a writer’s workshop over at The Retreat right now. Imagine that!“

  “Delancy is such a wonderful writer. 1 just don’t understand why he hasn’t written anything more along those lines. His novels really show what life’s like in New Mexican small towns.”

  “There seem to be a lot of writers and artists in New Mexico,” Sister Agatha commented casually, noting a display showing a small selection of regional works, from pottery and wood carvings to paintings.

  “True. My business is primarily books, but I like to give some of our lesser-known artists a chance to display what they create.”

  On a bulletin board underneath a “FOR SALE“ tag, Sister Agatha noted a photograph of a beautiful landscape painting depicting an old adobe hacienda in winter, with snow on the pinons and chamisa. A telephone number had been listed below it.

  Seeing her interest, Lisa added, “That’s a beautiful example of contemporary Southwest art. It’s by Cliff Leland, and was commissioned by Tim Delancy for his Taos home. It’s now for sale, along with Delancy’s rancho in Taos. The residence is on one of the local tours. Tim said it’s just too much house, so he’s got it on the market along with most of the furnishings.”

  “So Mr. Delancy is moving?“

  “Moved. He’s renting an apartment outside Santa Fe now, I think.” Lisa shrugged. “Quite a step down. But he’s such a great writer, he’ll be back on the best-seller lists with his next book, I’m sure.”

  Sister Agatha knew that Delancy hadn’t had any books published for the past several years, but she’d had no idea he might have been in financial trouble. Hearing that he was selling what was probably a trophy home, along with the artwork within, was an indication he’d definitely taken a hit. With no substantial writing income to draw from, it was no wonder he was now hosting writers’ workshops. And finding out that he had artist connections suddenly bumped him up almost into a tie with her other prime suspect.

  This bookstore operator was turning out to be a wealth of information, so Sister Agatha decided to see if the woman knew anything about the handyman/artist. “Have you ever shown any of Bill Miller’s work?“

  Lisa smiled and nodded. “Bill used to bring in some pieces for me to sell on consignment, but he hasn’t done that in ages. He discovered that the type of work he does would command more money in Santa Fe, so he set out to crack that market. That was tough, because some of the gallery owners there are … I guess pretentious sounds better than snobs, doesn’t it, Sister?“

  Sister Agatha nodded, wanting her to continue.

  “Now he’s finally got his first big show coming up. I expect he’ll pretty much be able to set his own prices soon after that. I just hope success turns out to be all that he expected.”

  “You sound doubtful,” Sister Agatha said.

  “Bill’s lived for his art practically his entire life. He’s given it everything, and it’s the only thing in his life. But when you’re that single—minded, your dream becomes larger than life, something that can never exist outside your own imagination.”

  Sister Agatha studied the shopkeeper, wondering if the woman was also speaking of herself. “Was this store your dream?“

  “In a way. I’ve always wanted to make my living selling books, but the reality is that it’s difficult to make ends meet when you’re an independent bookseller. But I’ll never give up. I may have to update the way I do business, but I’ll keep trying. I’m thinking of opening a coffee and dessert section, just to bring in more people.”

  “That sounds like it could help.”

  “Like all dreams, mine takes constant restructuring and compromises to keep it alive.”

  Sister Agatha nodded and placed her empty Styrofoam cup in the wastebasket as she searched for the best way to bring up the topic of the ghost and thefts at The Retreat.

  “Sister, what’s the latest news about the ghost?“ Lisa said suddenly. “I understand she’s creating quite a ruckus and I’m dying to hear more!“

  Sister Agatha said a quick prayer of thanks. “How did you hear about that?“

  “Most of the inn’s staff live here in town,” she said with a smile. “So ’fess up, Sister. What’s going on over there?“

  “If Juanita’s truly responsible for what’s been happening, she’s certainly an active ghost!“ she said. “Have there always been stories about the monastery being haunted?“

  “Oh, yes! Old Juanita gave the monks fits, particularly the last abbot. The way I heard it, every once in a while the halls
would be filled with the scent of a flowery perfume, and the abbot was sure that a woman was being smuggled into the place,” she said, chuckling.

  “I can imagine that would drive him crazy.”

  Lisa nodded. “The monks searched and searched, and never found anyone, and eventually I suppose they all learned to coexist. At least, I never heard about any attempts to exorcise her. I researched the ghost myself, because I love stuff like that, but her death was far more interesting than her life, poor thing. The roses that still grow around the inn are her legacy. Legend has it that her home and garden were not too far from where the saloon once stood, and she cultivated some old—fashioned roses that have lived on.”

  “Besides roaming around the halls, did Juanita ever play pranks on the monks?“ she asked.

  “Not that I heard. If the gossip about the current goings—on at The Retreat is accurate, the ghost certainly is a lot more fun these days. Maybe now that she’s around a secular crowd, she’s finally got a chance to loosen up.”

  “Could be,” Sister Agatha answered with a smile. Saying goodbye, she left the store and strolled down the street with the big German shepherd at heel. Pax sniffed the autumn air as she checked the business signs for a gift shop or an art gallery. When she reached the end of the block, she saw an inner courtyard around the corner between two small buildings and across the street. The small garden area had some beautiful, yellow climbing roses on a trellis. Not knowing if it was part of a restaurant or private property, she crossed the street and went down the alley cautiously, longing for a closer look.

  She was partway down the alley, near the entrance of the courtyard, when she heard Pax growl. The dog turned and faced the area behind them, his hackles raised. She turned, too, following his gaze into the deep shadows behind two large Dumpsters. Listening carefully for a brief second between the sound of nearby traffic, she thought she heard someone breathing.

  “Who’s there?“ she asked, but no one answered. “I’d advise you not to get my dog in a fighting mood. He doesn’t take kindly to anyone who sneaks up behind us.”

  She waited for ten or fifteen seconds, but no one came forward. Normal street sounds came from the end of the alley, and she would have been tempted to discount what she’d heard if Pax’s body language wasn’t telling her with absolute certainty that there was someone there.

  “Suppose I take my dog off the leash. I’m pretty sure he’d find you.”

  Still no response.

  Sister Agatha considered her options. If she did let Pax loose and it turned out to be just kids playing around or a street person looking for shelter, the dog might misinterpret her actions and hurt whoever was hiding back there. Or Pax just might get out into traffic and get struck by a vehicle. She decided not to test her theory. “Let’s go, Pax.”

  She hurried back the way they’d come and soon reached the Harley. Acutely aware that she was far from the familiar shelter of Our Lady of Hope, she glanced over at Pax, patting him on the head. He was her ally. God had made sure that if she had to face danger, she wouldn’t have to face it alone. With a prayer of thanks, they climbed aboard and she drove back to The Retreat.

  11

  SISTER AGATHA WAS IN THE LIBRARY, CAREFULLY LEAFINGthrough the monk’s journal, when Tom came up to the open library door leading into the hall. Pax greeted him enthusiastically.

  As Tom bent down to pet the dog, Sister Agatha waved at him to come in. “I’ve been hoping you’d stop by.” Her voice low, she immediately told him about her visit to town, mentioning the news of Tom Delancy’s possible financial troubles.

  “Is there any way you can confirm that Delancy is selling his home and furnishings—and if he really needs the money? That would certainly give him a motive,” she said, then added, “though having difficult times doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll turn to crime. If that were true, Our Lady of Hope monastery would be on the most—wanted list.”

  He laughed. “I’ll make some discreet inquiries and get back to you.”

  “You were going to talk to the sheriff this evening. Did Barela have anything interesting to say about Professor Lockhart’s death? We know he’s been interviewing the staff and the guests. Charlee Lane and some of the other writers are already trying to tie the professor’s death to what’s going on here.”

  “That complicates matters, but more for us than Barela. His interviews haven’t gotten him anywhere, apparently. I spoke to him and he saw a potential link between Miller’s art, the question of forgeries, and Professor Lockhart. But I don’t think he’s convinced that the tie—in means anything. He doesn’t think Miller could produce a quality reproduction if his life depended on it. He called Bill a wannabe who needs to move on and get a life.”

  “Bill’s a very good suspect—at least circumstantially. But his motive isn’t as solid. He’s just gotten his first big break as an artist. He has a major show coming up. Why would he throw all that away now?“

  “Maybe he’s in too deep, or doesn’t think he’ll get caught,” Tom responded. “Almost every crook I’ve arrested thought he’d get away with it somehow.”

  “Maybe, but I think we may be looking in the wrong direction.”

  “The only thing we can do is keep an eye on him and the others, especially Tim Delancy. I can almost guarantee that the thief will make a mistake sooner or later.” He checked his watch. “I better get going. I’m supposed to meet Gloria and some friends of hers.”

  After Tom left, Sister Agatha decided to take a few more minutes and read more of the monk’s journal. Although practically a lifetime had passed since the monk had written his thoughts on those pages, she was frequently struck by his comments about the challenges he’d faced in religious life. The journal chronicled the history of a man who’d dedicated his life to God, but often struggled with doubts about his vocation and his ability to live up to the calling he’d received. She felt a genuine kinship with him, having faced many of the same challenges.

  At long last, hunger caused her to look up and glance at the clock. It was after eight. No wonder she was so hungry! She’d worked through another meal. She looked at Pax. “I bet you’re starving, too. Forgive me, Pax.”

  Reaching into his sack of supplies, she filled his dish with kibble, then refilled his water dish from the water in the pitcher on the desk.

  The dog had just finished his meal when Ernie Luna came to the door holding a large tray containing a big stoneware bowl of green chile stew, sopaipillas, honey, and a mug of steaming hot tea. “When the kitchen staff saw you weren’t at dinner, they put this together for you. We don’t want you to starve.”

  “Thank you so much. I’m famished! Time just slipped away.”

  “Have you found any answers to what’s happening?“ Ernie asked.

  “Nothing I’m ready to talk about. But Tom and I are both working on this very hard. We will get to the bottom of it, Ernie.”

  He nodded, but his expression suggested frustration. “What’s your next step?“

  “While I’m waiting for more background on the two suspects at the top of my list, Pax and I are going to search this building for hiding places you and your staff may have overlooked. If a guest or staff member is the thief, they’d need a place to temporarily stash the art until they had a legitimate reason for leaving.”

  “Sister, this is a very large building, and because the monks added rooms as they were needed over a long period of time, without any long-term design plans, the place can be quite confusing. And some of the oldest areas, and those less well constructed, are incredibly cluttered right now with building materials or excess furnishings we took out of the renovated areas. Please be very careful.”

  As soon as Ernie left, Sister Agatha sat down to eat, glad that he and his staff had thought of bringing her some food. After she finished, she felt much better. “It’s time for you and me to go to work, Pax.” The dog sat up and wagged his tail, anxious for some real activity.

  Although it was still before nine,
darkness had already settled around The Retreat as she and Pax began their trek into the innermost recesses of the old monastery. She’d come equipped with both a small penlight and a slightly bigger flashlight for when she reached the old section of the building. Turning a corner, Sister Agatha came upon Bill Miller restocking the firewood supply in one of the guest rooms.

  Never one to pass up an opportunity, she decided to wait out of sight until Bill emerged from the room, then follow him. She motioned Pax with a hand signal to sit behind her, then gave the signal for “stay.” He had on his leash, but even without it, she knew he’d follow her directions without a sound—unless she was approached by someone in a menacing manner.

  With no more firewood in his canvas carrier, she expected Bill to either go back for more wood, or leave the way he’d probably entered—down a hallway leading toward the front lobby. To her surprise, she saw him go down the corridor in the same direction she’d been headed, then step around the screened partition that separated the unrestored section of the building from the renovated wing.

  Sister Agatha hesitated a moment, not wanting to follow too closely and be discovered. Then, as she started around the screen, Pax right behind her, Tim Delancy called out to her from the other end of the guest room hall.

  “Sister, wait up!“

  Sister Agatha forced herself not to cringe. Miller would know she’d been behind him now. She waited with Pax, who eyed the writer with curiosity as he approached.

  “So tell me, did you bring the dog tonight to help with a little ghost hunting? If so, I’d like to tag along. You two have already racked up a big discovery today.”

  “That’s for sure. But I doubt that the resident ghost would choose to appear in front of two people—and a dog. I don’t believe she’s done so before.”

  “Let’s give it a shot anyway.”

  Sister Agatha resigned herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to get rid of Tim. Realizing that if she didn’t hurry, she’d lose Bill, she motioned to the writer with a finger to her lips to remain silent, then stepped around the partition with Pax and headed down the hall. The farther they walked along the dimly lit corridors, the more she grew aware of the absence of sound here. It was as if the adobe walls themselves swallowed up ordinary noises the same way a black hole trapped and held light. Then, as they turned the corner, the scent of lilacs suddenly became almost overpowering.