Thief in Retreat

by Aimée; David Thurlo

  Pax sneezed twice, and quickened his pace.

  “It’s coming from that room,” Tim whispered, pointing to the flickering light filtering past the only open door along the hall.

  Before they could take another step, Bill Miller came out of the room, keys in one hand and flashlight in the other.

  “What on earth are you two doing here? And what’s with the dog?“ Bill demanded, aiming his light toward them. Sister Agatha switched off her own light, and tucked it in a pocket so she could hold Pax’s leash with both hands. He was straining to move toward Bill, though not using his full strength.

  “The dog’s on a leash, and he’s no danger to you or anyone else. We were looking around, hoping to encounter the ghost. Can you smell the lilacs? She’s around here someplace.” Sister Agatha held her hand up in front of her face to protect her eyes from the bright beam of the flashlight, and Bill directed his light down at the floor.

  Bill shook his head. “Naw, I don’t smell a thing, but my nose is stuffed up today.” He met their gazes, then suddenly burst out laughing. “Wait a sec. You two don’t think Vm dressing up in drag and skulking around pretending to be a weepy lady, do you? That would make Juanita one coyote—ugly ghost.”

  Sister Agatha watched Bill’s face, looking for some indication that he might be lying. “The scent does seem to be coming from the room you just left. May we take a look inside?“

  Bill shook his head. “I could get into trouble with Ernie. Some of these rooms just aren’t safe to wander around in. The only reason I was in there was to make sure the wiring and pipes haven’t gone south on us. We had a water leak in this room from a burst pipe last winter, so now that the weather’s starting to get cold again I’m keeping an eye on things.”

  “We promise to watch our step and not disturb anything,” Sister Agatha said, then glanced down at Pax. He didn’t seem particularly interested in the closed door. Instead, his attention was focused on Bill, and every once in a while he’d lift his nose and take a whiff of the air.

  “Come on, we won’t tell your boss. Let us take a quick look,” Tim pressed. “You can stay and watch us if you like.”

  With a shrug, Bill stepped aside and opened the door. As it swung open, Bill bumped his flashlight against the doorknob and dropped it. The flashlight went out as it rolled into the room.

  Without Bill’s light, it was too dark to see much of anything. Bill muttered an apology, and she could barely make out his shape, down on the floor searching. But there was another scuffling sound as well, and then the low-wattage bulb at the far end of the hall they were in suddenly went out, leaving them in total darkness.

  Pax tugged even harder at the leash, but she refused to let go as she fumbled for the flashlight in her right side pocket with her left hand. By the time Sister Agatha had it out and on, whoever had been inside the room was gone. She found a switch just beyond the open door and flipped it on, and light suddenly illuminated the room and part of the hall.

  “There’s my blasted flashlight,” Bill said, reaching for it.

  Sister Agatha aimed her flashlight around the room and stepped inside, with Pax still straining at the leash. The room was empty now except for some paint cans, plaster in big sacks, and a wood-and-metal scaffolding.

  “Some people claim that this section of the monastery is directly over the place where the saloon stood, so we could be in the same area where Juanita died. That might also explain why there’re always problems here,” Bill said. “By the way, which one of you turned out the hall light?“

  “Not me.” Tim looked at her.

  “Nor me. But I hope you don’t really think that the ghost flipped off the light switch,” Sister Agatha said.

  “Well, I sure didn’t. I was on the floor, groping around for my flashlight,” Bill said. “And there’s nobody else here.”

  “If it was her, that would also tie in with the lilac scent we detected earlier,” Tim said, “and why it’s almost gone now.”

  Bill shrugged. “A lot of strange things seem to happen whenever the ghost is around. Maybe once the room is completed, Juanita will back off on the pranks.”

  “I bet you anything people will line up to get booked into this room once word gets out that Juanita might have died here,” Tim said.

  “It’s wrong to try and profit from a death,” Sister Agatha said firmly, deciding not to pursue what had happened here any further. She was nearly certain that Bill had deliberately dropped his flashlight to allow the “ghost“ to escape. If she was right, then Bill was covering for someone else.

  “The Lunas are making plans to host a seance here next year at Halloween,” Bill said. “The room will be fixed up and ready by then.” Bill looked at her and added, “It’s all business, Sister.”

  Annoyed, Sister Agatha led the way out of the room, with Tim following. Bill remained behind, insisting that he wanted to check out the lights to make sure there wasn’t a short or a bad switch.

  As soon as they’d left the older section behind, Tim spoke in a normal tone. “You heard it, too, didn’t you Sister? There was someone else in that room when we went in there. We would have seen who it was, too, if Bill hadn’t dropped his flashlight, and some-one hadn’t switched off the hall light.” He glanced at Pax. “You should have let the dog loose.”

  She shook her head. “Not without knowing what we were up against.”

  As they reached the lobby area, Sister Agatha saw that there were two groups of guests, five gathered around the bar engaged in a rowdy conversation, and the second, a group of four, playing a game of cards at a table in the great room. It was obvious, with less than half of the guests still in the social areas, that scheduled activities had ended for the day. Tim glanced at his watch. “It’s nine-thirty. I’m going to call it an evening, Sister. I have to teach a seminar at seven tomorrow.”

  “Why so early?“ Sister Agatha asked. “I thought writers were night owls.”

  “We are, but tomorrow afternoon Sheriff Barela has promised to give us a special lecture on forensic techniques. I had to move our scheduled session up so we’d be finished in time for the sheriff’s lecture. Until later, Sister.”

  “Good night.”

  Sister Agatha walked with Pax back to the library. Although weary from the evening before, she devoted the next hour to prayer, needing the strength that it gave her. He was always there. He would always help her. At peace with God and knowing in her heart that He would guide her footsteps, she went to bed at ten-thirty and immediately fell asleep.

  Unexpectedly, Sister Agatha woke at two A.M., her joints hurting badly. Pain shot up her arms in waves and her hands felt as if they’d been dipped in fire. She hadn’t had to take pills to ease the pain and swelling in her joints for a long time, but, fortunately, she’d brought her medication with her. She poured herself a glass of water, took two capsules, then sat at her desk hoping they’d kick in soon.

  Unable to sleep, she decided to make herself useful and go patrol the halls with Pax. A walk would help her get her mind off the pain. Putting on shoes and getting the leash on the dog was pure torture, but she managed to get it all done and set out to explore. The sections she intended to check had at least minimal illumination, so she wouldn’t have to signal her approach with the bright beam of her flashlight.

  Sister Agatha held the leash loosely, but Pax, who always seemed to know when she was hurting, was on his best behavior. Following the path she’d plotted that led to all the valuable folk art pieces Ernie had pointed out to her, Sister Agatha checked every nicho and display area along her route. As she moved silently through the halls, she stayed alert and listened, but everything was quiet and nothing looked as if it had been disturbed. The guests were asleep, and the staff was nowhere to be seen.

  As the minutes passed, her aches and pains eased and she knew it was time to return to bed. As they approached the library, Pax suddenly stiffened and growled softly. Sister Agatha brought out her flashlight, then cautiously allowed the
dog, still leashed, to lead the way into the library. The second she came through the door, she flipped the light switch and gasped. She’d left the room unlocked, and someone had come in and rifled through everything. The crates were open and journals, folk art, and old linens had been tossed onto the floor, indicating that the intruder had gone through the contents. As she moved around the room, she saw that the few possessions she’d kept in her traveling bag had also been dumped unceremoniously onto the brick floor. Fastened on the side of her cloth overnight bag, attached with a four-inch, hand-carved, miniature arrow that looked like it belonged on one of the folk art statues, was a note.

  YOU’RE NOT WANTED HERE, LEAVE.

  The ominous message was printed in block letters on The Re-treat’s stationary. She considered calling Tom, but whoever had done all this was already gone and she didn’t want to risk generating any more attention that would inhibit her work. With Pax around, she wasn’t afraid for herself, so this could wait. She’d show the note to Tom in the morning. For now, she’d pick up before any-one else saw the mess and realized what had happened.

  Once order was restored she checked the doors, making sure they were securely locked, and went to bed. Wanting to observe the Liturgy of the Hours in spirit with her sister nuns at the monastery tomorrow morning, she set her alarm for a quarter to five so she could rise for Matins, then Lauds. Although being on special assignment for the archbishop had given her dispensation to relax some of the rules she routinely followed as a nun, she was now finding it even more important to cling to the prayers and disciplines that made her a Bride of Christ.

  Sister Agatha rose for Divine Office feeling much better, despite the extra late-night labor involved in clearing away the mess the intruder had created. After letting Pax out into the courtyard, she prayed in the silence of her room.

  Pax seemed eager to go for a walk by the time she finished, so she decided to take him out before breakfast. She locked the door behind them this time. The morning was crisp and clear, and now that her pain had subsided she was in far better spirits as well. She walked without really picking a direction, letting the dog choose their course. Soon she found that they weren’t far from the gatehouse.

  Making a spur—of—the—moment decision, she decided to continue to Bill Miller’s door and talk to him if he was up. As a nun, it was her duty to reach out to a person in trouble, and if Bill was involved in something shady, she needed to try and help him find his way back to God.

  As she drew near, Pax suddenly stopped and growled. It was a deep rumble, like that of an approaching storm. The sound started at the back of his throat and served both as a warning and a threat. Her skin prickled with uneasiness.

  Forewarned, she proceeded slowly, cautiously moving through the clump of tall ponderosa pines beside the building until she could see the entrance to the gatehouse clearly. The door was open, swaying slowly back and forth in the morning breeze.

  Something was terribly wrong. She could feel it in her bones. Gathering her courage, she went forward, keeping Pax beside her. Immediately she noticed that the door had been kicked open. It was badly splintered, particularly around the area of the lock.

  “Easy, Pax,” she said, hearing him growl again.

  She called out to Bill, but there was no answer. She stepped up onto the flagstone porch, careful not to touch anything, crossed the threshold, and then froze. What appeared to be bloody drag marks led across the hardwood floor from an overturned chair to the door. Leaning to one side, she saw the blue lard container Bill had used as a money safe in the kitchen area, open and empty.

  Taking a steadying breath, Sister Agatha backed away, pulling Pax along with her, and noticed that the rolltop desk’s hidden drawer was open and empty. Praying with all her heart that she was misinterpreting the evidence and that Bill was still alive and well, she hurried with Pax back to the main house.

  12

  LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES LATER, SISTER AGATHA STOOD with Ernie Luna outside the gatehouse while Tom went inside.

  ’Tm sure it’s nothing, Sister. As you said, you didn’t find a body. Maybe Bill stepped in some spilled paint, and that’s what you saw.”

  “Fresh paint and fresh blood have distinctively different scents,” she said softly.

  Tom Green came out of the gatehouse a moment later and joined them. “I’ve already called Sheriff Barela. My guess is that whoever was in there, Bill Miller more than likely, was disabled or killed and then dragged out the front door. It looks like the attacker took his victim over to the river where he could dispose of the body,” he said, pointing to the boot-heel drag marks on the dark, pine-needle-covered soil.

  Sister Agatha studied the marks again carefully; then, before she could ask Tom any questions, a white county sheriff’s car came though the main gate. She recognized the car and driver—Sheriff Barela.

  When Bareia joined them, Tom filled him in. “It looks like a robbery that turned deadly,” Tom said. “I only took a cursory look inside, but it appears that the robber either killed Bill or incapacitated him, then dumped the body in the river.”

  Sister Agatha listened to Tom’s matter-of-fact tone and felt weak at the knees. She knew that the police had to distance themselves from the violent events they investigated, but their apparent ease with crimes of this nature only served to remind her of how commonplace it was in today’s world. Anger filled her, then sorrow—for the victim, for his killer, and for the Lunas, who’d also be victimized by the events here.

  “Have you questioned anyone?“ Bareia asked.

  “Not yet. I figured you’d want to do that. All I did was take a quick look inside after Sister Agatha came to find me. 1 didn’t touch anything or step in beyond the doorway.”

  “You have a knack for stumbling over crimes, don’t you, Sister?“ Bareia commented with a grumble.

  “Maybe God is testing me,” she commented, not really happy with the recent trend either.

  “Or me.” He turned and looked at Tom. “Do you have a pair of latex gloves?“

  “Probably back in my unit,” Tom answered.

  “Never mind. I’ve got extras. Come back inside with me and help me process the scene. My deputies are busy in court, or tending to an accident scene south of Tecolote.”

  “Glad to help.”

  Sister Agatha approached Sheriff Bareia. “Do you mind if I wait back at the main house? I think Mr. Luna and I will just be in the way here.”

  “No, please stick around. I don’t want either of you talking to anyone else until I get the chance to question you.”

  Bareia retrieved a camera and two pairs of latex gloves from his vehicle, then went inside the small gatehouse. Tom followed. As the two lawmen disappeared from view, she glanced over at Ernie. His face was deathly pale. “Ernie, are you all right?“

  “No, I’m not. A friend of mine could be dead, and there’s a thief at The Retreat who may also be a killer now. I really don’t see how things could be any worse.” “Just take it one step at a time. And pray.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Barela and Tom came back outside. “Tom, I need close-ups of the drag marks that lead to the river, and the footprints around them. From the depth, we can approximate size and weight. Put a quarter in the photo for scale. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to our civilians and get their statements.”

  As Tom moved away with the camera, Sheriff Barela asked Ernie to move out of hearing distance, and when he was far enough away, Barela began questioning her. “Tell me exactly what you saw when you came up to the gatehouse, Sister Agatha.”

  She answered him, paying particular attention to the details. “Bill’s can of lard—the place where he kept his money—was open and on the kitchen floor. I know he kept a large wad of bills in that canister,” she finished.

  Barela looked at her. “1 noticed there was no trace of lard inside the container, like it had been cleaned. Are you certain that’s where he stashed his cash?“

  “Absolutely. He showed it to me once, saying
that he could trust a nun. Maybe a thief came in, demanded money, and Bill gave it to him thinking that would satisfy the robber.”

  “Did you happen to see anyone else walking around outside, or did you hear anything that caught your attention?“

  “No, it was very peaceful and quiet.”

  “Why did you come to the gatehouse so early this morning?“

  She took a deep breath. She didn’t want to speculate about the lock picks she’d seen and her suspicions that Miller might be the art thief—not without evidence. But the little tools were gone now, and she couldn’t prove they’d been there at all. “I came hoping to talk to him about God. He was under so much pressure with his upcoming art show that I thought it might help him to know he wasn’t alone and that God loved him.”

  “As far back as I can remember, Miller has had women trying to look after him,” the sheriff said, and shook his head. “So you came to preach to him?“

  “No, not to preach—to help, even if only by listening. You can’t force religion on anyone, Sheriff. You can only open the door for them and hope they choose to walk through it.”

  He gazed at her speculatively for several moments. “Why did you think Bill needed saving? Or were you trying to convert him?“

  “He was obviously a loner, despite being surrounded by the staff and guests. I had a feeling that it would help him to know God was his friend. That’s all.”

  “Ah, women’s intuition—or in this case, nun’s intuition.”

  “Nuns are women, too, Sheriff. But the silence of the cloister can teach us to be more attuned to others and to reach out with our hearts.”