“All right. If you haven’t washed the tea glass he used, I’d like to take that into evidence. If there’s still a little bit of tea in it, so much the better. I’ll also need a sample of the tea from the source you used.”
“Normally that glass would have been washed and dried right away, but today we were so rushed, Celia probably didn’t have time. I’ll go see.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“That’s fine.” She suddenly stopped and looked him in the eye. “You think he was poisoned, don’t you? But that’s nonsense.”
“You’re a nun. I’m a cop. I won’t tell you how to pray, and you don’t tell me how to conduct my investigation.”
She considered arguing with him but, from what she remembered about Tom, she knew it would be futile. At that precise moment, one of the deputies knocked over a cruet of sacramental wine. Red liquid spilled onto the brick floor. She started to move toward the utility room next to the sacristy so she could get a towel to wipe up the spill, but he held her arm.
“The deputy will clean it up.” He glowered at the deputy. “No more accidénts. That’s inexcusable.”
“Yes, sir,” the young deputy said, and looked around a few seconds before hurrying out of the chapel.
Sister Agatha stared at the ever-widening pool of crimson wine. It flowed down the cracks between the bricks, staining everything in its path. Like the blood of the lamb that had been spilled for sinners, it ran freely, leaving its mark on everything it touched.
Sadness settled over her spirit. She stepped back as the trail of unconsecrated wine reached the tip of the alpargates she wore—the flat, hemp-soled shoes that were part of the habit. Father’s life, like that crimson liquid, was just another promise left unfulfilled.
“Who mixed the herbs for the tea Father Anselm drank?” Sheriff Green asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“I did—it’s just a few herbs from Sister Clothilde’s garden. I keep a jar of it in St. Francis’ Pantry to offer the people who bring donations.”
The deputy rushed back into the chapel with a handful of folded paper towels like those found in the chapel’s public test room.
“Let’s go see,” the sheriff said, ignoring the deputy and gesturing to the door.
As she led Tom Green toward the pantry, one of the monastery bells began to ring. The deep, resonant sound came from the largest bell.
She stopped in her tracks to offer a prayer.
“What’s going on?” he grumbled when she looked up again.
‘That bell was announcing Father’s death,” she explained, then continued walking. Reverend Mother would be meeting with the other nuns now. There were nine of them here in their small monastery. Prayers for Father Anselm’s soul would be said, and tonight would be a time of mourning. She knew that even Sister Ignatius, who’d never really approved of Father Anselm’s youthful levity, would be heartbroken. Death had claimed a member of their family.
They found the glass, still unwashed, on the counter in the pantry. Sheriff Green bagged and labeled it as evidence, after putting on latex gloves. The trace of liquid at the bottom was poured into a labeled plastic medicine-type bottle and sealed. He also took a sample of the dry herbal tea mixture and sealed it in a labeled paper bag.
When they returned to the chapel a short time later, Jim Brown was putting his equipment away, and Father’s body, now inside a black zippered bag, was being wheeled out on a gurney.
“Sister, I’d like to talk to you,” Brown said, coming over to meet her as the sheriff placed the evidence he’d collected into a cardboard box.
“At your service,” she answered, hoping this wouldn’t take long. Sister Mary Lazarus was on her knees near the altar with scrub brush and bucket, starting, at last, to clean things up. Sister Bernarda was probably acting as portress right now.
“Let’s sit down on one of the benches,” Jim suggested.
She did as he asked.
“I have a few simple questions that I need you to answer, since you were trying to help the priest when he died.”
“Go ahead.”
“What exactly did he say? Did he complain of any pain?”
Sister Agatha related all she could recall, though the details were heartbreaking and her voice shook at times despite her efforts to remain calm. “He suffered—this I know.”
“You said that he was having auditory hallucinations. Is that correct?”
“No, I never said that. Father told me he heard bells, but I took that at face value. For all I knew, it could have meant that his ears were ringing, or maybe it was God’s way of telling him not to be afraid. When people are about to pass on, they sometimes see and hear things that others don’t. I never concluded that he was hallucinating.”
“You also mentioned the paralysis of his facial muscles.”
“His expression became rigid, yes.”
Medical Investigator Brown stared at the floor. Minutes ticked by and Sister Agatha wondered if he’d forgotten she was there.
“Is that all, or do you still need me?” Sister Agatha asked softly.
The man looked up suddenly, as if he’d just remembered where he was. “I heard you tell the sheriff that Father had consumed some herbal tea earlier today. What kind of herbs are in that tea, Sister?”
“Some mint, some chamomile—all ordinary things that grow in our garden. Sister Clothilde has a special section for culinary herbs. The sheriff took a sample of the mixture we used.”
“I’d like to talk to Sister Clothilde, and then see her garden.”
“I can take you to see the garden, but Sister Clothilde won’t be able to speak to you, even through the grille. She’s taken a vow of silence.”
“How does she communicate with the rest of the order?”
“Through a special form of sign language we’ve developed to communicate with each other during times of silence. It’s very limited. But she can listen, and she can write down answers. She’s allowed to do that.”
“All right. Show me the herb garden, then we’ll see if we need to trouble Sister Clothilde about the rest.”
“All right,” she said, and stood up. “But Mr. Brown, the herbs Sister Clothilde grows are quite common and completely harmless.”
“Accidental poisonings are common in rural areas of New Mexico, Sister. The fact of the matter is that the symptoms you and Sister Bernarda described to me reminded me of another case I worked on when I first became a medical investigator. An elderly Hispanic man died as a result of an overdose of an herbal medicine he took for pain. Which brings me to my next question. Does Sister Clothilde also grow medicinal plants?”
“A few, yes. I’ve heard of her using chamomile to settle the stomach, and something called alegria, which is said to be good for the heart. The Spanish word means ‘happiness,’ so it worried us at first. We certainly don’t need stimulants. But it’s harmless. There are also herbs to treat high blood pressure and other ailments.”
‘Take me to see the garden, then. Herbal medicine isn’t always as safe as people think. The elderly man I told you about experimented with the anesthetic properties of monkshood and died because that plant also contains highly toxic alkaloids.”
“Let me get Reverend Mother’s permission, then I’ll take you.”
Leaving the medical investigator in the chapel, Sister Agatha went through the corridors of the monastery quickly, and found Reverend Mother praying in her office before a statue of the Blessed Virgin.
Sister Agatha remained by the door, hating to interrupt the abbess at prayer but knowing she had no other choice.
“Praised be Jesus Christ,” Sister Agatha said quietly.
“Now and forever,” Reverend Mother answered, and turned around. “Have the police finished what they need to do?”
Sister Agatha filled Reverend Mother in quickly, and saw shock and then sorrow in her eyes.
“You were a reporter, and later a journalism professor, child. You understand investigative methods a
nd thought processes more than any of us. I need you to remain with these people at all times while they’re here at the monastery. And please make sure poor Sister Clothilde isn’t harassed in any way.”
“I’ve told the medical investigator, Mr. Brown, about Sister’s vow of silence. He understands that he can’t speak to her—at least not directly—and has agreed to that. But he insists on examining our garden to make sure the herb tea didn’t contain anything harmful.”
“Then show it to him. He’ll see for himself that we don’t grow anything dangerous here.”
“Right away, Mother.”
Agatha walked back quickly to the chapel. She had to find a way to convince the police that their answers lay outside the monastery. Maybe once the medical investigator saw their small garden, he’d understand how simple their lives were and that whatever had happened to Father Anselm was in no way connected to the monastery or the sisters.
“Mr. Brown,” Sister Agatha said as she came up to him, “I’m ready to show you the garden. It’s in the back of the building, and though not behind cloister, it is a restricted area. Please keep your voice low so we don’t disturb any of the sisters who might be praying. And should you see one of our sisters, don’t attempt to speak to her without checking with me first. Will you agree to this?”
“All right. You’ve got yourself a deal.” Brown nodded.
She walked with the man to the back of the monastery, all of which was enclosed behind a high wall. As they reached the garden—a large field sectioned off into rows of corn, tomatoes, squash, carrots, pinto beans, and chile—she spread out her arms. “This is it. Most of what graces our table is grown here, with the exception of staples like flour, salt, sugar, and such. We’re all vegetarians. The herbs are in the last row,” she said, leading him to the north side of the garden.
He stepped from row to row, examining the plants and studying the ground between them, then finally reached the row containing the herbs.
“Most of these plants are gifts that the monastery has received from our neighbors in the community.”
He spoke aloud as he identified chamomile, mint, sage, rosemary, and various other common culinary herbs. He also snipped off samples of the medicinal plants Sister Agatha pointed out as ones used to treat high blood pressure, fevers, colds, and other common problems. After searching the entire area carefully, he stood up straight and shook his head. “There’s nothing out of the ordinary here. Heck, I couldn’t even find a weed,” he said with amazement. “Is this the only place where you grow herbs?”
“This is it. The only other plants we cultivate and grow here are roses. Everything else, including the trees, is part of the desert landscaping and requires no tending.”
She escorted him around the grounds so he could see for himself. “Nothing in our gardens is capable of injuring anyone—unless you count the rose thorns,” she said.
“I admire your loyalty to the monastery, Sister Agatha,” he said as they reached the chapel.
His words surprised her. This wasn’t a matter of being loyal. It was common sense. To think that any of the sisters pledged to a religious life could intentionally harm another living being was completely crazy. They even freely shared the fruits of their labor with the cottontail rabbits who, from time to time, ravaged the vegetables they grew.
As they stood on the front steps of the chapel, she watched the deputies loading the boxes of evidence into their vehicles.
“It’s time for me to get going, too,” Brown said, then shook hands with her. “With luck, none of us will have to come back.”
“God doesn’t depend on luck, He gives us prayer and faith instead.”
He smiled, then with a wave, walked away from her.
“Don’t count on this being the end of it,” Tom said as he approached, apparently having overheard at least the end of their conversation. “I’ve heard about Sister Clothilde’s vow of silence, but if the investigation continues, it may be necessary for her to speak to us.”
“Communicate, maybe—speak, no.”
“Whatever. This isn’t over. Mark my words.”
“Have you learned something new, Sheriff?”
“Only the names of the people from the community who were here at Mass. Sister Bernarda gave me a list. I’ll have to track them down now. But, you know, I’ve got a gut feeling that this one was an inside job.”
“You’re wrong.” She gave him a long, thoughtful look. “You don’t sense any of it, do you? The peace that’s here, the quiet purpose—everything that defines this place and makes it special.”
He met her gaze and shrugged. “All I see is women living together behind walls. It’s no more or less a prison than the one near Los Lunas or Santa Fe.”
“We’re here in this monastery so we can work for the world. Through our prayers, we make a difference. But like doctors who have to keep a professional distance from their patients, we can do our job better by remaining separate.”
“Well, I wouldn’t count on staying too ‘separate.’ If I don’t get the answers I need, I’ll have to come back. And, if that happens, I won’t cut you or the monastery any slack. I’ll do whatever it takes to find out what happened to Father Anselm, including getting the paperwork I need to enter your cloister. And if you get in my way, I’ll throw the book at you.”
She smiled. “For the record, my book’s a lot heavier than yours.”
As Sheriff Green strode off without another word, she understood that a warning had been given. Sorrow and apprehension weighed down her spirit as she turned around and walked back inside.
3
After Lauds the following morning, Sister Agatha went out with Sister Bernarda to the parking lot. The Anti-chrysler was in a sad state.
“I had to go out late last night to get some heart medication for Sister Gertrude from the all-night pharmacy, and I barely got back,” Sister Bernarda explained. “The car was missing so badly it nearly died three times. I just don’t think this vehicle will be able to take Sister to the doctor if she needs to go. There’s no way this junk heap will make it all the way to Albuquerque and back again.”
The doctor who took care of the nuns was a thirty-minute drive away, at the northwest side of Albuquerque. Although he made special allowances for the sisters, like giving them a reduced rate and never making them wait in the reception area, he could only make house calls if there was a dire emergency.
Sister Agatha rolled up her sleeves, and reluctantly opened the hood. Since the car couldn’t be replaced, it had to be fixed, that was all there was to it. She checked the oil, and the sparkplug wiring, and the plugs themselves. They were all correctly gapped and hooked up, which wasn’t obvious from the degree Sister had said that the engine was missing.
“Okay, tell me exactly what the car’s symptoms were.”
“It wouldn’t go over twenty miles an hour except downhill, it kept stalling, and it roared like a bulldozer. I tried coaxing,I tried prayer, I even cursed it a time or two, but nothing worked. I consider it a minor miracle that it made the round trip at all.”
Sister Agatha started the engine, which rattled and misfired. She continued checking what she could under the hood. Once finished, she slammed the hood closed. “It needs a rebuilt engine to handle the big problems. The valves are knocking like a woodpecker, the carburetor is shot, and the distributor is a joke.”
She glanced over at Sister Bernarda. “I’ll drive the car over to Mr. Gonzales’s repair shop. This is beyond my abilities. We don’t have the parts, and special tools are needed as well. Maybe he can do something and keep it going a little longer.”
“What we really need is for someone to donate a car to the monastery.”
“I know, Sister Bernarda, but these are hard times. By the time anyone around here parts with a car, it’s ready for the wrecking yard.”
“I’ll ask Reverend Mother to have all the sisters pray that the Lord will provide us with some reliable transportation.”
“That’s an excellent idea.”
“Are you going now—before breakfast?” Sister Bernarda asked. “If you are, let me at least get you a couple of tortillas from the kitchen. Sister Clothilde and Sister Maria Victoria must have made stacks and stacks of them from the small sacks of flour Mr. Kelly, the grocer, brought for our monastery.”
Sister Agatha smiled, remembering the delivery. Many of the grocers donated staples to their monastery, which helped the nuns stretch their already tight budget. But these sacks had been found to have mealworms, and Sister Clothilde hadn’t wanted to store them in the pantry and risk contaminating the other food. She’d also refused to freeze the flour, convinced that the worms would hatch out later. So, all the flour had been carefully sifted and then tortillas had been made and cooked until every last trace of usable flour had been used. Their vows of poverty made it unacceptable that any food would be wasted.
The tortillas now towered in the refrigerator and their large freezer. With the pinto beans they’d grown last year, there’d be plenty of food for everyone. But tortillas would be part of breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the foreseeable future.
Sister Agatha had the Antichrysler turned around and the gate open by the time Sister Bernarda returned from the kitchen. “Here. I took two, and smeared them with peanut butter from those huge cans the grocer gave us, and jelly that Sister Clothilde made with a donation of overripe peaches. Think of it as a New Mexican breakfast sandwich.”
The drive to town took even longer than Sister Agatha had expected, and she’d worried that someone might complain as she crossed pueblo land. The old station wagon sputtered and coughed, never going over twenty miles an hour. But at least it kept going. She stayed close to the shoulder in case faster traffic wanted to pass her, but the roads in the early morning hours were blessedly empty except for an occasional piece of farm machinery.
As she approached Paul Gonzales’s garage, a wood-framed building with an old West-style false front and a hand-lettered sign that had probably been there thirty years, she saw the mechanic standing out by the side of the road, cup of coffee in hand. Paul was in his late fifties and was built like a fire hydrant—short and stocky. He was wearing a pair of gray-and-white-striped overalls and a red headband fashioned from a handkerchief to keep his hair out of his eyes.
Bad Faith Page 4
