Bad Faith

by Aimée; David Thurlo

  He waved and motioned for her to pull up in front of one of the garage bays.

  In addition to all the troubles the ailing vehicle’s engine had, there was also still no muffler. It was little wonder that Mr. Gonzales had heard her coming.

  Sister Agatha pulled up, braked to a stop, then turned off the engine. Even turned off, it ran a few more seconds, shaking like a leaf, then died. “Deo Gratias” she murmured as she climbed out to greet the long-suffering mechanic, who had donated so much of his time to reviving the monastery’s vehicle.

  “Mr. Gonzales, our car desperately needs your help again. The muffler is gone, and now, on top of everything else, when it runs at all, it won’t go over twenty miles an hour.”

  He nodded. “I was beginning to think I’d have to go looking for you. Sister Bernarda called an hour ago and said you were on your way. You barely made it, obviously. Let’s take a look.”

  Sister Agatha insisted on helping him push the heavy car into the garage. Then, rolling up her sleeves, she set to work, handing him whatever tool he requested. In spite of his skill, the mechanic couldn’t get the engine to run again for more than a few seconds.

  “What do you think, Mr. Gonzales? You know we have very little money, but we’ll be glad to offer prayers for you and your family for the rest of the summer months, and at Mass. And we can make payments—small payments.”

  The bonds between the monastery and the community were very strong. Praying for special intentions had become an acceptable method of at least partial payment for many of their supporters. God had been kind to their religious community, and news of favors attributed to the nuns’ special prayer vigils had even spread among the less religious townspeople.

  “Sister, this car obviously needs far more than a tune-up this time. In addition to a new muffler, I’m going to have to order engine parts—if I can get them—and do a major overhaul, maybe even a complete rebuild. If you want reliable transportation, I’m going to need a month or more—and that’s providing I can find the parts.”

  “But we can’t wait that long. This monster is our only transportation. Without it, how can we get supplies for the monastery or take sisters to the doctor, or do any of the other things we have to do to keep our house going? Depending on cabs for a month or more will drive us into ruin.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Sister. If you need a miracle worker, you’re going to have to go directly to the source,” he said, pointing up.

  Sister Agatha held his gaze, undaunted. “Surely there’s something you can do for us.”

  “I have an idea.” Edith Gonzales, Paul’s wife, came into the garage bay. She was a robust, middle-aged woman with graying hair, and she was smiling at Sister Agatha. “It’ll help the monastery, and, at the same time you’d be helping us.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “Our son, Bobby, was given a fancy motorcycle by his uncle. We won’t let him ride it yet because he’s only sixteen and I’ve seen the way he drives. If we donate it to the monastery, it won’t be around here to tempt him, and the monastery would have some form of transportation. Even Bobby’s uncle would approve of that. And we’ll also get a nice charitable donation to put on our income tax.”

  Mr. Gonzales smiled at his wife. “What a wonderful idea!” He went to the back of the shop, turned on the light over a work bench, and pulled a canvas tarp off a large object standing in the corner.

  Sister Agatha gasped and a slow grin spread across her face. “She’s a real beauty.” Any doubts Sister Agatha had vanished the second the tarp came off the 1986 Heritage Classic Harley-Davidson with its matching sidecar. The only difference between this one and the one her brother, Kevin, had owned was the color. Kevin’s had been steel blue, and this one was apple red, a custom paint job.

  “This is a very generous donation. But are you aware of how special this bike is?” Sister Agatha knew it was a collector’s item among cycling enthusiasts.

  “All we care about is that it poses a danger to our son. You take it. We’ll write it off on our taxes and keep our son in one piece,” Edith said.

  “I’ll have to ask Reverend Mother before I can officially accept this donation,” she said, her heart hammering at a crazy tempo.

  “Take it today anyway. It’s the only way you’ll get home. You can drive it, can’t you?” the mechanic asked, reaching into his pocket and handing her the key.

  “Oh, sure! My brother had one that was very similar.” Sister Agatha hiked up her habit slightly, straddled the bike, and eased onto the leather saddle. She inserted the key into the ignition, and touched the electric starter button as she gave it a little gas.

  The engine started up immediately with that distinctive engine sound that elicited a wide grin from anyone who’d ever owned a Harley.

  “I can see you know what you’re doing, Sister. That’s your ride back to the monastery, then.” Paul smiled. “And here’s your helmet,” he said, passing her one with a gleaming red devil painting on the side, complete with pitchfork and shooting flames.

  “El Diablo? That won’t do, Mr. Gonzales,” she said sternly.

  “It was my son’s idea of a joke, Sister. He’s not in a gang, or a Satan worshiper, or anything,” he added quickly.

  She stared at the otherwise perfect helmet for a moment. “Do you have some paint remover or a piece of steel wool?”

  Edith responded at once. “I’m an artist, Sister, just give me ten minutes. I think I can do something for you. Meanwhile, Paul can give you the registration, and get a receipt for the donation, pending Reverend Mother’s approval, of course.”

  While Paul Gonzales wrote out the paperwork to transfer title to the monastery, his wife took the helmet into her small studio, which was behind the garage. When she came out again, the paint she’d used was nearly dry.

  The red devil had vanished without a trace, and in its place was a white outline sketch of a nun on a motorcycle, with the words Heaven’s Angels above it.

  Sister Agatha laughed. “Thank you. That’s brilliant.”

  “So you’re all set, then?” Paul said. “I’ll try to get the car working again for you in three weeks, but I’m not promising anything, even with all you sisters praying for me.”

  Sister Agatha quickly assured him that they could manage as long as they needed to now that they had this wonderful gift. She smiled as she looked at the motorcycle and ran her hand over the bright red fuel tank. “Lord, I’ve been praying for a change in my routine duties, and You’ve outdone Yourself. Deo Gratias” she whispered, slipping on the helmet over her veil, then hiking up her skirt so she could straddle the bike and keep the fabric well away from the wheel and other moving parts.

  “I’ll be on my way then, Paul. But remember, Reverend Mother will have the final say on whether or not we can accept your gift.” She switched on the ignition, gave the throttle a little gas with a twist of her wrist, then eased slowly out of the garage into the parking lot. Flipping down the visor on the helmet, she waved at the Gonzales couple, then got back on the road.

  It was just like riding a bike. One never forgot how to operate a motorcycle, she thought, testing the feel of the steering through the handlebars. The sidecar was attached, American style, to the right side of the motorcycle, exactly the way it had been on Kevin’s Harley. With a sidecar more steering was required when cornering because you couldn’t do it by leaning or shifting your weight the way you could on a cycle alone.

  All this wonderful and nostalgic information came flooding back to her naturally as Sister Agatha headed back to the monastery. For the first time in years, she found herself thinking of her brother without the danger of tears flowing. With the visor down, only she and God knew that she never stopped smiling all the way home.

  As the motorcycle roared through the gate and into the monastery parking area, she saw Sister Bernarda draw back the curtains in the parlor and look outside.

  Sister Agatha waved, parked beside
the entrance, and quickly removed her helmet. She saw the surprise, then the slow smile of recognition that spread across Sister Bernarda’s face.

  “I don’t believe my eyes,” she said, opening the parlor door and stepping outside to look at the red-and-chrome beauty that was ticking quietly as its eighty-cubic-inch engine cooled.

  “The Antichrysler is now in intensive care at Mr. Gonzales’s garage, and due to remain there for the next three weeks, minimum. Mr. Gonzales donated the motorcycle to the monastery so we would be able to get around without the car.” She reached into her pocket and brought out the papers.

  “I had a friend in the Marine Corps who loved bikes. I can see that’s a Harley. What year?”

  “It’s an eighty-six, and a dream to drive. I can give you lessons if you’ve never driven one. And, best of all, I can fix anything this machine needs myself. I worked on my brother’s Harley all the time, and he had an eighty-six Classic a lot like this one. We used to take it apart and put it together again in a day just for kicks.”

  “You’re going to have to be the one to sell the idea to Reverend Mother. Do you think you can do it?”

  “It’s absolutely perfect for the monastery now that we don’t have the Antichrysler. It’s great on gas and the engine is in perfect condition. The sidecar can easily handle supplies or a passenger!”

  “Whoa!” Sister Bernarda laughed. “It’s Reverend Mother you have to sell, not me.”

  Sister Agatha gave her companion a conspiratorial smile. “It would help if I could tell her that our other extern sister is also comfortable using this vehicle as transportation .…”

  She looked at Sister hopefully.

  “Oh, of course. Tell her that I’m happy to drive whatever the Lord provides,” Sister Bernarda said with a broad grin.

  “Thanks. And I promise you’re going to love it.”

  Taking a deep breath, Sister Agatha went inside and walked down to Reverend Mother’s office.

  She found Mother reading a booklet on the sisters’ health insurance benefits. Fortunately, the monastery’s income from the scriptorium and altar bread sales provided for necessities like these.

  Reverend Mother looked up and the usual greeting was exchanged.

  Studying her expression, Reverend Mother sighed. “I recognize the look on your face, child. Something has happened,” she said, and leaned forward in her chair.

  “It’s good news, Mother. But the fact that it’s a blessing may not be readily apparent.” Sister Agatha stopped speaking, and gathered her wits. She was babbling. Starting out by hinting at the negative was a bad idea. “Mother, the Antichrysler is in a coma. It stopped working this morning as I pulled into Mr. Gonzales’s garage, and we couldn’t get it running again. The poor man said it could take a month or more before he had all the parts he needed to fix it.”

  Reverend Mother sat up quickly. “Then how did you make your way back here? You didn’t hitchhike? I thought I heard a truck a few minutes ago.”

  “No, Mother. Mr. Gonzales, understanding how much we need reliable transportation, made a very generous donation. I accepted it—pending your approval, of course.”

  “He donated a truck? Praised be the Lord!”

  “Not quite, Mother. But although it’s not what we might have chosen, it’s just perfect for us.”

  “Not a sports car! It would be so … pretentious.”

  “No, Mother, it’s a motorcycle,” she said in a whisper. “You heard a motorcycle.”

  Reverend Mother just stared at her.

  “It’s in great condition, Mother, and I can take care of any repairs it may need in the future myself. I’m very familiar with motorcycles.”

  “But how will we take our elderly sisters to the doctors? Surely you can’t expect Sister Clothilde or Sister Gertrude to straddle a motorcycle, holding on for dear life!”

  “No, Mother, but I haven’t told you the best part! The motorcycle has a sidecar! Come to the window, you can see it from here,” she said, pulling the curtains aside.

  Sister Agatha continued extolling the virtues of a motorcycle’s gas conservation and every other advantage she could think of.

  Reverend Mother stared at it. “The sidecar looks like a canoe on wheels.”

  “But it’s large enough inside to carry the supplies we need to bring from town, and I’m sure the sisters will be very comfortable with the wind screen. The seat is padded and everything.” She paused, then added softly, “And, most important of all, we really have no other choice, Mother. We will eventually have our station wagon back, but in the meantime, the motorcycle will save us a lot on taxi fares.”

  “I suppose it could work,” Reverend Mother said slowly.

  “Even after the Antichrysler is back, using the bike for small errands will save us a substantial amount on gas, and wear and tear on our car.”

  “But it’s such dangerous transportation.”

  “Not if we’re careful. Sister Bernarda is willing to learn, and I can teach her the basics in a few days. I’ll also make sure she gets plenty of practice before going out onto the open road. This motorcycle would be a real blessing to all of us, Mother.”

  She unfolded the papers Mr. Gonzales had prepared, signing over the ownership to the Sisters of the Blessed Adoration.

  “All right, then,” Reverend Mother said with a nod, taking the papers. “We’ll accept the donation.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “I spoke to the archbishop this morning. He told me that the police now believe Father was murdered,” she said, whispering the last word in horror.

  “They can’t know that for sure, Mother. It must be just one of the many possibilities. If he ingested something poisonous, it still could have been accidental.”

  “If it does turn out to have been murder, the chapel will have to be shut down temporarily, Sister. We’ll also need to get in touch with His Excellency the archbishop, because our beautiful chapel will have to be reconsecrated and rededi-cated.”

  “And in the meantime?” The possibility that the nuns might be barred from using their own chapel seemed unthinkable.

  “I’ve been giving that some thought. We can move the bare necessities so we can have Mass—” She stopped as her voice broke. “But we’ll still need a new chaplain.”

  “Mother, let me go to the station, talk to Sheriff Green face-to-face, and find out what they’ve learned first. Father’s death may yet turn out to be the result of an accident. Then I’ll stop by the rectory and see if there’s anything we can do to help Mrs. Williams, Father’s housekeeper. She’d been with him for years and must be devastated. While I’m there I can find out if the diocese has found a new parish priest, one who will also serve as our chaplain.”

  “I’m also concerned about your additional contact with the sheriff. Do you think his seeing you again might make the situation even worse?”

  “I wish I could say no with certainty, Mother, but I can’t. But I do know that Tom Green is a good human being, and will ultimately treat us fairly. Now that he’s had the opportunity to express some long-pent-up feelings, we should be on safe ground again.”

  “I trust your judgment, child. Go, but come and see me when you return.”

  When Sister Agatha returned to the parlor, she found Sister Bernarda at her desk reading the Liturgy of the Hours from her breviary. She gave Sister Bernarda a silent nod, allowing her to continue without interruption. As the silence stretched out for a moment, Sister Agatha considered the many ways her life had changed since she’d become a nun. As a kid, “amen” had often been the only part of most prayers she’d been wholly certain about. These days, prayer was the very fabric of her existence. It ordered her day, and gave meaning to everything she did.

  “Did Reverend Mother approve?” Sister Bernarda asked at last, closing her breviary.

  “Yes. She wasn’t thrilled, but knows we have to get around somehow.”

  She nodded slowly. “I don’t know how we could have managed without any transporta
tion at all.” She looked up at Sister Agatha. “Are you ready to take over for me here now?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. I need you to handle portress duty for a while longer. I have to go back into town to talk to the sheriff in person. I have a better chance of getting the answers Reverend Mother needs that way than over the phone. Will you cover for me?”

  “Of course. I can handle things here.”

  Sister Agatha couldn’t envision any situation her companion wouldn’t be able to handle. She’d always figured that even in the midst of the Apocalypse, Sister Bernarda would find a way to get things organized and working efficiently.

  She headed toward the door, then suddenly stopped and turned around. “And Sister?”

  Sister Bernarda looked up at her.

  “Pray that Father’s death is the result of natural causes or an accident. Otherwise, it’s going to be a long time before this monastery knows any peace again.”

  4

  Sister Agatha’s hope of getting information from Sheriff Green was dashed the second she arrived at the station. The young deputy behind the desk told her Sheriff Green wouldn’t be available for some time. They’d just received new evidence on Father Anselm’s death. Although the deputy refused to elaborate, the news sent a cold chill up her spine and instinct told her this wasn’t good.

  Her first inclination was to go back to the monastery as quickly as possible and talk to Reverend Mother, but Sister Agatha knew there was still work for her to do in town.

  She drove straight to the small rectory that stood beside the tall adobe-and-brick church near the center of old Bernalillo, along Camino del Pueblo. This street had once been the main highway, before the interstate was constructed well east of town. Helmet in hand, she walked to the side door and knocked softly.

  Frances Williams, who’d been the rectory’s housekeeper for as far back as anyone remembered, answered right away. Seeing Sister Agatha, she smiled. “I’m so glad it’s not the police again, Sister. I don’t think I’ve got the stamina to answer one more question.”