“You wait. You’ll make a fortune today. Try it.”
Sister Agatha hesitated.
“Go for it, Sister!” Chunk yelled from the St. Charles booth, which was opposite their own.
Laughing, they affixed the banner and got ready for business. The fair was hectic, but the public response to the sisters’ efforts was wonderful. Despite the high price and the incredible number of cookies that had been baked, the trays emptied quickly, while Sister Bernarda stood guard over the proceeds in the metal box beside her. It was soon clear that the day was off to a successful start.
“Didn’t we promise Frank Walters a plate of cookies?” Sister Mary Lazarus asked. Sister Agatha looked up and noticed Frank making his way down the line of booths leading to the exhibition hall.
“We did.” Sister Agatha took a plate from the bottom shelf. “Here. Take it to him now before we forget and sell it to someone else. And tell him the sisters are praying for his intention, as promised.”
Sister Agatha had “forgotten” the cookies on purpose to give Mary Lazarus a chance to see Frank away from the monastery. She wanted Mary Lazarus to make her decision on whether to stay a nun or return into society freely. To do that, Mary Lazarus had to know precisely what she’d be gaining and what she’d be leaving behind forever.
She had planned to watch Frank and Mary Lazarus, but then more customers arrived and she and Sister Bernarda got too busy to do anything but attend to the business at hand. The novice was slightly flushed when she returned a few minutes later, but soon regained her composure and began working quickly and efficiently.
Hours later, they’d sold everything except for one jar of jam. Sister Agatha, Sister Mary Lazarus, and Sister Bernarda walked to the exhibit hall for the auction. The quick look exchanged among them as they entered the building assured Sister Agatha that they were all praying hard that the quilt would be sold for a good price.
Frank handled the auction superbly, and Sister Agatha scarcely breathed as the bids on the wall hanging climbed steadily higher. The final price on the quilt took them all by surprise, and the crowd gathered there applauded loudly. A dealer from an out-of-state art gallery had liked the idea of a work done solely by the nuns, and he’d bought the wall hanging for triple the price they’d expected.
Sister Bernarda beamed as she joined Sister Agatha after turning over the quilt to the buyer and receiving the promised price. “Now we can go home. The sisters will be overjoyed.”
“I wish we could be here for the fireworks,” Sister Mary Lazarus said with a sigh.
“That won’t be for several hours, and we can’t stay,” Sister Bernarda said. “Go take that last jar of jam to the man who bought the quilt as a special thank-you, Sister. We’ll meet you back at the car.”
Sister Agatha and Sister Bernarda took down the banner from the booth and got a rough count on the proceeds in their cash box.
Leaving Sister Bernarda to finish packing up, she began carrying the decorations back to their car. As she reached the parking area, she saw Tom and his wife, Gloria, standing by a cream-colored sedan.
Sister Agatha shifted the packages she was carrying and waved. Gloria didn’t even acknowledge the greeting as she stalked off, but Tom, left standing alone, waved at her, then came over. “Let me give you a hand,” he said, helping her set things in the back.
She suspected they’d just had another fight, but decided not to comment on it. “Thanks! I’m glad I saw you. Did you ever find out who was following me?”
He avoided her gaze. “I handled the matter. If it happens again, just let me know.”
“Who was it?”
He shook his head. “I’d rather not comment on that. But you were in no danger. You have my word on that.”
She started to ask him more, but Tom held up his hand. “I’m asking you to trust me on this one. Can you do it?”
She took a deep breath, then nodded. “Of course.”
“I better get going. I have to keep a close eye on things today,” Sister Agatha said.
As he walked away, she went back to the booth to help Sister Bernarda finish up. “We’ve had such a good day!” Sister Agatha said, glancing around the crowd for Mary Lazarus.
“The novice has gotten sidetracked,” Sister Bernarda said, searching the crowd. “You better go get her, Sister. I’ll look after the proceeds and meet you two at the car.”
Sister Agatha, still in an undeniably good mood, went back into the exhibition hall, where the quilt’s new owner was still showing his purchase to onlookers. Along the way, she had to pass through an aisle of booths, where a small crowd had gathered, buying snacks. Sheriff Green and his wife were there, talking to a group of women. As she made her way through the crowd, she lost sight of them. Then, suddenly, she felt a tug on her habit.
Turning around quickly, she looked at the faces around her, but nobody seemed to be paying any particular attention to her. If it had been a pickpocket, he would be sorely disappointed. She had nothing worth stealing.
Reaching into her pocket absently, she discovered a wadded-up piece of paper there. Sister Agatha moved quickly to the side of the room. Then, standing near the wall, she unfolded it. Written on the paper with a bold red pen were the words “Remember your vows!” She stood there, puzzled, trying to connect the message to something she’d done. Perhaps it was from some crank who thought she’d had something to do with the murder, or had seen her at the pawnshop the other day. Or could it be her stalker?
She scanned the crowd looking for someone she recognized. That’s when she saw the novice standing outside, with Frank Walters. Although she couldn’t hear what they were saying, their expressions left no doubt that they were having a serious discussion.
She hurried toward them but as she approached they both controlled their expressions.
“Is there a problem?” she asked them.
“No, not at all. But let me walk you to your car, Sister Agatha. Even though the bulk of your proceeds for today is in the form of a check, you really shouldn’t leave Sister Ber-narda alone. She’s carrying all the cash you made from your booth sales and that could tempt the wrong person. Make sure you deposit all the cash and the check in an ATM as soon as possible.” He gestured for the sisters to precede him down the aisle to the parking area.
“We will. But please don’t be concerned for our safety. We’re not far from home,” Sister Agatha replied, seeing Sister Bernarda waving from the car, not far away.
“You trust too much, Sister,” he said with a sigh. “The world isn’t as kind as you’d like it to be. I’ll follow you to the monastery just to make sure.”
They set out a short time later. Today Frank was driving his car instead of the van. As he kept pace with them, Sister Agatha remembered the sedan that had followed her. It had stayed behind, maintaining its distance evenly, just as Frank was doing now. She forced the thought quickly out of her mind. If she started to suspect everyone who owned a particular-colored sedan, the suspect list would be miles long.
“We should say a special prayer of thanks, Sisters,” Sister Agatha said. “The money we raised will be put to very good use soon.”
“But the problem that put us in a position where we need funds so badly still remains,” Sister Bernarda said softly.
“The truth is there. We’ll find it.” But even as she spoke the words, she wondered if she really would be able to do it. Every time she closed in on a lead, the path twisted, sending her away from the answers and toward more questions.
17
The next day after morning prayer, Sister Agatha sat in Reverend Mother’s office. Today, regular routines had been suspended and the nuns had all been given a free day to celebrate yesterday’s success. There would be no labor today, though the canonical hours would still be observed.
Reverend Mother stared at the simple wooden crucifix on the wall for an eternity before finally speaking.
“I called you here, child, because I wanted to tell you about a new pro
blem facing this monastery. The company that insures our property and the materials we work on in the scriptorium has threatened to suspend our coverage until the matter of Father Anselm’s murder has been resolved.”
“But why? And can they legally do that?”
“A story that ran on the Internet and in the local newspapers has claimed that one of our nuns is the prime suspect in Father Anselm’s murder. This was confirmed by the police. The insurance company, simply put, doesn’t want to be associated with us, and they’re using the fact that our insurance premium was a bit late as grounds to consider suspending our coverage.”
“Don’t we have a grace period on payments?”
“We exceeded that, I’m afraid, so we’re at their mercy now. Sister Gertrude usually totaled up the donations we’d received during the month and then took only as much as was necessary from our interest-bearing account to pay our bills. But the date for mailing the bills passed while she was in the hospital. I didn’t realize that the checks hadn’t been mailed until I took over her duty as cellarer while she recuperated. I’ve turned the matter over to our attorney now, but if we lose our insurance coverage we won’t be able to accept scriptorium work any longer. Unfortunately, without that income, we may not be able to keep our doors open.” She paused, then added, “If this matter about Father’s death could be settled, I know our benefactors would come forward and the insurance company would drop the issue.”
“Mother, I’m doing everything I can—”
She held up a hand. “I know. I just wanted you to know that time is of the essence now, child.”
Bowing her head, Sister Agatha left the abbess and went to the parlor to relieve Sister Bernarda.
As the other extern began to rise from her chair, Sister Agatha gestured for her to remain seated. “Do you have a few moments, Your Charity? I need to brainstorm with someone about this case.”
“I’m at your service, Sister.”
Sister Agatha paced back and forth rubbing her aching hands as she spoke. “Right now, Celia still is the sheriff’s most likely suspect, but I’m convinced that she’s being framed by circumstantial evidence. Celia’s hands bothered her after she worked on the alb, and so did mine. To me, that indicates that when she and I handled it, it was already con-taminated with monkshood.”
“She may have put it on the alb before you found her.” Sister Bernarda steepled her fingers, lost in thought. “We have to look at things clearly—not see only what we want to, but what is.”
Hearing the soft padding of a nun’s shoes on the other side of the grate, Sister Agatha turned her head.
Celia was standing there quietly. “Mother Mistress, I want to help. What can I do to prove I’m not guilty? The real murderer is out there getting away with it while everyone’s wasting time focusing on me.”
“Think back, Celia,” Sister Agatha said. “Did you see any-one or anything out of the ordinary the day you went to the sacristy to repair the alb?”
“No, I didn’t. And I’ve gone over and over it in my mind. But I think we’re looking at things from the wrong perspective, and that’s why we’re not finding answers.”
“What do you mean?” Sister Agatha asked.
“We’ve been looking at what actually happened that day— instead of what should have happened. Think back with me. I broke the routine, because no one expected me to fix the alb. That was your job—and something that you would have done long before Mass if we hadn’t received a shipment for St. Francis’ Pantry that day. Had you repaired the alb, of course, you would have taken even longer than I did because of your arthritis, so your contact with the poison would have been more prolonged.”
Sister Agatha’s heart began to pound fiercely and fear left a bitter taste in her mouth. The observation Celia was making led to only one conclusion. “Father Anselm wasn’t the target. I was. But to what end? The amount on the alb wasn’t enough to kill, under normal circumstances, according to the lab reports. The only reason Father died was because he also had a heart ailment that made him particularly vulnerable to the effects of monkshood.”
“It wasn’t meant to kill you, but someone clearly wanted you to get sick,” Sister Bernarda said with her usual blunt-ness.
“But who’d do such a thing, and why? What would anyone have to gain from it?” Sister Agatha said a quick prayer, then pushed back her fear, tossing ideas around in her head as she frantically searched for answers.
“It makes no sense at all… unless it was meant as a diversion, or a way to delay or incapacitate you for a day or two,” Sister Bernarda said. “Did you have a special meeting scheduled or any appointments in town?”
Sister Agatha thought about it for a moment, then shook her head, and said, “Only the usual errands for the sisters. This makes no sense. If anyone here had wanted to get me out of the way for a while, that would have been simple enough to do. Asking for my help with something complicated was all it would have taken. Seeing it as a diversionary tactic makes no sense either. Divert me from what? Parlor duties? If I’m not here, you are, and so it’s not as if my presence is crucial. And there’s no reason to divert me from Divine Office, or my classes with the novice and postulant, which are now in Sister Eugenia’s hands.”
“Yet someone wanted you sick,” Bernarda repeated.
“If we’re right about this theory—and I admit that it does sound plausible.” Sister Agatha suddenly remembered the note she’d found in the turn the morning of Father’s death, apologizing in advance for harming someone. She’d never considered the possibility that the note had been meant specifically for her.
“Whoever did this is not one of us,” Celia said firmly. “Remember the last line of the Prayer of St. Ignatius? It’s what we all live by. It says, ‘All I ask is Thy grace and Thy love. With these I am rich enough and I do not ask for anything else.’ That’s the spirit of our monastery. Whoever did this may be in the monastery—though I’m not convinced of that—but while she may be among us, she’s certainly not a part of us.”
Hearing the clapper calling her to instruction, Celia left them and went to find Sister Eugenia, who was in charge of her instruction now.
“In the monastery but not of it—Celia just described herself, Your Charity,” Sister Bernarda said, “and our novice as well.”
“I know.”
Sister Agatha didn’t go out that morning. Today her joints were worse than ever in spite of the medicine she’d been taking, and too many questions were still raging in her head. Half of the time she wanted to believe that the answer lay with someone outside the monastery, but she wasn’t sure that wasn’t just a case of wishful thinking. Yet she had been followed outside the monastery—though one instance was explained, another remained a mystery to her. And there was the matter of fee note left in the turn. Instinct told her that the time had come for her to concentrate on the monastery itself.
Pax, sensing her troubled mood, had remained with her all day as she shifted from parlor duties, to scriptorium work, then back again. Today was the feast day of St. Anthony Zaccaria. It was strange how it had become easier for her to mark time by feast days than by the calendar.
She took Pax for a short walk outside to reward him for his loyalty, then returned to the desk. Today she felt inadequate—and worse, old. The pain in her joints was unrelenting. She’d taken the pills that Sister Eugenia had left for her near her plate in the refectory, but they hadn’t taken effect yet.
Hearing a visitor approaching, she stood up and went to answer the door.
“May I come in, Sister?” Joan Sanchez asked, standing before her.
“Of course,” Sister Agatha responded.
“You look surprised to see me,” she said.
“I am, but you’re always welcome,” Sister said with a smile.
Joan was wearing a denim skirt and a short-sleeved blouse—a cool-looking summer outfit Sister Agatha found herself envying. When the temperature was in the high nineties the sisters’ long habit could
be torture.
Setting aside her envy, Sister Agatha took time to notice that Mrs. Sanchez looked calmer and more in command of herself than she had the last time they’d met.
“I came to see you because I was hoping you could tell me the best way to approach Sheriff Green. I held something back from him when he first questioned me—something he needs to know.”
“If you have police business, Joan, you shouldn’t be talking to me about it.”
“You don’t understand. This involves Father Anselm.”
Sister Agatha took a deep breath. She had a feeling that Joan had found a way to prove she wasn’t guilty of poisoning Father. There was something about her tone of voice and her manner that indicated a confidence she hadn’t shown before.
“I have an alibi for the morning Father was killed, and the night before that, too, if it comes to that. I couldn’t say anything about it until now, because the person I’d been with didn’t want to be involved. But now he’s changed his mind.”
“I’m still not understanding you.”
“I spent that night and most of that morning with Don Malcolm, at his home. I know Don has a bad side, but he’s always been kind and generous with me. Father Anselm told me Don was a criminal, and strongly advised me not to see him, but I’d seen a side of Don most people never have and I loved him.” She swallowed. “Then Father got killed. Since I’d seen so much of Father, and many people had heard us arguing, I knew people would sooner or later start thinking that I’d had something to do with his death. But I wasn’t worried about it until Don refused to tell the sheriff that I’d been with him. He told me he didn’t want to get involved in a police investigation, so I had no way of clearing myself— that is, until now.”
“What changed?”
“Don’s already in jail, so he has nothing more to lose. And, of course, it would also prove that Don had nothing to do with Father Anselm’s death either.”
“I’m not sure how much good that man’s word will do for you with the sheriff,” Sister Agatha said slowly.
Bad Faith Page 23
