Bad Faith

by Aimée; David Thurlo

  “It’s not just Don’s word, others saw us together that night, and then the following morning. But they’re Don’s friends, and some of them are under investigation now too, I believe. The thing is, how do I get the sheriff to accept my alibi?”

  “Go tell him the whole story as soon as you can. Let him look into it himself. If you have more than one eyewitness, I think he’ll respect that—but settling this has to be between you and him.”

  “He’s got to believe me. It’s the truth.”

  “Then tell him that. You might offer to take a lie detector test, too. I don’t know if that’ll help, but it may convince him you’re not hiding anything anymore.”

  “Thanks, Sister. I appreciate it”

  Sister Agatha let the woman out, then returned to her desk, her heart heavy. As the bells for Mass began to ring, Sister Agatha let a restless Pax go outside again, locked the parlor door, then hurried to chapel. She had no doubt that the vestments had been put away properly and everything was ready. Sister Clothilde had taken over that responsibility recently and she could always be counted on.

  Instead of offering comfort, the thought filled Sister Agatha with guilt. As a novice, she’d been taught that any lapse in duty, from a torn veil to a badly mopped floor, was a fault—a failing in the duties a nun performed for God. These days, she was not only failing to perform her regular duties, which had been assigned to others, she was failing at the primary duty Mother Abbess had given her to perform—to find the truth.

  She had to do better. Lord, this monastery can only survive with Your help. We’re not conventional housewives, but we still need Your help to open a jar every once in a while.

  Sister Agatha took her place in the chapel and stayed there long after Mass and Sext, the Divine Office that was chanted right after Mass, knowing that Sister Bernarda was scheduled for portress duty following Mass.

  Minutes passed slowly, but she needed this time in prayer and reflection to capture her focus and peace. After a long while, Sister Clothilde came into the chapel and tapped on the grille that separate the choir section from the public chapel.

  Sister went up to her. Honoring her vow of silence, the elderly nun pointed to her mouth, signaling to Sister Agatha that it was time for their meal.

  Sister Agatha smiled and shook her head. “Thank you, Your Charity, but I think I’ll stay here for a while longer.”

  Time passed as she tried to sort out her thoughts. Yet, no matter how hard she prayed, no answers came to her. Finally, feeling tired and in pain, she went to the parlor to relieve Sister Bernarda. Today, Celia was there, too, sitting behind the grille, so Sister Bernarda could supervise her studies.

  “Where’s Sister Eugenia?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “She’s with Mary Lazarus and just about everyone else in the bakery. They’re fighting the automated baker again.” Sister Bernarda stood, then offered Sister Agatha the now vacant chair. “Sister Clothilde left a sandwich for you,” Sister Bernarda said. “There it is,” she added, pointing to the other side of the desk. “She slipped a holy card beneath the plate, too. I tried to take a look at it, but she nearly slapped my hand when I tried,” she said with a smile.

  Sister Agatha chuckled. “She really worries about all of us.”

  “The pills next to the sandwich came from Sister Eugenia. She told me I was to stay with you until I actually saw you take them. And she insisted that you should do no manual work for the rest of the day, including assisting in the scriptorium.”

  “She wants me in good working order.” Sister Agatha sighed.

  “So do the rest of us. We’re counting on you, Sister. Your background in investigative reporting is the best hope we have now.”

  “I wish my skills were sharper,” Sister Agatha said, swallowing the pills with a bit of water. “I don’t even know if it’s that I’m not asking the right questions or if I’m just in over my head.”

  Celia who had, until now, been reading quietly beyond the screen, looked up at them. “When we try too hard, Mother Mistress, we tend to make a mess of things. Remember how I was when I first came? I couldn’t even find my way around the monastery. Then Sister Ignatius helped me one day by pointing out that with all the fretting I was doing, God couldn’t possibly get a word in edgewise. Sometimes we need to let go of a problem in order to solve it.”

  Sister Agatha looked at Celia and smiled. “Thank you, Celia. I’ll keep that in mind.” She dearly wanted to forget the problem, but it kept right on coming. And it was beginning to look like solving it would take a minor miracle.

  Hearing the clapper, Sister Bernarda glanced at Celia. “That means that Sister Eugenia is ready for you again. You may go.”

  Once Sister Bernarda left for the scriptorium, Sister Agatha ate her sandwich. The holy card Sister Clothilde had left showed the Blessed Virgin with the Baby Jesus. It was clearly a special keepsake, hand painted on parchment and was quite old—no doubt something the elderly nun had treasured for many years. The gesture—and the love behind it—touched her deeply.

  Prohibited from further work in the scriptorium today, Sister Agatha took all the shifts in the parlor, freeing Sister Ber-narda to work with the computers.

  Frank Walters arrived in the middle of the afternoon, having been summoned to take care of an ailing computer. Though the recent upgrade had gotten them nearly back on schedule, some further adjustment and repairs had proven necessary. He was so frequent a guest these days that his presence in the monastery had almost become routine.

  The day passed slowly. She checked in with Tom, but there were no new developments on the case. Shortly after the bell had rung for Vespers, Sister Agatha turned around and saw Pax lying down just beyond the grille. She opened the door between the parlor and die enclosure and let him in. “Where have you been all afternoon and who let you back into the enclosure? I let you out myself this morning.”

  The question preyed on her mind as she locked up the parlor a bit early and made her way to chapel.

  Pax stopped in the hallway, about four feet from the chapel door, and lay down in his favorite spot as she went inside and joined the sisters already there chanting the Divine Office.

  All through Evening Prayer, the question of how Pax got in and out of the enclosure nagged at her. Minutes ticked by, but she found it impossible to put the matter completely out of her thoughts. Finally, after Vespers was concluded, she came up with a plan.

  Tonight she’d leave Pax outside and then sneak out and watch him. Her joints still hurt too much to let her get any sleep anyway.

  Her dark habit would be perfect for a clandestine operation, too. With a little bit of luck, she’d finally have a definitive answer to at least one small mystery.

  18

  Long after Compline, Sister Agatha walked down the hallway toward the refectory with Pax. As she opened the side door, Pax rushed out into the cool night air. Sister Agatha closed the door, then went around to the front and stepped outside, locking the doors behind her.

  She’d intended to remain out of Pax’s sight, but the dog had circled around the grounds and spotted her almost immediately. Unwilling to give up, she sat down on the bench near the statue of the Blessed Virgin. Pax remained with her, lying at her feet, not moving.

  It was going to be a long night if the dog decided to remain with her the entire time. As the temperature dropped, she breathed in the cool air, grateful for the respite from the blistering July heat. Eventually Pax began to relax and wander about the garden, but he never went far. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness long ago, and she could see quite well under the moon and bright summer stars of the Milky Way.

  She was about to give up on him when she saw the kitchen door open just a crack. A heartbeat later someone came out, then the door was shut once more. In the darkness, she couldn’t make out the person’s face, but it was a nun. Then she recognized the pattern of the habit, which left no doubt that it was Sister Mary Lazarus.

  Sister Agatha approached slowl
y, coming out of the shadows that concealed her from casual view, more curious than anything else. Then, as the moon came out from behind the clouds, a muted light illuminated the garden.

  Sister Mary Lazarus was walking toward the adobe wall that bordered the monastery. Seeing her, Pax went toward her, tail wagging. When he got close, she held out her hand as if to pet him, but missed and, oblivious to it, kept going.

  “Sleepwalking,” Sister Agatha muttered with a sigh. But maybe she’d still found the answer to the puzzle. Perhaps Pax had been inadvertently let in and out of the enclosure by the sleepwalking novice, who was evidendy aware of her environment just enough to get around.

  Sister Agatha caught up to Mary Lazarus and gently led her back inside. By the time they reached the door, Sister Bernarda was there and nodded to Sister Agatha as she entered with the novice and Pax. Silence would not be broken now, but it was clear from her expression and the fact that she was there that Sister Bernarda had heard the novice’s movements and had followed her to prevent the sleepwalker from injuring herself.

  As far as Sister Agatha knew, this was the first time they’d ever found Mary Lazarus outside the monastery. It was clear now that the novice knew no boundaries when she wandered about at night.

  By the time Sister Agatha reached her own bed she was exhausted. She slipped off her shoes and veil, then lay down. Within seconds, she was fast asleep.

  After breakfast, Sister Agatha met with Reverend Mother and recounted the events of the evening before.

  “So you think that Sister Mary Lazarus was the one responsible for letting the dog in and out of the enclosure?” Reverend Mother asked.

  “Our doors can be unlocked by hand from the inside without keys. Of course that doesn’t prove anything—it carries no more weight than my theory for how Pax got onto the grounds, but it seems a reasonable guess.”

  “We’ll have to find a way to curtail Mary Lazarus’s nighttime walks. It’s just too dangerous now, especially if there’s a chance she’s inadvertently allowing an intruder into our enclosure.”

  “Mother, I don’t know how to keep her in her cell at night without actually posting a guard at the door. None of the cell doors have locks, and if we put anything in her path, she could end up injuring herself in the dark.”

  “Maybe we can persuade one of the merchants in town to donate a dead-bolt lock for our kitchen door that requires an inside key. We’d not only have added security but we’d guarantee the novice can’t let herself out of the building. But, come to think of it, that might be too dangerous in an emergency.”

  “You’re right. Unless the key is kept close by and available, the lock could also trap the rest of us in the building during a crisis. Maybe we can get some kind of simple alarm that will wake just Sister Bernarda and myself if Mary Lazarus leaves her cell. I’ll see what I can do, Mother.” She bowed slightly, then left for the parlor.

  She found Sister Bernarda at the desk. “I need to talk to you. Can you spare me a few moments?”

  She nodded. “You’re worried about Mary Lazarus, aren’t you? I happened to hear her wandering about last night But by the time I could follow her, she was out of sight. Up to now, she simply went to the refectory or the kitchen, but this time, she was gone. I was so relieved when I spotted you bringing her back inside.”

  “I couldn’t believe she’d actually gone outside! If that’s what she’s been doing on occasion, she’s a danger to herself and to all of us as well.”

  “Her sleepwalking is the symptom of a bigger issue. I don’t think she’s happy here,” Sister Bernarda said.

  Sister Eugenia came up to the grille. “Forgive me for listening, Sisters, but I agree with both of you that Sister Mary Lazarus has had a change of heart. And it’s not just her sleepwalking that’s a sign of it. I treated her for hives a few weeks ago. Her arms were red and swollen. She blamed it on gardening and allergies—the same type of thing she had months ago, when she first started gardening—but I don’t think that was it this time. I remember my niece getting the same kind of welts on her arms every time she had an exam, or there was some big event at school. What Mary Lazarus had most likely was a case of nerves, pure and simple.”

  “In all fairness, she does have allergies, and she had been gardening a lot lately to spare Sister Maria Victoria, and Sister Gertrude,” Sister Bernarda pointed out.

  “I’ll talk to the sisters, then,” Sister Agatha said. “Maybe one of them can shed some more light on this.”

  “Try to hurry. Frank Walters is coming. Once he gets here, one of us will take over portress duty while the other stays with him in the scriptorium. Sister Gertrude won’t feel comfortable being there with him.”

  “All right.” Sister Agatha found Sister Maria Victoria outside pruning roses. “I hate to interrupt your work, Sister, but I need to talk to you about Sister Mary Lazarus.”

  Sister Maria Victoria nodded, but continued working. “She’s such a hard worker. She wasn’t always enthusiastic about gardening, but she’s recently had a change of heart. I think she began to understand what I’d been telling her—that flowers are our gift from God—one we, in turn, share with Him when we place a fresh bouquet of flowers in the chapel. Since the end of April, she’s taken on gardening jobs without even being asked. And she now does the work with a great deal of skill.”

  Sister Agatha stared at the ground, lost in thought. Maybe Sister Mary Lazarus was working out some of her restlessness by gardening. That was common enough.

  “Look at how she prunes the roses,” Sister Maria Victoria said, showing her the way the branches had been cut back to sections with four or more leaves. “She used to just cut off the spent blooms.”

  “You’re an excellent teacher.”

  “No, it’s not me. She actually made it a point to read the books we have in the library about desert gardening. She’s become quite informed—both on plants and horticulture. The very job she hated now gives her a great deal of pleasure. I’d say that’s nothing short of a miracle.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  As the bells for Terce rang out, Sister Agatha hurried into the parlor. Maybe she could relieve Sister Bernarda a little early. Extern sisters didn’t always get to chant the Divine Office with the choir nuns, and this was one small gift she could give Sister Bernarda for all the extra work she’d had to take on lately.

  As Sister Bernarda went to the chapel, Sister Agatha sat at the desk in the parlor. She’d recently learned that Celia was well versed in herbs because of her mother’s expertise, which was one of the reasons the sheriff considered her a prime suspect. But now, Agatha reasoned, with Mary Lazarus’s interest in gardening, her own knowledge could have grown and could have been considerable as well.

  Hearing a knock at the door, Sister Agatha went to answer it.

  Frank Walters stood there in the early morning light. “Good morning, Sister. I figured I’d come early so I wouldn’t interfere with Mass.”

  “Come in. I’ll walk you to the scriptorium.”

  She stayed with him there until Sister Bernarda, Sister Mary Lazarus, and Celia came in a few minutes later. By then, Frank had completely dismantled the computer that kept locking up. “I don’t think this is a software problem. I think what you’re facing is a bad mix between new software and old operating systems. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  Sister Bernarda signaled Sister Agatha and met her out in the hall. “Have you made any progress on the case?”

  “Nothing substantial,” Sister Agatha replied vaguely. “But I won’t be going into town quite as often anymore. I have a feeling many of the answers I need are right here. Pray that the truth I find sets us free instead of burying us.”

  “It’s a shame that truth makes no allowances for people’s feelings,” Sister Bernarda said with a wry smile.

  “I need you to do something for all our sakes,” Sister Agatha said. “If I’m not around, will you keep an eye on Mary Lazarus—without letting her know what you’re
doing?”

  “Mary Lazarus? I thought for sure you’d be asking me about Celia.”

  “Don’t read too much into my request. I’m groping in the dark right now. My next stop is our library. If you’d listen from the scriptorium for the door and the telephone, I’d appreciate it.”

  She hurried to the library before Sister Bernarda could ask her any more questions. Investigating had seemed simpler, and less heartbreaking, when she’d been convinced that the answer lay with the townspeople, not within the monastery.

  The library was simply a large room with one window that faced the back garden. One single briar rose on a trellis made its way up the outside wall beside the window, climbing steadily toward the sun.

  Sister Agatha looked around, passing shelves filled with liturgical tomes and volumes on the lives of the saints. She knew the monastery had a few gardening books somewhere.

  Looking through the smaller shelf, Sister Agatha found what she’d been searching for. Taking the gardening books to the table, she looked them over carefully, but none of the books included information about monkshood.

  Discouraged, she went to return them to the shelf, but as she pushed some books aside to make room for the ones she’d taken out, she spotted a heavy-looking book on medicinal plants lying flat behind the others, hidden from view.

  Sister Agatha picked it up and checked out the index. It listed monkshood. She then checked the back for signatures. Theirs was the old checkout method. There were no computers here in their small library.

  No names appeared on the back card. That indicated that it hadn’t been officially checked out.

  She studied the information on monkshood. The book went into great detail about the buttercup family, which included monkshood. It explained the chemistry of the Aconitum genus of plants, told how to form a tincture in alcohol for anesthetic purposes, and warned that the quantities had to be kept very small and that it was never to be taken internally.

  The danger the root posed was clearly stated, but so was the method to distill it. Sister Agatha sat down on a wooden bench near the window, the book open in her lap. Sunshine streaming through the pane fell on a small piece of crochet thread near the binding. It was a cream color and would have been almost impossible to make out under artificial light.