Bad Faith

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“[Sister Agatha] is intelligent, determined, funny and deeply religious, yet completely unstuffy… [A] thoughtful mystery novel.”

—
Dallas Morning News

“The Thurlos write with the same grace, savvy, and sense of place that make the Ella Clah mysteries so absorbing.”

—
Booklist

“If there was ever a nun born to raise hell, it’s Sister Agatha… Astride her classic Harley—with a refined police dog in the sidecar—she puts the fear of God into evildoers all over the Southwest. Let’s hope Sister Agatha returns soon—this is one nun who could become habit-forming.”

—William Rabkin, executive producer of
Diagnosis: Murder

“Sister Agatha is … one of the most original and interesting characters in the mystery field today…Reading about Sister Agatha and following her exploits in
Bad Faith
almost makes me wish I had a vocation so I could move into her convent and spend time with her… Of course, the fact that she has help from above to solve the case gives a delightful extra dimension to the story. I look forward to [her] next adventure with much anticipation. Until then, I’ll have to comfort myself with thinking holy thoughts.”

—Carolina Garcia-Aguilera,

Shamus Award-winning author of
Bitter Sugar

“Entertaining … Intriguing.”

—
Mystery Lovers Bookshop News

“You have to read
Bad Faith
and meet Sister Agatha. She loves being herself—logical, witty, sometimes a bit stubborn, but always willing to take a risk and try again … Oh, yes, she solves her first mystery too. I sure hope it won’t be her last!”

—Joan Wester Anderson,

Bestselling author of
Where Angels Walk

THE SISTER AGATHA SERIES

5AD FAITH

THIEF IM RETREAT

PREY FOR A MIRACLE

THE ELLA CLAH SERIES

BLACKENING SONG

DEATH WALKER

BAD MEDICINE

ENEMY WAY

SHOOTING CHANT

RED MESA

CHANTING WOMAN

TRACKING BEAR

WIND SPIRIT

WHITE THUNDER

M0URNING DOVE

Bad

Faith

Aimée and David Thurlo

St. Martin’s Paperbacks

BAD FAITH

Copyright © 2002 by Aimée and David Thurlo.

Excerpt from
Thief in Retreat
copyright © 2004 by Aimée and David Thurlo.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2002069942

ISBN: 0-312-93476-9

EAN: 80312-93476-7

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / November 2002

St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / November 2004

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

e-ISBN: 978-0-312-93476-7

The Sisters of the Blessed Adoration are our own creation and thus fictional, but they were inspired by two cloistered orders that have special meaning to Aimée. The monastic practices described in this book are derived from horariums in common use. The details of daily life were taken from Aimée’s memories of Ursuline Academy in Arcadia, Missouri, where she lived as a boarder for many years.

With special thanks to Diane Uzdawinis, who shared the details of monastic life with me, and never got tired of my many questions.

To Jane Piper, who always took time when I needed help.

To Jean Digerness and Mary Ann Woodland, who also helped by triggering my memory of our days at Ursuline Academy in Arcadia, Missouri.

And to the Ursuline nuns from Arcadia.

This book is dedicated to all of you with love.

With special thanks to the Corrales Fire Department, and especially to Tonya Lattin, EMTI, who shared her knowledge as a first-response intermediary with us.

S
ister Agatha stared at the black smoke around the tailpipe of the old Chrysler station wagon. This rusted-out bucket of bolts was what Our Lady of Hope Monastery graciously called transportation. Wiping her greasy hands on an old rag and grateful that her nagging arthritis hadn’t flared up while adjusting the carburetor, Sister Agatha walked around to the engine compartment and reluctantly closed the hood.

The engine nearly died, then picked up speed again slowly, sputtering and knocking like a mechanical asthmatic running the marathon. With luck, she might be able to make it back to Our Lady of Hope without having to walk or catch a ride. This early in the morning, there were few vehicles on the road.

The Antichrysler, as Sister Agatha had named the ancient vehicle, needed major engine work again. Though she could do minor repairs, employing skills she’d learned from her brother years ago, an automotive specialist was needed now.

Getting back into the car, she continued her journey back to the monastery with the spools of thread for a quilting project the other nuns were rushing to complete.

The sun was just coming up, but already she was late. She had a million things to do, including meeting Father Anselm at St. Francis’ Pantry, an outbuilding on monastery grounds that had been converted into a heated storeroom and an impressive larder. Supplies stored there were made available to anyone in need who asked for help. Father Anselm, the monastery’s chaplain, had consented to pick up a donation of canned goods from a grocer in the city, and deliver it to the monastery this morning.

Rolling down the window, she wondered how it could be so hot already down here in the Rio Grande Valley. Pressing down on the accelerator, she tried to coax the old car into a little more speed. Suddenly she heard a metallic thump. The engine sounded louder but the car seemed to have a little more pep, so she decided not to stop. Before she’d traveled another mile, however, she heard a siren and saw a sheriff’s car behind her, lights flashing.

“Dear Lord, why are you testing me? You know I’ll flunk,” she muttered.

Sister Agatha pulled over to the side of the road and parked, hoping the engine wouldn’t die. As she glanced in her rearview mirror, she saw a young deputy emerge and amble casually toward the station wagon. He seemed rather tall, and reminded her of an overgrown high school freshman, working on a cool, manly-looking stride in order to impress the girls. The dark sunglasses, she suspected, were standard equipment in the sheriff’s department, regardless of the time of day.

The officer smiled as he reached her window, then took off his sunglasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket. His eyes were pale blue, and bright with mischief despite the early hour. “Hello, Sister. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

“Don’t tell me I was speeding, Deputy. As you can probably tell by looking, this car wouldn’t go more than forty miles an hour unless you drove it off the Rio Grande Gorge.”

He gave her a wide, toothy grin. “I believe that, Sister. No, you weren’t violating the speed limit. But your muffler did fall off about a mile back down the road.”

Sister Agatha sighed loudly. “So, does that mean I’m getting a ticket for littering?”

The young officer laughed. “How about a trade? I’ll let you off with a warning, and you light a candle for me back at the chapel.”

“Sounds like a deal.” She wondered if his leniency was prompted by orders from on high. She didn’t mean God, of course. The new county sheriff was a long-time friend of hers. They’d dated back in high school and done more than that afterward during her wilder days. She hadn’t seen him except for an occasional glimpse on the street since she’d joined the monastery over his protests. But after twelve years, memories of their long friendship should have overwhelmed any lingering hurt.

Of course, it might have had nothing at all to do with Sheriff Tom Green, and everything to do with the fact that she was wearing a nun’s habit and it wasn’t Halloween. People tended to assume that her prayers would weigh more heavily in God’s sight. Little did they know. If God had been the kind to keep score, she could have rented herself as a lightning rod.

“Seriously, Sister, it’s risky driving a car in this condition. You need to get it fixed before you get stopped for a vehicle emissions violation, especially while passing through pueblo land. It smokes like a campfire, and a new muffler is probably just the tip of the iceberg on this relic.”

“I’ll tell Reverend Mother what you said. But I’m afraid that our relic repair fund is very low at the moment So how about it, Deputy? A few dollars toward a valve job or new oil pump for the God Squad’s station wagon?”

“Sorry, Sister. I’m all tapped out this week.”

“I’ll be on my way then.” She put the car in gear, praying nothing else would fall off, at least within the deputy’s sight, and gave him a wave.

Ten minutes later she passed through the monastery’s open gate. As she stepped out of the car, she felt a drop of rain, quickly followed by a dozen more. She looked up at the marble statue of Our Lord above the chapel entrance. “Why couldn’t you have sent rain a half hour ago when I was sweating like a pig trying to get that car started?” Sister Agatha said, then instantly contrite, she sighed. “Not that I’m trying to tell you what to do, of course.”

As a native who’d grown up in the area, she knew that rain in New Mexico was a rare and welcome respite from the baking, midsummer heat of the desert, and the icy drops felt wonderful. Our Lady of Hope Monastery, a former farmhouse donated to the Church decades ago, was equipped with no system of cooling other than shade trees and windows that could be opened—providing the nun worked out regularly or had been blessed with the strength of Samson.

There was a small fan in Reverend Mother’s office and another in the chapel, of course, but they were no match for the three-digit temperatures that could try the body and soul during July. The Sisters of the Blessed Adoration had modernized their old pre-Vatican II habits a long time ago, bravely raising the hemlines three inches from the floor, but they were still long sleeved, made of heavy serge, and nearly unbearable in hot weather.

Since it was still too early for Sister Bernarda to be in the parlor, Sister Agatha reached for her key. Unlocking the front parlor doors, she entered, locked the door behind her, then hurried across the room toward the next set of doors leading into the inner parlor. That doorway led to the enclosure where she would rejoin her cloistered sisters.

Few had access in and out of the monastery like an extern sister. It was a privilege that made her feel especially blessed. She enjoyed two very different worlds. Here, she shared in the communal, contemplative life of the monastery, where prayer for the needs of the world and faith in God became the very essence of what defined them. When her duties as an extern took her outside, however, she got to be part of a very different world—where individual tastes and desires were paramount and became the basis for action and progress.

Extern nuns were the links between the enclosure and the outside world. Someone had to let in a plumber or the computer tech when needed, do the shopping, take the sisters to the doctor—and, as she was constantly being reminded lately,take the Antichrysler back to the auto mechanic to be resuscitated.

With soft footsteps, she made her way down the hall to the scriptorium. To emphasize a nun’s complete dedication to God, the white-stuccoed corridor walls were kept bare except for pictures of the saints and a crucifix here and there. The brick floors were barren. Slipping quietly through the open doorway, she entered the scriptorium.

“You’re late,” Sister Bernarda snapped, looking up from the computer screen. She’d been converting a library’s catalogue into a digital format.

Sister Bernarda’s voice always made a person want to stand up and salute. Sister had been a sergeant in the marines, serving for twenty years prior to joining the order. But Sister Agatha had found that despite the bluster, Sister Bernarda could be counted on—as a friend and as a sister.

“The car broke down again,” Sister Agatha explained, “and I’m afraid to take the interstate now.”

Sister Bernarda was the monastery’s only other extern nun. She and Sister Agatha were the only ones who had access to all the materials their scriptorium worked on. Here, in a modern twist to the monk’s age-old pursuit, they did computer work for several libraries, magazines, and newspapers, often working with quite valuable manuscripts that required special handling. Since that work held a tie to the outside world, the cloistered nuns only worked alongside them here when Sister Bernarda and she were running behind.

As the monastery bell filled the air with its rich, deep tones, she heard the sound of soft footsteps, and the opening and closing of doors as the sisters began their procession to the chapel. It was time for Terce.

“Go on to your other duties, Sister Bernarda. I’ll take care of things here,” Sister Agatha said, exiting the scanning program on the computer for her. Lastly, she put the documents into a fireproof safe, a precaution the insurance company demanded despite the unique security already present in their walled, locked enclosure.

Once the door to the safe was locked, Sister Agatha went to the outer parlor to take up her duty as portress. As an extern nun she wouldn’t be joining the others in chapel—she would stay here to greet visitors and answer the telephone. Extern nuns weren’t required to go to chapel for Divine Office.

As the sisters’ chant rose from the chapel, a stillness unlike anything she’d ever experienced outside the monastery settled over the entire building and the grounds. It was as if nature itself held its breath, waiting on the word of God. Someone had once said that the angels walked in that silence.

Working as she prayed, Sister Agatha checked the front parlor’s turn, a revolving barrel-shaped shelf fitted into the outside wall. The device was used to bring small packages and mail into the cloister without the need to unlock the parlor doors. Children in the parish often referred to it as the nun’s drive-up window. During summer vacation, they loved to play tricks on the nuns, depositing everything from live lizards to get-out-of-jail-free Monopoly cards.

Today the turn only contained a folded piece of typing paper. Opening it, she read the message inside.

“Pray the Lord forgives me. I’m going to hurt one of my friends.”

The note sounded like it had come from one of the teens in town who was about to break up with her boyfriend. They got a lot of prayer requests of that nature these days—summer loves didn’t seem to last long.

Sister placed the folded note in the small wooden box reserved for prayer requests. Each sister would draw from the box later, and pray on behalf of the petitioner they’d chosen at random.

Sister walked back to the desk and began selecting passages from religious texts for their novice to study, and other, less complicated passages for their new postulant to read. As novice mistress, the responsibility for their instruction fell to her, though it was a job she’d never wanted.

If only she could have explained to the abbess how much she disliked doing things that reminded her of the past—when she’d been Professor Mary Naughton, not Sister Agatha. That kind of nostalgia often led to comparisons, and to a heaviness of spirit that she neither liked nor understood. Not that being novice mistress was anything like being a professor, of course, but, teaching brought memories of her years at the university—a life she’d chosen to leave behind.

Now, at age forty-four, she couldn’t help but wonder what her own life might have been like if she’d continued her journalism career. She’d always shown a talent for investigative reporting.

It had been her brother Kevin’s long illness that had changed everything for her. She’d gone from being a reporter for an Albuquerque newspaper to teaching, in the hope of having regular work hours so she could be at home with him more. It had been a difficult time for her, but it had also been filled with unexpected blessings. While caring for her dying brother, she’d found new meaning in things she’d never valued before. Toward the end of his life, she’d received her calling from God—that stirring of the heart that drove a person to enter a monastery. And by finding God, she’d found herself.

To this day, she remained as certain of her calling as she had been the day she’d entered the monastery, located just outside the small town where she’d spent her childhood. Not that monastery life was problem free—far from it. But twelve years as a Bride of Christ had given her a firm foundation and immeasurable strength to face whatever came her way.

She checked the time. Father Anselm would be coming by soon. She’d have to be ready to greet him along with her helpers, Sister Mary Lazarus, the monastery’s novice, and Ce-lia, the postulant. Neither had taken final vows, and contact with the public was discouraged at this point of their formation, but the only person they’d see would be Father Anselm, so no rules would be violated.

After private prayers were finished in chapel, Sister Agatha stood and went to the hall. Twisting the handle of the clapper, a small, wooden device reminiscent of castanets but much less melodious, she summoned the monastery’s postulant and novice. It was an efficient paging method, and very much linked to tradition, but, all things considered, she would have preferred a whistle or a bullhorn, like a high school coach.

Sister Mary Lazarus appeared almost immediately, but their postulant, Celia, failed to appear.

As Sister Bernarda arrived to relieve her of portress duty, Sister Agatha focused on Mary Lazarus. “Follow me to the library, please,” Sister Agatha said. “We’ll start without Celia.”

As they entered the small library, Sister Agatha glanced back. Mary Lazarus was staring at a painting of the foundress of their order.

Seeing Sister Agatha looking at her, she smiled sadly. “I wonder how my friends will react once they learn I’m going to be taking my vows. I wrote them, but I haven’t heard back yet. None of them showed up for my investiture, but I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. They all thought I was crazy when I entered the monastery.”