Bad Faith (13 page)

“Okay. I’ll go check out the kids at St. Charles next. Pray that I find a lead there. Otherwise, I’ll come right back here and do what I have to do.”

As she walked him back to his car, he glanced over at her. “Think back real carefully. How long was Celia alone with the alb—altogether?”

Memories crowded into her mind—of Celia rubbing her hands against her postulant’s dress, of her own hands itching, of Celia’s encounter with Father Anselm in St. Francis’ Pantry. Then, in her mind’s eye she saw the fear that had been on Celia’s face as she’d picked up the fallen groceries and rushed away.

“Hello? Earth to Sister Agatha.”

“Celia had just tried to help me out,” she said, recounting how she’d found Celia repairing the alb the day Father Anselm died, sticking just to the facts and leaving out her speculation concerning Celia’s reaction to the name Annie. It didn’t seem right to subject Celia to some tough police questioning based only on her interpretation of what she’d seen. Celia’s own explanation had been just as plausible. “But what you have to take into account is that when I found her, all she was doing was mending the garment,” she added. “I didn’t let her finish the first time. We both had other duties. So I sent her back just minutes before Mass.”

“So she
could
have poisoned the cloth.”

“With what? I’m her novice mistress. I know every inch of her cell, and how she spends every waking minute of her time.” She shook her head. “No, it wasn’t her, believe me. In fact I think it was already contaminated when she handled it. I remember her trying to wipe her hands and saying that they itched.”

“Did you experience the same thing?”

“Yes. At the time, I put it down to an allergic reaction to the new starch I’d bought on sale for the monastery.” She paused for several moments. “But you’re missing a very important factor. That extract of monkshood had to be prepared. I mean boiled, distilled, evaporated, or whatever to make the concentration it did. Celia wouldn’t have had the means to make such an elaborate preparation. If she had access to such equipment, she couldn’t have kept it a secret from me.”

“Maybe she found a hiding place and did it on her own time.”

“There’s no hiding anything from the novice mistress,” Sister Agatha said with an amused smile, recalling her own days as a postulant and novice.

Tom remained silent for a few moments, then finally spoke. “If we could just find out where the monkshood came from, we’d have a big piece of the puzzle.”

“It’s not here on the grounds. The medical investigator searched for it himself.”

Tom nodded and climbed into his vehicle. “I better get going. While I’m at St. Charles Academy, I’m going to see if any of the school science classes might have played with this type of thing—not monkshood extract exactly—but a distillation or extraction process.” He looked up at her. “In the meantime, watch yourself. Trusting the wrong people could get you into a heap of trouble.”

Sister Agatha knew that Tom meant the other nuns, but this time,
he
was the one she didn’t trust. He was under community pressure to close the case, and that meant he’d be likely to accept whatever answers presented themselves quickly. But she had a feeling that to find the right answers, they’d have to dig through layers and levels of truths.

Sister Agatha turned and headed to the chapel. The choir nuns were in their stalls, watching the reconsecration ceremony from behind their grille. She went in silently through the side door as their new chaplain began blessing the chapel with holy water.

His words rang clearly as she knelt down. “ ‘May God who is wonderful in all His works be with you all.’ “

She prayed along with Father Mahoney, asking for wisdom and discernment, but fear underlined every syllable she uttered. She still wasn’t sure if she should have told Tom about Celia’s reaction to Father Anselm. She hadn’t because she’d been almost certain he’d jump to the wrong conclusions, and everything she knew about the postulant assured her that Ce-lia was incapable of harming Father. It was instinct, both as a nun and as a former professor, but she trusted it. Playing that kind of prank on Father Anselm would have been completely out of character for Celia. Whatever the postulant’s secret was, it didn’t include murder.

“ ‘If any man defile the temple of God, him shall God destroy; for the temple of God is holy,’ “ Father Mahoney prayed.

Nothing was simple now, but one thing rang continuously in her mind like an endless litany. She had to protect the monastery and her sisters in Christ from two threats—the murderer, and the lawman who was determined to stop at nothing to catch whoever that might be.

T
he nuns’ voices rose as one as they chanted the Divine Office called None, which stood for the ninth canonical hour of prayer—three in the afternoon, the time of day when Jesus was said to have died.

Tranquility descended over the chapel. Somehow, no matter what happened, she knew they would persevere. Even now, suspicion hadn’t poisoned the sisters’ faith, or their sense of unity. There was a lightness about their life that no amount of shadow could ever destroy. Light was always the master of darkness.

The rebirth of their beloved chapel had renewed her hope. Chaos had touched it, but now peace had been restored. Faith and prayer were the shields of those here—it was a power few understood, but no one who’d ever seen it in action could discount its capability.

Sister Agatha left the chapel long after the other nuns but, as she reached the corridor, she saw that Reverend Mother had waited for her.

“Now that we have the Antichrysler back, I’d like you to put the motorcycle away until the next emergency,” she said. “I’ve been very worried about you driving that thing.”

“Mother, the Antichrysler still sounds like an asthmatic trying to run the marathon. If we run our small errands with the motorcycle, we may be able to extend the life of the car longer. And the motorcycle is far cheaper to operate.”

Reverend Mother took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “All right, then. For now we’ll continue to use it.” After a brief pause, she added. “Are you or the sheriff any closer to finding answers?”

“The key may be in finding the source of the monkshood. I’m trying to come up with a way to do that.”

“Follow through on it quickly, Sister. I don’t want any more nuns falling ill because of the pressure we’re all under.”

Sister Agatha drove the Harley back to St. Charles with Pax in the sidecar, hoping to catch Patsy Romero. What she needed now was the name of three or four students—ones who excelled in biology or chemistry—and the name of any person, student or parent, who might have had a problem with Father.

As she arrived, she met Patsy coming out of the building with her purse and briefcase in hand, heading for the parking lot. Sister hurried toward her. “I’m so glad I caught you before you left!”

“Is something wrong?” She gave Pax a worried glance, but the dog sat beside Sister and yawned. “Are you sure that dog is safe? He’s so big!”

“He’s a teddy bear,” Sister replied, placing her hand on the dog’s head. “And he can be easily bribed. He even eats monastery oatmeal.”

Patsy laughed. “I’ll remember that.”

“By the way, have you given any more thought to what I asked you?”

“About Father Anselm’s enemies?” Seeing her nod, Patsy continued. “I can’t think of any serious disputes Father had with anyone. He had disagreements with both parents and kids, but they were routine, not extreme.”

“All right, then.” Sister Agatha tried not let her disappointment show. “I need your help with something else. Can you recommend two or three kids who are responsible and good at botany who might be willing to help me find a particular species of plant?”

“I can be trusted,” a quiet voice said from behind her.“And I’ve just finished a semester of botany.”

She turned and saw Timothy Johnson. His breathing seemed much improved. “Hello, Timothy, what brought you back to school after hours?”

“A computer repair place in Santa Fe went out of business and we got the owner to donate his old computers—ones he’d used for spare parts—to our class. Now we’re trying to put the drives, power supplies, and monitors together and get them running. With luck we may end up with three additional working computers. But I’m through for the day, so if you need something …”

“What I need will take a lot of walking.”

“I do that every day. I walk to school and back. It’s supposed to be good for me. I may be excused from PE, but I still need exercise.”

“Okay, then,” Sister Agatha said, unwilling to turn him down. “But we’ll need a little more help.”

“The kids coming out of the building now are all in the gifted program with Tim. They’re hard workers and very responsible. They might be willing to help,” Patsy said.

Jason, the tall, brown-haired boy who’d come to see Pax and the motorcycle was among them. His heavy glasses were always slipping down his nose, and he was constantly pushing them back up into place.

Sister Agatha explained that she needed to know where a particular plant was growing locally, wondering just how good the boy’s vision was.

“Don’t let the presence of glasses fool ya, Sister,” he said, noting her scrutiny. “They call me Radar around here. I can spot anything once I know what I’m supposed to be looking for.”

Two other boys and a girl who had come along with him nodded in agreement. The girl was small, nearly Timothy’s size, with a pixie face and almond-shaped eyes. She’d also petted Pax the other day and the dog remembered.

After introducing herself as Grace, and offering to help with Sister’s project, she bent down to play with Pax. She was so full of energy that Sister wondered with a burst of nostalgia if she’d ever been
that
young and energetic herself.

“I’m supposedly hyperactive,” Grace said quickly, “but I get my work done and everyone just puts up with the rest. If you need something done, Sister, I’m your girl.”

“Okay. You’re in,” Sister Agatha said.

One of the boys was tall and extremely quiet. She’d heard the others call him Monk.

The remaining boy with them was of average height, but he looked as sturdy as a tree trunk. His eyes were dark and his hair almost jet black. He introduced himself and extended his hand. “I’m in too. Call me Chunk.”

“I’ll leave you, then, Sister,” Patsy said.

Sister looked at them and smiled. This might just work out. “I need to find a particular plant,” she said, describing monkshood in detail for them. She wished she’d had a picture, but the blue or white cap-shaped flowers were distinctive enough to give them a solid lead. “I’d like you to help me search for it around the community.”

“That’s a lot of ground to cover, Sister,” Grace said. “I mean we can do it, but it’ll take time.”

“That’s what killed Father Anselm, isn’t it?” Monk asked.

“We heard he was poisoned,” Grace said. “So you want to find out if the killer found the herb around here, or grew it in their backyard?”

They were sharp, she’d give them that. “Yes. I know it will take a lot of searching, but will you help me?”

“When do you want to do it? After school every day until we find it?”

“Yeah. Starting today if it won’t get you in trouble with your parents. Just don’t miss any classes, or break any of your family’s rules, promise?”

The students nodded.

“Okay. We should split up and take sections. Shall we start right here in the school grounds?” Radar asked.

“Yeah, I suppose so. Does anyone have to go home right away?”

They looked at each other, then shook their heads.

“Great. Then let’s get started.” They paired up and Timothy stayed with her.

They searched the grounds carefully, even between the portable buildings and the caretaker’s mobile home.

As the others searched some distance away, she took the chance to talk to Timothy again.

“Timothy, I know you’re new to the community, but do you think any of the kids from St. Charles might have wanted to play a prank on Father Anselm and make him ill?”

He considered it before answering. “It’s possible. Father didn’t allow any of the guys to get away with causing trouble. He had strict rules. But, to be honest, most of the guys I’ve met here wouldn’t know one plant from another, let alone know what to do with monkshood after they found it.”

“Who would?”

“Grace. She’s sharp. But she cried when she heard about Father Anselm. A lot of the kids did. The only other students here who know plants real well are Monk and me. The three of us all took botany last year, though I took it at a different school.”

His words echoed in her mind as they continued to search. Most of the open spaces here on campus were barren except for gravel and silty river-bottom sand. There was a grass-covered soccer field, too, but after an hour of fruitless searching, they branched out and went into the neighborhood surrounding the school.

Time passed, and this time their search met with positive results. Monkshood was found growing in a half dozen places, including flower gardens, a small park in the downtown area, and in a low spot beside the railroad tracks. Unfortunately, none of the locations seemed to point to any individual who’d been at church lately. More important, a close inspection of each site had not uncovered signs that any of the plants had been harvested recently. Soon, everyone was gathered again at the school.

“Do you kids have transportation? Our work has been productive and I thank you all, but I’d like you to help me search one more area—right outside the monastery walls. But if anyone has to leave now, go ahead.”

Nobody spoke up, so Radar said, “I’ve got my car. I can give the others a ride home after we’re finished.”

“Perfect. Pax and I will lead the way. Oh, and one more thing. Should you all happen to see any of the sisters, don’t try to speak to them. Understood?”

They nodded.

Sister Agatha took the teens north down the old highway past Santa Anna Pueblo, then turned west along the gravel road that led to the monastery, and stopped outside the gate. Getting them organized, she assigned each team a specific area.

They scoured the ground within fifty feet of the monastery walls, even searching behind areas thick with native plants. They found several clusters of blazing stars, a wildflower that was common in certain areas of New Mexico. The blooms, before they were completely open, appeared to be cup-shaped, but that was as close as they got to finding the hood-shaped blue or white flower that characterized monkshood.

“I’ve got to get home soon, Sister,” Grace said, glancing at her watch.

“Me, too,” Monk added. “Mom and Dad like me home when they get off work.”

“Then you guys better all get going.”

“We’ll continue to keep an eye out around town. If we find any more plants, we’ll check to see if there’s any sign that they’ve been harvested or tampered with in any way, and let you know,” Grace said.

“I appreciate your help. And thanks for today,” Sister Agatha said. As she heard the monastery bells ringing the call to Vespers, she felt glad that Evening Prayer could be said in the chapel again.

She waved as they drove away, lost in thought. If either Timothy or Grace or Monk had been responsible for the attack on Father Anselm, it sure wasn’t obvious from their behavior today. Everyone had found monkshood and eagerly pointed the plants out to the others. They all seemed equally unlikely as troublemakers or pranksters. Everyone had searched hard, too, she’d made sure of that. Had she been hoping to find a suspect among the teenagers simply because she couldn’t face the alternative—that the murderer was someone inside the monastery? She just didn’t know anymore.

She shook free of the thought. The nuns weren’t guilty, and the kids she’d just been with were clearly innocent as well. There had to be another answer. At least they hadn’t found any monkshood close to the monastery itself.

As Sister Agatha went inside the monastery to join the sisters in prayer, she felt the weight of responsibility that rested on her shoulders. The nuns were all counting on her.

She remembered one of the rules of their order. If difficult or even impossible tasks were laid on a sister, she was to accept them in perfect obedience. The Rule of St. Benedict was as old as the origin of their order, and still stood as a marker of conduct in monasteries worldwide.

After Divine Office, she made her way to Reverend Mother’s office, hoping to catch her there before she left for the refectory. The abbess would want to know what progress had been made.

She was halfway down the hall when she heard faint footsteps behind her. Turning her head, she saw Sister Eugenia, who cocked her head, motioning toward the infirmary.

Experience had taught her that to resist one of sister’s requests was completely useless. Once they were in the infirmary, they were free to talk. Although the Great Silence wasn’t in effect, silence was the natural order of the monastery, except in the infirmary. Here, the monastery’s emphasis on silence took a backseat to compassion and charity.

“Sister Agatha, I saw you rubbing your hands during the Divine Office and I know you’re in pain. Your arthritis won’t go away on its own. Use the prescription you’ve been given. The pills will help keep the inflammation down—but for them to work, you’ve got to actually take them.”

“They’re so expensive, Sister, and make me vulnerable to infections after a while. And right now with Sister Gertrude having been hospitalized…”

“We’ll get by, but you can’t investigate and find answers if you’re in so much pain you can’t think clearly.”

Sister Agatha looked at her hands and noted her swollen joints and the redness that had been developing all day. The vibration of the motorcycle had soothed them for a while, but now the pain had returned. They felt as if she’d dipped them in fire. “It looks worse than it is, Your Charity,” she said, hoping to sound convincing.

“I doubt it. Take two now, with plenty of water, and come back tomorrow morning for two more. These have to be taken on a regular schedule, and at meals.”

Sister Agatha stood up slowly, swallowed the pills she was handed, and washed them down with a tall glass of water. The medicine would work. It always did. She tried to allow the relief she’d feel once the pain was reduced to outweigh her guilt over the expense. “Thank you.”

“I’ll watch out for you, Sister Agatha, even if you don’t watch out for yourself.”

Sister Agatha smiled, then bowed slightly and left. She was on her way to the parlor to lock up for the night when she saw Pax pacing by the open door to the scriptorium. Seeing her, he sat and whined. Curious, Sister Agatha approached him and, as she did, heard the soft sounds of someone inside the room crying.

Whoever it was, maybe she could help. Glancing inside, she found Celia at her carrel on the far side of the room, her face down in her hands.