Bad Faith (26 page)

“Not offhand, but I’ll ask around.” He gathered up his tools. “I’ll be back later.”

After placing the rare edition she had planned to work on back in the safe and locking it, she walked their visitor to the parlor, then Sister Bernarda showed him to the door.

Saying a quick good-bye, Sister Agatha returned to the scriptorium, lost in thought. For the first time since she’d become part of the monastery, she was afraid of what the future would hold for them. They seemed to be facing one financial disaster after another.

Sister Agatha crouched by the safe and began unlocking it when she heard a soft rustle of cloth and realized that Mary Lazarus was behind her.

“What can I do for you?” Sister Agatha asked the novice curtly.

“The sacristy and the vestments are ready. Should I pull something from the safe and begin working?”

“No, it’s time for your studies. You, too, Celia. That has to take precedence.”

“Shall we find Sister Eugenia?”

“No, I’ll take care of it today. What have you been reading?”

Celia showed her the book she had with her. It was St. Theresa’s
Way of Perfection.
Sister Mary Lazarus had been reading a book on the Rule of St. Benedict. She instructed both of them to continue their readings. “After a half hour, we’ll discuss what you’ve learned.”

“Mother Mistress, it’s good to be working with you again,” Celia said.

“Thank you, Celia. Now work. Meditating on these works will help prepare you for the gift of contemplation.”

As Sister Mary Lazarus opened her book, the pages parted, revealing a cream-colored crocheted bookmark. It seemed a close match to the crochet thread she’d found in the library book.

Sister Agatha took a deep breath. This was no time for snap judgments. And there was no telling how long the thread had been in the book. It was entirely possible that Mary Lazarus had looked up monkshood after learning what had happened to Father Anselm. Yet a disturbing suspicion remained at the back of her mind.

What she needed was a tiny thread from that bookmark so she could compare it more closely to the one she’d found.

Leaving them alone for a moment, she went to Sister Ber-narda and asked her to take Mary Lazarus away on an errand and keep her busy for a few minutes. Sister Bernarda’s eyes lit up with questions, but she agreed to do as she was asked.

Moments later, Sister Mary Lazarus left the scriptorium to help Sister Bernarda move the parlor desk so she could clean beneath it.

Sister Agatha glanced at Celia, but the postulant was completely absorbed in her reading. Pretending to be straightening up the room, Sister Agatha wandered past the place where Mary Lazarus had been seated and took the bookmark from the book in one deft move. Using a small pair of scissors, she worked a little piece of crochet thread loose from the center stitch and snipped it off. Then she surreptitiously returned the bookmark to its place.

Every instinct she possessed told her that this would end up pointing the way to the answers she’d been searching for, but she felt no sense of triumph, only a lingering sadness.

An hour and a half later, as the bells for Mass began to ring, Sister Agatha watched Celia put her work away and set it inside the safe as she’d been taught, then leave for chapel. Mary Lazarus did the same and she and the postulant went to join Sister Bernarda and the choir nuns.

Sister Agatha carefully locked the safe and set out across the long hallways. She had one more duty to perform before going to chapel.

Moments later, she entered the empty infirmary, whispering a silent prayer of thanks that all the nuns were in good health. She thought of Sister Gertrude’s recovery, and said an extra Hail Mary in gratitude.

Weaving past the infirmarian’s desk, she made her way into the dispensary. On the desk there was what she’d come in search of—a microscope. The aged device had belonged to Sister Praeterita, a nurse who had joined their monastery long before Sister Agatha’s time. Sister Praeterita was buried in the cemetery outside now along with others, but the microscope remained—along with a silent hope that someday someone else with Sister Praeterita’s training would join them.

It had been a long, long time since Sister Agatha had used a microscope, but it didn’t take her long to place the two pieces of thread on a clean slide, side by side, and get the lens focused.

They appeared to be identical. Of course she was no forensic expert, so this was all very circumstantial—but it was still a lead. She considered telling Sheriff Green, but it didn’t seem right to do that yet. On the scanty evidence she had, it could almost be termed bearing false witness.

She took two small plastic bags from the drawer, and marking and labeling each, placed the threads securely inside them. She then placed both bags in her pocket. Walking quickly and trying not to think about this new burden of responsibility that now rested on her shoulders, she hurried to the chapel for Mass.

After Mass, she walked to the refectory for dinner. Today she’d eat with the nuns, sharing their silence as the lecturer read from the life of one of the martyrs.

Throughout the meal she stared at the skull on the table before the cross. She felt as dry spiritually today as that remnant of what had once been a human being.

Sister Agatha hid her thoughts deep within her. She felt like Judas, knowing she was intending to betray one of her own. But she had a duty to see through.

The first thing she had to do was find out if there was any way at all Mary Lazarus could have gotten hold of some monkshood. Sister Agatha considered the possibilities. If Mary Lazarus had found monkshood by accident, then her wanderings might reveal a vital clue. She didn’t expect to find any monkshood around now—the grounds and the building had been searched—but, with luck, she’d spot traces of where it had been.

She’d start by following Sister Mary Lazarus whenever she was outside. But following the novice during recreation without being seen would be nearly impossible. Trailing her after the fact… that was possible—with a little ingenuity, of course.

T
he key to her plan would require some delicate maneu-vering. All the nuns wore identical shoes, except for minor variations in size. Tracking the novice would be impossible unless she could mark the rope soles of Sister Mary Lazarus’s alpargates, so that the tracks would be distinctive.

Seeing the novice mopping the hall floor, an idea formed in her mind. Sister Agatha pretended to slip on the wet floor and knocked against the water bucket in the process. As water sloshed over Sister Mary Lazarus’s sandals, the novice yelped softly.

Sister Agatha did her best to look mortified. “Let me help you, Sister. I’ll bring you the extra shoes from the closet down the hall. They’re kept there for emergencies such as this. If you’ll give me the shoes you’re wearing, I’ll place them outside to dry. In this heat, it won’t take long.”

Sister Mary Lazarus removed her soggy shoes. “It’s all right, Mother Mistress. I’ll take care of it.”

“No, it’s best if you finish your work quickly, Sister. We don’t want the hall to be slippery when Reverend Mother or one of the older sisters comes through when it’s time for None.”

“God reward you, Mother Mistress,” Mary Lazarus said, handing over her wet shoes.

“At your service, Sister.”

Sister Agatha wrapped the shoes in a small towel kept in the cleaning cart, then went to get Sister Mary Lazarus the dry pair. The spare shoes in the closet turned out to be at least three sizes too big for Mary Lazarus’s small feet.

Feeling a little guilty at the problems this would create for the novice, and at the deception, Sister Agatha quickly made her way outside. Alone on the small patio at the end of the long hallway, she reached into her pocket, took out the keys to the Antichrysler, and used them to dig into the soft sole of Mary Lazarus’s shoes, cutting a line down each of the heels. She then placed the shoes in the sun to dry.

As she looked up, she saw Pax was outside lying on a small patch of grass in the shade of one of the cottonwoods. She envied him. At least lying on the cool grass was one way to beat the infernal heat.

Sister Agatha spent the next hour in the scriptorium. Though the medication was helping, her joints were still stiff and a little swollen, so she concentrated only on scanning work.

Celia, who’d come in to help after finishing her assigned manual labor, looked up from the typing and gave Sister Agatha a worried glance.

“Mother Mistress, if it’s painful for you to work, let me do the scanning as well,” she said softly, coming up to her. “I really don’t mind.”

“No, there’s no need for you to do that. But God reward you for your concern.”

Sister Bernarda came in with Frank Walters a moment later.

“I think I’m finally going to be able to fix this one,” Frank announced, pointing to the machine he’d been working on earlier that day. “I hope so, anyway.”

“Deadline is only two weeks away,” Sister Bernarda said in a no-nonsense tone. “We’d sure appreciate that.”

“This computer’s down again, too,” Celia said softly, then pointed to the blue screen with an error message. “It locked up.”

“Did you save what you’d been working on?” Sister Agatha asked her.

“Yes, but not recently,” she answered. “I’m sorry, Mother Mistress.”

“How much did you lose, do you think?” Sister Agatha asked.

“Maybe an hour’s work, but if you’ll allow it, I can make up for it later tonight after Compline.”

“You’ve given me a really good idea, Celia,” Sister Ber-narda said. “Let’s all work after hours today. What do you say, Sister Agatha? I’m sure Mary Lazarus would jump at the chance.”

“It’s fine with me,” Sister Agatha replied.

“This computer’s working now, Sisters,” Frank said, as the start-up screen came on. “That means you’ve got three up and running. But the fourth won’t be ready until later today. It’s going to take me a while to back up your files and install new software.”

Sister Agatha sighed. “I think I’ll pull out the big guns— let me enlist Sister Ignatius, and have her start praying nonstop that we can meet our deadlines without any more mishaps.”

“You better have her start praying right now. With the hard drives in bad shape, files can get corrupted, and there’s no telling what you’ll find when you check your backup disks.”

Sister Bernarda took Sister Agatha aside. “After you speak to Sister Ignatius, why don’t you take over parlor duties instead of coming back here to the scriptorium? Your hands look swollen, and I imagine they hurt.”

“All right,” she said, unable to refute the physical evidence.

Sister Agatha left the scriptorium. On her way to find Sister Ignatius, she passed by the doorway to the patio and checked on Sister Mary Lazarus’s shoes. They’d dried in today’s hundred-degree heat in record time.

Tucking the shoes under her arm, she quickly went to the bakery. Sister Ignatius would be there packing their altar breads and getting them ready to be mailed out, along with Sister Maria Victoria.

Not disrupting the monastic silence of the others as they worked, Sister Agatha took Sister Ignatius aside, and softly asked her to pray, explaining the situation in the scriptorium.

“Your timing is perfect, Sister. We always pray for special intentions as we package the hosts that will feed the faithful. We’d been praying for Mr. Walter’s intention also, so we can easily add in our own scriptorium needs.”

Hurrying back down the hall, Sister Agatha found that Sister Mary Lazarus had finished waxing the floor. “Here you go, Sister. These shoes will fit you better than those you’re wearing now,” she said, handing them to the novice. “When you’re finished here, will you please report to the scriptorium? All other activities are suspended for you this afternoon. You’re needed there. Celia will tell you what the new schedule is.”

By the time Sister Agatha arrived at the parlor, someone was knocking on the outer doors. She answered it and found Sheriff Green waiting.

As he stepped into the room, Tom wiped the perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief. “It’s hot enough to melt rocks out there today. But it’s pretty warm in here too. You really should get an air conditioner. I don’t know how you all stand it during summer.”

“It can be a trial,” she admitted. It had to be close to ninety inside the building. “What brings you here today?”

“I needed to talk to you,” Tom said slowly. “I’ve been checking Father Anselm’s routines, reconstructing everything he did the week he died. As far as I can tell, there was nothing unusual—except for one thing. On the day he was killed, he postponed a meeting with the archbishop. Now, you and I know he wouldn’t have done
that
unless something extremely urgent had come up. I followed up on that and learned that he met with Ruth Moore, Celia’s mother.”

She took a deep, heavy breath. She understood now what had happened. Father had realized Celia was Annie Clines, and had decided to go talk to her mother.

“There’s more,” Tom continued. “Betsy, Celia’s sister, told me that Ruth called the monastery the morning Father Anselm died. Betsy said that they’d planned to come to Mass here, but Ruth had changed her mind at the last minute.”

“Did Ruth corroborate that?”

“She says she doesn’t remember. I’m working on getting a court order to check her phone records. Meanwhile, I wanted to ask you if the monastery keeps a log of incoming calls.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Can you check it and see if Ruth tried to contact Celia that morning?”

Sister pulled out a small black notebook from the bottom drawer, flipped to the right date, and then went through the entries. “Here it is. Sister Bernarda took the message. It wasn’t an emergency, so she didn’t notify Celia about the call until later that night at recreation. That’s the way we routinely handle things like that.”

“Relatives aren’t allowed to call and speak to the nuns?”

“Of course they can, but there are restrictions here just as there are in many workplaces on the outside. For instance, I’m sure there are a lot of times your wife can’t reach you on the phone, right?”

Tom looked at her strangely, and she hesitated for a moment, wondering about his reason for that reaction. Then she continued. “Well, it’s like that here, too. In Celia’s case, in particular, calls are very restricted. The months of postulancy are a formation period and can be especially hard, so we discourage contact with the outside.”

“One question. How do you know that Celia didn’t just sneak off to a phone sometime that morning and call home— like after she saw Father.”

“It’s not impossible, but a postulant has very little unsupervised time. Also, keep in mind we only have two phones— one in the parlor—and an extern is usually here—and the one in Reverend Mother’s office, and she’s usually there.”

“I think you know what my next question’s going to be, don’t you?”

“You want to talk to Celia again?”

“Yeah. I may also have to get permission to look at the monastery telephone records. Or subpoena them.”

“So we should get John Bruno?” “I would, if I were you. It makes sense-under the circumstances,” Tom said.

“Then make yourself at home, ‘cause it’ll be a while.”

John Bruno came a half hour later, much sooner than Sister had expected. He had a practice in Albuquerque and was generally booked solid for weeks. But, as it turned out, today he’d taken the day off and had stayed in town.

John Bruno spoke to Celia alone for several moments in the inner parlor. Finally they invited Sheriff Green, who had dispensation to enter the enclosure.

“May I stay when you speak to Celia this time?” Sister Agatha asked Tom.

“Yes, if she doesn’t mind. But you can’t interfere.”

“I’d like her to stay,” Celia said simply.

Sheriff Green looked at Celia. “I want you to know that I’m giving you special consideration. I can escort you to the station for questioning. You
are
a suspect in a murder case.”

“But I’m not guilty.”

He didn’t comment, just switched on a small tape recorder. “I need you to tell me again exactly what you did on the day Father died. And don’t leave
anything
out.”

Celia complied, looking at Sister Agatha every few minutes as if for confirmation.

“Stop looking at Sister Agatha,” Sheriff Green snapped. “She can’t help you. Now, when did you tell me you spoke to your mother?”

“To Mother?”

“No, to
your
mother.”

“Reverend Mother
is
my mother.”

“I mean your maternal mother,” he said, biting off the words. “Ruth Moore. She called you that day.”

Celia stared at him. “She did?”

He gave her an incredulous look.

“Sheriff, I honestly don’t remember. Things were very confusing that day.”

“Let me rephrase the question. Did you speak to Ruth, your mother, sometime after Father dropped off the canned goods and before Mass?”

“No. I don’t have access to a telephone.”

“Did you talk to her later that night? Keep in mind that I can subpoena all the phone records, so I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“I didn’t call her. I’m sure of that, but I honestly can’t remember if she called me that day or not. The only thing I know is that I haven’t spoken to her in a long time.”

“Exactly when was the last time you spoke to your mother?”

“I don’t know, but our portress can check for you and give you more information.”

“Have you ever left this monastery after hours?”

She stared at him. “Left?”

“Yeah. Have you ever sneaked out for any reason.”

Celia stared at him in confusion. “Why would I?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Bruno cautioned.

“But I have nothing to hide,” Celia said. “The sheriff’s question is just crazy.” She looked directly at Tom. “If you only knew how badly I wanted to come to this monastery, and how many years I’ve spent dreaming of becoming a nun, you’d never ask such a silly question. This is my home. Why on earth would I ever leave?”

“Just how far were you willing to go to protect your life here? If someone tried to force you to leave, wouldn’t you have done whatever it took to stop them?”

“Like resorting to violence? No, I wouldn’t have. Physical confrontations don’t come naturally to me or, I imagine, to anyone who becomes a nun. It goes against the grain. What I can do—probably better than you realize—is endure.”

Sister Agatha watched Tom carefully. He couldn’t break Celia. But he knew that there was something more going on behind Celia’s stoic face—something she wasn’t telling him. The next thing he would do was dig even more deeply into Celia’s background. He’d learn everything there was to know about her, then he’d close in for the kill. The prospect filled her with such intense dread she shuddered involuntarily.

“What else are you keeping from me, Celia?” he asked menacingly, leaning over the table. “You’re holding something back. Don’t bother to deny it.”

“You’re harassing my client,” Bruno said abruptly. “If you’re charging her with something, then go right ahead. Otherwise, that’s it for today.”

“No charges, Counselor,” Tom said. Then he looked at Celia and held her gaze. “For now.”

John Bruno stood up. “Then have a good afternoon, Sheriff.”

As the sheriff stalked out, John Bruno remained thoughtful. “From now on, Sister Agatha, don’t let him talk to Celia or anyone else here unless I’m present. Is that clear?”

“Very. I’ll tell Reverend Mother.”

“What’s going to happen?” Celia asked quietly.

“I’ve known Tom Green for a while,” Bruno said. “He’s sniffed out a trail and it has led him here. That could mean major trouble for this monastery.”

“But I’m the one he wants, right?” Celia asked.

He nodded. “My guess is that he’s convinced himself you’re guilty. That means he’ll tear this monastery apart, one adobe brick at a time, until he has enough evidence to convict you.”

“Then let him arrest me,” Celia said quickly. “I can’t allow any harm to come to the sisters or the monastery—not because of me.”

“Celia, no, that’s not the answer. The sheriff is wrong. He’ll see that soon enough. Your sentiments are noble, but the monastery doesn’t need a martyr. Now go to the chapel and pray … for all of us,” Sister Agatha said.