False Witness (5 page)

“Sister, my hand to God, we had nothing to do with any of that. Not Liz, and not me,” Leeann replied.

“Then explain how the beer cans got in there,” Sister Agatha said.

“I can’t. Sister, we’re not above trying to pick the lock on my parents’ liquor cabinet, or sneaking a beer from the refrigerator, but that’s about it. I don’t even have my license. Liz does, but she wouldn’t steal anyone’s car. That’s a big crime, and she’s not a thief. You
know
her.”

“I know she has a record of shoplifting,” Tom said firmly.

“Yeah, a ten-dollar tube of lipstick. Liz needed it for a school dance and her mom wouldn’t give her the money. But steal a thirty-thousand-dollar SUV and go joyriding? Give me a break!”

“Tell us how those beer cans got there then,” Sister Agatha pressed.

“I can’t. But really, Sister, do you think that either of us
would be dumb enough to leave our prints inside a car we just stole? We watch TV. Fingerprints always lead to the bad guys. Just because we’re kids don’t think we’re
totally
brain-dead.”

“Maybe you were riding around with your friends and things got out of hand,” Tom insisted. “People don’t think about fingerprints when they’ve been drinking.”

“It wasn’t us. No way we left the house last night. If we’d snuck out for even a quick smoke my mom would have known. She has radar. Trust me,” she said, but avoided looking at either of them.

Leeann was holding back information and one look at Tom told Sister Agatha that he knew it, too.

“Who are you covering for, Leeann?” Sister Agatha pressed. “The car thief? It’ll make your life a lot simpler if you come clean.”

Leeann slumped down in her chair and shook her head, avoiding eye contact with either of them. “We’re
not
guilty. Why won’t you believe us?”

Sister Agatha followed Tom out of the room. “They didn’t steal the SUV, Tom. I’m sure of that, though they probably know who did. Those beer cans didn’t move by themselves into that vehicle.”

Tom nodded. “I buy their argument about being too bright to have left those cans behind, too. Especially in a stolen vehicle.”

“So what can the monastery do about the damage to the gate and our adobe wall?” Sister Agatha asked in a weary voice.

“You could sue Liz’s or Leeann’s parents, but on the basis of what we have so far, you’d probably lose. Truth is, even if you won, they’d probably be unable to come up with the money.”

“It does sound like Liz’s mother barely gets by,” Sister Agatha said regretfully. “And I know Leeann’s family is no better off. Miller, the owner of the SUV, won’t help out, either. But
someone’s
got to make things right. We need to lock our grounds, Tom. We’re out in the country with few close neighbors and it’s a matter of security. Without those gates we’re very vulnerable. Anyone could walk in and break into our outbuildings like St. Francis’s Pantry, or come peep in our windows. The monastery’s a source of curiosity to many, you know.”

“Maybe you can persuade one of the local construction companies to donate the materials and labor, or at least the labor.”

She shook her head slowly. “These are tough times, Tom. Getting corporate donations quickly, without months of requests and paperwork, is nearly impossible. Most companies in our area don’t have it to give, and the ones who do want to hold on to their money.”

When a deputy approached Tom stepped aside to speak to him, then returned a second later. “We’ve got another problem brewing, Sister. I’ve got to go, but I’ll be in touch if anything new crops up on this.”

“Thanks.” Sister Agatha went to get Pax, who’d been playing with some of the office staff, then left the station.

Once outside, the big dog jumped into the sidecar, then nuzzled her hand, waiting for a pat of approval, which she gave. “Good boy. Ready to go?”

She glanced at her watch. It was only ten thirty, so there was plenty of time for her to go by the bakery. They’d licensed their locally famous Cloister Cluster Cookie recipe, and it was time for their royalties. Our Lady of Hope Monastery’s material needs were humble, but the very act of living made them
subject to bills every family experienced. Yet despite a fully functioning scriptorium and the money from licensing their recipe, funds were always tight.

The ride to the bakery was much shorter than Sister Agatha would have liked. It was a typically beautiful fall New Mexico day. The savory, smoky scent of roasting chiles filled the air, and the leaves on the cottonwoods were starting to turn gold around the edges. Less than ten minutes later, Sister Agatha pulled into the parking area beside Bountiful Bakery. Leaving the motorcycle and Pax in the shade of the big green and white awning in front of the business, she went inside.

Jerry Dexter and his wife Sally greeted her warmly—a miracle on its own. Not so long ago the monastery had done battle with them after the Dexters had begun to market a cheaper version of the monastery’s popular Cloister Clusters. The Dexters had called their cookies Coconut Clones, which hadn’t fooled anyone. Most of their regular customers had sided with the nuns and boycotted the bakery. Eventually, Jerry had agreed to license the nuns’ recipe.

It had been a blessing for all concerned. The nuns still earned some extra income, but the round-the-clock baking that increasing orders had required—and which had so interfered with their prayer schedule—was now a thing of the past.

Jerry escorted her to his office. “Your quarterly royalty check is ready, but I’m afraid you might be disappointed. The sales are steady, but won’t start climbing until the winter holiday season.” He reached into the top desk drawer. “I was going to mail the check to Ms. Fuentes, your attorney, but I’ll be happy to turn it over to you. Just make sure you let her know you’ve been paid for this quarter.”

“Of course I will.” Sister Agatha took the envelope and opened it. The check was for only a few hundred dollars. “It’ll help,” she said, refusing to worry. God
would
provide for them.

“Listen, I heard the monastery had a problem with that SUV crashing into your wall and all. The news is all over town. So if you need to host a few special bake sales, go for it.”

“But we signed the contract….”

He held up one hand. “Contracts are binding, but Godfearing people follow higher laws. Tell Ms. Fuentes to find a way to make it legal. I’ll sign off on it, and even bake some extra cakes and brownies and donate them to the cause.”

“I really appreciate the gesture, Mr. Dexter. I’ll let Reverend Mother know.”

Pax, who’d waited by the motorcycle the entire time without moving, barked as she approached and sniffed the air. The scent of freshly baked bread was very inviting.

“Sorry, Pax. I didn’t bring you anything this—”

Before she could complete the sentence, Jerry Dexter came rushing out. “Sister, I almost forgot. Here’s a sampling of our new doggy cookies. All-natural ingredients. You wouldn’t believe the demand for them!”

He tossed Pax two of the bone-shaped cookies and Pax gulped them down with quick chomps.

“Judging from his reaction, I think you’ve got a hit on your hands, Jerry,” she said.

“I’ll have a bag for him next time you come around.”

As they climbed aboard the Harley, Sister Agatha looked at Pax’s satisfied canine grin and laughed. “You’re a pig, Pax, but I love you anyway.”

Despite her struggle to keep her thoughts hopeful and centered on God, the monastery’s situation weighed heavily on
her as she drove back home. Neither the cool air sweeping past her nor Pax’s insatiable doggy grin as he held his muzzle into the wind soothed her.

A short while later, Sister Agatha drove through the opening in the wall where the gate had been. She slowed, noting the piles of broken adobes on both sides of the drive. Everything had been swept up, and the pieces of the damaged gate had been dragged out of the road and were now resting against the wall. Yet despite the order they’d tried to impose, the destruction lay there for all to see—open wounds in God’s house that silently demanded their attention.

Sister Agatha parked the Harley beside the Antichrysler, then released Pax, who immediately raced around the building toward the kitchen. Sister Agatha’s footsteps were heavy as she made her way to the parlor door. The knowledge that all she brought with her was another disappointment stung.

Sister Bernarda stood as she came in. “I can tell from your expression that the news isn’t good. Tell me what happened.”

As always, the ex-marine’s tone of voice made it sound less like a request and more like an order, but she’d grown used to that and it didn’t bother her. Sister Bernarda’s heart was in the right place. “No one’s admitting a thing, and the sheriff doesn’t have enough evidence to make an arrest. If we want the gate fixed before winter, we’re going to have to find a way to do it on our own. Our insurance deductible is just too high to file a claim.”

Sister Bernarda pursed her lips. “I should have expected as much. You better go tell Reverend Mother.”

Sister Agatha nodded. “How’s Sister Gertrude?”

Sister Bernarda’s eyes narrowed with emotion and she shook her head. “Our old friend’s on a new anticoagulant because
she’s still throwing clots. Her heart has continued to deteriorate since her last checkup,” she said. Then, in a voice thick with emotion, she added, “The prognosis wasn’t good.”

A lump formed at the back of Sister Agatha’s throat, and for a moment she didn’t trust herself to speak. “And Reverend Mother knows?” she whispered.

Sister Bernarda nodded.

Sister Agatha felt her chest constrict. “And here I am bringing her even more bad news. I wish I had something positive to tell her.”

As Sister Agatha walked down the long, narrow corridor, she prayed silently that she’d find the right words to soften the blow.

Sister Agatha knocked lightly at Reverend Mother’s open door and spoke the customary greeting. “Praised be Jesus Christ.”

“Now and forever,” Reverend Mother answered. “Enter, child.” Reverend Mother waved her to one of the straight-backed wooden chairs before her desk.

“I’ve got bad news, Mother,” Sister Agatha said, getting right to the point. Drawing it out would only make the news more difficult.

“I read as much from your face when you came in,” Reverend Mother said and walked to the statue of the Blessed Virgin that rested on a stand in the far corner. The only other decoration in the spartan office was a simple wooden crucifix hung on the white stucco wall directly behind her desk.

Sensing that Reverend Mother was asking The Lady for the strength to bear the news, she waited silently. After a long moment, Reverend Mother turned around. “Now tell me what you’ve learned.”

Sister Agatha recounted the morning’s events succinctly, then placed the cookie royalty check on her desk. “This
money will help, but it’s not nearly enough,” she said. “On the positive side, Mr. Dexter predicts that our earnings will go up next quarter.”

“Money’s always a struggle,” she said in a weary voice, then straightened her shoulders and looked at Sister Agatha directly. “We’ll meet this new challenge with His help. Call everyone to the community room. We’re facing a serious situation and prayers are needed. I’d like the externs to join us as well. Lock up the parlor for now.”

“Right away, Mother,” she said and left.

Sister Agatha found Sister de Lourdes in the hall. Respecting the need for quiet, Sister Agatha kept her voice low. “Ring the Maria bell, Sister. Everyone must attend a special meeting in the communal room.”

“Right away, Your Charity,” she said and hurried off.

The bells were at the heart of everything that defined their monastery. They called the sisters to Mass, to special prayers, and, on certain sad occasions, rang a death knell that announced a passing. The times the bells rang were, by and large, fixed in stone. When a bell rang at an unscheduled hour, it instantly commanded the sisters’ attention, warning all that trouble was near.

L
ESS THAN FIVE MINUTES AFTER THE MARIA BELL’S
summons—three consecutive peals meant a special meeting—the nine nuns filed into the communal room. Elderly Sister Clothilde was one of the first, her hands still dusted with bits of flour. Aware of the many blessings her Cloister Clusters had brought to the monastery, Sister Clothilde had begun experimenting with a new cookie recipe.

Sister Eugenia, their infirmarian, came in next, pushing Sister Gertrude in her wheelchair. Sister Eugenia had been a nurse before joining the order and continued to serve the monastery in that capacity. It took patience and a great deal of love to serve as infirmarian. Sister Agatha believed that it was the hardest job of all. If she had to vote on which one of them exemplified the virtues of Our Lord best, she would have chosen Sister Eugenia in a heartbeat.

Sister Bernarda and Sister de Lourdes sat in two of the wooden chairs that surrounded their well-worn burgundy and blue sofa. The much-used donation had been repaired so many times by Sister Maria Victoria, their resident seamstress, that the upholstery fabric now resembled a patchwork quilt.

Seeing Sister Agatha staring pensively at the sofa, Sister Ignatius smiled. “Remember how badly we’d all wanted a comfortable couch down here and how one was donated to us when we least expected it? Have faith. Whatever brings us here today is just another opportunity to prove that God’s love is an ever present help.”

Sister Agatha smiled at her. Sister Ignatius was the most devout among them, often finding sought-after signs in the most ordinary things, like a dandelion growing in the rock garden or a colorful butterfly. Sister Ignatius’s faith was unshakable, and there was a joyousness and peace about her that nothing seemed to disturb. Sister Agatha had no doubt that Sister Ignatius held a very special place in the Lord’s heart.

Everyone stood as Reverend Mother came into the room. “Praised be Jesus Christ,” Mother said, nodding at the sisters.

“Now and forever,” they replied in unison.

Reverend Mother Margaret Mary carried the weight of their world on her shoulders. The office of Prioress was an elected position, but every three years for the past fifteen she’d been reelected without opposition. None of them felt as qualified as she was, so the decision was always unanimous.