Rueful Death (11 page)

Sadie's eyes were very bright. "I doubt it. It's more than twenty years old. Who cares anymore?"

"That's a good question," I said.

Sister John Roberta wasn't in the refectory for lunch while I was there, which I took to be a bad sign. But I didn't see Olivia, either, or Maggie. It was probably just my timing. But I did see Mother Winifred, who ate with Gabriella, Sadie, and me. She seemed subdued, and even more drawn than she had this morning. Sadie seemed to think she was grieving over Perpetua.

"It's too bad about poor old Perpetua," Sadie said. "We'll all miss her." She patted Mother's hand in sympathy. "When is Father Steven saying Mass?"

' 'When we have a body to say it over,'' Mother Winifred said. "We haven't heard when the autopsy will be done."

"Autopsy?" Sadie scowled. "What's that damn fool Royce doin'
that
for?"

"He wants to know how she died," Gabriella said. "It's a perfectly natural request for a doctor to make."

"He wants to make trouble,
that's
what he wants," Sadie muttered. "Which is perfectly natural, if you're a Town-send." She gave Mother Winifred a darting look. "How
did
Perpetua die? Heart?"

Mother spoke almost reluctantly. "It does seem to have been her heart. She had been suffering from cardiac arrhythmia. But at the end, she was quite dizzy and nauseous and had a convulsive seizure of some sort. Perpetua was in her late seventies, you know. It's entirely possible that she was having a stroke."

Cardiac arrhythmia, nausea, dizziness, convulsions. A stroke? Maybe. But another explanation came to mind. I curbed the impulse to mention it. I would ask Mother Winifred about it privately. I had to talk to her anyway, about what I had found in D wight's room.

Lunch was over at twelve-thirty. I still had an hour before I was scheduled to talk with John Roberta, so after we said good-bye to Sadie, I walked with Mother Winifred back to her cottage. We were accompanied by two other sisters on their way to the herb garden, so we couldn't talk.

When we reached her cottage and she said, "Would you like to see the stillroom now?" I was glad of the opportunity.

The stillroom was once a screened porch, now closed in, that enlarged the small square cottage into a rectangle. It had a terra-cotta floor that was warmed by the sun streaming in through two large casement windows. Some of the floor-to-ceiling shelves held large amber-colored jars, crocks, and urns, all labeled. Other shelves held dark glass bottles full of prepared tinctures and jars of oils and other materials used to create salves and lotions. There were rows of vials and jars of empty gelatin capsules arranged beside baskets filled with scoops, glass droppers, atomizers-all the paraphernalia of an old-fashioned stillroom, the household apothecary shop. A workbench stood along another wall, near a small two-burner gas countertop stove for heating herbal preparations. Above the workbench was an extensive shelf of reference books, old and new, and above that framed botanical prints. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling.

"This is very pleasant," I said, looking around. Perhaps, I could make a room like this for myself-if I had the time. "How many sisters work here?"

"Eight or ten," Mother said. "We have class once a week, and I assign them individual projects. They come here for two hours a week, on their own, to work. It's good experience for them, very educational, and of course they help prepare the salves and ointments and lotions that we use for…" Her voice trailed off. She brushed some loose leaves off the worktable and into a basket on the floor.

I regarded her. "You haven't been experimenting with foxglove, have you, Mother Winifred?"

She looked at me, and I noticed once again how pale and drawn she was. Her skin seemed cracked, like old glaze on a piece of pottery. "No, of course not." She straightened a row of lidded canisters, not looking at me. "You don't think… You really can't believe…"

"The symptoms of Sister Perpetua's illness," I said gently. "They sound like the symptoms of digitalis poisoning. Wouldn't you agree?"

Her mouth trembled. "Yes," she said finally, almost in a whisper. She turned to look out the window, across the sunny garden, where the two nuns who had accompanied us were bent over the culinary bed, cleaning off the frostbitten foliage. "To tell the truth, that thought did occur to me. In fact, it kept me up late last night."

"Had the doctor prescribed digitalis?"

"Not as far as I know." She turned around. "You can ask Sister Rowena, who manages the medications. But no, I'm sure he hadn't"

It was entirely possible that we were going in the wrong direction. But it wouldn't hurt to pursue it further-especially since a nonprescription source of digitalis was growing right in front of our eyes. "How many foxglove plants do you have in your apothecary garden?"

"Two," she said faintly.

"So it's possible that someone-perhaps one of the sisters who works here in the stillroom-could have harvested the leaves and prepared a tincture from them?" I glanced up at the row of jars. "Or filled some of those gel caps with the powdered leaf?"

"I suppose," she said slowly. "But you don't think that one of our sisters deliberately…"

"It might have been an accident," I said. "The leaves look something like comfrey. The two have often been confused."

"The comfrey is on the other side of our apothecary plot, well away from the foxglove. Both plants are clearly labeled. I don't see how anyone could have…" She gave a heavy sigh. ' 'I suppose I should tell you. A few weeks ago, Sister Dominica was weeding the apothecary garden. She brought me a foxglove leaf and asked me about it."

"What did she want to know?"

"She asked whether the toxin was in the leaves or the

root, and whether the plant could be confused with spinach."

"With spinach?" I asked. "I don't know of any spinach varieties that have hairy leaves. What did you tell her?"

"Someone came along at that moment and interrupted us. I don't believe I gave her an answer."

Dominica had also asked me about foxglove, just a few hours before Perpetua died. But her question to me came long after the digitalis-if that's what had killed Perpetua- had already been prepared and administered. I was sure Dominica hadn't had anything to do with the old nun's death. Still, her curiosity about foxglove had to have been prompted by
something.
What was it?

I went on to a different question. ' 'Did Doctor Townsend give you any reason to believe that he suspected digitalis poisoning?''

"No, but he barely spoke to me." She sat down on a wood bench in front of the window. "I suppose Margaret Mary has told you about our difficulties with the Townsend family." At my nod, she added, "I'm afraid Doctor Town-send is more interested in causing trouble than in finding out the truth. We wouldn't ask him to attend our sisters if there were another doctor in this area."

"But Townsend is also the JP," I reminded her. "If he wants to investigate a death, you can't keep him out of it."

"I know," she said. "I just wish…" She laced her fingers together and looked down at them.

"Well, if it's any comfort," I said, "he probably won't be doing the autopsy. I'm sure Carr County doesn't have the facilities to test for serum digoxin levels. He's likely sent the body to Bexar County-which means it'll be Wednesday or Thursday before there's any news." I stirred. I needed to add Dominica to my list of people to talk to, and Sister Rowena, the inftrrnarian. But first I had to deal with Sister John Roberta and Dwight.

"I have to make a phone call later this afternoon," I said. "May I use the telephone in Sophia?"

"Of course," Mother said. She stood up. "Or the
one
in my cottage, as you prefer."

"The office phone will be better," I said. "I don't want to be overheard." I paused. "I need to talk to Dwight's probation officer."

"Probation officer?" Mother was startled. "You mean. Dwight has been in
prison!"

"You didn't know?"

She shook her head. "Hilaria must have known, but she didn't mention it. I suppose she thought the idea might make the sisters… nervous." She pressed her pale lips together. "What kind of crime did he commit?"

"I don't know. I wonder-does Dwight have a personnel file?"

"Yes. After you told me you wanted to search his cottage, I found it. There's not much in it, though. What did you discover when you went through his things? Do you think he might be our arsonist?''

"I don't know yet," I said. I thought of the Camels and the rifle I had seen in his truck. "It does look like he's the guy who shot at me yesterday afternoon, though." I paused. "And I found Mother Hilaria's diary under his mattress."

"So that's what happened to it!" she exclaimed. "But why would Dwight have taken a diary?"

"Perhaps because he didn't want anyone to read about his continuing disagreements with Mother Hilaria. She gave him a raise, but he seems to have wanted a promotion."

Mother Winifred stood and began to walk up and down. "He wants to be farm manager," she said. "He's asked me twice, and I turned him down both times. I'd no idea he approached Hilaria as well."

"Mother Hilaria noted that he threatened her. Has he said anything to you that could be construed as a threat?''

"Not exactly. But he has been rather forceful." She shook her head. ' 'Hilaria should have mentioned it, but she kept her own counsel about things like that."

But Mother Hilaria hadn't kept her own counsel where

the letters were concerned.
Questioned Sr. O about Sr. P's letter.
"If Mother Hilaria had needed to discipline one of the St. Agatha sisters," I asked, "how would she have handled it? Would she have spoken to the sister directly, or would she have asked Olivia to intercede?"

Mother Winifred frowned. "Directly, I'd say. I don't think she was very fond of Olivia. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she didn't fully trust her."

"When you went through Mother Hilaria's papers, did you find a poison-pen letter directed to her?"

Mother's pale blue eyes opened wide in astonishment. ' 'To Hilaria? No, of course not! If I had found such a thing, I would have told you." She shook her head. "Her papers are in my desk. You can look for yourself."

"Perhaps later," I said. "Have you had a chance to speak to the housekeeper about the hot plate in Mother Hilaria's cottage?"

"I talked.to Sister Ruth this morning after Mass and told her you wanted to locate an item in the storeroom. She said she'd be in her room this afternoon. She lives in Hannah."

"Thanks," I said. "By the way, have you seen Maggie?"

Mother's smile lightened her tired face. "Margaret Mary is spending a day or so on retreat. I believe she plans to come to supper this evening, though." She glanced at me. "She's told you about her decision to return to St. Theresa's?"

"Yes," I said. "I was a little surprised."

"I can't say I was. I've felt all along that God wanted Margaret Mary to be here. I was delighted to learn that she has come to the same conclusion."

"Of course," I remarked, "her coming
will
delay the election that would have taken place after Sister Perpetua's death."

Mother's mouth pursed. "God works in mysterious ways, my child. Perhaps that's why He brought her back just now."

"Perhaps." I glanced at my watch and stood. "Could I ■c that personnel file?"

"Of course." Mother Winifred went to the door that led li the cottage, then paused. "Oh, I'm forgetting. Tom Rowan called just before lunch. He'll be here this afternoon:o discuss some financial business. He asked me to tell you that he'll stop by Jeremiah and say hello, perhaps about four."

Tom?

Mother didn't appear to notice the sudden flush on my cheeks. "He mentioned that you two were friends," she said, and opened the door. "He's a fine man, so attentive to his father. And quite attractive, too, don't you think?"

"I suppose," I said shortly.

Mother gave me a curious glance. "You've been friends for long?"

"We knew each other in Houston."

She walked across the room to an old walnut desk. ' 'His father was glad to see him come back, although I must say that the circumstances of his return were not exactly-" She unlocked a drawer and took out a folder. "But you probably know all about that messy business in Houston."

I didn't. I wondered what it was.

When I'd left that morning for Jacob and my meeting with Gabriella, I had locked my cottage and taken the key. To be doubly secure, I had pulled a tiny feather from my pillow and inserted it between the door and the jamb about four inches from the floor. A bit melodramatic, maybe, but when I now saw that the feather was still there, I knew that nobody had been in my room in my absence-or was there now, waiting for me. And that Mother Hilaria's diary was still safely hidden under the cushion of the chair.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost one-thirty. While I waited for John Roberta, I lay down on the bed and went over Dwight's personnel file. Mother had been right-there wasn't much in it. A partially filled out sheet indicated that

Dwight H. Baldwin had been hired in July, three years before. No prior addresses, no references, no next of kin or emergency phone numbers. If Dwight had had a life before he became St. Theresa's maintenance man, it wasn't documented here. Neither was his prison record. Maybe Mother Hilaria hadn't known about it when she hired him. Or maybe she wanted to give him another chance, and decided to act as if he were clean.

I closed the file and glanced restlessly at the clock. It was one thirty-five and John Roberta hadn't shown up yet. By one-forty, I knew she wasn't coming.

I frowned, remembering the Little nun's obvious anxiety.
If I tell you what I know,
she'd said, barely above a whisper,
will you help me get away?
And when I'd asked her what made her think she was in danger, she'd gasped something about Sister Olivia and Sister Rowena. What was it?
Sister Olivia says we have to stick together. And Sister Rowena says if I tell, I'm being disloyal. They might
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