Susan Albert - Rueful Death

"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 -

Might what?

Had someone prevented John Roberta from keeping our appointment?

What was it that she was so anxious to tell me?

I stood, filled with determination and a new energy. She wasn't coming. There was no point waiting. I found the roster of sisters and put it in the pocket of my jeans. I had too much to do and too many people to see to waste time hanging around here. I needed to talk to Ruth about the hot plate, Olivia about her conversations with Mother Hilaria last summer, Anne and Dominica about the poison-pen letters they had received-and John Roberta, if I could find her. I also had a phone call to make, and Tom was planning to drop in.

Tom. I ran a hand through my hair and glanced in the mirror to see whether I should add a quick shampoo to my list of things to do. The woman in the mirror was becomingly flushed, her lips were curved in an anticipatory smile, and her gray eyes were sparkling. I leaned closer, startled.

Was this me?

Was Tom responsible?

I straightened up and turned my back on the flatterlooking woman in the mirror. I had McQuaid and that ws enough. Tom Rowan belonged to a past that was over an done with. Over and done with, I reminded myself as closed the door and headed in the direction of Sophia.

Over and done with.

The monastery office must once have been a study. Thre walls were paneled in dark wood and hung with photc graphs of women in clerical dress, a gilt-framed oil paintin of an elegant-looking older woman I took to be Mrs. Lane] and framed certificates of various sorts. Floor-to-ceilin walnut bookshelves filled with heavy, intimidating vo. umes-the writings of the church fathers, probably-ra the length of the fourth wall. But the wine red carpet wa worn, the damask draperies were faded, and the desk wa a utilitarian gray metal affair like the one I'd seen in m barn, with a wooden chair. The sisters of St. Theresa too their vow of poverty seriously.

As I looked around, I wondered how Mrs. Laney's for tune, which now belonged to St. Theresa's, would chang all this. If Gabriella became the next abbess, things wouli probably stay the same, judging from the simplicity of he corner of the barn. But what if Olivia took over? Woul‹ her office furniture be plain pine or rich mahogany? Wouli the floor be bare, or wall-to-wall sheared pile?

But those weren't the questions I needed to answer, closed the door, sat on a corner of the desk, and dialed J. R. Nutall. It was Sunday, and I caught her at home, bakim a cake for her son's birthday. She listened to what I had t‹ say, agreed to confirm my story with Deputy Walters, aw phoned me back a few minutes later with the informatio! I requested.

I wasn't surprised to learn that Dwight H. Baldwin hac spent four years as a guest of the State of Texas Departmen

of Corrections, Huntsville Unit, Walker County.

And under the circumstances, I wasn't too surprised when Ms. Nutall told me why he'd been sent there. His crime?

Arson.

Well. Now that I knew Dwight's criminal history, I didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that he was St. T's resident arsonist. In fact, I didn't know how Deputy Walters had managed to overlook him-unless the deputy suspected that Dwight might be the Townsends' hired torch, in which case the idea might not bear too much scrutiny.

Dwight' s motive? It was possible, of course, that he had been hired by the Townsends. But his bank account and low-rent lifestyle didn't suggest that he'd earned any extra pocket money lately. Much more likely was the motive sug-

gested by the entries in Mother Hilaria's journal. It wouldn't be the first time an employee sabotaged something just so he could repair it. Dwight had been Johnny- I on-the-spot at all three fires, proving himself an! indispensable candidate for promotion to farm manager. "Don't hurt none fer a man to be rekkanized fer helpin' folks out," he'd said after he pulled Ruby's Honda back! from the brink of disaster. Helping folks out? That was a laugh. I'd bet he spilled the logs there in the first place, just so he could "help out."