Susan Albert - Rueful Death

"What do you think?" Tom insisted.

I pushed myself to my feet. ' 'I think that once Dwight is out of here, the sisters can put away their firefighting gear." If the Townsends were behind the arson, they'd lost their inside man. And if Tom had anything more than a passing acquaintance with the Townsends, he could pass that message along.

Tom leaned back on his elbows, squinting up at me. "You haven't changed a bit, you know. You still play your cards close."

"Do I?" I countered.

"Hey, come on, China. Give a guy a break." He got to his feet and picked up his hat. "I didn't drive all the way out here to arm-wrestle with you."

"I thought you came to talk business with Mother Winifred."

His sudden, teasing grin lightened his whole face. "Oh, yeah? Then how come I brought this?'' He reached for the blue nylon bag.

"What's that?"

"You'll see." He slung the bag over his shoulder. "Come on. Let's go for a hike."

I eyed him. "Where?"

"I don't know. Anywhere." He gestured toward the cliff. "How about up there? The view is pretty spectacular."

"Up there?' I groaned. "Do you know what that trail's like?"

"Yeah. A nice stroll for mountain goats." He grinned. "I'll bring the goodies. All you have to do is get your butt up there. Now stop fussin' and come on."

The climb was easier in the daylight, and the landscape- which had been serene and lovely in the moonlight-was even more impressive under the late afternoon sun. The exercise of climbing seemed to ease the tension between us, too. I was grateful.

When we reached the top, we found a flat limestone ledge and sat on it, watching the sun glinting off the Yucca's silver ripples, feeling its warmth on our backs. I heard the raspy chit-chit-chit of a titmouse in a thicket of juniper and the chiding murmur of the river, chattering to itself at the foot of the cliff. A great blue heron, gliding from a tree to the river's edge, was a moving shadow across the rock. The falling sun cast a red glow over die serenity of St. Theresa's.

"So," Tom said. "Now that you've caught your crook, you can get some peace and quiet."

"I wish," I said regretfully.

He picked up a stone and tossed it over the cliff. It fell free all the way to the bottom, where it splashed into a dark pool. "Oh, yeah? What's up?"

There wasn't any reason not to tell him. It took only a couple of minutes to sketch the situation: the accusing letters, Mother Hilaria's cryptic diary, John Roberta's whispered hint that she knew something. And the two deaths.

By the time I finished, Tom was frowning at me. "Diary? Mother Hilaria kept a diary?''

I was a little surprised that Tom had focused on the diary, out of all the things I'd told him, but I only nodded.

"That's where I got the information that puts the finger on Dwight as the arsonist."

"Anything else?" he asked casually.

"Not enough," I said. "You've got to read between the lines." I looked at him. His question was almost too casual. "Why are you asking?"

He looked away. "Just that… it's hard to believe that all this has been going on in this calm, peaceful place. You think somebody actually murdered those two nuns?"

What did I think? To tell the truth, sitting here with Tom in the bright light of late afternoon, with a postcard-pretty view of St. T across the river, the idea seemed pretty farfetched. "The JP-Royce Townsend-ruled that Mother Hilaria died of a heart attack," I said. "And there won't be an autopsy report on Sister Perpetua until later in the week. As to murder-there's certainly no evidence."

"Well, I can't buy it," Tom said. "Nuns don't do those kinds of things."

"That just shows how much you know," I snapped. ' "You only have to be here a couple of hours to realize that there are all kinds of emotional currents and cross-currents eddying around this place, some of them pretty turbulent."

Tom pulled the nylon bag onto the ledge between us and unzipped it. "Well, there's certainly been plenty of turbulence since the merger," he said in a conciliatory tone. "The two groups don't have much in common."

"About as much as Austin and Dallas," I said. "Or San Francisco and L.A." I peered into the bag. "What's all this stuff?"

"Happy hour." He handed me two long-stemmed plastic wineglasses and went back to the bag. "I suppose you've heard that the Mother General wants to build a retreat center here. She thinks it would make money for the order."

"She's probably right." I set the glasses on a rocky outcropping and took the paper napkins he handed me. "I never knew that the Church was obliged to show a profit

to its principle stockholder, though. By the way, I met Sadie Marsh this morning."

"Sadie's something else." He pulled out a cold bottle of zinfandel and a corkscrew. With a deft motion, he extracted the cork and handed me the bottle. "You pour," he said, diving into the bag again. "There's cheese and crackers here somewhere, and some other stuff."

There was indeed cheese, a creamy Brie and a tangy blue, along with smoked salmon, chunks of raw celery. broccoli, crab-stuffed mushrooms, and buttery crackers- none of which came from the Carr corner grocery. I poured the wine and we touched rim to rim, our glances meeting and sliding away again.

"To old times," I said.

"To good friends," he amended. We ate and drank in companionable silence as the sun slipped lower behind us. I was feeling relaxed now, warmer, looser, happier. It could have been the wine, or the sun on my shoulders, or Tom's company. Whatever it was, it felt good.

Tom put what was left of our happy hour-a few crackers, some leftover dip, the empty zinfandel bottle-into the bag. "I'm curious," he said. "How did you and Sadie Marsh happen to get together?''

I chuckled. "She came over to size up Mother Winifred's hired gun."

' T wonder what she thought of you. More to the point, what did you think of her?"

"As you said: She's something else. If she gets her way, St. T's will grow garlic till kingdom come."

Tom shrugged. "That's what she wants, all right, but she doesn't have any leverage."

"Maybe more than you give her credit for," I said unguardedly, thinking about the deed restrictions.

"Oh, yeah?" Tom's look sharpened. "What kind of leverage could she have?"

I shouldn't have opened my big mouth. The old deed was Sadie's trump card, not mine, and she ought to decide

when to play it. Also, I was beginning to wonder about Tom's curiosity. But of course, where property and money are concerned, banks are always curious. And never neutral, I reminded myself. Tom would side with the player who controlled the dollars. He wouldn't have any choice.

I changed the subject. "Tell me about the Townsends," I said.

"Carl and Rena?"

"And the boys."

He shrugged. "You probably know the type-high rollers in a closed game. Carl's a loan shark who trades in favors. He'll do one for you and charge you three. Rena is a political power broker in county politics. The oldest boy, Royce, is a doctor-not the best in the world, actually. There have been several complaints at the local hospital, and I hear another doctor is opening a new practice next month. But Royce has also gotten himself elected justice of the peace, so he's in on almost everything that happens in his precinct, which includes the town of Carr. There's another son, Byron. He used to practice law. Now he's a county judge."

"That's a lot of power to be tied up in one family."

"It's not unusual in a rural area. It would probably be a good idea for you to stay clear of them." Before I could respond, his tone lightened and he circled my shoulders with his arm, pulling me against him. I knew I should pull away, but it felt familiar, comfortable. "So, old friend. What's your personal life like?"