Susan Albert - Rueful Death

the lavender-scented silence. After a long while I scrubbed with rosemary soap and a loofah, relishing the gentle ras-piness. When I toweled off, I pulled on a pair of silky pink pajamas-how long had it been since I'd worn anything but a ratty old tee shirt to sleep in?-and climbed into bed with the Agatha Christie mystery Dominica had given me. The sheets were smooth, the light fell on the pages exactly the way I like it, and the cottage was so quiet I could hear the rippling murmur of the river not far from my door.

But my mind kept returning to the real-life mysteries at St. Theresa's, the plots of which had gotten considerably more tangled in the last twenty-four hours. With luck, I had managed to solve the simplest puzzle, the business of the fires. By tomorrow, the affair would be in the hands of the Carr County authorities and Dwight's plot would be closed out.

The other plot, though, was as mazelike as one of Agatha Christie's mysteries. I found a piece of scrap paper and jotted down its basic elements-the ones I knew about so far, anyway. The poisonous letters to Perpetua, to Anne, to Dominica and Miriam, and the letter to Mother Hilaria, missing and presumed destroyed. Mother Hilaria's diary, with its cryptic references to talks with Sister Olivia and Sister R. The bloody swimsuit had proved to be a red herring, but Anne's mutilated tennis racket and Dominica's burned guitar had yet to be accounted for. And Mother Hilaria's hot plate, missing since Rowena had inquired about it. I frowned. That hot plate bothered me. I kept thinking about Ruth's remark about the bare wires.

I reached into die drawer of the bedside table for the roster and wrote down the nine R names. I had already met three of them: Rachel, the sister who had deplored Perpe-tua's autopsy; the housekeeper, Ruth; and the elusive John Roberta. There were six others I hadn't yet encountered: Rowena the infirmarian, Rosabel, Rose, Rosaline, Ramona, and Regina. I felt as if I were snared in a sticky cobweb of Rs.

Muttering a curse, I stared at the list. Wasn't there a way to narrow it, or at least focus my efforts? I found the room roster and checked to see which ones lived in Hannah. Of the nuns I hadn't yet talked with, four were St. Agatha sisters: Rowena, Ramona, Rose, and Regina. I'd speak with them tomorrow.

And of course, there was the ubiquitous Sister O. I wrote the name Olivia and drew curlicues around it. I'd be waiting for her the minute she got back from her visit to the motherhouse.

And then, as an afterthought, I added Father Steven's name to the list. In his role as confessor, he would have talked to all of these women. The relationship between priest and penitent is as sacred as that between attorney and client, but he might have picked up something he would be willing to share. Anyway, I knew nothing about the man. Maybe he was a more significant player than I had imagined. Maybe-

I woke up with a start when my book slid onto the floor. I looked at the clock. It was only nine, but suddenly I was too tired to read. I had a right to be tired, though, and satisfied to boot. I hadn't learned as much about the letters as I would have liked, but I'd figured out the identity of the arsonist. By this time tomorrow, Dwight would be in Stu Walters's hands, and the deputy and the county attorney could figure out what they wanted to do with him. I slid under the sheets, turned off the light, and stretched out, feeling quite pleased with myself.

I didn't get to sleep long. I was awakened just before 10 p.m. by the frantic clanging of St. Theresa's bell-four hard clangs, a missed beat, then another four clangs. I jumped out of bed, pulled on my jeans and a sweatshirt, and grabbed my flashlight.

Halfway up the path to Sophia, sprinting, I caught up with Maggie. Her jacket was on inside out over her flannel pajamas, and she was carrying a small fire extinguisher.

"What's happened?" I gasped, tugging at her jacket. "Why is the bell ringing?"

"It's die fire bell!" she cried. She flung up her arm, pointing. "It's Sophia! It's on fire! Oh, God," she wailed. "We can't lose SophiaV

But when we got to the scene, along with a half-dozen other sisters, we could see that there wasn't much danger of that. The fire was small and confined to the porch. Someone had piled some rags-oily rags, probably-on an upholstered rocking chair. Lit, they had blazed up immediately. The upholstered seat had been harder to ignite, but when it did, it produced a pall of black smoke. It was the smell of something burning that had awakened Mother Winifred, sleeping with her window open-and it was Mother, still dressed in her long-sleeved, high-necked nightgown, a coat thrown over her shoulders, who had reached the bell first and sounded the alarm.

Gabriella ran into the refectory and grabbed a fire extinguisher. That, together with the one Maggie had brought, proved to be enough to smother the flames. By that time, all of the sisters had arrived on the scene and were milling around in nightwear, slippers, and coats. They were shivering with cold and apprehension, and their white faces were pinched and frightened. With them, surprisingly, was a man in his late sixties. He helped me drag the smoldering chair off the porch and into the yard while Gabriella emptied the extinguisher onto it. The man's skull was totally bald and the left side of his face was scarred so badly that his mouth had a permanently cynical twist. He was wearing a dark woolen sweater and a clerical collar.

"Father Steven!" Mother exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

He surveyed the ruined chair with distaste. ' T left a book in the sacristy this morning. It belongs to someone else, and I promised to return it. So I came back to get it-and saw this." His face twisted. "How can this be happening again? Someone must be… quite mad!"

There was a commotion among the sisters, and Sister Miriam pushed her way to the front of the group. "Look!" she cried in an anguished voice. "It's my portrait!"

Then I realized that among the charred debris were fragments of an artist's canvas. "Your portrait?" I asked.

"Of Mother Hilaria," Miriam said. Her voice was full of despair. "I worked on it for months. It was finished just yesterday. We intended to hang it first thing tomorrow in the chapel entry."

"Where was it?" I asked.

"In the hallway, inside Sophia," Miriam said. "That's where the rags came from, too-they're my paint rags. I put a box of them beside the door so they could be taken out tomorrow for disposal."

I'd been wondering why the arsonist had added Miriam's portrait to the kindling, but that answered my question. It made good fuel.

Mother put her arm around Miriam's shoulders. "I'm so sorry, my dear," she said softly. "But there's nothing you can do about it tonight." She raised her voice and spoke to the group. "We must all go back to bed, Sisters. The fire is completely out and there is no more danger."

"There is always danger where there is a disregard for the holy will." The thin, high voice belonged to Ruth. She was huddled under a heavy shawl, her glasses reflecting the last flickers of the dying flames. "No one among us is safe when-''

"That's enough. Sister." A large, heavyset woman with a determined face interrupted her. She put an arm around Ruth's plump shoulders. "We can't answer any questions tonight. We must all go back to bed-and pray for forgiveness for our sins."

But there was one question I had to answer. I looked around.

Where was Dwight?

The morning dawned bleak and chilly, with a strong wind blowing out of the north. I dressed in gray cords, a thick blue sweater, and a fleece-lined jacket, and headed for the parking lot to look for Dwight's truck. But the big GMC was still missing, as it had been the night before. My knock on Dwight's door went unanswered, again. When I pushed it open and went in, the cottage was empty.