Рита Браун - Cat's Eyewitness

"Here." Miranda put down a little bowl of the rich cream as Pewter's new trick worked.

"If she gets any fatter I'm going to have to get her one of those children's car seats where you strap them in." Harry laughed at her cat, whose dark gray whiskers now had a cream coating.

Mrs. Murphy stuck her face in there, too, while Tucker contented herself with a large Milk-Bone.

"I spoke to Coop this morning," Susan said. "Andrew did not confess."

"Not surprising," Harry replied.

"You'd think a monk would be truthful." Susan thought the scone, with little currants in it, was the most delicious thing she had ever eaten.

"Guess that's why the different orders of monks have had cleanup periods over the centuries. They become corrupt." Harry broke open a scone, the aroma and heat within rising.

"The question is, Susan, are you satisfied? Do you think justice is being served?" Miranda drove straight to the point.

"I don't know. I told Harry right around Thanksgiving that I had this odd sense of foreboding. I still have it."

"What we need to do is crawl over the Virgin Mary."

"With all those praying people?" Susan's eyebrows shot upward. "Can't, and you can't do it at night. Also, its snowing again on the mountains. If she has been tampered with you aren't going to find it in the snow."

"If she's been tampered with it will be up through the middle, a line buried from underneath. We won't see it. Wish we had one of those heat-imaging things. If the line is wrapped in heat tape, we'd know."

"God, I never even thought of such a thing." Susan was dismayed.

"Has to keep the line warm somehow or it will burst." Harry munched, paused, then said, "Unless the line is drained each night."

"Now, there's a thought. If the line comes out far enough away from the statue, someone could sneak out and drain it. But it would still be under the snow, don't you think?" Susan pondered this.

Harry got up, brought Miranda's plans back to the coffee table. "See how Tazio's laid out her water lines?"

Miranda and Susan studied the gardening shed. "Yes," they said in unison.

"Miranda is going to install leaky pipe. All she has to do for her gardens is turn on the spigot, set it to a timer. She doesn't have to turn it off if she forgets or is busy. The pipes will drain out. Now, granted this is a leaky pipe, has those little holes so it will drain, but the regular water line here into the gardening shed is regular pipe, copper pipe. She's got the pipe packed in PVC up from the frost line, and between that and the copper it's going to be wrapped in heavy-duty insulation, the kind that won't blow up if it gets wet. The insulation runs into the gardening shed, so in theory, those pipes should never freeze. And the gardening shed is heated. Now, she didn't set those pipes up to drain, because it ought to be unnecessary, but if she wanted to, she could set up a small drain field over here, put a runoff pipe to it, and drain it nightly in the cold. See?"

Even the animals studied the plans.

"She's got it." Mrs. Murphy simply said with admiration.

"If the Virgin Mary is rigged," Miranda shook her head, "who could do it without drawing attention to himself?"

"Brother Thomas," Harry replied. "He's the only one with the knowledge."

"Oh, God." Susan sat back down with a thump.

"And he was the one who repaired her last summer."

"With Brother Mark's help. At least, I think so. Brother Mark was his apprentice."

"Girls, I just can't believe, not for a single second, that Thomas would stoop so low to create a false miracle." Miranda's face flushed with emotion.

36

Worn down by questioning, anger, and grief among the brethren, and the press of people worshiping at the base of the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mother, Brother Handle felt his mind was fraying. He knew his temper was, but he would have to go over the same question, the same info, two or three times before it lodged in his head. Never a sound sleeper anyway, he would lie awake, eyes wide open.

Although the news of Brother Thomas's demise had been given to him only days ago, the time seemed like weeks since so much had been compressed in those days. Badgered by Rick, questioned in a nicer manner by Deputy Cooper, the stony faces of the monks contributed to his wondering if he should step down from his post. On the one hand, he would clear the way for a more vigorous Prior; on the other hand, it would look as though he ran away from trouble. Miserable though he was, he decided to stick it out. He told no one of his inner struggles. Even if Brother Handle had thought someone would be willing to listen, he would not have divulged his torments.

"I know this is the second time I've been in here," Brother Handle stood in the middle of the infirmary examination room, "but show me one more time."

"The morphine?" Brother John raised his bushy eyebrows.

"The routine. Go through the whole routine."

Indulgently, Brother John walked into the large supply closet, with Brother Handle close behind. "Everything is kept here. As I've told you before, the medicines, the needles, the linens, bandages, whatever we might need is kept here. In the examining room, the surgical implements are in a locked drawer. If Brother Andrew or I needed them, they were placed on the stainless-steel tray. Everything sanitized, of course."

Brother Handle pointed to the white metal cabinet, lock prominent by the handle. "It's in there."

"Yes." Brother John pulled a key from a chain around his neck. "Only Brother Andrew and myself have a key."

Brother Handle knelt down, peering at the lock as Brother John slowly opened it so as not to smack him in the face with the door. "Someone with dexterity could pick the lock."

"Yes, if someone were especially dexterous I guess they could get away with it." Brother John pointed to the bottles, most of them dark brown with white labels; a few were in white boxes.

"The morphine is clearly marked. Mmm, flu shots."

"Have you had yours yet? I didn't give it to you? Did Brother Andrew?"

"No, but—"

"Brother Handle, you need the flu shot. You're due and it's going to be a bad year."

"We can do it tomorrow."

"Today. It stings for a second and that's that."

Resigned to his fate, Brother Handle sat in the wooden chair. "Get it over with. I hate these things."

"Do you know anyone who likes them?"

"No."

Brother John took out the bottle. With his thumb he flicked off the hard plastic cap covering the top. He peeled the clear plastic wrapper off the needle, allergy-size, stuck the point into the rubber, and with his left hand turned the bottle upside down, drawing out the liquid with his right hand as he pulled back on the needle plunger. "Simple. Anyone can draw liquid out of a bottle. I know Brother Andrew is under arrest because he didn't report the missing bottle, but it doesn't take specialized knowledge to use a needle. They're being too hard on him." He checked the milligram bars, turned the bottle upside down, and removed the needle. He dabbed alcohol on a cotton ball and rubbed that on Brother Handle's left triceps. Straight as an arrow, he quickly inserted the needle, pressed the plunger with his thumb, removed the needle straight, held the cotton swab on the spot. "You'll live."

"I wonder," Brother Handle pessimistically groaned.

"A flu shot isn't going to do you in."

"Not the flu shot I'm worried about."

"I know. We're all worried."

Brother Handle leaned forward in the chair. "At what temperature does blood freeze?"

"30.99 degrees Fahrenheit. That's why blood is separated from plasma; the water and minerals freeze earlier than the actual blood."

"Who would steal blood?" Brother Handle asked.

"No one. It breaks down quickly. It would be worthless in medical applications." Brother John opened his hands, palms upward. "Unless the thief were a doctor or trained nurse, the blood would be useless rapidly. I can't see any reason for someone to steal blood."