But I sat for only a few minutes. The conversation with Mother Winifred weighed heavily on my mind. The accusing letters seemed to be the most pressing problem from her point of view. But while poison-pen letters are spiteful and traumatic, arson can be fatal. The fires had to be stopped before somebody burned to death.
I got up and found the handwritten report I'd gotten from the sheriff's deputy, which turned out to be very sketchy and nearly illegible. Walters hadn't been called to the October fire, because Mother Winifred had decided it was
accidental. He'd been called after the other two fires, however.
I read the report and made a list of the people Walters had talked to, noting the names of the three people who had shown up at both scenes. Dwight was one, which wasn't surprising, since it was his job to be available for emergencies. Father Steven was another. Sister John Roberta, whose name I hadn't previously heard, was the third. I looked her up in the roster and decided she must be a St. Agatha nun, since she lived in Hannah.
I put the report aside and stood up and stretched. Three fires had been set in a community where forty nuns lived within arm's length of one another. Somebody was bound to know something. I was hoping that tonight's announcement would jar loose some essential piece of information. I wanted to get to the bottom of this thing and spend the rest of my time doing what I had come to do: nothing. I smiled wistfully. Two whole weeks with absolutely nothing to do. Except, of course, for going riding with Tom Rowan.
The thought made me restless. I pulled on my jacket and walked down the gravel path to the river's edge, where I stood for a few minutes, hands in pockets, breathing in the spicy fragrance of cedar, the crisp, clean smell of windswept meadow.
How well had I known Tom Rowan? At the time, of course, I'd thought we were intimate. We certainly talked enough over the restaurant meals we shared after work, and during the late-night hours when we lay in one another's arms. But now, with the clarity of hindsight, I had to admit that we hadn't been intimate at all-that we hadn't known the first thing about intimacy. Mostly, we'd talked about our careers, about work-who had won that day's battles, who had lost, how we had somehow managed to come out on top. And beneath the talk there was always a hard, brittle edge of competitiveness. Tom was poised to top my story about the day's achievements; I was ready to do him one better. We'd been lovers, yes, but our relationship probably
had more to do with sex and power than with love.
Now, thanks to McQuaid, I knew a little more about intimacy-enough to realize that what Tom and I had back then was the kind of shallow, casual relationship that career people often substitute for genuine caring. To give us credit, of course, neither of us had much choice in the matter. When you're on your way to the top, the climb occupies most of your waking hours and a big hunk of your dream time. It's practically impossible to have both a rising career and a deeply engaged relationship. It was for me, anyway.
I made a wry face. When I left my career and found McQuaid, I'd gotten what I wanted: a warm and nurturing connection that grounded me and held me close. The irony was, though, that being held close also made it hard to find space for myself, and being grounded made it tough to fly free. It was a dilemma a lot of women might welcome, but not me.
I thought back on the lunchtime meeting. Leaving the city and coming back to rural Texas must have been hard for Tom, after all those glittering successes in Houston. What had brought him here? What kept him here?
I looked around and saw part of my answer. This part of Texas has to be one of the most beautiful spots on earth. The Yucca River rippling at my feet was a broad, shallow stream, bordered with mesquite and cedar. Across the stream rose the rugged limestone cliff I had seen earlier, fringed with willows and hung with maidenhair fern. It was a Garden of Eden, a paradise of peace and profound tranquillity, punctuated only by the inquisitive whistle of a mockingbird and the soft, sweet whisper of-
Ka-boom!
I ducked for cover behind the nearest boulder as the high-pitched ricochet whined over my head. Somebody was shooting at me!
I poked my head cautiously over the rock, which was barely big enough to hide me. "Hey!" I yelled, indignant. "What the hell do you think you're-"
A second report, followed by the flat, hard slap of a bullet hitting the water ten yards to my left.
I ducked down. The shooter was on the cliff on the other side of the river. The Townsend side. Was it one of the Townsends up there, carelessly enjoying some Saturday afternoon target practice? "Hey, lay off, you idiot!" I yelled. "You're going to kill somebody!"
When the third shot came and the bullet thwacked into the trunk of the cotton wood six feet to my right, I didn't wait around. I scrambled over the rocks to a thick clump of willows, where I flopped on my stomach and caught my breath.
Paradise, huh? I thought darkly. Garden of Eden? Well, where there are gardens, there are snakes. And one of them was holed up on the cliff across the river, taking potshots at me.
By five-fifteen, twilight was falling and I had calmed down. The third shot had been the last. I'd hunkered down behind the willows for ten minutes, then made a dash for the safety of Jeremiah. I'd had a short nap and a long bath, and I had put things in perspective. Given the spread of the shots-off the rocks and over my head, into the river to my left, and into the cottonwood tree to my right-it wasn't likely that anybody was shooting at me. It was probably some dude with a new deer rifle, not firing at anything in particular, not even bothering to look where his bullets might end up. Chances were, he hadn't heard me yelling, or he knew that he'd come that close to wiping me out.
I was pulling a flannel shirt over my jeans when the bell began to toll. I looked at my watch. Not yet five-thirty. Dinner was at six, I thought, but maybe my watch was slow.
It wasn't. The bell had just stopped tolling when Maggie knocked at the door. I started to tell her about my adventure with Hawkeye and his Christmas rifle when I saw her face.
"What's wrong?"
"Sister Perpetua died this afternoon," Maggie said soberly. "I went back to Mother's cottage for a talk. While I was there, Sister Rowena came with the news. That was the bell just now, tolling for her."
"That's too bad," I said. I was genuinely sorry that Perpetua had died, and almost as sorry that I hadn't gotten to talk to her. "Her heart?"
Maggie's mouth tightened. "Royce Townsend has other ideas. He was there when she died. He's ordered an autopsy."
An autopsy? In the routine death of an elderly woman with a history of heart trouble? "Why?"
"Who knows? Maybe he suspects something."
I looked at Maggie, startled. "Suspects what?"
"God only knows," Maggie said. "Maybe he thinks he can embarrass St. T's by implying that there's something suspicious about the way Perpetua died, the same way he did with Mother Hilaria." She shook her head bleakly. "Perpetua would be so humiliated at the idea of an autopsy. She was tired and sick and ready to die. That's all there is to it."
"You're sure?"
"Of course I'm sure," she said. "Who would want to kill poor old Sister Perpetua?"
I stuck my flashlight in my coat pocket and Maggie and I walked over to Ezekiel to get Ruby, who had changed from her monk's robe into slacks, a sweater, and jacket. The three of us set off on the path through the meadow to Sophia. On the way, Maggie repeated the story of Perpe-tua's death and I told them about the shooting.