"That would be a loss," I said. "A lot of people think St. T's rocambole is better than anything else on the market."
"The garlic won't be too happy about it, either," Ga-briella said. We were at the far end of the barn now, and she opened the door to a large, chilly room furnished with worktables, shelves of neatly arranged supplies, and racks filled with dried flowers, chilies, and whole garlic plants, stalk and all. "This is Sister Rosaline's part of the operation. It's where her crew braids the ristras and makes the wreaths, swags, baskets, things like that. A dozen or so sisters work here half-days all year round. August to December, Rosaline recruits an extra half-dozen. They take a rest after the holiday, but they'll be back tomorrow, starting on our spring orders. It's work they enjoy."
"I'd enjoy it too," I said. Crafting is a lot more fun than standing behind a counter all day.
"It's creative work," Gabriella said, "and worth it. The simplest arrangement sells for ten times the value of the garlic in it." Her voice grew acerbic. ' 'It beats baking bread or making altar cloths or selling rosaries, which is what other monasteries do to make a living. And it sure as sin beats playing host to a bunch of bishops."
I glanced around. "This is the room where the fire occurred last fall?''
' 'See where those two walls have been replaced, and that big patch in the ceiling?'' She pointed. ' 'We had to repaint
too. There wasn't a lot of damage, but it cost Rosaline a couple of days' work while we cleaned things up."
"What happened?"
' "There was a work light hanging on that wall. It shorted out. At least, that's what Dwight says."
"You don't agree?"
She shrugged. "The light was new. After the fire, it disappeared. But I don't have any suspects in mind, if that's what you're asking. It happened on a Sunday afternoon when nobody was here. If it hadn't been for Dwight, we'd have lost the barn." She glanced at her watch. "Let's go to my office. Sadie will be here in a few minutes."
Gabriella's office smelled of woodsmoke. It had once been a tack room, and various pieces of riding gear-bits, bridles, curry combs-still hung on the splintery walls. The rustic decor wasn't enhanced by her gray metal desk and fifing cabinet, or by the incongruous-looking computer on the shelf behind the desk. But the woodstove in the corner, topped with a steaming kettle, radiated heat. Next to it sat an old rocking chair with a wicker seat. Gabriella opened the stove door, thrust in a stick of cedar from the stack in a wood box, and adjusted the damper.
"When the wind's out of the north, the smoke blows back down the chimney," she said. "But it keeps me warm."
A moment later, Sadie Marsh arrived. She was a wiry, steely-haired woman of nearly sixty with commanding gray eyes, high cheekbones, a jutting nose, a forceful jaw. Deep vertical creases between her eyes suggested prolonged periods of concentration-or a bad temper. A determined person, I guessed, perhaps a difficult one. She wore jeans and scuffed cowboy boots, a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a Navajo vest striped in reds, greens, and blues. Even in Texas, it wasn't the kind of outfit you'd wear to Mass, so I guessed she'd come here straight from home.
Sadie fixed her eyes on me as she lowered herself into
the rocking chair beside the stove. "Winnie-Mother Winifred-has been telling me about you. Lawyer, huh?"
"I used to practice law," I said. "I own an herb shop now."
Gabriella picked up the kettle. ' 'Coffee?'' she asked. Sadie and I nodded. I pulled up an old wooden dining chair with a broken spindle in the back and sat down.
"Once a lawyer, always a lawyer," Sadie said. "Still keep up your credentials?" Her West Texas twang had a biting edge. She wasn't making idle conversation.
"I keep current," I said. It's probably silly to pay the Bar Association dues and meeting the annual professional development requirement, especially with Thyme and Seasons doing so well. But I've wanted to have something to fall back on, just in case.
"What do you know about our situation here?"
Our situation? "Are you referring to the litigation over the will or to what's going on here at St. T's?"
She hooked one ankle over the other knee. ' 'Both. Tell me what you know."
I felt as if I were being interviewed for a job. "I know that the court case was settled last spring and that the foundation finally has control over the trust assets," I said cautiously. "I've been told about the merger of St. T's and St. Agatha's, and I'm guessing that it will have a bearing on the foundation's fiduciary activities and investment plans."
"That pretty well covers it, I reckon," Sadie said. She took the chipped mug Gabriella handed her and rocked back and forth for a minute. "I'm a charter member of the Laney board," she said. "Is there any thin' you want to know about the way it operates?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," I said. I thanked Gabriella for my coffee and cradled it in my hands. I prefer tea, but coffee will do. "Who else is on the board? How is it set up?"
"There are five members. Winnie, of course. As actin'
abbess, she took Hilaria's place. And Gabby here." At my half-surprised glance at Gabriella, Sadie added, "Hilaria appointed her last August to replace Perpetua, who wasn't too well. Tom Rowan Junior, who's taking over for his daddy at the bank, is number three. Number four is Cleva Mason, a woman from the local parish who's missed the last couple of meetings-she's about to be replaced. And I make five. I'm the only one who's actually on the board by name, and I'm on it until I die." She rubbed her palm along her blue-jeaned thigh.
"If another abbess were to be chosen, would she have the power to appoint new board members?" Mrs. Laney would probably have set it up that way, to give the abbess a strong hand.
"Yes," Gabriella said. She pushed her desk chair over to the stove and sat down. ' 'If Olivia were elected tomorrow, she would appoint two new members-one to replace Cleva, the other to replace me."
" So if it came down to a vote on some crucial issue-''
"It would be three to two," Sadie said. "Assumin' Tom Junior voted with me. That isn't an assumption I'd stake my life on. His father and I are old friends, but we've never seen eye to eye. No reason to believe Tom Junior will be any different. It could be four to one."
Basically, then, Olivia could count on the Laney Foundation providing the capital she needed to fund the retreat center. "Who's the fiduciary officer?"
"Tom Junior, as of a couple of weeks ago. Carr State Bank manages the investments." She eyed me over the rim of her coffee mug. "Anythin' else?"
There was something. It had occurred to me last night in bed, just before I drifted into a dream where I was riding through a garlic field with Tom Rowan while Olivia walked behind us with a tape measure, staking out a parking garage.
"When Mrs. Laney deeded the eight hundred acres to
St. Theresa's," I said, "did she impose any restrictive covenants on the property?''
Sadie sat very still, watching me. Her eyes were bright. "What makes you ask that question?"
"Just a hunch." Helen Laney and Mother Hilaria had been determined women, and neither of them had trusted the Church. They would have tried to guard against every possible eventuality.
"You got good hunches." Sadie grinned.
I grinned back.
Sister Gabriella put down her coffee cup and stood up. "You two ladies finished your business?" she asked mildly.
"Just about." Sadie looked at her watch. "What time's lunch?"
"Same time as always," Gabriella said.
"Probably same garbage, too," Sadie replied tartly. "Glad to hear Margaret Mary's decided to come back. Make it worthwhile to drive over here for Sunday dinner." She put both feet on the floor and glanced at me. "You want to have a look at that property deed sometime soon?''