Tom. I ran a hand through my hair and glanced in the mirror to see whether I should add a quick shampoo to my list of things to do. The woman in the mirror was becomingly flushed, her lips were curved in an anticipatory smile, and her gray eyes were sparkling. I leaned closer, startled.
Was this me?
Was Tom responsible?
I straightened up and turned my back on the flatter looking woman in the mirror. I had McQuaid and that ws enough. Tom Rowan belonged to a past that was over an done with. Over and done with, I reminded myself as closed the door and headed in the direction of Sophia.
Over and done with.
The monastery office must once have been a study. Thre walls were paneled in dark wood and hung with photc graphs of women in clerical dress, a gilt-framed oil paintin of an elegant-looking older woman I took to be Mrs. Lane] and framed certificates of various sorts. Floor-to-ceilin walnut bookshelves filled with heavy, intimidating vo. umes-the writings of the church fathers, probably-ra the length of the fourth wall. But the wine red carpet wa worn, the damask draperies were faded, and the desk wa a utilitarian gray metal affair like the one I'd seen in m barn, with a wooden chair. The sisters of St. Theresa too their vow of poverty seriously.
As I looked around, I wondered how Mrs. Laney's for tune, which now belonged to St. Theresa's, would chang all this. If Gabriella became the next abbess, things wouli probably stay the same, judging from the simplicity of he corner of the barn. But what if Olivia took over? Woul‹ her office furniture be plain pine or rich mahogany? Wouli the floor be bare, or wall-to-wall sheared pile?
But those weren't the questions I needed to answer, closed the door, sat on a corner of the desk, and dialed J. R. Nutall. It was Sunday, and I caught her at home, bakim a cake for her son's birthday. She listened to what I had t‹ say, agreed to confirm my story with Deputy Walters, aw phoned me back a few minutes later with the informatio! I requested.
I wasn't surprised to learn that Dwight H. Baldwin hac spent four years as a guest of the State of Texas Departmen
of Corrections, Huntsville Unit, Walker County.
And under the circumstances, I wasn't too surprised when Ms. Nutall told me why he'd been sent there. His crime?
Arson.
Chapter Eight
"Somebody told me it was some silly mistake the cook made. Brought foxglove leaves into the house by mistake for spinach-or for lettuce, perhaps. No, I think that was someone else. Someone told me it was deadly nightshade but I don't believe that for a moment because, I mean, everybody knows about deadly nightshade, don't they, and anyway that's berries. Well, I think this was foxglove leaves brought in from the garden by mistake. Foxglove is Digoxo or some name like Digit-something that sounds like fingers. It's got something very deadly in it-the doctor came and he did what he could, but I think it was too late."
Agatha Christie The Postern of Fate
Well. Now that I knew Dwight's criminal history, I didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that he was St. T's resident arsonist. In fact, I didn't know how Deputy Walters had managed to overlook him-unless the deputy suspected that Dwight might be the Townsends' hired torch, in which case the idea might not bear too much scrutiny.
Dwight' s motive? It was possible, of course, that he had been hired by the Townsends. But his bank account and low-rent lifestyle didn't suggest that he'd earned any extra pocket money lately. Much more likely was the motive sug-
gested by the entries in Mother Hilaria's journal. It wouldn't be the first time an employee sabotaged something just so he could repair it. Dwight had been Johnny- I on-the-spot at all three fires, proving himself an! indispensable candidate for promotion to farm manager. "Don't hurt none fer a man to be rekkanized fer helpin' folks out," he'd said after he pulled Ruby's Honda back! from the brink of disaster. Helping folks out? That was a laugh. I'd bet he spilled the logs there in the first place, just so he could "help out."
I agreed with Dwight about one thing. He should get the credit he deserved for what he had done. Unfortunately, that might not be so easy to arrange. The evidence I had turned up was entirely circumstantial. Without physical proof of his guilt, Dwight would never be charged with arson.
I did have the 303 cartridge and the cigarette pack from the cliff top, however. Tomorrow, I'd take them into town and leave them with Walters, along with my story about yesterday's shooting. With luck, one or both would yield his prints, which might persuade the county attorney to go I for unlawful possession of a firearm by a convicted felon and aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. Both were third-degree felonies that could get Dwight two to ten years and five thousand dollars apiece-plus the unserved time from his original sentence.
But whether or not Dwight could be returned to jail, there would be no more fires. One of Mother Winifred's mysteries was solved. She could give Dwight his walking papers-and I could be forgiven a touch of pride at having wrapped up the investigation so quickly.
Unfortunately, I wasn't going to unravel the mystery of the poison-pen letters quite so quickly. What's more, there had been two deaths at St. T's in the last five months, and both victims-Mother Hilaria and Sister Perpetua-had been connected to the letters. It seemed to me an ominous connection.
I was beginning to feel uneasily urgent about talking to
I:ia and to John Roberta, if I could find her. The clouds r^c blown away and the afternoon sun was warm when I kft Sophia and walked toward Hannah, a two-story build-zz bisected by a green-tiled hallway that ran the length of &e building. The only thing that kept Hannah from looking jie a college dorm was the absence of screaming girls Wishing down the corridor in various degrees of undress- md the doors. Every dorm I've ever visited was remarkable for the door decorations. These doors were blank. They *ore nothing but a name and a number.
Feeling uncomfortable and distinctly out of place, I:hecked the roster I'd brought with me, located Olivia's door, and knocked. Then knocked again, harder. No answer. Olivia wasn't there.
According to the roster, John Roberta's room was on the second floor, at the far end. Ignoring her instructions I climbed the stairs, found her door, and knocked. Again, no response.
I was luckier with the housekeeper, who lived at the other end of the second floor. Sister Ruth was a soft, pillowy woman in her forties with a face as round as a full moon, a fractional smile that came and went nervously, and conscientious eyes magnified by thick glasses. She was dressed in a full, flowing habit with a rosary at her waist. She didn't invite me into her room, but through the door I could see that it had the bare simplicity of a monastic celclass="underline" a bed covered with a smooth gray blanket, a straight chair, a small chest of drawers, a desk, its surface immaculate. The walls were empty except for a picture of a woman bound to a cross on a heap of firewood, her eyes cast toward a dark and stormy heaven while a malicious-looking soldier lurked in the shadows with a flaming brand. Beneath the picture was a table with an open Bible.
Sister Ruth walked fast for a woman of her girth. I followed her to Sophia, where she opened the door of a storeroom and pulled a cord, lighting a pale bulb so high in the ceiling that its forty watts barely brightened the gloom.
"Mother said you needed assistance," she said. The words were carefully enunciated, the tone helpful. "What is it you're looking for?"
"A hot plate," I said. I glanced around. All manner of things were stored here for future use, arranged in fastidious order on shelves that ran the length of the room. Sheets and blankets, pillows, towels, soap, toilet paper, cleaning supplies, flower vases, an ancient typewriter, a couple of lamps, boxes of lightbulbs. The monastery's quartermaster depot, organized with a quartermaster's skill and attention to detail.