"Stu Walters doesn't tell it that way."
"Stu Walters sucks eggs," I remarked mildly.
He chuckled. "You'll get no argument from me on that-or from half the town, either. Thing is, though, Stu usually knows which eggs to suck and which to leave in the nest. That's how he and the sheriff keep their jobs. This county is muy political." He was looking away, across the
river, his mouth amused. "So how's the big investigation coming, Detective Bayles? Caught your little firebug yet? Which nun is it?"
I hate to be patronized, even by Tom Rowan. "Matter of fact, I have," I said deliberately. "I wouldn't call him a 'little' firebug, though. He's already done four years at Huntsville on two counts of arson."
Tom's head swiveled around.
"Unfortunately," I went on, "the evidence is circumstantial and the county attorney probably won't prosecute. But we may still nail his tail. He took a shot at me yesterday afternoon. Three shots, as a matter of fact."
Tom was staring, his gray eyes open wide, the grass stem hanging from his lower Up. "Somebody shot at you?"
I pointed to the top of the cliff. ' 'From up there. Town-send territory."
' 'He missed you?''
"Do I look dead? He wasn't trying to hit me. He was trying to scare me."
He tossed the grass stem away. "You've been saying 'he,' so I assume it wasn't one of the sisters. It wouldn't be Father Steven, either. Which leaves the maintenance man. Dwight somebody-or-other."
I eyed him. It was interesting that he hadn't mentioned the Townsends as a possibility. "If you ask me," I said idly, "the only mystery is why Stu Walters didn't finger Dwight in the first place."
"He told me he thought it was one of the sisters."
"That's what he told me, too. But he might at least have run a background check, or talked to Dwight's parole officer. She could have clued him in on the prior which is the clincher." I paused. "Only thing I can figure is that Walters assumed mat the real arsonist was on the Townsend payroll. Doing a little dirty work for the neighbors, so to speak. So he didn't look all that close."
Tom's eyes narrowed. "My, my, you are a suspicious
lady. Quick, too. Takes some folks months to ferret out the politics in this county."
"I've had a little experience with crooked cops and smooth politicians. In my former life, that is."
"Yeah." He grinned. "Makes you kind of dangerous, doesn't it?"
I met his eyes and read the intention in them as clearly as if he had spoken. It was like a jolt of electricity, stopping my breath, tightening my stomach muscles. Me, dangerous? Tom was the one who was dangerous. Between my shop and my relationship with McQuaid, I had more than enough to occupy me. I didn't need any complications-especially one with so many powerful memories hooked to it.
Tom looked away too, and the corners of his mouth quirked. "Dangerous from… well, Dwight's point of view. How'd you get onto him?"
"Superior detective work. A cartridge casing and an empty cigarette pack."
He shook his head. "You never cease to amaze me." He sat for a moment, then added, more seriously: "That was one of my problems when we were together, you know."
"What was a problem? That I amazed you?"
"That you were so blasted resourceful. You didn't need anybody but yourself." There was a bitterness in his tone that surprised me, but it was gone when he added, "So what's going to happen to Dwight?"
"The least that can happen is that he's out of a job; the most, that he goes back to Huntsville. It all depends on whether he left prints, and whether the county attorney and Pardons and Paroles decide to take any action." Where the county attorney is concerned, it depends on what kind of caseload he's carrying and whether he wants to put the effort into the case. Where Pardons and Paroles is concerned, you never can tell. It sometimes depends on who's lurking in the background.
Tom took off his hat and put it on the porch beside him.
"So what do you think? Was Dwight acting on his own hook, or was he in it with somebody else?"
The question sounded casual enough, but I'd have bet there was something beneath it. I wouldn't have been a bit surprised if the bank was muy political too. In a small town like Carr, the county commissioners did plenty of deals with the local lending institution. For instance, somebody- Tom's bank, no doubt-held a pretty healthy mortgage on that Southern plantation ranch house I'd seen yesterday.
Was Dwight working for somebody else? I spoke warily. "Anything's possible, I guess. The guy's checking account was pretty anemic, but he could have stashed the cash somewhere else-in another bank account, maybe, or in a tin can behind a loose board."
"What do you think?" Tom insisted.
I pushed myself to my feet. ' 'I think that once Dwight is out of here, the sisters can put away their firefighting gear." If the Townsends were behind the arson, they'd lost their inside man. And if Tom had anything more than a passing acquaintance with the Townsends, he could pass that message along.
Tom leaned back on his elbows, squinting up at me. "You haven't changed a bit, you know. You still play your cards close."
"Do I?" I countered.
"Hey, come on, China. Give a guy a break." He got to his feet and picked up his hat. "I didn't drive all the way out here to arm-wrestle with you."
"I thought you came to talk business with Mother Winifred."
His sudden, teasing grin lightened his whole face. "Oh, yeah? Then how come I brought this?'' He reached for the blue nylon bag.
"What's that?"
"You'll see." He slung the bag over his shoulder. "Come on. Let's go for a hike."
I eyed him. "Where?"
"I don't know. Anywhere." He gestured toward the cliff. "How about up there? The view is pretty spectacular."
"Up there?' I groaned. "Do you know what that trail's like?"
"Yeah. A nice stroll for mountain goats." He grinned. "I'll bring the goodies. All you have to do is get your butt up there. Now stop fussin' and come on."
The climb was easier in the daylight, and the landscape- which had been serene and lovely in the moonlight-was even more impressive under the late afternoon sun. The exercise of climbing seemed to ease the tension between us, too. I was grateful.
When we reached the top, we found a flat limestone ledge and sat on it, watching the sun glinting off the Yucca's silver ripples, feeling its warmth on our backs. I heard the raspy chit-chit-chit of a titmouse in a thicket of juniper and the chiding murmur of the river, chattering to itself at the foot of the cliff. A great blue heron, gliding from a tree to the river's edge, was a moving shadow across the rock. The falling sun cast a red glow over die serenity of St. Theresa's.
"So," Tom said. "Now that you've caught your crook, you can get some peace and quiet."
"I wish," I said regretfully.
He picked up a stone and tossed it over the cliff. It fell free all the way to the bottom, where it splashed into a dark pool. "Oh, yeah? What's up?"
There wasn't any reason not to tell him. It took only a couple of minutes to sketch the situation: the accusing letters, Mother Hilaria's cryptic diary, John Roberta's whispered hint that she knew something. And the two deaths.
By the time I finished, Tom was frowning at me. "Diary? Mother Hilaria kept a diary?''
I was a little surprised that Tom had focused on the diary, out of all the things I'd told him, but I only nodded.
"That's where I got the information that puts the finger on Dwight as the arsonist."
"Anything else?" he asked casually.
"Not enough," I said. "You've got to read between the lines." I looked at him. His question was almost too casual. "Why are you asking?"