I woke up with a start when my book slid onto the floor. I looked at the clock. It was only nine, but suddenly I was too tired to read. I had a right to be tired, though, and satisfied to boot. I hadn't learned as much about the letters as I would have liked, but I'd figured out the identity of the arsonist. By this time tomorrow, Dwight would be in Stu Walters's hands, and the deputy and the county attorney could figure out what they wanted to do with him. I slid under the sheets, turned off the light, and stretched out, feeling quite pleased with myself.
I didn't get to sleep long. I was awakened just before 10 p.m. by the frantic clanging of St. Theresa's bell-four hard clangs, a missed beat, then another four clangs. I jumped out of bed, pulled on my jeans and a sweatshirt, and grabbed my flashlight.
Halfway up the path to Sophia, sprinting, I caught up with Maggie. Her jacket was on inside out over her flannel pajamas, and she was carrying a small fire extinguisher.
"What's happened?" I gasped, tugging at her jacket. "Why is the bell ringing?"
"It's die fire bell!" she cried. She flung up her arm, pointing. "It's Sophia! It's on fire! Oh, God," she wailed. "We can't lose SophiaV
But when we got to the scene, along with a half-dozen other sisters, we could see that there wasn't much danger of that. The fire was small and confined to the porch. Someone had piled some rags-oily rags, probably-on an upholstered rocking chair. Lit, they had blazed up immediately. The upholstered seat had been harder to ignite, but when it did, it produced a pall of black smoke. It was the smell of something burning that had awakened Mother Winifred, sleeping with her window open-and it was Mother, still dressed in her long-sleeved, high-necked nightgown, a coat thrown over her shoulders, who had reached the bell first and sounded the alarm.
Gabriella ran into the refectory and grabbed a fire extinguisher. That, together with the one Maggie had brought, proved to be enough to smother the flames. By that time, all of the sisters had arrived on the scene and were milling around in nightwear, slippers, and coats. They were shivering with cold and apprehension, and their white faces were pinched and frightened. With them, surprisingly, was a man in his late sixties. He helped me drag the smoldering chair off the porch and into the yard while Gabriella emptied the extinguisher onto it. The man's skull was totally bald and the left side of his face was scarred so badly that his mouth had a permanently cynical twist. He was wearing a dark woolen sweater and a clerical collar.
"Father Steven!" Mother exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
He surveyed the ruined chair with distaste. ' T left a book in the sacristy this morning. It belongs to someone else, and I promised to return it. So I came back to get it-and saw this." His face twisted. "How can this be happening again? Someone must be… quite mad!"
There was a commotion among the sisters, and Sister Miriam pushed her way to the front of the group. "Look!" she cried in an anguished voice. "It's my portrait!"
Then I realized that among the charred debris were fragments of an artist's canvas. "Your portrait?" I asked.
"Of Mother Hilaria," Miriam said. Her voice was full of despair. "I worked on it for months. It was finished just yesterday. We intended to hang it first thing tomorrow in the chapel entry."
"Where was it?" I asked.
"In the hallway, inside Sophia," Miriam said. "That's where the rags came from, too-they're my paint rags. I put a box of them beside the door so they could be taken out tomorrow for disposal."
I'd been wondering why the arsonist had added Miriam's portrait to the kindling, but that answered my question. It made good fuel.
Mother put her arm around Miriam's shoulders. "I'm so sorry, my dear," she said softly. "But there's nothing you can do about it tonight." She raised her voice and spoke to the group. "We must all go back to bed, Sisters. The fire is completely out and there is no more danger."
"There is always danger where there is a disregard for the holy will." The thin, high voice belonged to Ruth. She was huddled under a heavy shawl, her glasses reflecting the last flickers of the dying flames. "No one among us is safe when-''
"That's enough. Sister." A large, heavyset woman with a determined face interrupted her. She put an arm around Ruth's plump shoulders. "We can't answer any questions tonight. We must all go back to bed-and pray for forgiveness for our sins."
But there was one question I had to answer. I looked around.
Where was Dwight?
The morning dawned bleak and chilly, with a strong wind blowing out of the north. I dressed in gray cords, a thick blue sweater, and a fleece-lined jacket, and headed for the parking lot to look for Dwight's truck. But the big GMC was still missing, as it had been the night before. My knock on Dwight's door went unanswered, again. When I pushed it open and went in, the cottage was empty.
"I have no idea where he is," Mother Winifred said when I caught up with her on the way to breakfast. Her forehead was deeply furrowed. "I know he left yesterday afternoon, because he waved as he drove past. Maybe he found out that you suspected him of setting the fires and ran away."
"If that's true," I asked grimly, "who set last night's fire?"
It was a crucial question. In each of the other three instances, Dwight had been first at the scene, eager to prove how handy he was by putting the fire out-but not last night. Last night, he was conspicuous by his absence. He hadn't been there.
Or had he? Had he discovered I was onto him, and changed his MO to confuse things? That was probably what had happened. He had merely gathered up an armload of the nearest fuel-Sister Miriam's painting and the box of rags that had fortuitously been left in the hall-dropped it into the chair, and touched a match to the pile. Then he stayed back in the shadows, watching us while we put out the blaze.
That was how I had settled it in my mind by the time breakfast was over and I found the truck Mother Hilaria had promised me, a rusty green Dodge four-on-the-floor that steered like a World War II tank and roared like a 727 under full throttle. I wasn't too happy with the explanation, but it fit the facts, more or less.
I drove into town and parked the truck in front of the sheriff's office, which was located in the basement of the Carr County courthouse. The office, painted institutional
gray and lit by flickering fluorescents, was manned by a frizzy-haired, bubble-gum-chewing dispatcher whose fuchsia lipstick was an off-key jangle against her fire-engine-red blouse.
"Depitty Walters?" She fished a pink Dubble Bubble out of her pocket and added it to the wad in her mouth. "He ain't bin in yit. Try Bernice's. That's where he us'ally hangs out this time o' mornin'."
Sure enough, I found Stu Walters at Bernice's, his boots propped on a chair. He was swapping cop stories with a couple of good old boys over coffee and the remains of a short stack, egg, and bacon. Grudgingly, he followed me to a table at the back, where the cigarette smoke wasn't quite so thick and we could talk privately. I grinned at Bernice, chic in a maroon I'm an Aggie Mom! tee shirt and tight white jeans, and accepted a cup of coffee. It was hot and black and bitter and I shuddered as it went down.
Stu Walters gave me a condescending look. ' 'Put hair on your chest," he said.
"Not on my chest," I said firmly. To the tune of Buddy Holly's "Peggy Sue," I reviewed the situation, described Dwight" s run-in with Mother Hilaria, and offered my take on his motive for the torchings-four of them, now. When I was finished, I handed over the evidence in two neatly labeled plastic bags.