"I'm looking for a patient by the name of Sister John Roberta," I said. "She checked in yesterday afternoon. Can you tell me what room she's in?"
The nurse gave me a waspish look. "Patient location information is available at the lobby desk."
"I would have got it there if I could have," I said. "The
problem is, there's nobody at the lobby desk. Just a phone and a fax and a computer." Somehow, I'd thought that a small-town hospital would be more friendly than hospitals in the big city. I guess institutions are institutions, wherever you find them.
"Go back to the lobby and wait," the nurse commanded. "I'll get somebody to help you."
A few minutes later, a dark-haired young woman in a plaid shirt and denim wraparound skirt appeared, "Cherie Lee" printed on her happy-face name badge.
"Sorry," she said brightly, and set down a steaming mug of coffee. "We don't get a whole lotta traffic on Monday mornings. My cousin Alma stopped in-my mama's brother's oldest girl, who I haven't seen for months an' months-and I took a break. Who was it you was askin' for? We'll just have a look right here in the computer and-" She made an exasperated noise. The happy face had been swallowed by a blank screen. "Well, darn it. Wouldn't you just know? We're down again. Can I get you some coffee while we're waiting?"
The coffee-three ounces of a pale brown liquid that tasted like the water they'd used to wash out the pot-came in a white plastic cup. While I sipped it, I thought about what had transpired in the cafe a little while ago.
If it was true that Dwight had spent the night in jail, I had to eliminate him as an arson suspect. Of course, he still might have taken a couple of shots at me, but why? I was back to square one, with two big questions staring me in the face.
If Dwight hadn't set the fires, who had?
If Dwight hadn't shot at me, who had?
They weren't questions I was going to answer sitting around in the waiting room. I went to the desk and persuaded Cherie Lee to ask the starchy nurse to check the charge sheet. It showed that Roberta, Sister John had already been released-at 8:45 A.M., while I was talking to Carl Townsend at the cafe. When I spoke to yet another
nurse, the one who had actually overseen the discharge, I learned that die patient had left with a woman in street clothes. A nun? The nurse didn't know.
"I was worried about her," the nurse said. "She was crying. It's not good for asthmatics to be upset, you know. Emotional events are likely to trigger an attack. I wondered whether it was a good idea to release her, but Dr. Townsend had already approved it." She looked up as a man approached. "Oh, hello, Dr. Townsend."
Royce Townsend had none of his father's affability and good looks. He was round and short-shorter than I, and I'm only five-six-with brown hair and dark eyes, closely spaced. His upper lip was fringed with a sparse mustache and his chin receded behind a small, nattily trimmed beard. He wore a white lab coat, a stethoscope, and a pair of five-hundred-dollar eelskin cowboy boots.
"This is Ms. Bayles, doctor," the nurse said deferentially. "From St. Theresa's. She's asking about Sister John Roberta."
Royce Townsend, MD and JP, looked me up and down, and a furrow appeared between his eyes. "From the monastery?" His voice was surprisingly deep for such a small man.
"Yes," I said. "I particularly wanted to talk with Sister John Roberta-"
"You've missed her," he said brusquely, still frowning. "You aren't by any chance staying in the cottage by the river?"
"As a matter of fact, I am. Why do you ask?"
"Because I recognize you. You were messing around down at the river Saturday afternoon. I was having some target practice up on the cliff and-"
I sucked in my breath. "You're the one who shot at me!"
"I did not shoot at you," he said with some dignity. He balanced on the balls of his feet. "I was sighting in my new rifle and heard you screaming-your hysteria was quite unnecessary, I might add-and glanced down and saw
you." His voice became petulant. "I must say, Ms. Bayles, you were never in any danger."
"How was I supposed to know that?" I retorted.
He smiled thinly. ' 'My brother and father and I use that cliff quite frequently for target practice. I suggest that you stay clear of our range, particularly on weekends. I don't enjoy treating gunshot wounds, especially on my day off." He turned on his heel and walked away.
I was angry enough to go after him, but the nurse put a restraining hand on my arm. "It won't help," she said in a half-whisper. "He'll never admit he's wrong. Whatever you say to him is like water off a duck's back. Better just forget it."
Forget it? I wished I could. But it wasn't just anger that made my face burn. I knew now that I had been wrong on two counts. Dwight hadn't shot at me, and he hadn't set the fires. I had accused an innocent man.
Some detective I was.
Of course, Dwight wasn't innocent of the theft of Mother Hilaria's journal, I reminded myself as I parked the truck in front of Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church. But that recollection didn't do much to redeem my self-esteem. When I got back to the monastery, I'd have to let Mother Winifred know that I'd been wrong. Worse yet, I'd have to tell her that the arsonist was still at large. That was the worrisome part, of course. So far, the fires had been small ones, but what if a little fire got out of control?
And now tiiat I knew Dwight wasn't involved, there was something else I had to consider-a possible connection between the fires and the letters. The fire in the chapel had burned Dominica's guitar. Last night's fire had destroyed Miriam's painting. There was a link here, and it was on my mind as I went to look for Father Steven.
The church, which stood on one corner of the square, was a narrow, white-painted frame building with stained-glass windows down both long sides, four steps up to a pair
of double doors in front, and a steeple on top. I followed the path around the building to a gray stucco cottage behind a privet hedge. A ceramic goose planter filled with frost-killed marigolds sat by the front door, and on the grimy stucco wall beside the door hung a cross made out of cholla cactus. Under it was a handprinted sign with sloping letters that announced that Father Steven Shaw lived there. Father Steven, who had been present at last night's fire.
The priest still had traces of sleep on his eyelids when he answered the door. The ugly, wrinkled scar on his face extended up the side of his neck and across the left side and top of his head. His hair grew patchily, I guessed, and he had shaved his head bald. He was quite tall and very thin, almost emaciated. He was wearing a striped pajama top, drawstring cotton pants, and corduroy house slippers. Over his pajamas he had drawn the sweater he'd worn last night, which still bore the acrid odor of burning rags.
"China Bayles?" he repeated, when I introduced myself. He had a thin, high voice that sounded curiously off-key. He rubbed one eye with the back of his hand. "Oh, yes. China Bayles. You're the one Mother Winifred asked to look into the fires." His eyes narrowed. "Do you know what happened last night?"
He obviously didn't recognize the woman he had helped to pull the chair off the porch. "I was there," I said. And so were you, I reminded myself silently. You were present at all the other fires too.
"The whole thing is horrible." His nostrils flared. "I hope you'll be able to stop… whoever it is."
"I wonder if I might talk to you, Father. About the fires, and another matter."