Rueful Death

I blinked. "How did Big-how did she respond?"

Sadie's mouth was wry. "Said she'd take it under advisement." She pushed her cup away. "Next thing I heard, Olivia was flyin' off to El Paso faster'n a prairie fire with a tail wind."

Of course. A roadblock of this size would require extended discussion, not just with legal counsel, but with the person who was expected to head St. Theresa's. I wondered whether Olivia had learned about the deed before she left, or whether it had been stuck under her nose when she got to El Paso.

Sadie pulled out another chair and propped her feet up on it. "You ask me, we're talkin' war. Trouble is, though, Winnie isn't keen on a fight. She says she's too old, but it's not age that's holdin' her back. She's a sweet old gal, and I love her, but she does toe that line." She sat back and clasped her hands behind her head. "I figger that's why the Mother General put her in Hilaria's job. Winnie will do what she's told and when it comes time, she'll step down and keep her mouth shut."

The description fit Mother Winifred pretty well. "Given that attitude," I said, "I'm surprised that she'd ask me to look into the fires."

"My idea," Sadie said. "She does sometimes listen to reason." Her grin got wider. "Tell the truth, it wasn't a half-bad idea. You turned out better'n I hoped."

"How do you think the board will react to the news about the deed?'' I asked.

She made a shrug with her mouth. "We'll see. But that's not the only bidness I mean to bring up." She pulled her strong brows together, her expression darkening. "That's why I want you there, Counselor."

"Me? At the board meeting?"

"That's what I said." She swung her boots off the chair and planted them on the floor. "All hell's gonna break loose, China. I want somebody there as an independent observer. Somebody who knows the law and can come up with an opinion, fast."

"There must be other lawyers in this county you could call," I said. "Anyway, you want somebody in civil law. I was a criminal lawyer."

"I don't care what kind of law you know or don't know. A quick, sharp mind is what I'm after, one that ain't muddied by local politics. I want somebody who can see the issues."

"What kind of business do you expect to bring up?" I asked warily.

Sadie hesitated, studying me, as if she were deciding how

far I could be trusted. Finally she stood, walked to one of the cabinets, and opened a drawer. She took out a fat white envelope, sealed, and dropped it on the table in front of me. "It's got to do with the trust assets," she said. "The information is in this envelope."

"You're talking about the foundation's seven million?" I corrected myself. ' 'No, that was only what went into the kitty. The total must be up to fourteen or fifteen million now."

Her lips thinned. "You know as well as I do, China. What goes in don't necessarily come out."

"You're suggesting that something's wrong with the investments?"

Her grin had a knowing edge. "Be there tomorrow, ten o'clock sharp. That's when I'm openin' this envelope. I guarantee you, it's goin' to cause one hell of a ruckus. That board's goin' to be dizzier'n a rat terrier pup at a prairie dog picnic."

"Are you going to let me look at it?"

"There's nothin' you could do about it today," she said. She put the envelope back in the drawer and closed it. "Now, how about another cup of that tea?"

I shook my head. "I have to talk to Mother Winifred." I stood up too. "I'll see you at the board meeting tomorrow, then."

"Right," she said. Her look became fierce. "And you keep this under your hat, d'ya hear? I don't want you givin' away any secrets. There's a few people would give plenty to know what I've got planned for tomorrow so they could figure up a way to stop me."

"Who?" The Reverend Mother General, Sister Olivia? And Carl Townsend, of course. Who else?

"I'm not going to say." She looked straight at me. "It's like my daddy used to tell me. What you don't know can't hurt you none."

I've had plenty of clients tell me that, and when they did,

I tended to agree with them. But there was something else I wanted to know.

"I wonder," I said, "what you can tell me about Father Steven."

She sighed. "You know, sometimes you've just got to ask yourself why the Church tolerates these guys."

"What do you mean?"

Her tone was sour. "Go listen to him preach. Hellfire-and-damnation stuff. Confess your sins or burn."

"I didn't think Catholics were big on that sort of thing."

"This one is." She laughed raspily. "He glowers over that pulpit like the congregation is nothing but toads and vipers, and then he lets 'em have it with both barrels. Fire and brimstone."

"Has he been in the parish long?"

"Three or four years. He came here from Houston."

From Houston. "From the congregation at St. Agatha's?"

She nodded. "But he didn't come here directly. He was out of the priest business for a year or so, while they patched him up."

"Patched him up? Oh, you must mean the scar on his face. What happened?''

She cocked her head. "You didn't know? He was in a fire."

I stared at her, making the connection. ' 'What kind of a fire?"

"Don't think I ever heard," she said. "But whatever it was, it seems to've twisted his mind worse than his face. The sisters won't confess to him unless they just have to."

"I'm not sure I understand."

' 'He puts real teeth in his penances. Tell somebody a lie? Forget the Hail Marys-he makes you go back and tell them the truth. Borrow somethin' that doesn't belong to you? He has you put it back and ask the person you took it from for forgiveness. It's enough to keep most people away from confession indefinitely, particularly somebody

who cheats on his taxes." She chuckled mirthlessly. "Or diddles the company books."

As I said good-bye, I was thinking about Father Steven's fire-scarred face and his insistence on penance, and wondering just why he had appeared at the fire the night before.

By the time I got back to St. Theresa's, the noon meal was over and the refectory was empty, except for a sister sweeping the floor and another wiping off the tables.

"I know I'm late, but do you suppose I could get some lunch?" I asked the sister wielding the broom. She smiled in the direction of the kitchen and went on with her work.

The kitchen was clean and roomy, with a light green tile floor, open pantry shelves along one wall, two large gas cookstoves along another, and a couple of sinks along a third. The middle of the room was taken up by a long stainless-steel worktop with shelves under it, neatly filled with nested bowls and pots.

"Well, hi, China. I was hoping you'd get back before I finished."

I turned around. It was Maggie, straightening up from a large commercial dishwasher. She was clad in khaki pants, a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up, and a large white apron that enveloped her from knees to shoulders. She looked happier than I'd ever seen her and less subdued, as if she had tapped into a new source of energy, as if she had started to come to life again.

"I thought you were on retreat," I said.

"I'm back." She pushed in the rack, shut the door, and turned a knob. The dishwasher began to make a gargling hum. She was smiling. "Laborare est orare. To work is to pray. To bake lasagna is to say, 'Hey, God, thanks for good things.' " She picked up a sponge and rinsed it out under the faucet. "Missed you at lunch."

I leaned a hip against the work counter. "I've been out making inquiries, as we say in the detective business."