"Mother told me." She gave me a wide grin. "So. I
understand that congratulations are in order, Sherlock. When are they going to arrest Dwight?''
"They're not," I said shortly. "I screwed up. Big time."
"You mean, you couldn't make them believe he really did it?"
"No. I mean he really didn't do it."
Her mouth fell open. "Then who did?"
I ran cold water into a glass and took a couple of gulps. "Royce Townsend says that he's the one who was doing the shooting. He wasn't shooting at me, though. He was sighting in a new rifle." That's what he said, and I couldn't think of a reason that he'd volunteer a lie.
Maggie's face was sober. "What about the fires? Dwight didn't do that, either?"
"Nope. He was sleeping off a drunk in the county hoose-gow when the rocking chair was torched last night."
She stared at me, sobered. "You mean, whoever did it is still-"
"-out there somewhere," I finished.
Her eyes glinted. "Well, if it wasn't Dwight, it could have been the Townsends. They-"
"I met Carl Townsend this morning," I said. "He didn't show a hint of recognition when he heard my name." It was true. Thinking back over the conversation with Town-send, there wasn't a single clue that he was involved with the fires. Anyway, he had no motive. He was hoping to make some sort of cooperative development deal with the Mother General. What's more, lighting little nuisance fires didn't strike me as Carl Townsend's style. If he was going to put a match to something, he was the type who'd burn it down and brag about it afterward.
"Who says it has to be Carl Townsend?" Maggie retorted. "He's got two boys. One of them could be responsible." She pushed up her sleeves. "It was Royce who shot at you?"
"That's right." I shook my head. "But I don't think he had anything to do with the fires." Royce was too much
like his father. He wouldn't condescend to something as trivial as a small fire.
Still, it made me think. Yesterday, Dominica had asked whether the person who wrote the letters had also set the chapel fire that burned her guitar. I'd said no, because I was so sure that Dwight was the arsonist. But I'd been wrong about Dwight. Maybe I was also wrong about the connection between the fires and the letters.
And then I suddenly thought of something else-Sister Miriam's portrait of Mother Hilaria, burned the night before.
"Of course!" I exclaimed.
"What is it?" Maggie asked.
"I've just revised one of my basic assumptions," I said. ' 'I think our arsonist is the same person who's writing the letters." I looked hungrily around the empty counters. There wasn't even any peanut butter and jelly in sight. "Are there any leftovers hiding in the fridge?" I asked. "I'll never make it until dinner without refueling." And dinner would be late that night, because I was eating with Tom.
"I saved you a little something," Maggie said. She opened the refrigerator and took out a plate. ' 'Lasagna, raw veggies, and applesauce. Will that do it?"
"Sounds great." While Maggie was heating a large serving of lasagna in the microwave, I added, "John Roberta checked out of the hospital this morning. I need to talk to her. Did she show up for lunch?"
"Nope." Maggie poured milk into a glass. "She's gone."
"Gone!" I was suddenly apprehensive. "Where did she go?"
"Home." Maggie handed me the glass. "Her mother died last night. Her sister picked her up at the hospital and the two of them are driving back together. She'll be back, but Mother isn't sure when."
Her sister. Maybe I could stop worrying. Maybe. "Where's home?"
"St. Louis, I think. Somewhere in the Midwest."
I sat down at the table, not quite satisfied. ' 'Mother Winifred is sure the woman was John Roberta's sister? It couldn't have been someone else, pretending to be-"
"What? What are you talking about, China?"
I sighed. I was probably grasping at straws, trying to make a mystery where none existed. "Oh, nothing," I said. It was too bad that John Roberta's mother had died, and too bad that I couldn't ask her who she was afraid of. But if I couldn't reach her, neither could anyone else. And if she were truly afraid for her life at St. Theresa's, she'd probably feel a whole lot safer in St. Louis.
Still, I couldn't help feeling I'd run up against a stone wall. I couldn't talk to my two most promising informants, John Roberta and Olivia. I was down to the three Rs- Ramona, Rose, and Regina-and Sister Rowena, the infir-marian, all of whom Father Steven had mentioned.
Maggie took the plate out of the microwave and put it in front of me. "Don't burn yourself," she said.
The lasagna was bubbling and fragrant with basil and thyme. I picked up my fork. "Father Steven," I said. "What do you know about him?"
Maggie leaned against the counter. "I don't really know anything," she said. "I've heard a few things, that's all."
"What have you heard?"
"Just gossip." She shifted uncomfortably. "You know how it is in a place like this. Sometimes I think you can never really get to the truth of anything. Everyone's got opinions, and no facts."
"So what's the gossip?"
Maggie hiked herself up on the counter. "That he's on probation with the diocese."
"But he's been here three or four years."
"Four."
"That's a long time to be on probation."
She gave me a straight look. "What I hear is that he's on probation for life. The bishop is supposed to be watching him. If he screws up again, he's-" She made a slitting motion across her throat.
"No kidding?" I thought of Father Steven's bitter, sardonic face, his fire-and-brimstone sermons. "What did he do that was so bad?"
"Choirboys," she said, and let me think about that while she swept the floor and wiped the stove.
I finished the lasagna, ate my applesauce, and took my plate to the sink to rinse it, still considering whether someone who messed around with choirboys might turn to writing accusatory letters and setting fires. ' 'Are you busy this afternoon?" I asked, putting the plate in the drainer.
"It depends," Maggie said. She hung up her apron, took a jacket from a hook, and shrugged into it. She glanced around the kitchen to make sure that everything was in order. "I need to be back here by three o'clock. I'm making apple strudel for dessert tonight. But I've got time to help you, if that's what you're asking."
I gave her a grateful look. Maggie had lived in this place for a long time, and people trusted her. ' 'How about going to the infirmary with me to talk to Rowena?"
' 'You think she might be involved?'' Maggie asked, startled.
"She's certainly a possibility," I said, and on the way to the infirmary, I filled Maggie in on what I'd discovered the day before. She listened soberly, until I got to the part about Anne hanging the ketchup-stained swimsuit from the cross.
She smiled. "Anne would love to radicalize St. T's."
I wanted to tell her that Anne was planning to leave, but I wasn't sure whether I should. "Do you think that could happen?''
"It could. Reformers aren't isolated any longer. There's a network, and moral support. When you're under the gun, support counts for a lot. Anne could make a change."
"What about you?" I asked. "Do you want to make changes?"
She gave a little shrug. "Right now I just want to find my way again, be quiet and listen for a little guidance. Of course, if Reverend Mother General insists on building a retreat center here, I suppose I'll have to take a stand." She lifted her chin. "Somehow I feel that God's rooting for the garlic."