– .inning, I hope they'll keep the herb garden. Although, of;ourse," she added hastily, "it is up to them."
"You know that Mother has asked me to see what I can earn about the fires that have occurred in the last few – onths. And the letters several people have received."
"I don't know anything about the fires," she said _.ickly. "Like everyone else, I find them very frightening. Last night was awful. If Mother hadn't smelled the smoke, Sophia might have burned down."
"And the letters?" I asked quietly. "Do you know any-±ing about them?"
She bit her lip. "No, I really don't. I mean-"
"Father Steven suggested that I talk to you about them. He seemed to think you might have a special concern."
She glanced up quickly, then away. She seemed to have trouble meeting my eyes, but that might be a normal behavior for her. "Did he? Well, I suppose-I mean, I did speak to him."
"Do you have a special reason for being concerned?"
She looked down again, and pulled a dead leaf off the plant. "You're asking whether I've received one of the letters?"
"Yes," I said, hoping for an answer. "Have you, Sister?"
She shook her head fervently. Too fervently? Her pale hand seemed to be trembling.
"Do you know someone who has?" Maggie asked.
Another headshake.
I frowned. "Then why did Father Steven think you might-"
Her face was suddenly fierce. ' 'Because I told him what happened to me!" She sank down onto the stone bench beside the path, as if her knees wouldn't support her.
"Can you tell us about it?" I asked gently.
She was fighting back tears. After a moment, she swallowed and choked out, ' 'When I was a novice, someone in our class wrote… notes." Her voice grew stronger. "She
slipped them into our books or left them for us to find under our pillows or in the bathroom. I guess it started out as a prank, because the first ones were rather silly. Amusing, even. But then they began to say accusing things, hurtful, virulent things. And then-" She pulled in her breath.
"Go on," I said.
She shook her head. "I know this is hard for you to understand. Little notes, pranks, jokes-you must be thinking it's all very trivial. A tempest in a teapot."
To tell the truth, that's exactly what I was thinking. But trivial incidents can loom large and threatening in a community that's closed off from the outside. If you live in the teapot, the tempest fills your entire world.
"Please," I said. "I want to hear."
She firmed her mouth and went on, haltingly. "One of the other novices-my cousin Marie, and dearer to me than a sister-got several of the letters. She began to question her vocation, and a few months later, she asked to leave. Once she got out in the world, she…" She stopped, swallowed, tried again. ' 'She lost her bearings. She got involved with drugs. Three years later, she was dead."
Maggie dropped down beside Rose and put an arm around her shaking shoulders. "I'm so sorry," she murmured sympathetically. She fished in her jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of tissues. "Did you know at the time who was writing the letters?"
Rose took a tissue and blew her nose. "At the time, I preferred not to know, and I've been glad ever since. If I knew who she was, I don't think I could… I might have done something that…" Her eyes were swimming with tears. "Those poisonous letters killed Marie! If it hadn't been for them, she would have remained in the order. She'd be happy and content now, safe in the service of God. That's what I told Father Steven. Whoever is writing these letters is breathing out the same poisonous air. It can infect all of us!"
I wanted to say that Marie's vocation must have been
pretty shaky to start with, but it would have sounded heartless. And Rose was living with the truth as she believed it. There was no point in questioning her version of the story.
"I suppose someone spoke to the novice mistress about the letters," Maggie said.
"I believe so. I didn't feel it was my place, of course. All I could do was pray. I pray now, for Marie's soul and for the soul of this hateful person."
I studied her: a shy, quiet woman who spent time by herself, who worked in the herb garden where she could pluck a rue leaf or two to tuck into her letters. But Sister Rose's guileless distress hid nothing darker than her own sorrow. There was nothing to connect her to either the fires or the letters. Maggie hugged her, I thanked her, and we left.
Sister Ramona seemed a more promising informant, not only because Father Steven had mentioned her, but because she was one of the few people who had visited Perpetua before her death. After a short search, Maggie and I found her with several sisters in the craft room, working on the wreaths, swags, and braids that had helped to support St. T through the lean years. While they worked, they were listening to a Gregorian chant on a cassette player. I looked around at the quietly industrious group, surrounded by beautiful materials and intent on their crafting, and wondered how long they'd be doing this. At least some of them, I was certain, would prefer it to running a conference center or cleaning up after church bigwigs. I know I would.
Sister Ramona was a tall, elegant sister with flawlessly beautiful skin and long graceful fingers, the nails carefully shaped and nicely manicured. She might have been in her forties. She wore a denim apron over her habit, and she was standing in front of a heavy wooden easel that held a large straw wreath base in the shape of a heart. She had covered the heart-pretty skimpily, I thought-with dried artemisia and clumps of small heads of garlic. Beside her were boxes of red strawflowers, pink and red globe ama-
ranth, and bright red celosia, and a spool of red twist ribbon.
Sister Ramona stepped away from her work, studying it unhappily. "I tell Sister Miriam that I'm not very good at making these things, but she says I have to keep trying." She spoke petulantly, in a carefully modulated voice that sounded as if she might have had dramatic training. "It's crooked, isn't it? Maybe I should stick some more of those red things on the left. Would that help?"
I thought she should take it apart and start over again, but I didn't want to say so.
Maggie lowered her voice so she wouldn't be heard by the others. ' "This is China Bayles, Sister. Mother has asked us to help her answer some questions."
"Oh, yes, the investigator." She gave up on the wreath and began folding the twist ribbon into uneven loops. "Well, all I can tell you about the fires is that they frighten me to my very bones. The thought of somebody burning the place down around our ears is enough to keep me awake all night." She shook her head, sighing dramatically. "And how anybody could write those horrible letters-"
"What can you tell me about them?" I asked.
"Me?" Her eyes widened. "Well, I've never gotten one myself, if that's what you're asking. And of course I have absolutely no idea who's writing them. Not a clue, as Jessica Fletcher would say. But I have a theory about the bigger picture."
"The bigger picture?"
She looked down at the bow she had made and clucked crossly. "There, do you see? I've got it crooked again. I am so wretchedly clumsy at making these hateful things. I'd almost rather work in the kitchen than-"
"What bigger picture?"
She pulled the bow apart and began to loop the ribbon again. I wanted to take it out of her hands and show her how, but she probably wouldn't have thanked me. "Well, there's something awfully odd going on here, wouldn't you