"You thought it was me!" Olivia was breathing through her mouth, short, panting breaths, like a dog. "You really believed I could have killed Sadie!" She threw back her head and began to laugh, a grating sound that ended in a crazy, gasping cackle. "You thought I-"
"Olivia!" Mother Winifred put a hand on her shoulder. "Get hold of yourself!"
Olivia stopped as suddenly as if she'd been gagged. She collapsed against the chair, her eyes closed. "I hated her for being so smug," she whispered. "I despised her for keeping me from doing what God wants me to do. But I didn't kill her."
There was one last thing. "What was she wearing?" I asked.
' 'I told you. She was ready for bed. She was wearing a purple bathrobe and flannel pajamas." She opened her eyes
and held out trembling hands. "You have to believe me. I'm innocent!"
A purple bathrobe and flannel pajamas. The recollection of the unmade bed I'd seen this morning came back to me, and I realized its significance. Sadie had slept there last night, after Olivia had left. She had been attacked early this morning, after she dressed but before she had time to make the bed, by the owner of the cross I held in my hand.
I folded the small silver object back into its cardboard packet and put it into my shirt pocket. Olivia couldn't help me determine what had happened to Sadie, but there were three other mysteries to be solved, and she had the answers to both.
"You may be innocent of this morning's assault," I said, "but you are guilty on other counts. You know who murdered Mother Hilaria. You know who wrote the letters, and you know who set the fires. I want you to name that person."
Mother gasped. "Murdered? Mother Hilaria was murdered!"
Olivia's face was waxen. Her hands clutched the arms of her chair; her eyes were fixed on me. "You… know?" she whispered.
I nodded. "But I can't prove it, and I can't obtain her confession. You are the only one who can make her tell what she has done."
The silence crouched between us, waiting and wary. At last she shook her head.
I held her eyes. "You want to become the spiritual mother of these women. How can you expect them to turn to you for guidance and comfort and at the same time protect a sick individual who threatens their safety?''
Mother put her hand over Olivia's. "If you know who she is, you must lead her to confession, my child, and quickly. There has been another letter, delivered in the same manner, with the same enclosure-a leaf of rue."
Olivia closed her eyes. Her voice was thin and thready. "Who received it?"
"Gabriella. The accusation was… ridiculous, or worse.'' Mother's voice was profoundly sad. ' 'Confession is the only way the writer can be redeemed, Olivia. And if you have been concealing her identity, it is your way to redemption, as well."
Olivia clutched Mother's hand in both her own and began to sob.
I stood. "I'm going to the hospital, Mother. But I should be back this evening. After supper, please gather the sisters-all of them-in the chapel."
Mother slipped her free arm around Olivia's shoulders and looked up at me. "The chapel? Yes, of course. But why?"
I looked at Olivia, still sobbing. ' 'Because,'' I said quietly, "it's time you assembled a Chapter of Faults. Sister Olivia is ready to accuse a sister who has sinned."
I left the cottage and hurried down the path to the parking lot and the truck. I had lied to Olivia when I said I knew who killed Mother Hilaria. I didn't know-not exactly, that is. I had narrowed it down to two people.
And then down to one. As I walked across the parking lot, I met two nuns coming toward me. I stopped to speak briefly, and held out my hand to each to thank her for her help. When I left them a moment later, I knew which of the sisters Olivia would accuse.
But I shouldn't be so confident. I had made too many mistakes in the last few days. Maybe I should confess my errors to the Chapter of Faults.
Chapter Sixteen
His Physicke must be Rue (ev'n Rue for Sinne).
George Wither, 1628
Why, what a ruthlesse thing is this, to take away
life…
William Shakespeare Measure for Measure
Every minute of the drive to the Carr County Hospital, I could feel that cross burning in my pocket like a hot coal straight from hell. Based on the information I had now, it belonged either to Tom or his father, both of whom were members of the Knights of Columbus.
Tom or his father. One or the other had attempted to murder Sadie Marsh, but I didn't know which. And I couldn't imagine why either one would have done it-until I remembered the short bit of conversation at the Lone Star the night before. The old man had been deeply upset at the idea that Sadie had invited me to the board meeting. What's that woman up to, anyway? he had demanded. Tom had answered, sharply, I'll take care of Sadie, Dad.
And then, when I pulled up in front of the hospital just before three o'clock, I remembered something else: the envelope I had retrieved from Sadie's kitchen table this morning. The fat, sealed envelope Sadie had shown me the day before. She had implied that the contents had to do with the foundation's trust accounts, which were under the control of the bank-under the control of Tom Rowan, Senior
and Junior. The trust accounts that by now should amount to fourteen or fifteen million dollars.
But maybe not. You know as well as I do, Sadie had said, what goes in don't necessarily come out.
I took the envelope out of the back pocket of my cords and unfolded it. It wasn't sealed. And it wasn't fat. It contained just one sheet of paper.
I'll never know what else Sadie had stashed in the envelope-records of the actual transactions, probably, with account numbers and balances, obtained from Mother Hi-laria. What was left was only one sheet of paper, filled with single-spaced typing, dated yesterday and signed "Sadie Marsh." It was the text of a statement she must have planned to read at the board meeting-and, from the look of it, to release to the county attorney. Whoever had taken the other pages probably meant to take this one as well.
What goes in don't necessarily come out. The first paragraph told me why Sadie had made that bitter remark. The accounts that had been opened with something close to seven million dollars now amounted to two hundred ninety-some thousand and change.
I stared at the page, incredulous. St. Theresa's legacy had been stolen! Who had done it? How had it been done?
When I finished Sadie's report, I knew how, more or less, although the financial transactions were complicated and the details confusing. But I still didn't know who, or rather, which. I sat for a long time studying the paper, trying to see in it the face of the man who feared so deeply for his reputation-his, and his family's, and the bank's-that he was willing to murder to protect it.
Was it Tom? The Tom Rowan I'd known in Houston, the wheeler-dealer, the boy banking wonder, would certainly have been slick enough to pull off a complicated fraud like this one. According to Sadie's statement, the first transaction hadn't taken place until after he'd returned to Carr and gone to work at the bank. Yes, Tom certainly had the ability-the means-to pull something like this off, and
the opportunity. And the potential millions were a strong -otive.
Or was it his father? The old man had both opportunity Hid motive, yes. But did he have the means? He'd been a snail-town banker all his life. Was he capable of the complex financial maneuvering required for an embezzlement?f this size? And the attack on Sadie had certainly required some strength-was he capable of using the weapon, whatever it was, that had injured her?