I glanced out the window. Rue was growing in the apothecary garden, its leaves glowing blue-green against the win-

try foliage. "Is the plant grown anywhere else on the grounds?''

"No." Mother Winifred anticipated my next question. "I'll give you the names of the sisters who work in the garden. But many use it for prayer, and the gate is never locked. Anyone might have picked a few leaves."

I looked down at the letters. "The three recipients accused-are they St. Agatha or St. T sisters, or both?"

"They're all St. T sisters," Mother Winifred said sadly. "I'm afraid that's not a coincidence." Her voice trembled. "You can see the difficulty we're in. We are a deeply divided community, both sides resentful of the changes imposed on us by our merger. The fires have made us suspicious and fearful. And these letters-" She gave me a pleading look. "We must discover who is responsible, China. You will help us, won't you?"

I sighed, thinking again of Jonah. "I'm not sure what I can do," I said. "But I'll try."

Mother's face relaxed into a smile. She looked as if I had just turned water into wine. "God's blessing on you, my child."

"There's a condition," I said. "I want you to tell the sisters who I am and what you've asked me to do, and that I'll be talking with several of them. In particular, I need to talk to those who have received the letters."

"Sister Perpetua is very ill, but I could take you to her this evening."

"Thank you. And please ask everyone to bring me any information they may have about either the fires or the letters."

"I thought you were going to be undercover," Ruby said.

Mother frowned. "That's right. Won't an announcement give you away? Won't it alert whoever's behind this?"

"Yes," I said. "But it may also rattle them. People who are rattled are more likely to make mistakes."

Maggie looked at me. "So you think there are two sep-

arate crimes here? Arson and…" She paused, frowning. ' 'Is it a crime to write a poison-pen letter?''

I shook my head. ' 'None of these letters threaten actual violence. They're not criminal, at least according to the Texas Penal Code."

"Criminal or not," Mother said firmly, "the letters are violent. They disrupt the recipients' peace of mind and threaten the stability of the community. And the writer is placing her soul in jeopardy. We must find out who she is. I'll speak to the community tonight at supper, China, and tell them that you're here to help us." She paused. "There's something else I should mention. Mother Hi-laria's diary."

"Her diary?"

"Yes. A spiral-bound notebook, black, as I recall. Every evening, she was in the habit of jotting down the events of the day, the weather, her meetings with individuals, her plans. After Reverend Mother General appointed me, I went to Mother Hilaria's office to get it. I thought I should see whether there were any ongoing projects I should know about. The diary was gone. I've searched everywhere, but it hasn't turned up."

"Can you think who might have taken it?" I asked.

"No, nor why. Mother Hilaria was a very open person. She didn't have any secrets."

If she did, they'd stay that way. Mother Hilaria was dead.

Chapter Six

I asked for a roster of room assignments and a map of the monastery's grounds. Mother also gave us an information sheet and keys to our cottages. Maggie was staying in Ezra. Ruby, who was here just for the night, was in Ezekiel. I'd been assigned to Jeremiah.

As we were leaving, I thought of one more thing. "I promised a certain young Cowboys' fan that I'd put in a prayer request for tomorrow's game," I said. "Maybe it sounds a little strange, but would you mind-"

"Not at all," Mother Winifred said with a smile. "In fact, I believe that Sister Gabriella has already been praying for them. But God moves in mysterious ways, you know," she added. "Tell your young friend that we can triumph even in defeat."

I didn't think Brian would buy that idea, but I only smiled and nodded.

Ezra, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel were a mile from the main complex by road, although the hand-drawn map revealed a shorter trail through the meadow. We drove, then parked the car and grabbed our bags, agreeing to meet again just before six. "You'll hear the bell outside Sophia," Maggie

told us. "It's rung for every meal." Then we split up to go to our separate cottages, which were about fifty yards apart along the river.

Jeremiah was a wood-shingled cottage with a screened porch. Its two small rooms-a bedroom-sitting room and a bathroom-dressing room-were clean and simply furnished, with a bed, an upholstered chair, and a wooden desk and chair. There were brown plaid drapes at the windows and a crucifix on the wall. In the bathroom was a Texas-sized cast-iron bathtub with old-fashioned claw feet, almost big enough to swim in. On the bathroom shelf, I saw a hot plate, a coffeepot, and a cache of tea and coffee supplies. The cottage was surrounded on three sides by a dense growth of cedar. The porch looked out over the river only ten yards away, at the foot of a gravel path. I imagined myself sitting there in the evening, listening to the water and watching the sun set behind the high cliff.

I spent a luxurious half hour hanging up my clothes, organizing the books and other belongings I'd brought, and making up my narrow bed with the sheets I found folded on the pillow. Then I sank into the chair and gazed around the room, letting its clean spareness sink into me, its healing silence wash over me. It had been so long since I'd been alone, truly alone-no other people, no telephone, no television, no radio. I could picture myself sitting here in quiet meditation for days on end, writing in my journal, reading a little, sleeping a lot.

But I sat for only a few minutes. The conversation with Mother Winifred weighed heavily on my mind. The accusing letters seemed to be the most pressing problem from her point of view. But while poison-pen letters are spiteful and traumatic, arson can be fatal. The fires had to be stopped before somebody burned to death.

I got up and found the handwritten report I'd gotten from the sheriff's deputy, which turned out to be very sketchy and nearly illegible. Walters hadn't been called to the October fire, because Mother Winifred had decided it was

accidental. He'd been called after the other two fires, however.

I read the report and made a list of the people Walters had talked to, noting the names of the three people who had shown up at both scenes. Dwight was one, which wasn't surprising, since it was his job to be available for emergencies. Father Steven was another. Sister John Roberta, whose name I hadn't previously heard, was the third. I looked her up in the roster and decided she must be a St. Agatha nun, since she lived in Hannah.

I put the report aside and stood up and stretched. Three fires had been set in a community where forty nuns lived within arm's length of one another. Somebody was bound to know something. I was hoping that tonight's announcement would jar loose some essential piece of information. I wanted to get to the bottom of this thing and spend the rest of my time doing what I had come to do: nothing. I smiled wistfully. Two whole weeks with absolutely nothing to do. Except, of course, for going riding with Tom Rowan.

The thought made me restless. I pulled on my jacket and walked down the gravel path to the river's edge, where I stood for a few minutes, hands in pockets, breathing in the spicy fragrance of cedar, the crisp, clean smell of windswept meadow.