Chapter Eight

Well. Now that I knew Dwight's criminal history, I didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that he was St. T's resident arsonist. In fact, I didn't know how Deputy Walters had managed to overlook him-unless the deputy suspected that Dwight might be the Townsends' hired torch, in which case the idea might not bear too much scrutiny.

Dwight' s motive? It was possible, of course, that he had been hired by the Townsends. But his bank account and low-rent lifestyle didn't suggest that he'd earned any extra pocket money lately. Much more likely was the motive sug-

gested by the entries in Mother Hilaria's journal. It wouldn't be the first time an employee sabotaged something just so he could repair it. Dwight had been Johnny- I on-the-spot at all three fires, proving himself an! indispensable candidate for promotion to farm manager. "Don't hurt none fer a man to be rekkanized fer helpin' folks out," he'd said after he pulled Ruby's Honda back! from the brink of disaster. Helping folks out? That was a laugh. I'd bet he spilled the logs there in the first place, just so he could "help out."

I agreed with Dwight about one thing. He should get the credit he deserved for what he had done. Unfortunately, that might not be so easy to arrange. The evidence I had turned up was entirely circumstantial. Without physical proof of his guilt, Dwight would never be charged with arson.

I did have the 303 cartridge and the cigarette pack from the cliff top, however. Tomorrow, I'd take them into town and leave them with Walters, along with my story about yesterday's shooting. With luck, one or both would yield his prints, which might persuade the county attorney to go I for unlawful possession of a firearm by a convicted felon and aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. Both were third-degree felonies that could get Dwight two to ten years and five thousand dollars apiece-plus the unserved time from his original sentence.

But whether or not Dwight could be returned to jail, there would be no more fires. One of Mother Winifred's mysteries was solved. She could give Dwight his walking papers-and I could be forgiven a touch of pride at having wrapped up the investigation so quickly.

Unfortunately, I wasn't going to unravel the mystery of the poison-pen letters quite so quickly. What's more, there had been two deaths at St. T's in the last five months, and both victims-Mother Hilaria and Sister Perpetua-had been connected to the letters. It seemed to me an ominous connection.

I was beginning to feel uneasily urgent about talking to

I:ia and to John Roberta, if I could find her. The clouds r^c blown away and the afternoon sun was warm when I kft Sophia and walked toward Hannah, a two-story build-zz bisected by a green-tiled hallway that ran the length of &e building. The only thing that kept Hannah from looking jie a college dorm was the absence of screaming girls Wishing down the corridor in various degrees of undress- md the doors. Every dorm I've ever visited was remarkable for the door decorations. These doors were blank. They *ore nothing but a name and a number.

Feeling uncomfortable and distinctly out of place, I:hecked the roster I'd brought with me, located Olivia's door, and knocked. Then knocked again, harder. No answer. Olivia wasn't there.

According to the roster, John Roberta's room was on the second floor, at the far end. Ignoring her instructions I climbed the stairs, found her door, and knocked. Again, no response.

I was luckier with the housekeeper, who lived at the other end of the second floor. Sister Ruth was a soft, pillowy woman in her forties with a face as round as a full moon, a fractional smile that came and went nervously, and conscientious eyes magnified by thick glasses. She was dressed in a full, flowing habit with a rosary at her waist. She didn't invite me into her room, but through the door I could see that it had the bare simplicity of a monastic cell: a bed covered with a smooth gray blanket, a straight chair, a small chest of drawers, a desk, its surface immaculate. The walls were empty except for a picture of a woman bound to a cross on a heap of firewood, her eyes cast toward a dark and stormy heaven while a malicious-looking soldier lurked in the shadows with a flaming brand. Beneath the picture was a table with an open Bible.

Sister Ruth walked fast for a woman of her girth. I followed her to Sophia, where she opened the door of a storeroom and pulled a cord, lighting a pale bulb so high in the ceiling that its forty watts barely brightened the gloom.

"Mother said you needed assistance," she said. The words were carefully enunciated, the tone helpful. "What is it you're looking for?"

"A hot plate," I said. I glanced around. All manner of things were stored here for future use, arranged in fastidious order on shelves that ran the length of the room. Sheets and blankets, pillows, towels, soap, toilet paper, cleaning supplies, flower vases, an ancient typewriter, a couple of lamps, boxes of lightbulbs. The monastery's quartermaster depot, organized with a quartermaster's skill and attention to detail.

A distressed look appeared on Ruth's face. "Something's gone wrong with your hot plate? I'm so sorry. I inspected Jeremiah myself just before you moved in. I'm sure I checked to see that everything was in order." Her agitation seemed to be increasing, as if she were personally responsible for the failure of my hot plate. "I'm very sorry you've had a problem. If I had known, I-"

I stemmed her apology hastily. "Pardon me, Sister. There's no problem with Jeremiah's hot plate. I'm looking for the one that was in Mother Hilaria's cottage."

Sister Ruth blinked rapidly behind her thick glasses, seeming not to hear. "But if your hot plate is functioning, you shouldn't require another." She folded her hands at her waist. "Perhaps Mother Winifred did not explain our rule. Each cottage, you see, is provided with only one hot plate so that occupants cannot prepare meals in their cells. All of our residents are expected to dine communally, and the hot plates are meant only for the occasional cup of coffee or-"

"Excuse me, Sister," I said. "I don't want to cook on Mother Hilaria's hot plate. I simply want to look at it."

"Oh, dear." She gave me a nervous half-smile. "I fear I have misunderstood. And I very much fear that you and I have made an unnecessary trip. The item you are looking for is no longer in our inventory."

"Did the sheriff take it?"

"The sheriff?" She opened her eyes very wide. "Why should the sheriff want it?"

"Then it was discarded?"

She shook her head.

"I don't understand," I said. "What happened to it?"

Her hands twisted nervously. "I don't think… I wish you hadn't…" She stopped, clasped her hands as if to quiet them, and spoke with an effort. "It was taken. From this room."

I stared at her. "Someone stole it?"

''Stole it?" She looked horrified. "Of course not!" A corner of her mouth was trembling. ' 'This room is never locked, so it couldn't have been stolen."