Tom looked away too, and the corners of his mouth quirked. "Dangerous from… well, Dwight's point of view. How'd you get onto him?"

"Superior detective work. A cartridge casing and an empty cigarette pack."

He shook his head. "You never cease to amaze me." He sat for a moment, then added, more seriously: "That was one of my problems when we were together, you know."

"What was a problem? That I amazed you?"

"That you were so blasted resourceful. You didn't need anybody but yourself." There was a bitterness in his tone that surprised me, but it was gone when he added, "So what's going to happen to Dwight?"

"The least that can happen is that he's out of a job; the most, that he goes back to Huntsville. It all depends on whether he left prints, and whether the county attorney and Pardons and Paroles decide to take any action." Where the county attorney is concerned, it depends on what kind of caseload he's carrying and whether he wants to put the effort into the case. Where Pardons and Paroles is concerned, you never can tell. It sometimes depends on who's lurking in the background.

Tom took off his hat and put it on the porch beside him.

"So what do you think? Was Dwight acting on his own hook, or was he in it with somebody else?"

The question sounded casual enough, but I'd have bet there was something beneath it. I wouldn't have been a bit surprised if the bank was muy political too. In a small town like Carr, the county commissioners did plenty of deals with the local lending institution. For instance, somebody- Tom's bank, no doubt-held a pretty healthy mortgage on that Southern plantation ranch house I'd seen yesterday.

Was Dwight working for somebody else? I spoke warily. "Anything's possible, I guess. The guy's checking account was pretty anemic, but he could have stashed the cash somewhere else-in another bank account, maybe, or in a tin can behind a loose board."

"What do you think?" Tom insisted.

I pushed myself to my feet. ' 'I think that once Dwight is out of here, the sisters can put away their firefighting gear." If the Townsends were behind the arson, they'd lost their inside man. And if Tom had anything more than a passing acquaintance with the Townsends, he could pass that message along.

Tom leaned back on his elbows, squinting up at me. "You haven't changed a bit, you know. You still play your cards close."

"Do I?" I countered.

"Hey, come on, China. Give a guy a break." He got to his feet and picked up his hat. "I didn't drive all the way out here to arm-wrestle with you."

"I thought you came to talk business with Mother Winifred."

His sudden, teasing grin lightened his whole face. "Oh, yeah? Then how come I brought this?'' He reached for the blue nylon bag.

"What's that?"

"You'll see." He slung the bag over his shoulder. "Come on. Let's go for a hike."

I eyed him. "Where?"

"I don't know. Anywhere." He gestured toward the cliff. "How about up there? The view is pretty spectacular."

"Up there?' I groaned. "Do you know what that trail's like?"

"Yeah. A nice stroll for mountain goats." He grinned. "I'll bring the goodies. All you have to do is get your butt up there. Now stop fussin' and come on."

The climb was easier in the daylight, and the landscape- which had been serene and lovely in the moonlight-was even more impressive under the late afternoon sun. The exercise of climbing seemed to ease the tension between us, too. I was grateful.

When we reached the top, we found a flat limestone ledge and sat on it, watching the sun glinting off the Yucca's silver ripples, feeling its warmth on our backs. I heard the raspy chit-chit-chit of a titmouse in a thicket of juniper and the chiding murmur of the river, chattering to itself at the foot of the cliff. A great blue heron, gliding from a tree to the river's edge, was a moving shadow across the rock. The falling sun cast a red glow over die serenity of St. Theresa's.

"So," Tom said. "Now that you've caught your crook, you can get some peace and quiet."

"I wish," I said regretfully.

He picked up a stone and tossed it over the cliff. It fell free all the way to the bottom, where it splashed into a dark pool. "Oh, yeah? What's up?"

There wasn't any reason not to tell him. It took only a couple of minutes to sketch the situation: the accusing letters, Mother Hilaria's cryptic diary, John Roberta's whispered hint that she knew something. And the two deaths.

By the time I finished, Tom was frowning at me. "Diary? Mother Hilaria kept a diary?''

I was a little surprised that Tom had focused on the diary, out of all the things I'd told him, but I only nodded.

"That's where I got the information that puts the finger on Dwight as the arsonist."

"Anything else?" he asked casually.

"Not enough," I said. "You've got to read between the lines." I looked at him. His question was almost too casual. "Why are you asking?"

He looked away. "Just that… it's hard to believe that all this has been going on in this calm, peaceful place. You think somebody actually murdered those two nuns?"

What did I think? To tell the truth, sitting here with Tom in the bright light of late afternoon, with a postcard-pretty view of St. T across the river, the idea seemed pretty farfetched. "The JP-Royce Townsend-ruled that Mother Hilaria died of a heart attack," I said. "And there won't be an autopsy report on Sister Perpetua until later in the week. As to murder-there's certainly no evidence."

"Well, I can't buy it," Tom said. "Nuns don't do those kinds of things."

"That just shows how much you know," I snapped. ' "You only have to be here a couple of hours to realize that there are all kinds of emotional currents and cross-currents eddying around this place, some of them pretty turbulent."

Tom pulled the nylon bag onto the ledge between us and unzipped it. "Well, there's certainly been plenty of turbulence since the merger," he said in a conciliatory tone. "The two groups don't have much in common."

"About as much as Austin and Dallas," I said. "Or San Francisco and L.A." I peered into the bag. "What's all this stuff?"

"Happy hour." He handed me two long-stemmed plastic wineglasses and went back to the bag. "I suppose you've heard that the Mother General wants to build a retreat center here. She thinks it would make money for the order."

"She's probably right." I set the glasses on a rocky outcropping and took the paper napkins he handed me. "I never knew that the Church was obliged to show a profit

to its principle stockholder, though. By the way, I met Sadie Marsh this morning."

"Sadie's something else." He pulled out a cold bottle of zinfandel and a corkscrew. With a deft motion, he extracted the cork and handed me the bottle. "You pour," he said, diving into the bag again. "There's cheese and crackers here somewhere, and some other stuff."

There was indeed cheese, a creamy Brie and a tangy blue, along with smoked salmon, chunks of raw celery. broccoli, crab-stuffed mushrooms, and buttery crackers- none of which came from the Carr corner grocery. I poured the wine and we touched rim to rim, our glances meeting and sliding away again.

"To old times," I said.

"To good friends," he amended. We ate and drank in companionable silence as the sun slipped lower behind us. I was feeling relaxed now, warmer, looser, happier. It could have been the wine, or the sun on my shoulders, or Tom's company. Whatever it was, it felt good.

Tom put what was left of our happy hour-a few crackers, some leftover dip, the empty zinfandel bottle-into the bag. "I'm curious," he said. "How did you and Sadie Marsh happen to get together?''

I chuckled. "She came over to size up Mother Winifred's hired gun."

' T wonder what she thought of you. More to the point, what did you think of her?"