Then I realized that among the charred debris were fragments of an artist's canvas. "Your portrait?" I asked.

"Of Mother Hilaria," Miriam said. Her voice was full of despair. "I worked on it for months. It was finished just yesterday. We intended to hang it first thing tomorrow in the chapel entry."

"Where was it?" I asked.

"In the hallway, inside Sophia," Miriam said. "That's where the rags came from, too-they're my paint rags. I put a box of them beside the door so they could be taken out tomorrow for disposal."

I'd been wondering why the arsonist had added Miriam's portrait to the kindling, but that answered my question. It made good fuel.

Mother put her arm around Miriam's shoulders. "I'm so sorry, my dear," she said softly. "But there's nothing you can do about it tonight." She raised her voice and spoke to the group. "We must all go back to bed, Sisters. The fire is completely out and there is no more danger."

"There is always danger where there is a disregard for the holy will." The thin, high voice belonged to Ruth. She was huddled under a heavy shawl, her glasses reflecting the last flickers of the dying flames. "No one among us is safe when-''

"That's enough. Sister." A large, heavyset woman with a determined face interrupted her. She put an arm around Ruth's plump shoulders. "We can't answer any questions tonight. We must all go back to bed-and pray for forgiveness for our sins."

But there was one question I had to answer. I looked around.

Where was Dwight?

The morning dawned bleak and chilly, with a strong wind blowing out of the north. I dressed in gray cords, a thick blue sweater, and a fleece-lined jacket, and headed for the parking lot to look for Dwight's truck. But the big GMC was still missing, as it had been the night before. My knock on Dwight's door went unanswered, again. When I pushed it open and went in, the cottage was empty.

"I have no idea where he is," Mother Winifred said when I caught up with her on the way to breakfast. Her forehead was deeply furrowed. "I know he left yesterday afternoon, because he waved as he drove past. Maybe he found out that you suspected him of setting the fires and ran away."

"If that's true," I asked grimly, "who set last night's fire?"

It was a crucial question. In each of the other three instances, Dwight had been first at the scene, eager to prove how handy he was by putting the fire out-but not last night. Last night, he was conspicuous by his absence. He hadn't been there.

Or had he? Had he discovered I was onto him, and changed his MO to confuse things? That was probably what had happened. He had merely gathered up an armload of the nearest fuel-Sister Miriam's painting and the box of rags that had fortuitously been left in the hall-dropped it into the chair, and touched a match to the pile. Then he stayed back in the shadows, watching us while we put out the blaze.

That was how I had settled it in my mind by the time breakfast was over and I found the truck Mother Hilaria had promised me, a rusty green Dodge four-on-the-floor that steered like a World War II tank and roared like a 727 under full throttle. I wasn't too happy with the explanation, but it fit the facts, more or less.

I drove into town and parked the truck in front of the sheriff's office, which was located in the basement of the Carr County courthouse. The office, painted institutional

gray and lit by flickering fluorescents, was manned by a frizzy-haired, bubble-gum-chewing dispatcher whose fuchsia lipstick was an off-key jangle against her fire-engine-red blouse.

"Depitty Walters?" She fished a pink Dubble Bubble out of her pocket and added it to the wad in her mouth. "He ain't bin in yit. Try Bernice's. That's where he us'ally hangs out this time o' mornin'."

Sure enough, I found Stu Walters at Bernice's, his boots propped on a chair. He was swapping cop stories with a couple of good old boys over coffee and the remains of a short stack, egg, and bacon. Grudgingly, he followed me to a table at the back, where the cigarette smoke wasn't quite so thick and we could talk privately. I grinned at Bernice, chic in a maroon I'm an Aggie Mom! tee shirt and tight white jeans, and accepted a cup of coffee. It was hot and black and bitter and I shuddered as it went down.

Stu Walters gave me a condescending look. ' 'Put hair on your chest," he said.

"Not on my chest," I said firmly. To the tune of Buddy Holly's "Peggy Sue," I reviewed the situation, described Dwight" s run-in with Mother Hilaria, and offered my take on his motive for the torchings-four of them, now. When I was finished, I handed over the evidence in two neatly labeled plastic bags.

"I'll be glad to swear out a statement on the aggravated assault charge, if you decide to go for it."

"Dwight?" he asked disbelievingly. He poked the bag with his finger, staring at the contents. "You're sayin' it was Dwight who set those fires?"

I nodded. "The probation officer said for you to call her if you've got any questions about his prior. It appears that he fell out with an auto mechanic in Fredericksburg and fired his garage-and just happened to burn down the senior citizens center next door."

"Sure coulda fooled me," he muttered.

"The only trouble is that I didn't see him around during

last night's fire," I said. "I figure he was probably back in the cedar brake, watching."

"Did ya see him this morning?"

I shook my head. "Could you track him down? And would you let me know when you and the county attorney have decided what to do about that assault charge?"

I was about to push my chair back when we were joined by a gray-haired, deeply tanned man in a dark sport jacket and string tie. He might have been in his sixties, but he was tall and lean and handsomely distinguished.

"Mornin', Stu," the man said.

Walters gave the man an uneasy grin. "Mornin', Mr. Townsend."

Ah. Carl Townsend, I presumed. I held out my hand. "Good morning, Mr. Townsend," I said pleasantly. "My name is China Bayles. I'm visiting out your way and drove past your ranch yesterday. Beautiful-a real showplace."

I was watching for a flicker of recognition when he heard my name, but I didn't see it. If he'd paid Dwight to take a shot at me, you'd never guess it from his smile. He took my hand, holding it a second longer than necessary.

"You like the place, huh?" He took off his hat, pulled out a chair, and sat down. His smile showed a lot of teeth. "We've put plenty of work into it."

The deputy was about to interject something-probably a remark about who I was-when Bernice yelled that he had a phone call. With a narrow-eyed glance at me, Walters left the table. Another piece of luck, I thought. I'd better take advantage of his absence.

"Yes, a great spot out there," I said. I leaned toward Townsend. "Perfect country for tourists. In fact, I hear there's some interest in developing the area. A retreat center, conference center, something like that?"

Townsend hesitated, as if h% were debating how to handle my question. But I was friendly and he was by nature a boastful man. He was also a man who enjoyed women. He moved his leg an inch toward mine. "So you've heard

what they're plannin' to do with the monastery on the other side of the river?''

I nodded. "The garlic farm, you mean?"

"That's what the nuns are doin' right now," he said. "But the head honcho of the order-she's out in El Paso- has talked to me about the possibility of turnin' it into a resort. Golf, tennis, swimming, conference facilities, even a heliport." He settled back comfortably and his leg came another inch closer. "Of course, she's thinkin' mainly about invitin' the Pope for a vacation, but I'm thinkin' about all those bankers and business types in Houston and Dallas." The smile showed more teeth. "Folks are tolerant these days. No reason we can't mix and mingle."