"Well, sure," I said. "And any kind of development out that way is going to enhance the value of the neighboring ranches. And I understand that vacation ranches are big tourist attractions these days. More money in that kind of thing than there is in cows."

"You bet." He was emphatic. "I tell you, the best is yet to come. This little town, it's gonna see some real changes. We're all gonna get rich." He waved at Bernice. "Hey, darlin', how about some of that black tar you're pourin'?" Bernice bore down on us with the coffeepot.

"And you're on the County Commissioners Court, aren't you?" I said admiringly. "With you behind the idea, the development will be a lot easier. You can push the highway improvements and handle the environmental stuff that usually gives developers fits. I'm sure there won't be any delays with you at the wheel, so to speak."

"You got it," Townsend said sunnily. "Fixin' to jump on it like a frog on a pond lily. Soon as we get word from the big chief nun that she's goin' to dump some dollars into the project." He circled Bernice's waist with his arm as she poured his coffee. ' 'Hullo there, Bernice. Been missin' me, darlin'?"

"Not too much, t' tell th' truth." Bernice wriggled out of his grasp and took a safe step away. "Say," she said to

me, "how you doin' out at the monastery? Got that bucket by your bed the way I told you?"

Townsend frowned. "Monastery?"

"You get tired of that nun-type food, you just come on in here and I'll feed you," Bernice said cheerfully. "Y'hear now?''

Townsend's warmth had cooled faster than a blue norther. "You're one of that bunch out there?" he demanded. "Why didn't you let on? You pumping me for information or something?"

I pushed my chair back and stood up. "It was really nice meeting you, Mr. Townsend. Sorry I can't stay to chat." I was just leaving when Stu Walters finished his phone call and strode back to the table.

But I didn't quite make my getaway.

"Hey," Walters said. He was grinning, not pleasantly. "You know whut, Miz Bayles? Turns out yer wrong 'bout Dwight. He didn't do it. He's cleaner'n a whistle. Like I tole you, it's gotta be one o' them nuns."

I stopped. "He didn't do it?"

"Didn't do what?" Townsend asked.

"What do you mean he's clean?" I demanded.

"What the hail didn't he do?" Townsend roared.

Walters gave his belt an uneasy hitch. "Set them fires at the monastery. Miz Bayles was hired to find out who done it. She fingered Dwight."

Townsend fixed his eyes on me, all geniality gone, a scorpion about to strike. "Who hired her?" he growled.

"The nuns," the deputy said.

Townsend's face was getting red. "Sheriff know about this?"

"Yessir, he does," Walters said uneasily. "He an' me, we figgered it couldn't hurt none, though. She wadn't likely to come up with anythin'." His grin showed a gold tooth. "We was right too. There was 'nother fire last night. An' Dwight, he was somewhere else."

"How do you know?" I asked.

" 'Cause that was Joe Bob on the phone jes' now." His voice was filled with triumph. "Joe Bob is the night-shift deppity. He picked Dwight up 'bout nine last night in Bimbo's parkin' lot. 01' Dwight was drank as a skunk, an' Joe Bob pitched him in jail to sleep it off. He's bin there all night. Fact is, he's there right now."

It was one of the more humiliating moments of my recent life. I had been so dead-set on proving that Walters was wrong and the arsonist wasn't one of the sisters, that I had violated a rule I had learned a long time ago: God will forgive you for fooling the judge and the jury. God won't forgive you for fooling yourself.

I got out of there as fast as I could. But when I reached the door I could hear Walters and Townsend guffawing. The sound was still ringing in my ears when I got to the Carr County Hospital, on the east side of town.

The hospital was a small, one-story building on the corner across from the elementary school. There were a half-dozen cars and pickups in the front lot, but no other sign of life. Inside, the small lobby was empty except for a fax machine, a phone, and a computer, angled so I could see the monitor. A yellow happy face was bouncing around the blue screen, urging me to "Have a Heart-Healthy Day."

I checked my watch. It was nearly nine, and mere were several more items on my list of errands. I didn't have time to waste. I went to the double doors at one side of the lobby, pushed them open, and walked down the empty hall to the nurses' station. I was greeted by a starched nurse in wire-rimmed glasses with the scowl of someone annoyed with the world in general and her corner of it in particular.

"I'm looking for a patient by the name of Sister John Roberta," I said. "She checked in yesterday afternoon. Can you tell me what room she's in?"

The nurse gave me a waspish look. "Patient location information is available at the lobby desk."

"I would have got it there if I could have," I said. "The

problem is, there's nobody at the lobby desk. Just a phone and a fax and a computer." Somehow, I'd thought that a small-town hospital would be more friendly than hospitals in the big city. I guess institutions are institutions, wherever you find them.

"Go back to the lobby and wait," the nurse commanded. "I'll get somebody to help you."

A few minutes later, a dark-haired young woman in a plaid shirt and denim wraparound skirt appeared, "Cherie Lee" printed on her happy-face name badge.

"Sorry," she said brightly, and set down a steaming mug of coffee. "We don't get a whole lotta traffic on Monday mornings. My cousin Alma stopped in-my mama's brother's oldest girl, who I haven't seen for months an' months-and I took a break. Who was it you was askin' for? We'll just have a look right here in the computer and-" She made an exasperated noise. The happy face had been swallowed by a blank screen. "Well, darn it. Wouldn't you just know? We're down again. Can I get you some coffee while we're waiting?"

The coffee-three ounces of a pale brown liquid that tasted like the water they'd used to wash out the pot-came in a white plastic cup. While I sipped it, I thought about what had transpired in the cafe a little while ago.

If it was true that Dwight had spent the night in jail, I had to eliminate him as an arson suspect. Of course, he still might have taken a couple of shots at me, but why? I was back to square one, with two big questions staring me in the face.

If Dwight hadn't set the fires, who had?

If Dwight hadn't shot at me, who had?

They weren't questions I was going to answer sitting around in the waiting room. I went to the desk and persuaded Cherie Lee to ask the starchy nurse to check the charge sheet. It showed that Roberta, Sister John had already been released-at 8:45 A.M., while I was talking to Carl Townsend at the cafe. When I spoke to yet another

nurse, the one who had actually overseen the discharge, I learned that die patient had left with a woman in street clothes. A nun? The nurse didn't know.

"I was worried about her," the nurse said. "She was crying. It's not good for asthmatics to be upset, you know. Emotional events are likely to trigger an attack. I wondered whether it was a good idea to release her, but Dr. Townsend had already approved it." She looked up as a man approached. "Oh, hello, Dr. Townsend."

Royce Townsend had none of his father's affability and good looks. He was round and short-shorter than I, and I'm only five-six-with brown hair and dark eyes, closely spaced. His upper lip was fringed with a sparse mustache and his chin receded behind a small, nattily trimmed beard. He wore a white lab coat, a stethoscope, and a pair of five-hundred-dollar eelskin cowboy boots.

"This is Ms. Bayles, doctor," the nurse said deferentially. "From St. Theresa's. She's asking about Sister John Roberta."