"St. Louis, I think. Somewhere in the Midwest."

I sat down at the table, not quite satisfied. ' 'Mother Winifred is sure the woman was John Roberta's sister? It couldn't have been someone else, pretending to be-"

"What? What are you talking about, China?"

I sighed. I was probably grasping at straws, trying to make a mystery where none existed. "Oh, nothing," I said. It was too bad that John Roberta's mother had died, and too bad that I couldn't ask her who she was afraid of. But if I couldn't reach her, neither could anyone else. And if she were truly afraid for her life at St. Theresa's, she'd probably feel a whole lot safer in St. Louis.

Still, I couldn't help feeling I'd run up against a stone wall. I couldn't talk to my two most promising informants, John Roberta and Olivia. I was down to the three Rs- Ramona, Rose, and Regina-and Sister Rowena, the infir-marian, all of whom Father Steven had mentioned.

Maggie took the plate out of the microwave and put it in front of me. "Don't burn yourself," she said.

The lasagna was bubbling and fragrant with basil and thyme. I picked up my fork. "Father Steven," I said. "What do you know about him?"

Maggie leaned against the counter. "I don't really know anything," she said. "I've heard a few things, that's all."

"What have you heard?"

"Just gossip." She shifted uncomfortably. "You know how it is in a place like this. Sometimes I think you can never really get to the truth of anything. Everyone's got opinions, and no facts."

"So what's the gossip?"

Maggie hiked herself up on the counter. "That he's on probation with the diocese."

"But he's been here three or four years."

"Four."

"That's a long time to be on probation."

She gave me a straight look. "What I hear is that he's on probation for life. The bishop is supposed to be watching him. If he screws up again, he's-" She made a slitting motion across her throat.

"No kidding?" I thought of Father Steven's bitter, sardonic face, his fire-and-brimstone sermons. "What did he do that was so bad?"

"Choirboys," she said, and let me think about that while she swept the floor and wiped the stove.

I finished the lasagna, ate my applesauce, and took my plate to the sink to rinse it, still considering whether someone who messed around with choirboys might turn to writing accusatory letters and setting fires. ' 'Are you busy this afternoon?" I asked, putting the plate in the drainer.

"It depends," Maggie said. She hung up her apron, took a jacket from a hook, and shrugged into it. She glanced around the kitchen to make sure that everything was in order. "I need to be back here by three o'clock. I'm making apple strudel for dessert tonight. But I've got time to help you, if that's what you're asking."

I gave her a grateful look. Maggie had lived in this place for a long time, and people trusted her. ' 'How about going to the infirmary with me to talk to Rowena?"

' 'You think she might be involved?'' Maggie asked, startled.

"She's certainly a possibility," I said, and on the way to the infirmary, I filled Maggie in on what I'd discovered the day before. She listened soberly, until I got to the part about Anne hanging the ketchup-stained swimsuit from the cross.

She smiled. "Anne would love to radicalize St. T's."

I wanted to tell her that Anne was planning to leave, but I wasn't sure whether I should. "Do you think that could happen?''

"It could. Reformers aren't isolated any longer. There's a network, and moral support. When you're under the gun, support counts for a lot. Anne could make a change."

"What about you?" I asked. "Do you want to make changes?"

She gave a little shrug. "Right now I just want to find my way again, be quiet and listen for a little guidance. Of course, if Reverend Mother General insists on building a retreat center here, I suppose I'll have to take a stand." She lifted her chin. "Somehow I feel that God's rooting for the garlic."

And God had Sadie's help. But Maggie would hear all about that tomorrow, after the board meeting was over and the news leaked out. "What can you tell me about Row-ena?" I asked.

"Not much, actually. She managed St. Agatha's infirmary for the last ten years or so. Somebody told me she used to be a registered nurse."

"I wouldn't think there's much need for an infirmary in a place like this-not anymore, anyway."

She nodded. "In some ways, it's a relic from the days when monastic communities were more closed off. Still, sisters need a place where they can be looked after when they have the flu or a bad cold. A lot of them aren't exactly young anymore. And then there are the little things-cuts, bruises, poison ivy, things like that." She gave me an oblique look. "It happens less often now, but nuns-especially novices-used to have quite a few psychosomatic ailments. The infirmarian was supposed to be able to tell whether a sister was really sick or suffering some sort of nervous complaint."

I didn't ask what happened to the sisters with the nervous complaints. "Does Rowena have enough patients to keep her busy full-time?"

"I doubt it. Word has it that if Olivia becomes abbess, Rowena will be her administrative assistant. The infirmary will be phased out."

"That's interesting," I said. I remembered John Roberta's flurried, frightened whisper, and the panic on her pale

face. Sister Olivia says we have to stick together. And Sister Rowena says if I tell, I'm being disloyal. They might-

"Yes," Maggie said. "From what I hear, Rowena and Olivia make a good team. They think alike."

Chapter Twelve

The infirmary was housed in two small connecting rooms at one end of Hannah's first floor. I thought the place was empty until I heard the thump of a metal pail in the other room.

Maggie went through the connecting door and almost bumped into a heavyset, powerful-looking woman on her hands and knees, energetically scrubbing the floor with a soapy brush. The single bed had been stripped to the bare mattress and pushed against the wall, and the window was flung open. The smell of pine oil disinfectant was heavy on the chilly air.

"Sister Rowena?" Maggie asked. "I'm Margaret Mary, and this is China Bayles. I hope we're not interrupting."

Still on her knees, Sister Rowena straightened. Her face was flushed with exertion, her veil was askew, and the hem of her navy skirt was pinned up with a large safety pin, showing thick calves and navy stockings pulled up past her knees. Her pale thighs bulged out over the tight elastic tops of the stockings.

"Interrupting?" she snapped. "Of course you're interrupting. Thank God. I am sick of scrubbing this floor." She dropped her scrub brush into the bucket with a splash. "Give me a hand, will you? These knees aren't as young as they used to be."

Stepping forward to help her up, I recognized her. Sister Rowena was the woman who had taken charge of Sister Ruth the night before. She was a woman of sixty, perhaps, although it's hard to judge someone's age when you can't see her hair. Hers must have been dark, though. Her intimidating brows, almost a man's brows, were nearly black, and I could see faint traces of dark hair on her upper lip. The hard, square hands she held out, one to Maggie and one to me, were reddened by the hot water and detergent.

We tugged and Rowena clambered heavily to her feet. She unpinned her skirt and adjusted her veil, muttering.