"I suppose someone spoke to the novice mistress about the letters," Maggie said.

"I believe so. I didn't feel it was my place, of course. All I could do was pray. I pray now, for Marie's soul and for the soul of this hateful person."

I studied her: a shy, quiet woman who spent time by herself, who worked in the herb garden where she could pluck a rue leaf or two to tuck into her letters. But Sister Rose's guileless distress hid nothing darker than her own sorrow. There was nothing to connect her to either the fires or the letters. Maggie hugged her, I thanked her, and we left.

Sister Ramona seemed a more promising informant, not only because Father Steven had mentioned her, but because she was one of the few people who had visited Perpetua before her death. After a short search, Maggie and I found her with several sisters in the craft room, working on the wreaths, swags, and braids that had helped to support St. T through the lean years. While they worked, they were listening to a Gregorian chant on a cassette player. I looked around at the quietly industrious group, surrounded by beautiful materials and intent on their crafting, and wondered how long they'd be doing this. At least some of them, I was certain, would prefer it to running a conference center or cleaning up after church bigwigs. I know I would.

Sister Ramona was a tall, elegant sister with flawlessly beautiful skin and long graceful fingers, the nails carefully shaped and nicely manicured. She might have been in her forties. She wore a denim apron over her habit, and she was standing in front of a heavy wooden easel that held a large straw wreath base in the shape of a heart. She had covered the heart-pretty skimpily, I thought-with dried artemisia and clumps of small heads of garlic. Beside her were boxes of red strawflowers, pink and red globe ama-

ranth, and bright red celosia, and a spool of red twist ribbon.

Sister Ramona stepped away from her work, studying it unhappily. "I tell Sister Miriam that I'm not very good at making these things, but she says I have to keep trying." She spoke petulantly, in a carefully modulated voice that sounded as if she might have had dramatic training. "It's crooked, isn't it? Maybe I should stick some more of those red things on the left. Would that help?"

I thought she should take it apart and start over again, but I didn't want to say so.

Maggie lowered her voice so she wouldn't be heard by the others. ' "This is China Bayles, Sister. Mother has asked us to help her answer some questions."

"Oh, yes, the investigator." She gave up on the wreath and began folding the twist ribbon into uneven loops. "Well, all I can tell you about the fires is that they frighten me to my very bones. The thought of somebody burning the place down around our ears is enough to keep me awake all night." She shook her head, sighing dramatically. "And how anybody could write those horrible letters-"

"What can you tell me about them?" I asked.

"Me?" Her eyes widened. "Well, I've never gotten one myself, if that's what you're asking. And of course I have absolutely no idea who's writing them. Not a clue, as Jessica Fletcher would say. But I have a theory about the bigger picture."

"The bigger picture?"

She looked down at the bow she had made and clucked crossly. "There, do you see? I've got it crooked again. I am so wretchedly clumsy at making these hateful things. I'd almost rather work in the kitchen than-"

"What bigger picture?"

She pulled the bow apart and began to loop the ribbon again. I wanted to take it out of her hands and show her how, but she probably wouldn't have thanked me. "Well, there's something awfully odd going on here, wouldn't you

say? I mean, there was Sister Anne's swimsuit hanging on the cross, just dripping with blood. They tried to tell us afterward that it was ketchup, but I know better." She held up the bow, examining it critically. ' 'And of course nothing like that ever happened at St. Agatha's. Life was much different there, much more varied. We had access to the theater and music and-Oh, blast]" She glared at the bow. "But it's the best I can do. Really, I'd rather work in the laundry than try to please Sister Miriam."

I tried again. "What about the bigger picture, Sister?"

She picked up the glue gun. "The blood was a sign, wouldn't you say? A portent, like all these terrible fires. And Mother Hilaria, dying in such a cruel way, and Sister Perpetua being taken. Who knows where it's going to end? I go to bed every night wondering if Hannah will burn to the ground before dawn." She dropped a large dollop of melted glue onto the bow.

"I understand you visited Sister Perpetua before she died."

"That's right." She thrust the bow onto a bare spot in the wreath and held it for a moment. "She was my novice mistress at the motherhouse in El Paso. I thought I should say something encouraging in her last illness."

Maggie tilted her head. ' 'Excuse me for interrupting, Sister. Were you in the same novice class as Sister Rose?"

Sister Ramona straightened the bow and stepped back, cocking her head. ' "There. I hope Sister Miriam is satisfied. Of course, she'll tell me there's not enough artemisia and that the loops aren't even, but-" She paused, frowning. "What did you ask?"

"About the novice class," I prompted.

"Oh, yes, Sister Rose. Yes, we were in the same class."

"Then maybe you recall the letters," Maggie said. "Poison-pen letters, Sister Rose said they were."

"Poison-pen letters?" Ramona began picking glue off her fingers with a distasteful look. "Yes, of course I remember. It was a sad affair. One of the novices left because

of it, and others got their feelings hurt. But I never saw any of the letters myself, and it was a very long time ago. Years and years. You might ask Sister Regina. She's bound to remember. She was always in the diick of things."

"Sister Regina was in your class?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," Ramona said promptly. "She's older, of course, because she was a nurse before she took her vows. Sister Olivia was in the same class. She and Sister Regina were friends. We called them the Bobbsey Twins because they were always bobbing up here and there, wherever you least expected them. They seemed to know things the rest of us didn't." She stepped back and wiped her hands on her apron. "Well, it's done, for better or worse."

"How about the other sisters here at St. T's-were any of them in your class?'' Maggie asked.

"Oh yes, several. Sister Allegra and Sister Ruth and Sister Rachel. Oh, and Sister John Roberta, too." She pursed her lips. "Of course, we were all quite devoted to Sister Perpetua, God rest her soul."

Olivia and Regina, the Bobbsey Twins. Questioned Sr. O about Sr. P's letter, Mother Hilaria had written. And later, she had questioned Sr. O and Sr. R about the letter to Sister Anne.

"You said something about a bigger picture," I said. ' 'What did you mean by that?''

Ramona shook her head. "It's just a theory. You probably don't want to hear it." She picked up a whisk broom and began brushing bits of dried flowers into a little pile.

I frowned. "If you have information-"

"Well, it's not exactly information. It's more like an explanation." She swept the flowers onto a piece of paper and dumped them into the trash can beside the table. "It's about the children of Israel, you see."

"The children of Israel?"

"God punished them by making them wander in the desert for forty years."

"I'm afraid I still don't-"

She gave me a pointed look. "This is the desert. And we're the children of Israel. We're being punished, although for what I don't know."

"I gather you don't like it here," Maggie said dryly.

"Like it here?" Sister Ramona gave a short laugh. "Like it here? Let me put it this way, Sister. I do not enjoy sweating in the sun in the fields in July. I detest the smell of garlic. I have no talent for making wreaths. I am not cut out for desert living."