How many times had I heard a defendant plead, "Not guilty," and know in my heart that the words were a lie? Ruth's plea for forgiveness was a lie, too, or perhaps a kind of plea bargain. She didn't sound heartily sorry, or even sorry at all. She sounded as if she were doing what she'd been told to do, no more, no less. There could be no redemption in such a confession, I thought.

But although Ruth's words fell sadly short of what Mother Winifred might have wanted, the sisters' response did not. They stood, joined hands, and followed Mother in their reply, which was a little ragged, but rich with heartfelt love and healing compassion.

"We forgive you, Sister, for we too have sinned. Go in the mercy and grace of God, and be blessed."

I stood, too, in my corner, and emotion rose in my throat. The love and compassion I felt in this room might be as close as I'd ever feel to God, but it was enough. It was certainly enough to heal the rift, however broad and jagged, in this small community, to bless its future. And to bless me, too.

Ruth stood for a moment, as if she wasn't sure it was all over. Finally, she turned to Mother Winifred. "My penance?" she asked. There was something almost like eagerness in the tilt of her head. "If I've sinned, I must do penance."

Mother's voice was sad. "Tomorrow I will ask our Reverend Mother General to consult with me on the matter of your penance. You will be informed, Sister."

"Thank you," Ruth said, and sat down.

And that's all there was to it. Another prayer, a moment of silence, and everyone filed out of the chapel.

No one said a word. There was nothing left to say.

' 'Who was the other sister you thought Olivia might accuse?" Mother Winifred asked. It was the next afternoon, warm, sunshiny, the temperature in the low seventies-the kind of crisp, cool day you remember when the Texas sun has charred the August grass and even the sage has wilted. Mother and I were sitting on the wooden bench in the corner of her garden. Tom was leaning against the stone wall beside us, his face held up to the sun.

"I thought it might be Regina," I said. "She had been in the novitiate at the time the first letters were written, and at St. Agatha's when the fire occurred there. And she confessed to taking Mother Hilaria's hot plate from the storeroom. But when I met her and Ruth in the parking lot and saw the rash on Ruth's hand and arm-"

Mother frowned. "The rash?"

Tom shook his head disbelievingly. "You could tell she was guilty from a rash?"

"I could guess," I said. "Mother had told me that Ga-briella had just received a letter containing a leaf of rue, and I know that some people are sensitive to the plant. The juice causes a rather unpleasant dermatitis that looks like a bad sunburn or a severe case of poison ivy. I thought it was entirely possible that Ruth was the one who had picked the rue to put in her poison-pen letter."

"Just out of curiosity," Tom said wryly, "would you have entered the rue-and Sister Ruth's rash-as evidence in court?"

"Maybe," I said. I laughed. "I suppose I'd also have had to call a couple of botanists as expert witnesses to describe the effects of the plant. Then again, we have Olivia's accusation and Ruth's confession. And Regina told me this morning that Ruth had experienced dermatitis before-apparently on the occasions when she picked the leaves to put into the letters."

"It's ironic," Mother said softly, "that the plant she employed as a symbol of regret and repentance was a witness to her guilt."

I nodded. ' 'By the way, Regina also told me that the fire that scarred Father Steven was entirely accidental. He fell asleep with a cigarette and caught the mattress on fire- which clears up that mystery."

Mother turned to Tom. "Let me say again how sorry I am about your father, Tom." Her voice was filled with sympathy. "He made some foolish mistakes where the foundation's investments are concerned, but he was not motivated by personal greed. He was a fine man in spite of his failings. We will all remember him fondly."

Mercy and compassion, I thought. Would Mother Winifred be so forgiving if she knew that the old man had killed her friend Sadie? But perhaps she would.

Tom glanced at me. In the twenty-four hours since his father and Sadie Marsh had died, the Carr Bulletin had carried the stories of the two deaths, Sadie's in the left-hand column, Tom Senior's in the right, each column headed by a black-bordered photograph. The banner headline over the stories read "Prominent Local Citizens Die." The newspaper had not made any link between the deaths. More to the point, a call from the sheriff's office (from the dispatcher, actually-Stu Walters didn't take the time to call me himself) had informed me that a thorough investi-

gation of Sadie Marsh's death had revealed that it was accidental.

It was over. Mostly, anyway. There were a few loose ends to be tied up-a last confession and a pledge.

"I want you to know, Mother," Tom said, "that I will do my level best to restore the foundation's assets. It's going to take a while, but you have my personal assurance that-"

Mother Winifred shook her head gently. "I understand what you're saying, Tom, and I'm pleased that you want to assume the responsibility." She smiled. "But we take our vow of poverty and simplicity quite seriously, even joyfully. It doesn't confine us or keep us from doing what we want. On the contrary, it frees us to pay attention to our spiritual life. The three hundred thousand dollars in the account now will yield enough each year-in addition to what we earn from our garlic-to make the necessary repairs to our buildings. That's all we care about. We're better off without the rest."

Tom raised his eyebrows. "That may be. But I doubt that the Reverend Mother General is going to be quite so philosophical. Have you notified her yet?''

Mother's smile became slightly strained. "I talked with her by telephone this morning. She was perturbed by the news, of course-both Sadie's death and the loss of the funds. But she agrees that there is nothing to be gained from making any of it public. The lawyers will be consulted, but Reverend Mother General was quite definite about not wanting any negative publicity."

Tom could read between those lines, just as I could. "Perturbed" probably didn't do justice to Reverend Mother General's reaction. But she wouldn't have been anxious to reveal that a major embezzlement had occurred on her watch. She would hush up the whole thing, leaving Tom to quietly recoup his father's losses as he could. And allowing St. Theresa's the freedom-the precious freedom- of going about its ordinary work.

And that was the essential paradox in this whole business, it seemed to me. Mrs. Laney's gift, which she had hoped would free the monastery to pursue its contemplative ends, had almost destroyed it. In the Church as in the rest of the world, the prospect of money fosters greed and cov-etousness. Like a capital-rich corporation ripe for takeover or a bride with an enticing dowry, a wealthy St. Theresa's was a prime target. Poor, it was safe, a prize nobody wanted. With neither money nor land at stake, the sisters who wished to live quietly and contemplatively could go on growing garlic. The others would be free to go to one of the order's sister houses, where they might find a different way to serve. Olivia and Regina, I was sure, would be the first to leave. And with their going, the terrible chasm that had divided the community could be bridged, and it could become whole once more.

Dominica stepped through the gate. ' 'Mother, this phone message just came for you." She handed Mother a folded piece of paper. "If you have any questions, I'm supposed to phone the office and tell the secretary-"

Mother Winifred scanned the note. "No," she said, "no questions. Thank you, Sister."