That was fair enough. "You said Mother Winifred is acting abbess," I said. "Who will take over when she steps down?"

"The nuns will elect an abbess," Maggie said. She paused. "If they can."

"What do you mean?"

"There are two candidates. Sister Gabriella is from St. T's. She's managed the garlic farm for five or six years. Sister Olivia was named abbess of St. Agatha's the week before it closed. She ran the conference center."

"Uh-oh," Ruby said. "Sounds like trouble."

Ruby was right. You didn't have to be a Vatican diplomat to understand the implications of the choice. The new abbess would have control over fourteen million dollars, give or take a million or two. Sister Gabriella would no doubt want to use the money to raise more rocambole. Sister Olivia would presumably transform St. T's into a conference center.

"When will the election be held?" I asked.

"They've already had one vote," Maggie said. "But the two groups are evenly matched, twenty on each side."

"So, they're deadlocked, huh," Ruby said.

Maggie nodded. "The order's charter says the abbess has to be elected by a majority-in this case, twenty-one votes. Of course, Reverend Mother General would like the new abbess to have more support than that. She won't schedule another election until it looks like one of the candidates can get a majority."

"Meanwhile," I said, "Mother Winifred is still acting."

"I'm sure she'd rather be working in the herb garden," Maggie said, "but she's stock with the job for a while. Until one of the sisters changes her mind, or leaves, or…"

"Or dies," Ruby said, with a laugh to show that she was only joking.

Maggie didn't laugh.

Chapter Three

Carr, Texas, is not a bustling metropolis. You might drive through it before you could say, "Where are the Golden Arches?" But it's a very pretty town, with pecans and live oaks arching over narrow, brick-paved streets, lined by frame cottages trimmed with turn-of-the-century gingerbread and set in neat gardens. It looked like Pecan Springs a couple of decades ago, before tourism brought the developers into town. I wondered fleetingly what it would be like to live here, maybe even move my shop here. Life would certainly be more peaceful. But it was too far for McQuaid to commute, except on weekends. Which might not be a bad idea, I thought. It would give us a little breathing space.

"We'll get to St T's too late for lunch," Maggie said. "Make a left turn at that light, Ruby. We'll stop at Bern-ice's and get something to eat."

We were on the square. The hardware store was on one corner, its window full of saws, coiled rope, water heaters, and a gleaming white commode. The Carr State Bank was on another, fronted by a concrete planter containing a leafless tree still draped with Christmas lights and a sign that said, Be Good, for Goodness' Sake. A Carnegie library was on the third comer, next to a five-and-dime. Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church, with a letterboard announcing that Father Steven Shaw celebrated Mass at eleven on Sundays, stood on the fourth. A stone courthouse commanded the center. It might not have qualified as Most Picturesque Town Square in Texas, but the church was painted, the bank looked prosperous, and the hardware store had three or four pickups parked out front. Next to the bank was Bernice's Cafe.

"St. T's is mostly vegetarian and low-fat, so this is your last chance for chicken-fried steak," Maggie said as Ruby swung diagonally into the curb. "And you haven't had fried onion rings until you've eaten Bernice's."

I blinked. "Chicken-fried and onion rings? I thought you were into gourmet cooking."

Maggie grinned and slipped into a West Texas drawl. "Yes, ma'am, honey. Out here, Bernice's chicken-fried is gourmet cookin'. But don't believe everything she says," Maggie added in her usual voice. "She's the switchboard operator on the local grapevine. If you encourage her, you'll get an earful of gossip."

Inside the cafe, we were greeted by a weathered, gritty-voiced woman in jeans and a plaid Western shirt, standing behind a green Formica-covered counter. "Well, Margaret Mary," she said, grinning at Maggie. "I'll be durned. Been a couple years, ain't it? How are you?" The woman, whose apricot-colored hair turned up in an Andrews Sisters puff, wiped her hands on a white apron and lowered the volume on a pink plastic radio that was playing an old Johnny Cash ballad called "Ring of Fire." Over the radio hung a fly-specked cheesecake poster girl with a Budweiser in her hand. We had just stepped into a time warp.

"Hello, Bernice," Maggie said. "It's nice to see you." She pulled out a scarred wooden chair and sat down at a table covered with a red-and-white-checked oilcloth. Ruby and I joined her.

Bernice took in Ruby's hooded caftan and came to the obvious conclusion. "Don't tell me, let me guess. Y'all are headin' out to St T's." She didn't wait for confirmation. '* 'F that's the case, you'll need somethin' fillin'." She went behind the counter and pushed mugs under the old-fashioned coffee urn. "From what I hear, the cookin' out there has went straight to hell since you left, Margaret Mary. And that's not the only tiling that's went to hell, either," she added, carrying the mugs to our table. She glanced at Ruby. "Pardon my French, Sister."

Ruby looked taken aback, then inclined her head gently as she took the coffee.

Maggie ignored Bernice's invitation to gossip. "I'll have the chicken-fried," she said, "French fries and an order of onion rings."

"I will too," Ruby said. She looked up with a beneficent, nunlike smile. Bernice's mistake was giving her a new view of herself.

"Make that three," I said, but unlike Maggie, I'm not above tweaking the town grapevine. "Is something going on at St T's?"

Bernice wiped her hands on her apron. I could have sworn she was wearing Midnight in Paris. Maybe she was. The five-and-dime across the street might still have a few of those little blue forty-nine-cent bottles stashed under the counter.

"Some folks say it's just coinkidinks. Other folks think it's bad luck." She raised both plucked eyebrows. "Ya ask me, somebody's tryin' to fix their wagon."

Ruby was looking divinely unconcerned. Maggie was trying not to listen. "Whose wagon?" I asked.

"Why, them nuns, of course." Bernice bent over my shoulder and lowered her grainy voice. ' 'You go out there, you watch yourself, y'hear? Keep a bucket o' water by your bed."

There was a moment of silence. Then Maggie sighed the sigh of someone who's been trapped into a knock-knock joke. "Okay, Bernice, we give up. Why should we keep a bucket of water by the bed?"

Bernice feigned surprise. "What? Oh, sorry, Margaret Mary. I thought you wadn't interested."

"Has there been a fire?" I asked.

"Christmas Eve, in the chapel." Bernice's voice signified disaster. "Wadn't the first, neither. Thanksgivin', it was a grease fire in the kitchen. Couple weeks 'fore that, the barn."

"Grease?" Maggie was incredulous. "Why would there be grease in the kitchen? They don't cook fried foods."

"Did any of the fires do much damage?" I asked.

"Not a whole lot." Bernice waved her hand. "You remember Dwight Baldwin, Margaret Mary? The maintenance man? Well, Dwight was out in the yard when the kitchen got afire, an' he run in an' grabbed a pot lid. He got to the barn fire, too, 'fore it could spread, and he and Father Steven put out the chapel fire. None of 'em had much of a chance to git goin'. But it all adds up, don'cha see?"