“We can’t use the elevator until the wiring has been completely tested,” one of the nuns apologized.

We went into a clean living room, a copy of Sister Frankie’s, with books and bright throws and a statue of the Virgin, and I was put in an armchair. Someone forced hot, sweet tea into me, and I thought maybe it really was Wednesday night again, that I was back at Sister Frankie’s, that the fire, my eyes, my hands, all that had been a nightmare, and now… I sat up… And now I would pull myself together and stop being a tragedy queen.

“I don’t have my bag,” I said.

“I picked up your bag after the fire.” That was Sister Carolyn’s voice. It was cold. I was a selfish bitch, worrying about my private possessions in the middle of a disaster.

“Not my handbag, my evidence bag.” I tried to stand, but the sisters kept me in the chair.

Sister Carolyn squatted so I could see her face. “Evidence?”

I drank down the rest of the tea. It made me feel marginally better, but it was still hard to be coherent. “Evidence about the fire. Hard to explain. Bottle fragments, the police should have taken them. Test… for assel… acc…” I was close to tears with frustration at not being able to speak, and I remembered Sister Claudia, her tears, her garbled English.

“What was in bottles?” I finally managed to say.

“What difference does it make? Frankie is dead whether it was gasoline or scotch!” one of the other nuns cried out.

“Matters. Matters. Ordinary fuel. Anyone, but I think pros.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Sister Carolyn said, “I know you’re exhausted, but I need you to explain what you’re saying. Are you saying this was the work of a professional arsonist?”

Another sister handed me a second cup of tea, laced this time with brandy. I choked as I swallowed the alcohol, but it did its job, giving me the fleeting illusion of clarity. “The accelerant. I think it was some kind of jet fuel, something that burned fast and very hot, or the books wouldn’t have gone so fast, and neither would-” I broke off. “Her head… I tried to catch her, to wrap her, but her head-”

Hands were all around me holding me, and, after another swallow, I managed to say, “I wanted to know two things. Did the police take the fragments in for analysis? I don’t think they did or I wouldn’t have found such big chunks of broken bottle. And, if not, I want a private lab I use to do an analysis, tell me what was used.”

Sister Carolyn Zabinska nodded in understanding, and added that she wanted to talk to me about the attack itself, she needed to know what happened. “I was planning on calling on you. As I said, I found your handbag. I tried to see you in the hospital, but they have a lockdown on your visitors, even nuns. But if you’ve been released-”

“She hasn’t been!” Petra said. “She broke out just to come here tonight.”

“That’s reassuring,” one of the other sisters said. “Not to be rude, but you look like death on a mop handle, and I thought this was another sign of our execrable health care system, that they’d released you before you were fit.”

“Yes, she needs to be back in bed,” Zabinska said. “I’ll collect your evidence bag from Frankie’s. If you tell me where to take it, I’ll make sure it gets to your forensics lab. But it’s time your niece-oh, cousin, is it?-drove you to the hospital.”

“Of course I will,” Petra said. “But how am I going to get her past the front desk into her bed?”

“Which hospital?” one of the sisters asked.

“Beth Israel,” I said.

“I have a pass,” the sister said. “I work there with the HIV/AIDS moms.”

She murmured something to the other two, who gave a ripple of laughter. I dozed and then came to with a start as I felt them fastening a scarf around my head.

“Okay, Sister V.I.,” Zabinska said. “On your feet. We’re going to bring a little succor to the ill and bed-ridden.”

The three nuns were laughing. They’d donned habits. I remembered Sister Frankie saying she wore hers whenever she had to go in front of a judge. The nuns helped me to my feet and showed me my face in the bathroom mirror. They’d pinned a veil around my face, hiding my chopped hair.

It was startling to see my eyes emerge from a nun’s face, as if the piece of cloth had changed who I was. Too wild-eyed and drawn to be Audrey Hepburn in The Nun’s Story. Maybe Kathleen Byron in Black Narcissus.

Zabinska and the sister who worked with the HIV moms each took one of my arms and guided me out the door and down the stairs, with Petra and the third sister following. We were moving slowly because of me and had reached only the top of the third flight when we heard a crash from the floor below us.

Sister Carolyn dropped my arm. “That came from Frankie’s place.”

Feet pounded down the hall below us. Sister Carolyn ran down the stairs. The HIV sister stayed with me, but the other nun ran after Sister Carolyn and my cousin pelted after her. I wanted to lead the charge, but I had to grab the banister and move one slow step at a time.

We reached the turn in the landing in time to see a man running down the stairs, followed by the nuns and Petra. We heard Sister Carolyn demanding that the man stop, and then the front door opened, tires squealed. A moment later, Petra and the nuns reappeared.

“Someone went into the apartment and made off with your bag,” Zabinska announced. “How did they know to look for it?”

“Don’t know.” I shook my head wearily. It was hard for me to think. “Feds been watching building, you know that? Maybe them. Should’ve remembered. Maybe followed me from hospital… Thought I was clear, but not too clever right now.”

“The feds have been watching us?” the HIV nun echoed. “How do you know that?”

“In hospital… Told me…” I was starting to drift.

“We almost had him,” Sister Carolyn said. “He was wearing a stocking cap, and I grabbed it instead of his shoulder. Then he opened the door so hard he hit Mary Lou in the nose, and we got tangled up with each other. Now I’m really angry. If he was a federal agent, he’ll have some real explaining to do, beating up a nun in her own home.”

Mary Lou’s nose was bleeding. The HIV nun sat her on the stairs and tilted her head back, stanching the blood with her own veil. Other tenants came into the stairwell: more nuns, families with small children. The noise grew to a clamor that I couldn’t take in my current state. I collapsed on the stair next to Mary Lou with my plastic dark glasses back over my eyes.

“I need to lie down.” I was panting. “Sisters… Go to Sister Frankie’s… Look for bottle fragments… Bring flashlights… Bring camera, bring clean bag… Take pictures where you find… Pick up with glove… something clean… Put in bag… Seal… label… Now!”

Again the sisters murmured among themselves. The HIV nun, who had the hospital pass, would go with me to Beth Israel. Sister Carolyn and Sister Mary Lou would take care of hunting for more glass fragments.

Petra ran ahead to get her Pathfinder while the three nuns got me down the stairs. As they helped me into the backseat of the SUV, Sister Carolyn handed me my purse.

“You’re not what I was expecting when I looked in your billfold and saw that you were a detective.”

“That’s okay. You and your pals weren’t what I expected when I learned you were nuns.”

She smiled and cupped her hands on my forehead, a caress that was a blessing. “We’ll pray for your speedy recovery.”

When the resident made rounds the next morning, he was dismayed to see that I’d had a setback. He ordered me to stay in the hospital an extra day. Lotty saw that I had fresher bruises on my arms and legs than could have come from the fire, but she didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell.

I walked up and down the hall a dozen times, trying to build my stamina, but I had to go back to bed afterward, which was infuriating. That was basically how I spent the day, walking and sleeping, Mid-afternoon, I went downstairs for another espresso.