Rueful Death (24 page)

And now that her defense against the truth had been breached, we had come almost to the end. There was only:he admission left, only her final confession. For that-

I took the card out of my pocket, unfolded it, and held it out. "What is this, Olivia?"

She glanced at it, then away. "It's a cross," she said helplessly. Her voice cracked.

"It's your cross, isn't it?"

"Mine?" She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "No, of course not. Why would I have a cross like that?"

"Why-?" I looked down. I'd been in a hurry when I picked up the cross, and I'd put it in my pocket without examining it closely. Now I did, and saw what I hadn't seen before.

In the center of the cross was an emblem. On the emblem were two letters, a K and a C, elaborately intertwined. K and C. The Knights of Columbus.

F. Lee Bailey once said that you should never ask a witness a question you didn't already know the answer to. "If you do," he said, "you deserve whatever the hell you get."

I
had
known the answer to my question. I had been absolutely confident that Olivia would say, "Yes, that's my cross." But I had been wrong, disastrously wrong, wrong
again.
I looked down at the cross. There were two people who might have worn it, and neither of them were in this room.

I cleared my throat. ' 'So you… you had nothing to do with the assault on Sadie Marsh?" It was less a question than a bewildered statement of the unthinkable truth that was just beginning to dawn on me.

"The assault?" Olivia's gasping perplexity was even greater than mine.

"Tom Rowan and I found her this morning in the barn at the M Bar M. She had been hit on the head and left for dead."

"Dead!" Olivia half-rose. Her face registered both profound distress and a fierce, undisguised hope. ' 'Sadie Marsh is
dead!"

"No," I said. "At least, she wasn't when the ambulance took her to the hospital. But she has severe head wounds. She may not live."

She sank back weakly. "Did she-? Did the board-?"

"Look at the old deed?" I shook my head. "She didn't make it to the meeting. Somebody tried to kill her to keep her from talking."

Her voice was thick, her eyes staring. "Somebody-But who-? Why-?"

I shook my head, swallowing hard, painfully. "I don't know. Not yet." I could guess who, but I didn't want to. I'd been wrong so many times in the last few days. I could only pray I was wrong this time too.

"You thought it was me!" Olivia was breathing through her mouth, short, panting breaths, like a dog. "You really believed I could have killed Sadie!" She threw back her head and began to laugh, a grating sound that ended in a crazy, gasping cackle. "You thought I-"

"Olivia!" Mother Winifred put a hand on her shoulder. "Get hold of yourself!"

Olivia stopped as suddenly as if she'd been gagged. She collapsed against the chair, her eyes closed. "I hated her for being so smug," she whispered. "I despised her for keeping me from doing what God wants me to do. But I didn't kill her."

There was one last thing. "What was she wearing?" I asked.

' 'I told you. She was ready for bed. She was wearing a purple bathrobe and flannel pajamas." She opened her eyes

and held out trembling hands. "You have to believe me. I'm innocent!"

A purple bathrobe and flannel pajamas. The recollection of the unmade bed I'd seen this morning came back to me, and I realized its significance. Sadie had slept there last night, after Olivia had left. She had been attacked early this morning, after she dressed but
before
she had time to make the bed, by the owner of the cross I held in my hand.

I folded the small silver object back into its cardboard packet and put it into my shirt pocket. Olivia couldn't help me determine what had happened to Sadie, but there were three other mysteries to be solved, and she had the answers to both.

"You may be innocent of this morning's assault," I said, "but you are guilty on other counts. You know who murdered Mother Hilaria. You know who wrote the letters, and you know who set the fires. I want you to name that person."

Mother gasped. "Murdered? Mother Hilaria was
murdered!"

Olivia's face was waxen. Her hands clutched the arms of her chair; her eyes were fixed on me. "You… know?" she whispered.

I nodded. "But I can't prove it, and I can't obtain her confession. You are the only one who can make her tell what she has done."

The silence crouched between us, waiting and wary. At last she shook her head.

I held her eyes. "You want to become the spiritual mother of these women. How can you expect them to turn to you for guidance and comfort and at the same time protect a sick individual who threatens their safety?''

Mother put her hand over Olivia's. "If you know who she is, you must lead her to confession, my child, and quickly. There has been another letter, delivered in the same manner, with the same enclosure-a leaf of rue."

Olivia closed her eyes. Her voice was thin and thready. "Who received
it?"

"Gabriella. The accusation was… ridiculous, or worse.'' Mother's voice was profoundly sad. ' 'Confession is the only way the writer can be redeemed, Olivia. And if you have been concealing her identity, it is
your
way to redemption, as well."

Olivia clutched Mother's hand in both her own and began to sob.

I stood. "I'm going to the hospital, Mother. But I should be back this evening. After supper, please gather the sisters-all of them-in the chapel."

Mother slipped her free arm around Olivia's shoulders and looked up at me. "The chapel? Yes, of course. But why?"

I looked at Olivia, still sobbing. ' 'Because,'' I said quietly, "it's time you assembled a Chapter of Faults. Sister Olivia is ready to accuse a sister who has sinned."

I left the cottage and hurried down the path to the parking lot and the truck. I had lied to Olivia when I said I knew who killed Mother Hilaria. I didn't know-not exactly, that is. I had narrowed it down to two people.

And then down to one. As I walked across the parking lot, I met two nuns coming toward me. I stopped to speak briefly, and held out my hand to each to thank her for her help. When I left them a moment later, I knew which of the sisters Olivia would accuse.

But I shouldn't be so confident. I had made too many mistakes in the last few days. Maybe I should confess
my
errors to the Chapter of Faults.

Every minute of the drive to the Carr County Hospital, I could feel that cross burning in my pocket like a hot coal straight from hell. Based on the information I had now, it belonged either to Tom or his father, both of whom were members of the Knights of Columbus.

Tom or his father. One or the other had attempted to murder Sadie Marsh, but I didn't know which. And I couldn't imagine why either one would have done it-until I remembered the short bit of conversation at the Lone Star the night before. The old man had been deeply upset at the idea that Sadie had invited me to the board meeting.
What's that woman up to, anyway?
he had demanded. Tom had answered, sharply,
I'll take care of Sadie, Dad.

And then, when I pulled up in front of the hospital just before three o'clock, I remembered something else: the envelope I had retrieved from Sadie's kitchen table this morning. The fat, sealed envelope Sadie had shown me the day before. She had implied that the contents had to do with the foundation's trust accounts, which were under the control of the bank-under the control of Tom Rowan, Senior

and Junior. The trust accounts that by now should amount to fourteen or fifteen million dollars.

But maybe not.
You know as well as I do,
Sadie had said,
what goes in don't necessarily come out.

I took the envelope out of the back pocket of my cords and unfolded it. It wasn't sealed. And it wasn't fat. It contained just one sheet of paper.

I'll never know what else Sadie had stashed in the envelope-records of the actual transactions, probably, with account numbers and balances, obtained from Mother Hi-laria. What was left was only one sheet of paper, filled with single-spaced typing, dated yesterday and signed "Sadie Marsh." It was the text of a statement she must have planned to read at the board meeting-and, from the look of it, to release to the county attorney. Whoever had taken the other pages probably meant to take this one as well.

What goes in don't necessarily come out.
The first paragraph told me why Sadie had made that bitter remark. The accounts that had been opened with something close to seven million dollars now amounted to two hundred ninety-some thousand and change.

I stared at the page, incredulous. St. Theresa's legacy had been stolen! Who had done it?
How
had it been done?

When I finished Sadie's report, I knew how, more or less, although the financial transactions were complicated and the details confusing. But I still didn't know who, or rather, which. I sat for a long time studying the paper, trying to see in it the face of the man who feared so deeply for his reputation-his, and his family's, and the bank's-that he was willing to murder to protect it.

Was it Tom? The Tom Rowan I'd known in Houston, the wheeler-dealer, the boy banking wonder, would certainly have been slick enough to pull off a complicated fraud like this one. According to Sadie's statement, the first transaction hadn't taken place until after he'd returned to Carr and gone to work at the bank. Yes, Tom certainly had the ability-the means-to pull something like this off, and

the opportunity. And the potential millions were a strong -otive.

Or was it his father? The old man had both opportunity Hid motive, yes. But did he have the means? He'd been a snail-town banker all his life. Was he capable of the complex financial maneuvering required for an embezzlement?f this size? And the attack on Sadie had certainly required some strength-was he capable of using the weapon, whatever it was, that had injured her?

Or maybe it was both of them. Maybe they had worked together to carry off the fraud, one calling the shots, the other providing the expertise. Perhaps both of them had gone to see Sadie early this morning, to plead with her not to expose them, maybe even offer her some sort of enticement. When she'd refused, they had bludgeoned her. Tom had seemed shocked enough when we discovered her lying in the stall, and even more shocked when he found that she was still alive. But he was certainly capable of faking it. He'd tried pretty hard to convince me that the horse had done it, too. And Sunday afternoon, when I'd told him about Mother Hilaria's diary and mentioned the leverage Sadie might have, he'd been very curious and even apprehensive. His reaction had seemed suspicious then. Now, in the light of the attack on Sadie, it seemed even more suspicious.

The report had nothing more to tell me. I folded it into the envelope and put the envelope in my purse, feeling infinitely sad. It was time to talk with the Rowans, father and son.

The yellow happy face was still bouncing across the computer monitor on the reception desk in the Carr County Hospital, and the desk was once again deserted. I pushed through the doors and walked rapidly to the nurses' station. A different nurse was there, wearing different glasses- plastic-rimmed, with sharp cat's-eye points at the outer corners-but the same stiff white uniform and the same starchy annoyance with the world. Her badge identified her as Vera Williams, RN.

"I'm looking for Sadie Marsh's room," I said.

She glanced up to see if she recognized me, discovered that she didn't, and went back to the form she was filling
out.
"Patient information is available from the receptionist in the lobby. Back through those double doors, please."

I leaned on the counter and assumed a cheerful drawl. "I checked there first, Vera, but Cherie Lee's on her break, wouldn't you just know? She's my cousin-my daddy's sister's second girl. O' course, you'd never know it from lookin' at us. She got all the purty in the fam'ly," I chuckled. "I c'n see you're real busy, but I wonder-could we take just one eentsy peek in your computer?"

Thus propitiated, Vera became almost human. ' 'Who are you looking for?"

"Sadie Marsh."

"Oh, yes. Intensive Care. Down the hall, to the left."

There was another nurses' station in Intensive Care, this one staffed by a redhead with freckles and a cheery expression.

"I've come about Sadie Marsh," I said. "She was admitted earlier today."

The cheeriness vanished as if it had been wiped off her face. "Are you a member of the family?"

"No," I said. This time, I opted for something closer to the truth. "I'm her attorney. I found her."

She shook her head. "I'm very sorry."

"Excuse me?"

"We did everything we could."

"Oh," I said. In my pocket, the cross blazed brighter and hotter.

She leaned over and began to shuffle pieces of paper. "Maybe you can help us fill in the deceased's personal info. Do you know the name of her next of kin? Husband? Children?"

"No," I said bleakly. "She lived alone. I don't know

that she was ever married." I leaned forward. "What was the cause of death?"

She kept on rummaging among the papers. "Let's see, what am I looking for? Lord, sometimes I'd forget my head if it wasn't-Oh, yes, here it is." She found a piece of paper. "We need a social security number. And insurance information." She fixed her gaze on me, inquiring. "Did she have coverage?"

"I don't know. How did she die?"

She frowned. "I thought you said you found her."

"I did. But-"

"She was kicked in the head by a horse, wasn't she? That's what the EMS guys said."

"That's what it
looked
like. But there was reason to believe that someone-" I stopped. "Was the cause of death confirmed by the doctor who examined the wounds?"

"Of course," she said. "Doctor Townsend went ahead and put it on the death certificate."

I was startled. "He's already signed the death certificate?"

"Well, yes." She shuffled a few other papers. "He was on the floor when she died so he just went ahead and wrote it up. He's the JP, too, you know, which makes it convenient. He likes to be prompt. He never leaves paperwork lying around for later." She thrust a form at me. "Here it is. See?" She pointed with an inch-long pearly pink nail. "Accidental death due to head trauma. Kicked by a horse. Now, about that insurance coverage-"

"Did Doctor Townsend look closely at the wound?"

She raised her chin and compressed her lips, a clear signal that my questions were trying her patience. "I really don't know. Now, if I can just get you to give me the insurance information so we can get the billing wrapped up-"

"I'm sorry. I can't tell you anything about Sadie Marsh's insurance. Did Deputy Walters come over from the sheriff's office?"

She was almost amused. "The
sheriff's
office? You've got to be kidding. They don't bother about people who get kicked by horses or run over by bulls or bit by rattlesnakes. Or stung by bees. You'd be surprised how many people nearly die from bee stings. Why would the sheriff bother about a horse?"

Why indeed? And who knows what happened between the time I called Stu Walters and the time Sadie Marsh died? Maybe the deputy had a political reason for not investigating. Maybe he talked to the EMS techs or Tom and they convinced him it was an accident. Or maybe he just hadn't gotten his investigation in gear before Royce Town-send, MD and JP, made the accidental-death theory official.

Whatever the reasons behind it, the result was an accomplished fact. Now that Townsend had recorded the cause of death, it would be damned difficult, if not impossible, to get it changed. A doctor-especially Townsend-would be reluctant to admit that he'd failed to examine a fatal injury closely enough to determine what had caused it. And a JP would hate to confess that he'd closed a possible murder case before the sheriff's office had started to look into it. I could talk to Townsend, but I wouldn't get very far. As far as Carr County was concerned, Sadie had been kicked to death by a horse, and that was that.

I took a different tack. "Let me ask you about Mr. Rowan. Mr. Tom Rowan, Senior. He was admitted this morning as well."

"I'm afraid that-"

"Don't tell me
he's
dead, too!"

"He's in guarded condition. His son is with him now, and I really can't permit another-"

"What's the room number?"

"I'm sorry. I can't-"

I assumed my sternest courtroom demeanor. "I am an attorney, Nurse. Mr. Rowan, Junior, would not be pleased if I were not permitted to see his father in order to discuss certain urgent legal matters."

She hesitated. "Well, since he's your client-"

"What room?"

"One-ten."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. When you have a chance, will you have your secretary call us with Miss Marsh's insurance information and social security number?"

"Oh, absolutely." I turned and walked away.

The blinds had been adjusted to block the sun streaming in through the west window. Tom Senior was lying motionless under a white sheet on a narrow, railed bed. His nose and mouth were covered by a plastic respirator mask, and his skin was a lifeless gray. He was hooked up to some sort of humming apparatus on a cart beside him-life support, I supposed. A respirator. Tom Junior was standing at the end of the bed, shoulders slumped, hands in his pockets. His face was bleak.

"How is he?" I asked quietly.

"Hanging in there."

"What happened?"

"Coronary. The last thing he needs with his lungs in the shape mey're in." He gestured at the machine. "Doc's got him on a respirator."

The old man raised his hand, feebly gesturing at the mask.

"Take it easy, Pop," Tom said. He stepped forward, bent over his father, and gently eased off the mask. ' 'Doc says you can't leave tins off too long, or you'll be in trouble."

The old man turned his head toward me. He looked like a cadaver, his eyes, dark-rimmed, sunk into his skull, his cheeks fallen in. His voice was faint and raspy. "That your girl, boy? The one we ate with last night?"

Last night? Was it only last night that I'd had dinner with Tom and his father? And only yesterday that Sadie had been ready to blow the whistle? Twenty-four hours had changed everything.

"Yeah, Dad." Tom took my hand and pulled me forward. "It's China."

"Good." The old man stretched thin lips in a ghastly smile. "Glad you've got somebody, now that I'm checkin' out. You're not too old for kids, either of you. Get to it"

Tom dropped my hand and shook his father's shoulder lightly. "Hey, you old coot. I don't want to hear that kind of talk. You're not in any danger of-"

"Don't give me that, boy. Now's no time to screw with the truth." With an effort, the old man picked up the mask and put it over his face, breathing heavily. He pulled it aside enough to ask, "Where's Father Steven? Thought you called him."

"I left a message." Tom forced a grin. "What do you want the priest for, anyway? You're not in that" bad a shape."

"You can't lie for shit, boy."

"It's true, Dad," Tom protested. "You'll be up and around-"

The old man's sigh was slow and heavy. "Yeah, sure. Up and around, and then what? Back down again in a month or two. And in the end-" He turned his head to look at the respirator. "More of this, and nurses messin' with you every ten minutes, and a helluva lot of pain." He closed his eyes. His eyelids were thin parchment. "Forget the priest. He can't absolve me, anyway."

Tom's eyes slid to me. "You're not thinking straight, Pop. Wait until you can-"

"Listen to me, boy. You've got to handle this so the bank doesn't get hurt. I killed-"

"Shut up, Dad," Tom said fiercely.

The old man closed his eyes. "You keep a civil tongue in your head, Tom-boy. I killed that meddlin' woman, and I'm not goin' to be around to suffer the consequences. But you are, and so's the bank." His breathing was more and more labored. "It's up to you, Tom. You got your work cut out for you. Damage control, that's what they call it."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Tom sounded desperate. "Sadie got kicked in the head. Anyway, she's not dead. She's right down the hall in Intensive-"