The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (29 page)

Her stomach rushed up into her throat.

Beside her, Anna screamed.

“I think,” Hector’s voice seemed to come from very far away, “we’d better call the police.”

F
INCH WATCHED THE COP
out of the corner of her eye. He was young, with short brown hair and freckles, and looked a little like Potsie on that old show
Happy Days
on TV Land. Not like cops back home, with their hard eyes that missed nothing and had seen it all. This one, more than his partner, seemed nervous and unsure. He was writing something in his notepad, concentrating so hard the tip of his tongue stuck out. She shivered, pressing a throw cushion to her belly.

Now he was turning to Maude. “Mrs. Wickersham, this scream—when would you say you heard it?”

Maude, seated beside Finch on the couch, frowned at the rug, from which tufts of dog hair stuck up like cowlicks. “Well, let’s see… it must have been around three.”

“Are you certain of the time?” The older cop’s eyes narrowed. He was as heavyset as his partner was lean, with long sideburns and slicked-back hair like they wore in the seventies.

“Why, yes.”

“Could it have been closer to midnight?” Potsie put in.

“No, it was three.”

“You’re sure?”

“If you must know, I felt the call of nature.” Maude blushed a little. “I get up the same time every night.”

Even Finch had to smile. She glanced over at Laura, who sat on the easy chair opposite the couch, Hector perched on its arm, a hand resting on her shoulder. They both looked pretty shook up.

“Did you hear anything else unusual?” the older slick-haired cop asked.

“Just the scream. It was loud enough to wake the dead.” Maude flushed at her unfortunate choice of words.

“Nothing else?” the young cop asked. “No gunshot?”

Maude shot Laura a confused look. “I thought you said she’d been stabbed.”

Laura shook her head in disgust, as if at the dirty trick he was playing: trying to confuse Maude into revealing something she might’ve been holding back. She was very pale, and kept shifting in her chair, glancing up at Hector every so often. Obviously this was her first experience with a dead person. Finch felt an almost big-sisterly sympathy.

“We don’t have the coroner’s report yet.” Mr. Mod Squad folded his arms over his chest, scanning the living room as if he half expected to see a bloody knife sticking out from under the couch.

“We’ve told you everything we know.” Laura spoke politely, but it was clear she’d had enough. “Maude heard a scream. We thought it might have been our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Vincenzi. She sometimes wanders off, and gets…disoriented. When Hec—Mr. Navarro—and I went to check up on her…well, you know the rest.”

Mr. Mod Squad’s beady eyes fixed on Hector. “What is your relationship to Ms. Kiley, sir?”

Laura glanced up again at Hector, her cheeks coloring.

“I work for her,” he said.

“Do you reside here as well?”

“I have a room off the barn.”

“And you didn’t hear this alleged scream?”

“I was out until late. Shooting pool at the Red Rooster with some of my buddies.” Hector hadn’t moved a muscle, but Finch could feel his tension across the room.

“Can you give us the names of these friends, sir?”

Something flashed in Hector’s eyes, and in an uncharacteristically sarcastic voice, he answered, “Sure. For a couple of beers, I’ll bet they’d even vouch for me.”

Mr. Mod Squad frowned, clearly not amused. “At some point we may need you to come down to the station for further questioning. Would you have a problem with that?”

“Depends.”

“Sir?”

“On whether or not I’ll need a lawyer.”

The cops exchanged glances, and as if coming to a mutual decision backed off—for the moment, at least. Finch was just beginning to hope that maybe, just maybe, she was off the hook, too, when Potsie turned to her.

“And what exactly is
your
relationship to Ms. Kiley, Miss—?”

“Finch.” It came out more of a squeak.

“Miss Finch.” He jotted it in his notepad.

“She’s a friend of the family,” Laura put in.

“Out for a visit?” Mr. Mod Squad eyed Finch suspiciously.

“She lives with us.”

Laura’s clipped tone was enough to steer them away from that topic—clearly the cops had no interest in wading through unpleasant family business. When the younger one flipped his notebook shut, it was all Finch could do to keep from sagging with relief. There’d be more questions down the line. Every possible witness would be grilled, every piece of evidence examined. They might even run a check on her. But at least this would buy her time to figure out what her next move should be.

Laura walked the cops to the door. They all waited in silence until the patrol car had pulled out of the driveway. Maude was the first to speak. “Do you think they’ll find the person who did it?”

“They’ll arrest
somebody.
” Hector lurched to his feet with a look of disgust and paced over to the fireplace. Finch recalled the story of how he’d slipped into the country illegally, and how even after he’d gotten his green card the cops were constantly on his tail, harassing him at every turn. Once even arresting him for loitering. Finch knew exactly what that was like; it had made her see him in a way she might not have otherwise.

“You have an alibi,” Laura reminded him. “You were out with friends.”

“Yeah, until a little after midnight. Then I was asleep in bed. Alone.”

Laura shot him a startled look. “Alone?”

“That’s what I said.”

“What about the woman I saw?”

“What woman?”

Laura flushed. “Outside the barn. It must have been around six or so. I thought…” She bit her lip.

Hector shook his head, insisting, “I wasn’t with anyone last night.”

They shared a look. If Hector had been alone, then who was she?

“Well, one thing’s for sure.” Maude got up to straighten the afghan that had slipped off the back of the couch. “None of us will get a good night’s sleep until whoever did it is behind bars.”

For a long moment no one spoke. The only sounds were the ticking of the clock on the mantel and the faint skittering of a mouse behind the baseboard. Even the dogs and cats were quiet for a change. At last, Finch hauled herself to her feet.

“I’m going for a walk,” she announced.

They all looked at her as if she’d said she was going to the moon.

“Stay close to home,” Laura warned.

Finch knew she ought to have been as worried about the murderer on the loose as they were, but an odd sense of relief swept over her just then. She thought,
At least they don’t think it’s me.

“It’s my life’s work.”

Sister Agnes rocked back on her heels to survey the garden she’d been weeding. It followed the path that wound along the sunny side of the chapel, an odd assortment of bushes, trees, and flowering herbs, each with its own inscribed plaque. Finch bent to examine one.

Cinnamon (Cinnamomum zeylanicum)

“I have perfumed my bed with myrrh, aloes, and
cinnamon
.”

Proverbs 7:17

“I started it when I first came here as a novice,” Sister Agnes went on. “Do you know how many plants and trees there are in the Bible? Eighteen. I remember thinking, wouldn’t it be wonderful if they were out where we could see them? A biblical garden—just as it might have looked in the days of Christ.”

“It must have taken a long time,” Finch said, noting how large some of the bushes and trees had grown.

“Thirty-eight years come spring.” Sister Agnes set aside her trowel and rose awkwardly to her feet, wincing a bit at the stiffness in her limbs. “And don’t me old bones know it.”

“You’re not so old.”

“Old enough to remember when all this was but a few wee slips of green.” She limped over to a tall bush bursting with bright pink blossoms. “This is one of my favorites, though perhaps the least rare.”

Finch studied the plaque.

Rose (Nerium oleander)

“Listen to me and blossom like the
Rose
that grows on the bank.”

Ecclesiasticus 39:13

“It doesn’t look like any rosebush I’ve ever seen,” she said.

“That’s the beauty of it, don’t you see?” Sister Agnes said. “Expecting one thing, and finding another. Like the good book itself. A great deal lies in the eye—or heart, as the case may be—of the beholder.”

“What’s that one over there?” Finch gestured toward a tall tree pointing like a finger toward heaven.

“Cedar of Lebanon.” Sister Agnes quoted by heart, “ ‘The righteous shall flourish like the palm tree…he shall grow like a cedar in Lebanon. Those that flourish in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of our Lord. They shall still bring forth fruit in old age…?” She broke off with a smile, staring down at her dirt-stained hands. When she looked up again, her smiling gaze fixed on Finch with a directness that was both comforting and a bit disquieting. “Now, what was it you came all this way to see me about?”

The girl glanced about, but there was no one to overhear. Only the sound of an organ drifting from the chapel, accompanied by a sweet, if somewhat thready soprano singing a hymn.
When Jesus wept, the falling tear in mercy flow?d…

Cautiously, Finch said, “I want your opinion about something.”

“You’re surely welcome to it, though I’m afraid I’m not much of an authority in secular matters.”

“It’s…well, it’s more of a religious question.”

“Oh?” The little nun studied her with interest. “These days I’m not sure I’m much of an authority on that, either.” She gave a rueful little smile, groping absently for her rosary beads.

“Would it be a sin for a nun to lie if it was for a good cause?”

Sister Agnes lifted a brow. “Now what cause would that be?”

Finch felt her cheeks grow warm. “Mine.”

“I see.” Sister Agnes’s expression didn’t alter. “And just why would this nun be lying for you?”

“They found another body,” Finch blurted. “This morning, behind our neighbor’s house.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

Sister Agnes rapidly made the sign of the cross, her face nearly as white as her wimple. Finch realized her mistake at once, and was quick to set her straight. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“Now, why would I think such a thing?” But it was clear she had, if only for an instant.

“The cops came. They asked a bunch of questions.”

“I should think so.”

Finch recalled Hector’s words. “They’re not going to stop until they arrest someone.”

“Let’s just hope it’s the right someone.”

Finch dropped her gaze, staring at a weed that had been overlooked. “I told you before I was running away, but I didn’t tell you why. The thing is…I did something. I don’t know if it was against the law, but I’m sure it’s a sin. If I were Catholic, it would probably get me sent to hell.”

“Shh, child.” Sister Agnes brought a hand to her face. It smelled of the herbs Maude used in cooking. “Not another word. Whatever it is, the Lord knows I’m in enough trouble as it is without any of that lying we spoke of.”

Finch raised a pair of burning eyes to Sister Agnes.

“If it comes to that, would you hide me for a little while? If it was to keep me from going to jail?” There, it was out. She’d done the unspeakable: asking a nun, not just to break the law, but to commit a sin.

Before Sister Agnes could reply, the crunch of gravel caused Finch to wheel about. A tall nun with a face as narrow as a boot was gliding toward them along the path, hands folded in prayer. Her long fingers were pale against the dark fabric of her habit.

“There you are, Sister. I’ve been looking everywhere.” She sounded impatient, as if Sister Agnes ought to have known somehow.

“Sister Beatrice.” Sister Agnes’s expression clouded over briefly, but she quickly recovered her manners. “I don’t believe you’ve met my young friend, Finch.”

Finch put out a hand, which Sister Beatrice shook tepidly. She reminded Finch of a teacher she’d had in the sixth grade, Mrs. Friedlander, who if she caught you chewing gum in class forced you to wear it on your forehead the rest of the day.

“Sister Agnes is showing off her pet project, I see.” Sister Beatrice smiled, exposing a row of small teeth below a pale expanse of gum.

“What did you want to see me about, Sister?” The older nun’s voice took on a slight edge. She gazed, pointedly it seemed, at a bushy, silver-leafed shrub with a plaque that read:

Wormwood (Artemisia Herba-Alta)

“… bitter as
wormwood.
sharp as a two-edged sword.”

Proverbs 5:4

“Reverend Mother would like a word with you.” Sister Beatrice made it sound as if some terrible punishment were in store.

Sister Agnes looked stricken. “What…what does she want?”

It was clearly the response Sister Beatrice had been after. She smiled with thinly veiled triumph. “I’m sure I couldn’t say. I don’t presume to know the mind of our esteemed mother.”

Finch watched her turn, long skirt rustling over the path as she headed back in the direction of the chapel. How could a nun be so mean?

“Oh, glory, what have I done now?” Sister Agnes brought a trembling hand to her cheek.

Finch felt a rush of indignance. “She’s just trying to cause trouble.” She didn’t know Sister Beatrice, but she knew the type.

The little nun cast her a gently reproving look. “You mustn’t say such things, child. We’re not allowed even to
think
them. All of us are equally blessed in the sight of our Lord. Even,” she sighed, “if some of us feel a tad superior to others.”

Silence fell. There was only the cheeping of baby birds in the fig tree overhead and the distant voice singing,
When Jesus groan’d…a trembling seiz’d all the guilty world a-round
…

Finch began to feel uncomfortable. Sister Agnes still hadn’t given her an answer. And why should she? Didn’t she have enough on her mind as it was?
It was stupid of me to have asked.