tember 3, the last entry, and read backward? Or start earlier?
I thumbed through the pages for a few minutes, then began with the middle of July, when the St. Agatha sisters moved to St. T. It didn't take long to find a reference to the first poison-pen letter. But if I'd been hoping that Hi-laria had recognized the identity of the writer and confided it to her diary, I was disappointed. For July 17, all I found were three enigmatic words: Sr. Perpetua, letter.
The other entries were just as cryptic. Hilaria was in the habit of jotting down the names of people she talked to and the topics of their conversations, or short phrases describing the day's activities-Board meeting, nothing accomplished, for instance, or Bank, check records. Tom Sr, questions re: interest. Tom Senior would be Tom Rowan's father. These entries had been made after the court had finally awarded the money to St. T, so he and Mother Hilaria were no doubt straightening out the complications that had arisen during the years the bank held the foundation's money.
Financial queries seemed to have kept Mother Hilaria busy through July and into August. She devoted several days a week to Bank, questions re: accounts or Investment records, review. I could understand why. If the court had dumped a fourteen- or fifteen-million-dollar inheritance into my lap, I'd be studying deposit accounts and investment records too. I'd be so busy asking questions that I might not waste much time over a nasty letter that accused a forgetful sister of the petty theft of a library book.
But a week after her meeting with Sister Perpetua, Mother Hilaria was indeed thinking about the letter. Questioned Sr. O about Sr. P's letter, I read, on July 24. I reached for the roster Mother Winifred had given me. Conveniently, Olivia was the only sister whose name began with O.
I went back to the entry with a frown, wishing that Mother Hilaria had been less cryptic. I had first assumed that she had questioned Olivia because she hoped Olivia
might be able to name the culprit. But perhaps that wasn't the right assumption. Perhaps she thought that Olivia herself had written the letter.
I got up, took a bathroom break, and brewed a second cup of tea. I started reading again with July 26: Dwight, salary increase, approved. After that, his name appeared with increasing frequency. August 5: Dwight, no promotion. August 8: Dwight, said no again. And then, August 12, Dwight, threats. Spoke sternly. And on August 13, J. R. Nutall, questions re: Dwight.
I sipped my tea and reread all five of these entries, trying to piece together the story that lay behind them. Dwight had been given a raise at the end of July. Less than two weeks later, he was back, asking for a promotion. From handyman to what? Farm manager? Whatever he wanted, he didn't get it. When he struck out again, he retaliated with a threat. Mother Hilaria had clearly been concerned, or she wouldn't have contacted his probation officer.
Again, I wondered what crime had sent Dwight to jail. If he'd served time for a violent felony, Texas law prohibited his carrying a gun off the monastery grounds. Caught with that 303 anywhere else, he could be charged with a third-degree felony-which meant that his target practice at the top of the cliff might just earn him more lockup time. I had J. R. Nutall's home phone number. A call would turn up the information I needed. But first, I'd ask Mother Winifred for a look at Dwight's personnel record-assuming there was one, of course. As far as I knew, he was the monastery's only full-time employee. Mother Hilaria might have hired him without any formalities.
I turned the page to August 16 and found something else. Sr. A, letter. Questioned Sr. R & Sr. O. Sister A must be Sister Anne, whom the letter-writer had chastised for lewdly baring her nakedness. Sister O-well, I knew who that was. Sister R? She was new to my cast of alphabet characters. I ran my finger down the roster and counted eight Rs: Ramona, Rachel, Rowena, Ruth, Rosabel, Rose,
Rosaline, Regina. Nine, including Sister John Roberta. I sighed. It was too bad that R names were so popular in this order. It was really too bad that Mother Hilaria had been so cryptic. If she had only used names instead of initials, I'd know which of the nine Rs she had questioned. But that was information I could get from Sister O, who would surely remember the August sixteenth conversation.
I turned the pages and found more brief notations. Phoned Rev Moth G, re: problems, but on retreat at Moth Hs. Which of her problems had Mother Hilaria wanted to discuss? The trust accounts? Dwight? The letters? But Rev Moth G (Reverend Mother General, I assumed) had apparently remained incommunicado at the Moth Hs (the Mother House?) for quite some time. The diary didn't indicate that Mother Hilaria had succeeded in talking to her.
There was nothing more of interest until August 22, the day Sister Anne's swimsuit was found draped on the cross. Sr. A's suit!!, the outraged entry read. Questioned Sr. 0 & Sr. R again. The remaining entries in August were focused on financial affairs-Bank re: statements, Tom Sr re: funds, bank re: note. September 1 was blank. September 2's entry consisted of just one word, underlined.
I stared at the single word. Somebody else had gotten a letter, but who? Mother Hilaria? If so, what had happened to it? Had she destroyed it, or was it still among her possessions?
That was the last entry. On September 3, Mother Hilaria had died. Sometime after that, Dwight had stolen her journal.
Chapter Seven
Several years ago, a newspaper reporter interviewed me for an herb article. After the interview, the reporter arranged to trade some herb plants with me. He wanted to show me some comfrey, which he had tried in salads and found extremely bitter tasting. The next day I went to his office and there, sitting on a file cabinet, was a box of first-year foxglove plants! To the novice, comfrey and foxglove have a similar appearance. Earlier that same year (1979), an elderly couple had eaten what they thought were comfrey leaves. It was foxglove, and both died within twenty-four hours.
Steven Foster Herbal Renaissance
Sister Gabriella's garlic operation wasn't exactly what you'd expect in a monastery. Neither was she, come to that. She was tall and strong, and she swung her arms energetically as she talked, her gestures punctuating her rich Southern speech.
"When we first came out here, there were only ten of us, and we had just an acre of plants," she said as we walked through the big, airy barn. "When harvest time came, we dug the garlic with forks and shovels."
"Wasn't that hard on everybody's back?" I asked, trying to imagine what it would be like to spade up an entire acre of garlic. And even after it was dug, the job wouldn't have
been done. The sisters had to remove the dirt, dry the plants, separate the bulbs from the tops… People who buy garlic in little cellophane packages have no idea what they're missing.
She chuckled. "You bet. But we were new in the business and everybody was willing. A couple of years later, though, we doubled the acreage, and I started to hear grumbling. Mother Hilaria tried to convince the sisters that they'd get a couple of extra days in paradise for every garlic bulb they dug, but they didn't buy it. So when we doubled the acreage again, I went looking for an old-fashioned chisel plow, like the one my grandfather used to have back in Kentucky." She gestured at a piece of equipment in the corner. "Found it in a junkyard over in Johnson City. All that was wrong with it was a quarter-inch of rust and a broken strap. Now, I just set the tractor tires into the irrigation furrows and drop that plow-point between the rows. The plants still have to be pulled, but at least they're loose. No more spadework."