Sadie had been working at the table. A sheaf of stapled pages was laid out there, next to a stack of posters advertising an organizational meeting for a local environmental group. "What would you like to drink? Coffee? Tea? There's peppermint, if you'd rather."
"Peppermint," I said gratefully. I'd had enough caffeine to wire me for the whole day.
She turned up the fire under the kettle. "I hear that you and Tom Rowan are old friends," she said.
I glanced at her. It was a strange opening. "We knew
one another in Houston," I said guardedly. "Eight or nine years ago." Who had told her? And why was it important?
"Maybe you'll strike up the friendship again," she remarked.
"I doubt it," I said. "I've got plenty else on my plate. And there's somebody else in my life."
Did I imagine it, or was she relieved? "I'll get that deed," she said, and left the room. A minute later, she was back with a legal-size manilla envelope.
The deed was dated twenty-five years ago, and began with the familiar know all men by these presents. It affirmed that, in consideration of the sum of one dollar, Helen J. Laney herewith granted, sold, and conveyed to the Sisters of the Holy Heart all that certain eight hundred acres of land more particularly described by metes and bounds as shown on the addendum attached, with the restrictions and upon the covenants, dedications, agreements, easements, stipulations, and conditions specified on the attached pages, et cetera, et cetera.
I turned the page, found the addendum with the surveyor's report, and turned that page too. And there they were, rigged to go off like dynamite in the faces of Sister Olivia and the Reverend Mother General. The first restriction placed a moratorium on all construction except that required by the monastery's agricultural enterprises for a thirty-year period beginning five years from the date of the deed. The second restriction required that after the moratorium had ended, two-thirds of the sisters in residence at St. Theresa's must approve any and all construction, and such construction must be consistent with the monastery's original mission. A final emphatic sentence drove the point home. "These restrictions are intended to ensure the property's continued dedication to the contemplative purposes for which it is herein conveyed."
Two-thirds of the sisters? That meant a simple majority couldn't control the monastery's destiny.
Sadie put a cup in front of me, dropped in a tea bag, and
poured boiling water over it. The fragrant peppermint scent wafted upward, restoring me. She sat down at the end of the table with her own cup.
"Well?" she demanded. "What do you think?"
"Where were the order's lawyers when this deed was executed?" I asked. "I can't imagine why they would accept these restrictions."
Sadie chuckled. ' 'What could they do? Helen and Hilaria weren't the kind of women who could be pushed around. Helen knew exactly what she wanted and she wasn't going to let a passel of lawyers get in her way. Anyway, they didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when the horse was known to bite. Helen made it clear that the order wouldn't get an acre if they didn't take it on her terms. At one point, she even threatened to give the land outright to Hilaria, screw the order."
"But Hilaria couldn't accept it," I objected. "She had taken a vow of poverty."
Sadie's smile was sly. "You didn't know Hilaria. Independent as a hog on ice. By the time this thing was signed"-she tapped the deed with her knuckle-"she'd had a bellyful of church politics. She was ready to pull out and establish her own community. Mother General either agreed to the deed restrictions or the order would lose the whole ball of wax. And all this was happenin' on the heels of Vatican Two, you know. Things were changing everywhere. Orders were breaking up. Communities were going their own way. Mother General decided to take what she could get, restrictions and all."
"And now," I said, dipping my tea bag up and down, "nobody remembers."
This situation happens more often than you might think. There are plenty of old deeds whose odd restrictions and covenants lie buried and forgotten in a courthouses and safety-deposit box willing. This kind of thing is the stuff of litigation, of course. It makes real estate lawyers skip all the way to the bank, rejoicing.
"Amen," Sadie said comfortably. "That particular Mother General has gone to her reward, and the order's changed law firms. And now that Hilaria is dead, and Per-petua, nobody remembers." She sipped her tea, her eyes bright over the rim of her cup. "Nobody but me. I've got a memory like an elephant."
I put my cup down and folded the sheets of stiff paper. "Your position is a bit precarious, wouldn't you say?"
"You're thinkin' that somebody in the hierarchy might offer to slip me a little payola to forget what I know?" Sadie snorted through her nose. "I didn't just fall off the watermelon truck." She slapped the stack of environmental posters. "I've had my share of battles. I know how bidness is done. I wouldn't take a nickel of their money."
That wasn't what I meant, of course. Hilaria and Per-petua had both known about the deed restrictions. Both were dead, and the local JP had questioned both deaths. Sadie's knowledge might make her vulnerable in a different way. But the Church wasn't the medieval Cosa Nostra it had once been, riddled with conspiracy and skullduggery. It had become more civilized since the days it had sponsored the witch burnings-hadn't it? Still, if I were Sadie, I'd watch my back.
"The current Mother General didn't get where she is by being anybody's fool," I said. "Before she commits St. Theresa's capital to a building program, she's going to take a look at that deed." I could imagine what she'd say when she actually read it. "One glance will tell her she can't turn the monastery into a vacation resort without risking a lawsuit."
Which made me stop and think. In this case, who would have standing to sue? Members of the Laney Foundation Board, collectively and individually, of course. Members of the St. Theresa community. Even the Townsends, who might claim that the order's violation of the deed restrictions constituted fraud and that they should get the land back, as Mrs. Laney's heirs. Not that they would do any-
thing of the sort, judging from Carl Townsend's boasts. It sounded as if he and the Mother General were anticipating a long and lucrative partnership. Still, I could picture dozens of lawyers gleefully contemplating the thousands of billable hours it would take to shepherd the potentially large flock of unruly litigants through the courts.
"You're right about the Big Mama in El Paso/' Sadie said. "That's what Hilaria always called her-Big Mama. But just 'cause a chicken has wings don't mean it c'n fly." Her hawk-nosed face wore a look of smug satisfaction. "That's what I told her on Saturday. Big Mama, I mean."
"You did?"
Sadie thumped the table with her cup. ' 'I sure as shootin' did. I called her up and told her I'm tired of all this skulkin' in the bushes, riggin' elections, playin' the numbers. St. T's won't settle down as long as she keeps siccin' one side against the other, and that's just what I told her." Thump went the cup again. "I don't have any say about what goes on inside the order. But Helen put me on the foundation board so I'd speak my piece about spendin' her money and managin' her land. She never intended it to be used for golf courses and tennis courts. She meant for the deer and the armadillos and the wild things to have it." Thump thump. "That's why I told Big Mama that I mean to bring the matter up at the board meeting tomorrow." Thump thump thump.
I blinked. "How did Big-how did she respond?"
Sadie's mouth was wry. "Said she'd take it under advisement." She pushed her cup away. "Next thing I heard, Olivia was flyin' off to El Paso faster'n a prairie fire with a tail wind."