Rueful Death by Susan Wittig Albert

Author:Susan Wittig Albert [Albert, Susan Wittig]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: detective
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

If a man be anointed with the juice of Rue, the poison of Wolf's-bane, Mushrooms, or Tode stooles, the biting of Serpents, stinging of Scorpions, spiders, bees, hornets and wasps will not hurt him, and the Serpent is driven away at the smell thereof.

John Gerard The Herbal or General History of Plants, 1633

I had hoped to talk to Rowena after Sunday night supper, but she didn't appear. Maybe she'd stayed at the hospital with John Roberta. Dwight didn't show up-probably still in town. And Maggie wasn't there, either. Mother had said she'd decided to extend her personal retreat and was taking her meals alone. I was glad for her. Coming back to the inner life from the outer world was a major move. It was good mat she could settle into it at her own pace.

But Maggie knew the monastery's history, and I knew I could trust her. I wanted to get her opinion on some of the questions I was turning over in my mind. I needed to talk to her as soon as she surfaced again.

I ate quickly-the meal was tomato soup with basil, grilled cheese sandwiches, cabbage slaw seasoned with caraway, and a beautifully ripe apple-and went back to Jeremiah. After the day I'd had, I was ready to pamper myself. I lit a vanilla-scented candle, added lavender oil to a tubful of warm water, and climbed in. I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting the thoughts go, letting my body soak in

the lavender-scented silence. After a long while I scrubbed with rosemary soap and a loofah, relishing the gentle ras-piness. When I toweled off, I pulled on a pair of silky pink pajamas-how long had it been since I'd worn anything but a ratty old tee shirt to sleep in?-and climbed into bed with the Agatha Christie mystery Dominica had given me. The sheets were smooth, the light fell on the pages exactly the way I like it, and the cottage was so quiet I could hear the rippling murmur of the river not far from my door.

But my mind kept returning to the real-life mysteries at St. Theresa's, the plots of which had gotten considerably more tangled in the last twenty-four hours. With luck, I had managed to solve the simplest puzzle, the business of the fires. By tomorrow, the affair would be in the hands of the Carr County authorities and Dwight's plot would be closed out.

The other plot, though, was as mazelike as one of Agatha Christie's mysteries. I found a piece of scrap paper and jotted down its basic elements-the ones I knew about so far, anyway. The poisonous letters to Perpetua, to Anne, to Dominica and Miriam, and the letter to Mother Hilaria, missing and presumed destroyed. Mother Hilaria's diary, with its cryptic references to talks with Sister Olivia and Sister R. The bloody swimsuit had proved to be a red herring, but Anne's mutilated tennis racket and Dominica's burned guitar had yet to be accounted for. And Mother Hilaria's hot plate, missing since Rowena had inquired about it.

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