Bad Samaritan by Aimée Thurlo

“How are our other sisters doing up at Agnus Dei? Have you heard?”
    â€œThey’re settling in. Agnus Dei’s horarium is identical to ours, so not having to adjust to a new daily schedule is helping them feel more at home. Everything’s working out.” Sister Bernarda paused, then added, “I think we’ve been worrying over nothing. It’s not as if we’re losing our home.”
    â€œAren’t we?” Sister Agatha asked her, surprised.
    â€œNo, our
real
home is in God, and He can’t be taken from us. The monastery’s just a building,” she answered, turning onto the highway.
    â€œIs it really so easy for you to start anew someplace else?” Sister Agatha whispered.
    Sister Bernarda hesitated, then, in a slow voice, answered, “No, but it’s a matter of duty. Honoring that requires us to follow where He leads.” Sister Bernarda pulled to the right to allow a faster-moving vehicle to pass.
    Sister Agatha stared out the window, lost in thought. Although she knew that Sister Bernarda was right, the prospect of leaving Our Lady of Hope was still heartbreaking to her.
    Twenty minutes later, they entered a long asphalt driveway that led to Mayor Garcia’s home. Vehicles were parked almost everywhere. People in their Sunday best could be seen walking toward the house with flowers or food containers, and others were returning to their cars, having ended their courtesy calls.
    The sprawling ranch-style home was surrounded by an enormous lawn, and the circular drive had a large fountain in its center. Though vehicles lined both the inside and outside curbs, Sister Bernarda saw a driver pulling out and was able to slip into the vacated place.
    Once they’d stepped out of the car, Sister Agatha glanced across the hood at Sister Bernarda. “After I present the Cloister Cluster Cookies to whomever is accepting the food, I’m going to stay in the background as much as I can. I’ll track you down when it’s time for us to go.”
    â€œRoger that,” she said, in her best Marine Corps bark.
    Sister Bernarda’s stride was purposeful and steady as she made her way through the foyer into the spacious kitchen/family room. Flowers of every variety and color rested atop nearly all the flat surfaces. There must have been a hundred people at thehouse, most of them gathered in small groups and speaking in hushed tones. The majority of them had either a cup or a plate of food in their hands. Three women in white coats stood behind the black marble breakfast counter, helping serve food to the guests.
    True to her word, Sister Agatha took an offered cup of tea, then hung back, getting close enough to each group to get the gist of their conversation before moving on to the next. There was one overriding theme—Robert’s sudden and unexpected death—and nearly unanimous agreement that the sheriff was guilty of his murder.
    One woman, whom Sister Agatha recognized as a florist, briefly floated the theory that Robert had struck the sheriff, then committed suicide. Her companions quickly squashed that by calling for a motive the florist couldn’t produce.
    Moving on, Sister Agatha heard the name Mike being called by a young man standing next to the open French doors. In response, a twenty-something man next to the mayor moved across the room. Sister Agatha made her way toward him and soon was standing beside a floor lamp near the corner of a seating area, close enough to eavesdrop.
    â€œThere’s no way Green is going to get away with this, bro,” Mike said. “My father-in-law’s out for blood.”
    Sister Agatha smiled. Her guess had been right. This was Mike Herrera.
    â€œFrom what I’ve heard, it was self-defense,” the other one said. “If someone came up and clubbed you across the skull, you’d fight back, wouldn’t ya? I can understand that Robert was a relative, and you have to look after