The Hour of Death Read online

  “The funeral dinner?” Sister Agatha said, picking up a stray pair of black socks dotted with orange dinosaurs off the couch as she sat down. How could Vonda have known she was here to investigate her comment about the funeral dinner? Was she about to turn herself in? Sister Agatha felt her pulse quicken.

  “I just heard.” Vonda took a seat opposite in a large wingback chair. “They found her this morning? At the parish hall?” Her voice shook, and she plucked several tissues out of the box she was still clutching. “This is so awful. And in Pryderi. Things like this don’t happen here. Of course, I’ll do the dinner. I’m the chair of the funeral dinner committee and everything.” Vonda blew her nose and then looked at Sister Agatha, who still hadn’t spoken. “I thought the other sister—the young one, Sister Gwenydd—was in charge of the food? But I suppose one sister is as good as another. Oh … I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I just meant …”

  Sister Agatha’s mind snapped to attention. She remembered that Sister Gwenydd, the abbey’s chef, had been helping out at St. Anselm’s when they had a particularly large funeral dinner. Sister Gwenydd was new to the abbey and to religious life in general, and Reverend Mother thought it would be good for her to experience the day-to-day operations of a local church. She was the first young postulate in a decade to join, and the fact that she had not been terribly religious before she stumbled upon the abbey was nothing anyone wanted to quibble about.

  “Yes,” Sister Agatha said quickly. Even Miss Marple couldn’t have planned it better. “Sister Gwenydd sent me.” Sister Agatha felt her scalp tingle. An unfortunate reaction she always experienced when lying. Possessing a naturally honest personality was not an asset in a detective, though it wasn’t such a bad thing in a nun. “You were friends with Tiffany, weren’t you?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say we were friends.” Sister Agatha was suddenly reminded of Millicent’s response about being “sort of” friends. Vonda paused, sitting back in her chair. “We worked together in the WI. She was president, I’m vice president. This is just horrible. They said she had a heart attack, which makes sense.”

  “It does?”

  “Well, she was constantly stressed out. A real type A personality.” She paused, taking a deep, quavering breath. “Although she seemed in such perfect shape. She ran, did yoga. Her house was perfect. She even had a specially designed artist’s studio.”

  “You’ve been in her studio?”

  “No. She wouldn’t let anyone see it. She hosted the annual WI candlelight dinner. You know, for the officers. But we weren’t allowed to see her studio.” Vonda blew her nose again. “Did you come to talk about the menu?”

  “Actually, I just came by to see if you were able to do the dinner. I think Sister Gwenydd will want to figure out the specifics of the meal with you.”

  “Oh, okay.” Vonda looked puzzled. “I’m surprised she didn’t just text. That’s how we did it last time. Last funeral, I mean.”

  “I stopped by myself because Sister Gwenydd felt a text was too impersonal considering you had known Tiffany so well.” The tingling hit an all-time high.

  “Wow. That’s so nice.” Vonda dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I mean, really nice.”

  Sister Agatha took a breath and fought the nearly uncontrollable desire to clutch at the top of her head. “Yes, well … Sister Gwenydd … is very thoughtful.”

  “Sister, may I tell you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “I didn’t really like Tiffany.”

  “Really?” She felt a wild urge to find the nearest cocktail napkin and start writing.

  “Really. And now … now I feel terrible that she’s dead.”

  “Well, sometimes it works that way. Just because you didn’t like her doesn’t mean that you wished her harm.” Or did you? Sister Agatha thought.

  “I said something horrible though. Last week, at the church, I said that I looked forward to … to … doing Tiffany’s funeral dinner.” Vonda’s voice caught and her eyes filled with tears.

  Sister Agatha felt sorry for the young woman and for one moment thought she might abandon her investigation altogether—offer some comforting words and then go back to the abbey where she belonged. No, she thought, I’ve come this far. She tried to look as neutral and nonjudgmental as possible.

  “Well, honestly, who hasn’t on occasion looked forward to a funeral?”

  Vonda looked at her quizzically. “Well, I just thought …”

  “I remember one very old and difficult nun at the abbey when I was first a postulate. She had taken quite a disliking to me, I thought. So when she died peacefully in her sleep a few months later—I have to admit—it wasn’t an occasion of great sadness. So not feeling particularly sad over the death of someone isn’t the worst thing.” Throwing a party, now that was a different matter. And if you were the one who killed her, well …

  “But I said out loud that I wanted to do her funeral dinner! I mean, how could I have said such a thing?”

  “Well, why do you think you said that?”

  “Oh, I was joking. You know. Pretty much.” Vonda plucked a tissue from a box on the coffee table and blew her nose. “I mean … entirely, not pretty much. Of course I didn’t want Tiffany to … you know … die.” A gust of wind rattled the window. “I’m so sorry, Sister, can I offer you anything? Tea?”

  Sister Agatha noticed that Vonda didn’t make a move toward the kitchen. Not that she wanted anything, having just had tea with Father Selwyn. And anyway, she needed to get back to the abbey before anyone wondered why she had been gone so long. “Look. Vonda. We all say things we don’t mean.”

  “But what if someone thinks I meant it? You know, overheard me. Lots of people were there. Even Father Selwyn.”

  “Well, I’m sure you have a good alibi for where you were last evening. At the time of the murder.”

  “Alibi? Murder? Why would I need an alibi? And why are you calling it murder? She had a heart attack, right?” Vonda’s face had turned ashen.

  “No—that’s not what I meant. Unfortunate choice of words. I only meant, if you were asked, you could just tell whoever was inquiring where you were at the time of the death.”

  “You said murder.” Vonda leaned forward, the box of tissue dropping soundlessly onto the thick carpet. Her eyes were wide and no longer tearful. If she was not truly surprised, Sister Agatha thought, she was doing a good job of faking it. “Are you saying it wasn’t a heart attack? That someone killed her?”

  “Yes. I mean no. I didn’t mean murder. At all. I just meant death.”

  Vonda sat back but still stared at her, wide-eyed, silent. At least she had stopped crying.

  “And if anyone wondered about your statement—a very innocuous statement meant in jest, of course—you could just tell them where you were last night.” Sister Agatha paused and then couldn’t help herself. “At nine and eleven PM.”

  “Well, I was here. Of course. At home. Watching telly.”

  Sister Agatha caught just the tiniest flicker of Vonda’s left eye. A minuscule twitch that disappeared as fast as it traveled across her perfectly manicured eyebrow. “See? And that’s all you have to say to people.” Sister Agatha paused as Vonda continued to stare at her. “And your kids and husband were here? With you?”

  “Well, no. Mark is away on business and the boys were at a sleepover. But I was here. All night.”

  “Well, then. You’re all set. I’ll tell Sister Gwenydd that you will contact her about the dinner,” Sister Agatha said rising. “Are you going to be OK?” she asked, genuinely concerned and more than a little guilty. She hadn’t meant to utter the word murder.

  Vonda nodded. “I guess. I just wish I hadn’t made that stupid joke.” Vonda followed her to the door.

  Sister Agatha turned around and faced her. “Look. We all make stupid jokes.”

  “Even nuns?” Vonda gave a rueful smile.

  “Especially nuns.” Sister Agatha gave Vonda a hug. And then pulling on he
r blue woolly hat she went out the front door and down the walk, careful to step over the skateboard. She really hoped Vonda was innocent, but until she checked out her alibi, she couldn’t be sure. What was it that Inspector McFarland often said? When you need information on a suspect, find their nosiest neighbor. Vonda Bryson had said she was home all night watching telly. Sister Agatha knew just who to ask about that. She glanced at her watch. Only forty minutes until noontime prayer at the abbey. Well, if she hurried she could do the interview and make it back. In for a penny, in for a pound. And with that, she set off for the reference desk at the Pryderi village library.

  * * *

  Sister Agatha sighed, pulling off her woolly hat and ran her fingers through her short gray hair. Subtlety was not her strong suit. She had stupidly blurted out the words murder and alibi to Vonda. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. Somehow, she had to find out if Vonda really was at home all evening last night. But she just couldn’t saunter up to George Myers, library volunteer and across-the-street neighbor to the Brysons and start making make inquiries.

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped up to the desk where George was scanning library books. After exchanging a few pleasantries about the onset of cold weather, she took a breath and launched into a question that would have made even Agatha Christie proud. “So, George,” she said, glancing nonchalantly at the stack of fliers advertising the upcoming scrapbooking class. “Are you doing the annual tinned food drive for St. Anselm’s?” She cringed at her small deception. Mild scalp tingling.

  George snorted without looking up.

  She took that for a yes.

  “I’ve told Father Selwyn that this is my last year. Not a soul answers the door anymore.”

  “No one?”

  “No one. Out all last night. Nothing. Everyone these days is out running around or is glued to their computer or watching telly. Shades pulled, houses all dark. I’ll not do the door-to-door collection again. My last year.”

  This was too easy. “What about your neighbors, the Brysons? With the size of their brood, they must be at home nights. And have lots of tinned food on hand to donate.” Sister Agatha wavered and then took the plunge. “You know, on Friday night, not even home then?”

  “Are you kidding? That lot is never home. Always getting into that car and off they go—soccer, dance, music. And they don’t even eat at home as far as I can tell. In my day, you sat down around the table every night.”

  “Times have changed, I’m afraid.” Sister Agatha said. “So no one home all night?” She made her voice as casual as possible.

  “Not so much as a light in a window. Went to bed myself at eleven. After telly, that is.” George pulled a stack of books toward him and, opening the top one, ran the scanner over it. “There’s a fine on that one,” he said looking around. “And the borrower out the door without a backward glance.” George grunted as he opened the next book and picked up his scanner. “You’re right, Sister. Times have changed.”

  * * *

  Sister Agatha was cold to the bone by the time she stepped into the large farmhouse kitchen of Gwenafwy Abbey just in time for lunch. Which reminded her—she needed to have a quick word with Sister Gwenydd before she contacted Vonda about planning the funeral dinner. She had walked as fast as she could up Church Lane and back to the abbey, resisting her strong desire to stop by St. Anselm’s and discuss her thoughts about Vonda Bryson with Father Selwyn. She turned her head away when she passed the construction site with its ugly hole in the mud and machinery where a beautiful meadow had once grazed sheep. It was too painful to even look at.

  As she neared the abbey, she could see the chapel steeple at the top of the hill. Just the site of the steeple, nestled between the tall yew trees, brought her a moment’s joy. The abbey was truly beautiful. Medieval stone buildings encircled a small courtyard with the two wings of the convent surrounding its perimeter. On the west side, over the gate house, Reverend Mother had her private rooms. Above the east wing, the rest of the nuns of Gwenafwy shared rooms in a dormitory. The first floor underneath the dormitory housed the kitchen, the long dining room that the sisters called the refectory, and the warming room where the medieval monks, the original inhabitants of Gwenafwy Abbey, had kept a roaring fire throughout the winter. The sisters now used the warming room to relax during the evening—reading, knitting, binge-watching on Netflix, and engaging in bible study.

  The attic library, the site of Sister Agatha’s office and writing desk, was newly remodeled, with mullioned windows set into the blue-gray slate of the sloping roof. The outbuildings consisted of the cheese barn, a small stable, and a stone milking parlor grouped around the main buildings, along with the many flower and vegetable gardens tended by the nuns.

  A stone shed at the edge of the orchard was used to store the Cadwaladr apples that the nuns harvested every autumn. The sheep barn for the new sheep sat nestled at the bottom of the meadow. A dovecote where a few wispy feathers still floated was next to the kitchen, and a crumbling tower overlooked the farthest northeast corner of the whole property—previously used as a medieval lookout in case of a Norman invasion.

  Sister Agatha had been absent longer than she had planned when she left the abbey early that morning simply to attend a library meeting. Who knew she would end up examining a crime scene, interviewing a suspect, and checking out an alibi? Not bad for a morning’s work if you are an amateur detective, but not exactly the normal Saturday morning for an Anglican nun. Especially as she was supposed to be giving up murder for Advent.

  She hurried down the gravel drive and, cutting through the old farmhouse kitchen, ran down the hall and slid into her spot at the long farmhouse table, already lined on either side with the twenty sisters of Gwenafwy Abbey. She was prepared to explain why she had been gone all morning, but it seemed that no one cared. Not even Sister Callwen, her closest and best friend at the abbey who always knew when something was afoot, and not even Reverend Mother, who kept tabs on these things. Instead, they all wanted to hear about Tiffany Reese. Word had already spread that Sister Agatha had been at the parish hall, and they wanted to hear her opinion. Ever since Jacob, the beloved sexton at the abbey, had been murdered and Sister Agatha had brought his killer to justice, the nuns turned to her as their first informant on all things crime related. Of course, in the little village of Pryderi that wasn’t much.

  “Spill the beans, Sister Agatha.” Sister Harriet said, passing the crock of steaming lamb stew down the table. Tall for a woman of eighty years, though still not as tall as Reverend Mother, Sister Harriet filled out her long, blue habit with little room to spare—a blue habit that often displayed a smudge from her charcoal drawing pencil. Sister Harriet had published to some acclaim a Sunday school curriculum composed of a series of graphic novels—all with a biblical theme and immensely popular with the primary school crowd. She had the broad face of a Yorkshire farmer, and her gray eyes flashed under the white band of her veil. “And don’t leave anything out. It’s been a dull morning and I want to hear every last little detail.”

  “Honestly, Sister Harriet,” Sister Callwen said, neatly unfolding her napkin and spreading it on her lap. “A woman is dead. A member of the parish. Let’s not treat it like a new episode of a BBC mystery series.” Sister Callwen had been Agatha’s companion and confidante ever since their first days at Gwenafwy Abbey. Her discerning brown eyes missed nothing, and her aquiline nose and high forehead hinted at a genteel ancestry. In contrast, Sister Agatha was quite a bit less refined, having spent her childhood working on the family sheep farm. Sister Callwen kept her blue habit spotless, her salt-and-pepper hair was always neatly tucked in her veil, and she always knew the proper thing to do and say. In her apron pocket Sister Callwen carried only three essential items: prayer beads from the Holy Land, The Anglican Pocketbook of Prayer, and a fresh, embroidered handkerchief. Sister Agatha’s own apron pockets bulged with her Girl Guides knife, her detective’s notebook (when she was allowed to carry one), her smartphone,
the paperback mystery that she happened to be reading at the time, and a few spare sandwich bags from the kitchen to use as evidence bags. You never knew what you might come across in a day’s excursions as a mystery writer and amateur sleuth. And of course, as an Anglican nun.

  “Of course not.” Sister Harriet said, unperturbed. “I didn’t mean that, of course. I just meant—I want the whole story.”

  “We all do, Sisters. But let Sister Agatha eat first,” Reverend Mother said. Though she looked as interested as Sister Harriet.

  Before Sister Agatha could respond or take even a bite of stew, Lucy Pennoyer, the abbey’s young artist-in-residence, spoke up. “Do you mean Tiffany Reese, president of the Art Society?”

  “You know her?” Sister Agatha asked. Lucy, young and fresh-faced, with red hair and startling blue eyes, was a new arrival at the abbey. Not a nun, but a tenant. As part of an experiment by the sisters to generate added income for the struggling abbey, they had recently embarked on the adventure of becoming landlords. It was one of three new ideas they had to bolster their sagging finances. Their first idea was to increase their online presence in order to sell more Heavenly Gouda. This involved a plunge into social media as well as a new and improved website. So far, the response had been slow—a few “likes” and a couple of “shares.” The second idea, sheep farming, seemed even slower to produce income, but that was to be expected. The sisters had invested in a small flock of Welsh Mountain sheep along with a part-time shepherd, a retired sheep man from the village named Ben Holden.

  They planned to sell both wool and fresh lamb for profit and then use any excess at the abbey. Sister Winifred had big plans to spin her own yarn, and Sister Gwenydd thought homegrown, fresh lamb was just what her future cuisine needed.