branches?”
Still trying to catch his breath, he coughed. “No,” he finally said. “It was on the ground at the bottom of the vine.”
I wish I’d seen it myself, the nun thought. “It’s almost the same material as my habit,” she said. “The old nun must have torn her habit on the vines. And you didn’t see any rag cloths around the winery here? She may have wanted to dispose of her habit on your land.”
“I’ve never seen any cloth like that around here, Sister.”
“I’ll have to get this to the police, Martino. Good job. This verifies a witness’s testimony. If you find anything else, let me know.”
Chapter Eleven
Strolling through the busy Siena police station the next morning, Sister Angela ran into the chief detective.
“I didn’t know you’d be back so soon, Sister,” he said.
“The terminal’s just down the road. I had someone drop me off here, and I plan to walk there when my train’s due. But I wanted you to have this.” She slipped the baggie from her red-striped tote. “Last night, I talked with Martino La Barca at the vineyard abutting the orphanage.”
“Yes, I interviewed him already.”
“I showed him where Grazia saw the nun on his side of the fence. The child said the old nun tried to hide among the leafy shoots.”
“We didn’t check out that story. I should’ve done that.”
“Yes, because there were broken shoots on one of the vines closest to the orphanage. After I walked away, he kept examining the bush and discovered a piece of torn material that had fallen to the ground.” She slipped the swatch of black fabric out of her pocket. “It looks like part of a habit, doesn’t it?”
“Is it the same material as your habit?”
“No, mine’s a lighter material. I belong to a community that’s comfortable with Vatican II, remember? Most of the nuns at Mission House are younger, and they wear the same type of habit I do. But some of the older nuns choose to wear the older style.”
“You’re saying that this fabric’s what the old style was made from, right?”
“Every community’s different, but this fabric’s common. I have to warn you that La Barca held the fabric tightly in his hand when he tried to catch up with me. There may be no readable DNA because of that. But at the very least, the existence of material does seem to corroborate Grazia’s story.”
“It could be bad news for the vintner, it adds him to the list of suspects.”
“I’m surprised, Chief Detective, that he wasn’t on the list already.”
Unable to secure a taxi or bus outside the terminal in Castel Valori, Sister Angela stopped at a cart along the tiny village’s town center and bought an apple.
“Pardon me,” she said to the vender. “Can you tell me where I might find the Sacro Cuore della Francesca?”
“Yes, Sister. Continue through town. Just down the road from where Castel Valori ends, you’ll find a large gray building on your right. That’s it.”
“Thank you.” The nun said, beginning down the road, slowing to window shop each time she passed a store.
At the end of town, the road narrowed. Dried grass and bushes crowded the edges. On the downside, the golden shoots ended, and rows of grapes took off into the valley below. To her right, gravel drives navigated the hillside, framed by tall cypress as they approached farmhouses. Sister Angela stopped to let a strong breeze, carrying the songs of birds perched on the vines and trees, cool her face. Then she continued her dusty trek. Rounding the bend, the building the vender described suddenly came into view. The outside walls were a dirty-gray plaster that had chipped away, revealing mortar and brick. Faded red-painted wood framed the windows. She urged her legs up a slight slope and then took ten steps to a flat piazza. A marble archway framed a thick wooden door. Sister Angela reached up and pulled on a rope until she could hear the bell ring inside.
The trip on the train had been easy.
Still trying to catch his breath, he coughed. “No,” he finally said. “It was on the ground at the bottom of the vine.”
I wish I’d seen it myself, the nun thought. “It’s almost the same material as my habit,” she said. “The old nun must have torn her habit on the vines. And you didn’t see any rag cloths around the winery here? She may have wanted to dispose of her habit on your land.”
“I’ve never seen any cloth like that around here, Sister.”
“I’ll have to get this to the police, Martino. Good job. This verifies a witness’s testimony. If you find anything else, let me know.”
Chapter Eleven
Strolling through the busy Siena police station the next morning, Sister Angela ran into the chief detective.
“I didn’t know you’d be back so soon, Sister,” he said.
“The terminal’s just down the road. I had someone drop me off here, and I plan to walk there when my train’s due. But I wanted you to have this.” She slipped the baggie from her red-striped tote. “Last night, I talked with Martino La Barca at the vineyard abutting the orphanage.”
“Yes, I interviewed him already.”
“I showed him where Grazia saw the nun on his side of the fence. The child said the old nun tried to hide among the leafy shoots.”
“We didn’t check out that story. I should’ve done that.”
“Yes, because there were broken shoots on one of the vines closest to the orphanage. After I walked away, he kept examining the bush and discovered a piece of torn material that had fallen to the ground.” She slipped the swatch of black fabric out of her pocket. “It looks like part of a habit, doesn’t it?”
“Is it the same material as your habit?”
“No, mine’s a lighter material. I belong to a community that’s comfortable with Vatican II, remember? Most of the nuns at Mission House are younger, and they wear the same type of habit I do. But some of the older nuns choose to wear the older style.”
“You’re saying that this fabric’s what the old style was made from, right?”
“Every community’s different, but this fabric’s common. I have to warn you that La Barca held the fabric tightly in his hand when he tried to catch up with me. There may be no readable DNA because of that. But at the very least, the existence of material does seem to corroborate Grazia’s story.”
“It could be bad news for the vintner, it adds him to the list of suspects.”
“I’m surprised, Chief Detective, that he wasn’t on the list already.”
Unable to secure a taxi or bus outside the terminal in Castel Valori, Sister Angela stopped at a cart along the tiny village’s town center and bought an apple.
“Pardon me,” she said to the vender. “Can you tell me where I might find the Sacro Cuore della Francesca?”
“Yes, Sister. Continue through town. Just down the road from where Castel Valori ends, you’ll find a large gray building on your right. That’s it.”
“Thank you.” The nun said, beginning down the road, slowing to window shop each time she passed a store.
At the end of town, the road narrowed. Dried grass and bushes crowded the edges. On the downside, the golden shoots ended, and rows of grapes took off into the valley below. To her right, gravel drives navigated the hillside, framed by tall cypress as they approached farmhouses. Sister Angela stopped to let a strong breeze, carrying the songs of birds perched on the vines and trees, cool her face. Then she continued her dusty trek. Rounding the bend, the building the vender described suddenly came into view. The outside walls were a dirty-gray plaster that had chipped away, revealing mortar and brick. Faded red-painted wood framed the windows. She urged her legs up a slight slope and then took ten steps to a flat piazza. A marble archway framed a thick wooden door. Sister Angela reached up and pulled on a rope until she could hear the bell ring inside.
The trip on the train had been easy.
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