The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

we’ve started renovations. The slates on the roof are new, and we now have insulation in the attic. We plan to replace the furnace, next.” She glanced back at Maura. “Believe it or not, this building feels quite cozy, compared to a year ago.”
    The Abbess took a deep breath and resumed climbing the stairs, her rosary beads clattering. “There used to be forty-five of us here. When I first came to Graystones, we filled all these rooms. Both wings. But now we’re a maturing community.”
    “When did you come, Reverend Mother?” asked Maura.
    “I entered as a postulant when I was eighteen years old. I had a young gentleman who wanted to marry me. I’m afraid his pride was quite wounded when I turned him down for God.” She paused on the step and looked back. For the first time, Maura noticed the bulge of a hearing aid beneath her wimple. “You probably can’t imagine that, can you, Dr. Isles? That I was ever that young?”
    No, Maura couldn’t. She couldn’t imagine Mary Clement as anything but the wobbly relic she was now. Certainly never a desirable woman, pursued by men.
    They reached the top of the stairs, and a long hallway stretched before them. It was warmer up here, almost pleasant, the heat trapped by low dark ceilings. The exposed beams looked at least a century old. The Abbess moved to the second door and hesitated, her hand on the knob. At last she turned it, and the door swung open, gray light from within spilling onto her face. “This is Sister Ursula’s room,” she said softly.
    The room was scarcely large enough to fit all of them at once. Frost and Rizzoli stepped in, but Maura remained by the door, her gaze drifting past shelves lined with books, past flowerpots containing thriving African violets. With its mullioned window and low-beamed ceiling, the room looked medieval. A scholar’s tidy garret, furnished with a simple bed and dresser, a desk and chair.
    “Her bed’s been made,” said Rizzoli, looking down at the neatly tucked sheets.
    “That’s the way we found it this morning,” said Mary Clement.
    “Didn’t she go to sleep last night?”
    “It’s more likely she rose early. She usually does.”
    “How early?”
    “She’s often up hours before Lauds.”
    “Lauds?” asked Frost.
    “Our morning prayers, at seven. This past summer, she was always out early, in the garden. She loves to work in the garden.”
    “And in the winter?” asked Rizzoli. “What does she do so early in the morning?”
    “Whatever the season, there’s always work to be done, for those of us who can still manage it. But so many of the sisters are frail now. This year, we had to hire Mrs. Otis to help us prepare meals. Even with her help, we can scarcely keep up with the chores.”
    Rizzoli opened the closet door. Inside hung an austere collection of blacks and browns. Not a hint of color nor embellishment. It was the wardrobe of a woman for whom the Lord’s work was all-important, for whom the design of clothing was only in His service.
    “These are the only clothes she has? What I see in this closet?” asked Rizzoli.
    “We take a vow of poverty when we join the order.”
    “Does that mean you give up everything you own?”
    Mary Clement responded with the patient smile one gives to a child who has just asked an absurd question. “It’s not such a hardship, Detective. We keep our books, a few personal mementoes. As you can see, Sister Ursula enjoys her African violets. But yes, we leave almost everything behind when we come here. This is a contemplative order, and we don’t welcome the distractions of the outside world.”
    “Excuse me, Reverend Mother,” said Frost. “I’m not Catholic, so I don’t understand what that word means. What’s a contemplative order?”
    His question had been quietly respectful, and Mary Clement favored him with a warmer smile than she had given Rizzoli. “A contemplative leads a reflective life. A life of prayer and private devotion and meditation. That’s why we retreat behind walls. Why we turn away visitors. Seclusion is a comfort to us.”
    “What if someone breaks the rules?” asked Rizzoli. “Do you kick her out?”
    Maura saw Frost wince at his partner’s bluntly worded question.
    “Our rules are voluntary,” said Mary Clement. “We abide by them because we wish to.”
    “But every so often, there’s got to be some nun who wakes up one morning and says, ‘I feel like going to the beach.’ ”
    “It doesn’t