Sister Eve, Private Eye

  ACCLAIM FOR SISTER EVE, PRIVATE EYE

  “Lynne Hinton grabs you and doesn’t let go until the last page is turned. I hope, no, I pray we haven’t heard the last from Sister Eve, private eye.”

  —PHIL GULLEY, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE HARMONY SERIES

  “Lynne Hinton has created a marvelous character in Sister Eve Divine. This nun-turned-detective will keep an enduring hold on your heart and mind long after the case is solved and the roar of her Harley fades into the desert air.”

  —MARK DE CASTRIQUE, A MURDER IN PASSING

  “Lynne Hinton’s reverently irreverent Sister Eve is my new hero. This is not just a well-crafted, page-turning mystery—this is a grounded, believable and enlightened examination of family dynamics, internal emotional and spiritual struggles and the choices human beings make. The characters are complex and multi-dimensional—readers will find themselves relating to them with ease. An absolute joy to read.”

  —MAGGI PETTON, AUTHOR OF THE QUEEN’S COMPANION AND HEAVEN’S DAUGHTER

  “In Sister Eve, Private Eye, Lynne Hinton has once again created a central character who is fascinating, flawed, funny, and compellingly human: Sister Evangeline Divine, the Harley-riding Benedictine nun … With her signature combination of warm, folksy characters and down-home style, Hinton strikes just the right note with Sister Eve—a blend of humor, suspense, wit, and incisive flashes of philosophical insight. Sister Eve is a winner.”

  —PENELOPE J. STOKES, AUTHOR OF THE BLUE BOTTLE CLUB, CIRCLE OF GRACE AND SAINT SOMEDAY

  “Although Sister Eve, Private Eye is laced with humor, this eponymous nun neatly sidesteps the potential pitfalls of cuteness. Lynne Hinton writes with grace and compassion and I look forward to learning where she’ll take Sister Eve next.”

  —MARGARET MARON, EDGAR AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF THE BOOTLEGGER’S DAUGHTER

  “With keen insight into the life of one who has used her life’s calling for God, Hinton paints a complex and realistic heroine who is sure to win the hearts of readers. Fans of The Mitford series and Murder She Wrote are certain to soak up every page of this well written and delightful novel. I can’t wait to read Sister Eve’s next adventure in this series.”

  —MICHAEL MORRIS, AUTHOR OF MAN IN THE BLUE MOON

  ACCLAIM FOR THE ART OF ARRANGING FLOWERS

  “Will leave you with a contented sigh and a hopeful heart.”

  —NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR KAREN WHITE

  “I devoured this book. There is art and beauty in this story that will linger after the final scene.”

  —DEBBIE MACOMBER, #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF ROSE HARBOR IN BLOOM AND STARRY NIGHT

  “An expertly penned and tender tale about the blossoming of hearts amidst the storms of loss and grief.”

  —RICHARD PAUL EVANS, #1 NEW YORK TIMES AND USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  © 2014 by Lynne Hinton

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please email SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-4016-9146-2 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hinton, J. Lynne.

  Sister Eve, private eye / Lynne Hinton.

  pages cm. — (A Divine Private Detective Agency mystery ; 1)

  ISBN 978-1-4016-9145-5 (paperback)

  1. Nuns—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.I457S57 2014

  813’.54—dc23

  2014023477

  14 15 16 17 18 19 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Dedicated to the memory of O. Jackson Hinton It’s ironic that you died the same year this book is published. However, I am certainly old enough to know that often we never solve the great mysteries of life. Sometimes we can only accept them. I miss you, Dad.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SIXTY-SIX

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Chaz Cheston grabbed his keys and quietly made his way out the back door. He had exactly one hour and fifteen minutes to pick up the final pages of the script and drive to the airport in Santa Fe. A jet was arriving that morning to pick him up and make a quick turnaround trip back to California. He stood beside his prized sports car, patted the bulging pocket of his black leather jacket, and glanced at his watch. He was late.

  Ron Polland had arranged back-to-back meetings in Los Angeles that morning. Cheston was scheduled to check in with the assistant director at ten o’clock, the casting director at ten thirty, and the director of photography at eleven. Polland, the producer, was expecting the director at the studio production offices at noon. There was a lunch planned for the investors later, and the entire afternoon was to be devoted to the final budget approval. Cheston just hoped that Polland wouldn’t ask for a statement from the production account at the bank before the meetings. He jumped in the car, turned on the engine, and sped down the driveway.

  Cheston planned to take the meetings, hand over the finished pages, and get his check so he could make the deposit before the withdrawal had been noticed. The assistant manager at the bank, the tall blonde taking evening acting classes, had already given him a heads-up that Polland had asked for weekly statements fo
r the account. Chaz thought about the woman, recalling how he had arranged a personal studio tour and suggested that she would be great in his next project, a lie he would deal with later.

  He knew that Polland was already suspicious about what had happened to the advance. Just out of rehab, Chaz wouldn’t even be hired by the studio without insurance. He couldn’t shake that monkey off his back no matter how hard he tried. Polland had not been happy when his star writer and director had flown to New Mexico more than a month ago claiming he needed to be on location to finish the script for the film he’d promised would start production in three weeks.

  It was just before dawn, and the sun was still well below the barren peaks of the Ortiz Mountains marking the horizon to the east. The temperature was cooler than he’d expected, and he turned up the heat. He headed down the winding dirt road that would curve and dip for a couple of miles before hitting Highway 14. He recalled that the main drag through Madrid and Cerrillos was known as the Turquoise Trail, a forty-mile stretch of desert highway between Albuquerque and Santa Fe.

  He switched his headlights to bright, taking the curves as fast as he could. He recalled the directions he had used a few times before, trying to remember the exact route number and cattle guards to count. It was at least a thirty-minute drive to the cabin outside of Madrid and then at least forty-five more to the airport. But all he had to do was drive by, pick up the necessary pages, drop off some cash, and he’d soon be on his way to Santa Fe. He’d figure out the other details of explaining his whereabouts later.

  Chaz cursed. If Ross had just emailed the pages to him, it would have saved him a needless, time-consuming trip. But he’d refused. He was sticking to his usual writing tool of an IBM Selectric typewriter, and if Chaz wanted this story by Ross Biltmore, he was going to get it the way Ross Biltmore wrote them all: single-spaced narrative style, half-inch margins, Times Roman font, size 12. Somebody else was going to have to indent the pages of dialogue, add the characters’ names to the lines, and supply the scene directions. He didn’t care if there was a close-up on the hero or if the location was an interior or exterior, Ross Biltmore just wrote the story.

  Chaz Cheston headed east toward the rising sun, the sports car throwing up pebbles and raising dust in swirls behind him. Chaz and Ross had known each other since college, rooming together the last couple of years of school, although that didn’t really mean anything since Chaz was never there. By the time Ross left the university and traveled across India to study with some religious guru, Chaz, son of a famous movie director and grandson of a well-respected producer, was already working as an assistant to an assistant director in a major Hollywood production.

  In the beginning, Ross simply wrote term papers and essays for Chaz, but then he began taking his roommate’s exams when he could. However, in twenty years that arrangement had evolved. Ross withdrew from his classes the second semester of his junior year but remained a resident in the luxury apartment near campus paid for by the Cheston family. He turned out to be a gifted writer. No one at the university ever found out about the forged papers, and no one in the industry knew where Chaz Cheston came up with his brilliant ideas for movies.

  Only Chaz and Ross knew the man who was really the genius behind the romantic comedies and the action-packed dramas. And for twenty years, that’s the way it had been for the two friends. As far as Chaz knew, Ross never minded the anonymity, the lack of recognition, and he never asked for more money than what was offered. It was a solid business arrangement, and Chaz couldn’t be happier. Especially now.

  He made the turn on 14 and headed north. The sun was just starting to peek over the top of the Sangre de Cristos. He made the second left onto the dirt road and hit the accelerator. From this point it was a straight shot to the house near Cedar Hill. He was still hoping to make good time.

  When he arrived at the entry to Ross’s property, the fourth cattle guard and the second driveway off the road, he put the car in park and got out. He walked up to the gate, reached around, and slid the gate lock open, as he had been taught by Ross, and grabbed the small key he had been given from the pocket of his jacket. He opened the lock on the chain that was wrapped around the fence and the gate, yanked it through, pushed the gate, jumped back in his car, and pulled in, leaving the gate open. He hurried toward the small cabin built on the north side of a mesa. Stopping at the end of the drive, Chaz turned off the engine and waited. He looked around the house to see if any lights were on and then got out of the car, heading to the back door.

  Why on earth would anyone want to live way out here? he asked himself and shook his head as he searched around him, making sure no one else was there. Feeling confident that he was alone, he walked to the porch and searched for the folder he’d been promised.

  Ross had explained when Chaz called over the weekend that he was heading out of town but that he had finished the script, and the final scenes would be left under a blanket on a rocking chair on the east side of the house. He asked that Chaz put the cash and the gate key in the SentrySafe at the other end of the property. Chaz had been given the combination, and after picking up the script, he planned to drive down to the barn and drop off the bundle of cash he had zipped in his jacket pocket.

  Ross, he had been instructed a long time ago, never wanted a check or direct deposit. He wanted cash only. No paper trail was just fine with the Hollywood filmmaker.

  Chaz eyed the outdoor furniture lining the long porch. There were two rocking chairs near the front door and another near a bench. Sure enough, the thick folder was under the old red Navajo blanket. Relieved, he stuck the folder under his arm and was heading to his car when he saw the lights coming up the driveway.

  It was still not quite sunrise, and the small, round beams of light bounced up and down as they moved closer and closer to him. Chaz stood, frozen, watching as the vehicle pulled up beside his. The driver’s door opened. At first he thought it must be Ross home early, or maybe a neighbor, someone who watched the property when the owner was gone. He was squinting, trying to see who was getting out of the car, when he heard his name called and recognized the voice before he ever saw the face.

  “Christ, have mercy …” He felt a sharp pain in the left part of his chest and the folder under his arm fall. He dropped to his knees, the papers flying all around him, looking down at where he had been shot. He reached for his chest, expecting to find blood, but soon realized that what was lodged firmly under his skin was not a bullet but a short, thin dart. He looked up.

  “I always heard the desert was a spiritual place, Charles.” The familiar face loomed over him. He felt tightness in his chest and pain radiating across his shoulders and down his left arm. The Hollywood director struggled for breath. “I just never figured you for the religious type,” were the last words Chaz Cheston ever heard.

  ONE

  “Pssst …” The sound was a faint whisper and came from the chapel entrance.

  Sister Evangeline heard the noise but did not rise from her kneeling position; instead, she simply redoubled her prayers for patience. Breakfast had been served and it was an hour past Lauds. After a quick ride to the town of Glorieta to clear her head, she had returned to the sanctuary for an extended period of scripture reading and meditation meant to aid her spiritual journey. She heard the whisper but remained at the kneeling bench, the narrow beam hard beneath her knees. Candles burned on the altar, and the statue of Mary stood above the nun as she prayed. Saints watched from the stained-glass windows as she closed her eyes and took in a breath. Maybe the whisper was not meant for her, she decided.

  She readjusted herself, folded her hands once again, and bowed lower. The pew she was on was empty except for her helmet, which had been placed beside her. Even though she hadn’t actually worn it during the ride, she took it with her just to keep the questions and criticisms at bay. She couldn’t help herself—she snuck a peek at it just to make sure it was still there. Satisfied that it had not been taken, she drew in a deep breath and beg
an a recitation from the Psalms.

  She wanted to be obedient. She tried to be dutiful, and if being able to accomplish such a feat required extra prayers, Sister Evangeline was willing to do it. Lately the well-seasoned nun had confessed to experiencing difficulty remaining patient with other members of her order at Our Lady of Guadalupe Abbey and with some of the changes being made at the direction of the Santa Fe diocese, especially the new order that was requiring the nuns to move out. She and Brother Oliver, the vice superior of the monastery that historically housed both monks and nuns, had agreed that additional time of solitude and prayers might aid her with her personal weaknesses, especially her anger. He had meant clocking hours in the chapel, but Evangeline knew that a ride on her Harley calmed and centered her more than sitting in a quiet room. So she decided to do them both. She finished the recitation and began her prayer.

  “Pssst …”

  There it was again. She remained bowed. She kept her eyes closed. Maybe someone else was in the chapel, maybe someone was sitting behind her and was being called, she thought. Maybe they would take the cue of her silence and leave quietly. Or maybe whoever was trying to capture her attention would realize Evangeline was in prayer and leave her alone.

  “Psssst … pssst … pssst.”

  She rose up and jerked her head around. “What?!” she barked.

  Clearly Brother Oliver had been right; she needed divine assistance.

  Evangeline shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said as gently as she could to the young novice standing at the door, her pale face peeking through the opening. “Sister Margaret, please, come in, come in.” She sat up from the kneeling bench to the pew and waved the young woman inside. She rested her elbows on her knees.