Turning, she stared out at one of the college’s well-tailored gardens. At the far end, by a low hedge, she spotted Leonel. He was talking to a young man in overalls and a blue denim work shirt. In fact, Leonel, arms waving, was doing all the talking. He seemed to be angry again.

That Leonel can surely switch from a lion to a lamb in a hurry, Mary Helen thought, watching him stomp back toward the kitchen, fists still clenched. Or maybe it’s this awful heat. Refilling her mug, she started back to the Sisters’ Residence to finish the morning paper.

By late afternoon, the radio was predicting a record high. “Today’s temperatures in the city soared into the high eighties,” the newscaster reported, “topping all previous…”

Mary Helen snapped off her transistor. No need being reminded of how hot you were. She rummaged through her narrow closet and pulled out a short-sleeved cotton blouse. Only one sensible thing for this hot, retired nun to do, she reasoned, buttoning up her front: head for a cool, shady spot and finish her murder mystery. Snatching the latest P.D. James paperback from her nightstand, Mary Helen shoved it into her faithful paperbook cover-one with ribbon markers and all. It was the kind seen in every religious goods store. This piece of plastic had served her well. For years it had decorously disguised her mystery novels.

Quietly, she shut the door of her small bedroom.

The tropical fragrance of jasmine wafted down the convent corridor. Mary Helen sniffed her way along until she reached Sister Anne’s bedroom. The door was ajar. She caught a glimpse of Anne seated on a round, green pillow set on a square of blue rug. Eyes closed, legs pretzeled, open palms resting on her knees. Thin curls of smoke rose from a brass incense pot on her desk.

“Good Lord, Anne. What on earth are you doing?”

“Meditating. This is my lotus position. Very relaxing. You should try it.” She opened one eye to catch Mary Helen’s reaction.