SIX WEEKS LATER, SISTER ANSELM Becker sat by the gas-burning log fire at the newly remodeled St. Bernadette’s Convent in Jerome while another fierce snowstorm, the third of the season, swirled outside.
It was almost Christmas.
She was glad to be home and warm on this cold and windy night.
When her phone rang with Bishop Gillespie’s distinctive ring, she was sure she was about to be summoned to some poor soul’s bedside.
“No,” the bishop said. “No call-out tonight. At least not so far, but I’ve just had a fascinating conversation with Bravo Shaw.”
Sister Anselm had never taken to the man she still insisted on referring to as Father Shaw. He claimed to be a Franciscan, and she was determined to have him live by those words.
“What did he have to say for himself?” she asked, not bothering to conceal the disapproval in her voice.
“They opened the sealed quiver earlier this afternoon. What they found inside wasn’t the Veil of Saint Veronica.”
“I knew it,” she declared. “The whole thing was a fake from beginning to end, just like all the others.”
“It’s not exactly a fake,” the bishop said. “It’s cloth all right—fragments of cloth—but it turns out the fragments are from something even more valuable than the veil. It contains seven tiny words written in Phoenician glyphs.”
“What difference does that make?”
“It means,” he said, “rather than coming from the time of Christ, it may be much older than that. In addition to the glyphs there appears to be the seal of King Solomon inconspicuously woven into one corner.”
She was nothing short of astonished.
“In this instance,” the bishop said, with a smile she could hear in his voice, “it seems we’ve encountered something that is both fake and real at the same time. I also believe that Bravo Shaw and his associates will see to it that those fragments end up where they belong.”
“You’re saying I misjudged the man?”
“I believe so.”
He chuckled.
“Sister Anselm wrong? I’m marking that down on the calendar. As far as I know this is a singular occurrence.”