The Missing Chrome.

After forty years of pacing and praying in the cloister, Sister Heloise was about to steer some steel. The Convent was affectionately known as the Prayers for Lost Causes, somewhere on the fringes of Old Blithering. She read the official letter to her smiling community of senior nuns.

"Bishop O' Malley is very pleased to inform you that funds are adequate to purchase the convent a hatchback. Here is the address of the Car Dealer."

Sister Philomena spoke up, as the leader and former Principal of their careers as educators.

"Sister Heloise, I appoint you as our driver. Have you still got your Driver's Licence?"

Sister Heloise affirmed, saying, "I shall phone Monsignor John to let my practice driving in his jalopy."

The youngest nun in the convent was only 72, but it was years since she had driven. She had been making do with the antique bicycle, which was getting a bit much bother for her aching knees.

Sister Philomena replied, "I am coming with you. Then we can choose the car together."

"A back seat driver," Sister Joanna commented, "You can drive us into town, and to Mass. Lovely."

Sister Heloise did not say anything, only clasped her hands in silent contemplation of the good works she could now do the Higher Power.

But her first practice session with Monsignor John resulted in several dents and near misses of fender benders. The stubborn goats and mailboxes along the country roads went slightly rogue. Sister Heloise could hear devoted decades of the Holy Rosary emanating from the Sister Philomena, such a dedicated leader in prayer life.

Monsignor John was sheet white, bracing his pallid knuckles against the dashboard of his formerly pristine beige sedan.

"A gentle engagement of the clutch, Sister. Not a stampede at the Pamplona bull run."

Sister Heloise, possessing the sharp, but slightly myopic, vision of the evaluating archivist whe liked acting as an amateur detective, was feeling witty.

'The steering on this vehicle is as elusive as true contrition, Monsignor. Do not fret. I only clipped the parish recycling bin because it moved."

"It is stationary, Sister. It is made of cast plastic."

"A minor theological debate for another time."

She shifted down into second gear with a crunch that made the transmission stop singing hymns. The collar sitting in the passenger seat winced again. Sister Philomena kept up her prayers, which could not do this afternoon any harm.

Heading to the dealership, their progress was hampered by narrow escapes. A flock of startled geese seemed to erupt from the tortured ditch. Heloise swerved, missed a rustic stone statue by a hair's breadth, and vaulted a curb with all the grace of a lumbering mammoth.

"My suspension!" Monsignor John gasped, grasping at his pectoral cross.

"Offer it up for all the dearly beloved souls in purgatory,' she replied serenely, braking with a sudden jolt that almost hurled this holy trio through the windscreen. We have arrived."

Somehow, Sister Heloise parked outside Bargain Bob the Battler's Auto Emporium. Monsignor John stepped from his wheels, groaning as he massaged his lower back. The two nuns eagerly checked all the available stock, then agreed on the shiny, polished medium blue.

"Like our Blessed Virgin Mary's cloak, Perfect choice," Sister Philomena's face was wreathed in smiles. As the trio of divinities stepped from the showroom, blinking in the sunshine, Monsignor John muttered, horrified,

"My hubcaps!"

"Speak up, Monsignor. This traffic is too loud."

"My hubcaps!" he repeated, pointing at the passenger side of his vehicle. Three of the four shining chrome discs bearing the parish decal were gone. Only a couple of greasy bolts remained.

"A thief in broad daylight!" Monsignor John wrung his hands. "Who would do this sacrilege against church property?"

Sister Philomena lapsed into one of her sunset moments, clapping her hands and singing, " Who stole the hubcaps from the cookie jar? Sister Heloise, did you steal these hubcaps from Monsignor John's car in the cookie jar in the auto yard?"

"Not I, Sister. We must not leap to conclusions, whether we are amateur detectives or not." Sister Heloise sang along, eyeing a trail of muddy bootprints leading to the youth centre's dumpster. "Or perhaps.... Look over there. Young Billy Jenkins has been hanging around the parish garage with a suspiciously bulging canvas sack. He told me yesterday he was 'collecting heavy metal for the school fundraiser."

Monsignor John considered this, his eyes narrowing in contemplation. He spotted a glint of chrome sticking out of the local butcher's delivery van down the lane.

"Billy couldn't forge his mother's signature on a permission note, let alone unclip three aged hubcaps, without waking a deaf hound. No, look at the mud on the road. Agricultural clay. Not playground soil."

They drove their cars home. Monsignor John had farewelled the nuns with a very grim attitude. Did they say goodbye to their past rapport and trust?

This mystery simmered as Sunday arrived, bringing the disorganized ritual of Confirmation Sunday at their parish church. Old Blithering believers were there. Sister Heloise drove several car loads of her sorority to marshal the candidates. Monsignor John seemed to have let go of being kind to the nuns. He was still more than miffed when he had to explain to the good Bishop about his damaged car.

The altar boys looked angelic for once, the choir and clergy sang sweetly, the entire ceremony proceeded with full pomp. No hitches. The afternoon tea was laden with a wide variety of cream cakes, eclairs, loaded scones. As the worthy Bishop O' Malley ably dodged incoming decos of jam and cream being hurled by the lads, Billy Jenkins was up to no good again. The nuns tried to disregard that he was rebaptizing the newly confirmed in the girls' toilets.

"All part of sacramental life," Sister Ciara commented, "God's little sunbeams."

Just then, Sergeant Jenkins of the local cop shop interrupted this munching of sweet delights.

"While I was hauling my son away from drowning the girls, someone's stolen my police cruiser. It's gone!"

"Like my hubcaps!" Monsignor John exclaimed. He dropped his cup of tea. "The police car, stolen? Where did respect disappear to?"

Sister Heloise was in full sleuth mode. "A vehicle with a loud siren and a radio." Her mind was clicking into gear. She carefully scrutinized the tyre tracks in the unmown grass by the lane. They were identical to the treads she had noted next to the auto shop. Then she glimpsed a flash of blue and white light blinking through the trees a mile away up the winding ridge road towards the old quarry.

"That police car is heading to Earl O'Malley's farm, where all the sheds are. Come on, Ciara, Monsignor John can drive Sergeant Jenkins."

"Oooh, high speed car chase. Love it, Sister. Better than Agatha Christie." Sister Philomena hopped into theb back seat, praying the Rosary for guidance.

Dust flew, as Sister Heloise led the pursuit. This was far better than washing all the dishes in the church hall after the repast. The followers caught up with the Bishop's nephew. Earl was the black sheep of that bunch of devouts. He was defiant, but slightly drunk. He spent the night in the lock-up with the DT's, in a very bad mood. No bourbon there.

Monsignor John and Sister Heloise rummaged through an entire stack of hubcaps, and found his missing chrome. The old convent bicycle was put to better use, its pannier planted with flowering blooms, adding to the fragrance of blessings. Sisters in the convent did pray religiously, that Sister Heloise's driving skills would improve with time. So did Monsignor John, quietly. And his aching back, naturally. Old Blithering is a fun town.