Oh. How could I have forgotten? However, it is difficult to remember I’m not here when I am. “I’m sorry.” I must be more careful.
That reminded me of my perilous journey with the phone. “Kathleen, you’ll be pleased to know I was able to retrieve Daryl’s phone.” Considering her present discomfiture, I thought it best not to mention that moment above the church parking lot.
“Where—”
The hall door swung in. Elise bustled toward the table, a tomato-red pincushion shaped like a teapot in one hand, pink wrapping paper, scissors, and tape in the other. My tête-à-tête with Kathleen would have to wait.
Elise deftly wrapped the pincushion, chattering all the while.
“I thought tonight’s discussion of Saint Philip Neri was excellent. I agree with his insistence that rigorism keeps Heaven empty.” When Elise fluttered paper, I used the crackling sound as cover and leaned near Kathleen to whisper, “We’ll talk in the morning.
The phone’s safe for now.”
I wished my whispers didn’t have such a galvanizing effect on Kathleen. Her eyes flared, her mouth opened, her hands opened and closed spasmodically.
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As she used the scissors to curl a strip of ribbon, Elise turned toward Kathleen. “And I love Saint Teresa’s—” Elise broke off, staring. The scissors snapped shut, cutting the ribbon in half. “Are you all right?”
“Just”—Kathleen gulped for breath—“scalded my hand.”
“Cutting the cake?” Elise looked toward the cake stand with its cover in place.
“The cake knife.” Kathleen whirled and moved to a drawer.
Elise looked at the stack of plates on the corner of the counter.
The plates contained no cake. “Why did you put the knife up? You haven’t cut the cake yet.”
“It was so hot. The water, you know.” Kathleen yanked open a cutlery drawer, drew out a serrated knife.
Elise unwound another long strip of ribbon. “You’d better check the hot water heater. It’s extremely dangerous . . .” I passed through the swinging door into the hall. Literally and with pleasure. It was such a bore to have to open and shut doors. I wanted to take a peek around the rectory before I slipped upstairs to my lovely guest room. My duties were done for the moment. Kathleen seemed to be safe. The police investigation was under way. In the morning, I would confer with Kathleen. For now, I was free to relax and consider my rather breathtaking day.
I was mindful that it behooved me to commit the Precepts to memory. Surely Wiggins understood that the opportunity for thoughtful consideration had so far eluded me due to circumstances utterly beyond my control. I pushed away the memory of his doleful voice. Hopefully, he had returned to the Department of Good Intentions. Perhaps another gh—emissary might benefit from consulta-tion. I would redouble my efforts to remain unnoticed.
In the hallway, I gave a sigh of sheer delight. I might have been transported as an eight-year-old to my Grandmother Shaw’s stately home in Fort Worth. Since my time the rectory had been restored to 70
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its Victorian glory. An ornately carved walnut Renaissance Revival étagère held a collection of Bristol glass, three vases, a mortar and pestle, and a fan holder. A pink porcelain clock on a center shelf was gilded with bronze. The hallway was papered in Delft blue with a golden medallion pattern.
The flooring was now custom redwood, the entryway runner a fine Oriental in pale shades of rose and gold. One of the church patrons must have made possible the restoration of the rectory to Victorian glory. Clearly Kathleen and Father Bill wouldn’t have the funds.
I heard the chirp of women’s voices in the living room. I lingered by the étagère. I picked up one of the fans, flared it open. It reminded me of stories I’d heard from the era when my grandparents were young. Ah, those romantic days when a young woman might flick a wrist, flutter a fan, and send a seductive sidelong glance to a side-burned gentleman tipping a white straw hat.
I was caught up in my fancies when the front door rattled with a brusque knock. Quickly, mindful of Kathleen’s concerns in the kitchen, I replaced the fan and slipped to one side of the étagère as a patrician woman stepped through the archway from the living room into the hall. Short-cut silver hair glistened in the shower of light from the chandelier. She was tall and slender, with a confident carriage.
The kitchen door swung out. Elise held it open as Kathleen entered with a serving tray.
“I’ll get the door, Kathleen.” The newcomer spoke with a brisk assumption of authority. The directress of the Altar Guild no doubt.
As to the manor born, she strode to the door, flicked on the porch light, and opened the door. “Hello, Sam.” There was the faintest edge of surprise in her voice.
The police chief squinted in the sudden glare. He straightened the baggy coat of his suit and cleared his throat. “H’lo, Rose. The reverend here?”
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“Father Abbott isn’t here.” Rose emphasized the title.
It was the old chasm between the evangelical brethren and the Episcopal congregation. The police chief, likely a stalwart Baptist, wasn’t about to call any man Father.
“Come on in, Sam. We’re just finishing our Thursday-night Bible study.” Rose held the door and turned toward Kathleen. “Chief Cobb is looking for Father Bill.”
The chief stepped inside, looking exceedingly masculine and large.
His leathery complexion reflected years of too much sun. Another fisherman, I decided. Bobby Mac would have liked him. Cobb’s gaze was steady. His broad mouth looked like it could curl into a big grin as well as straighten into toughness.
Fortunately, my gaze also encompassed Kathleen. I reached her just as the tray began to tip. I steadied it. This time I tried to keep my whisper gentle, but to the point. “Look lively. No one knows. Find out what he wants. Act normal.”
Elise’s head swiveled back and forth, seeking the source of the soft murmur.
Kathleen thrust the tray toward Elise, walked to the door as if facing the guillotine. What was I going to do with her! I flowed alongside and breathed in her ear. “Relax. Smile.” Kathleen looked up at the police chief. She managed a tight smile.
“Bill’s not here right now. He’s at the hospital. I can give you his cell number.”
The chief’s big head bent forward. He looked uncomfortable.
“You can help me, Mrs. Abbott, same as him. Thing is, we’ve had a crime in the cemetery. The body of Daryl Murdoch—” Shocked cries rose.
“—was discovered near the Pritchard mausoleum.” Rose stepped forward. “Sam, what happened?” The chief was brisk. “He was found dead with a bullet wound.
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We’ve been attempting to contact family members but haven’t had any success.”
Rose looked at Elise. “Do you have Judith Murdoch’s cell number?”
Elise pointed toward the living room. “I’ll get my purse, check my address book.”
I perched on the hideously uncomfortable red plush chair next to the étagère.
I heard a click and looked down. Spoofer moved purposefully across the floor toward me. Some insist that cats’ claws always retract and can’t click on a hard surface. That is not true of all cats and Spoofer proved my point. He looked up at me, flowed through the air, and settled on my lap. I gave him a swift hug. Heaven knows that cats are God’s most elegant creatures.
Chief Cobb nodded. “That would be helpful. However, I’m here because we got an anonymous call that a weapon was hidden on the back porch of the rectory. I know it’s Halloween and crank calls can happen, but this one sure came fast. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to—”