Koesler had been unaware of Mrs. Quinn’s presence. Contributing to this circumstance was Mrs. Quinn’s state. Her head was softly bobbing in the general direction of her bosom. She was in the midst of a small nap.
“Mary Frances! Mary Frances!” Mrs. Hunsinger nudged her gently.
“If the number’s B-8, then I’ve got a bingo,” Mrs. Quinn murmured. Obviously a vestige of her dream.
In spite of himself and in spite of where he was, Koesler could not suppress a smile. Long ago, the traditional four marks of the One True Church had been increased by one, to read: One, Holy, Catholic, Apostolic, and Bingo. Surely, Mrs. Quinn’s faith was strong.
“Mary Frances.” Mrs. Hunsinger was getting her attention. “This is Father Koesler. You remember I told you all about Father Koesler.”
“Oh. . oh, yes. Father Koesler.” Mrs. Quinn extended her hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Quinn.” Koesler took the proffered hand, thinking that it might better be put to use rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“So,” Mrs. Quinn blinked in a conscious effort to fully awaken, “this is Father Koesler. Grace has told me what a fine boy you were, so faithful to your altar appointments. And so reverent.”
These ladies were perhaps twenty or thirty years older than he. And though he was in his mid-fifties, Koesler couldn’t help but feel that he was a boy again, being affirmatively evaluated by the good ladies of the parish. He half expected one of them to affix a gold star to his forehead.
“I am the same, Mrs. Quinn, only now grown a bit older.” He smiled. “The two of you live together, do you?”
“Oh, yes, Father,” Mrs. Quinn responded. “We have for years now. Two old widows taking care of each other as best we can. We seem to match pluses and minuses. Sort of like. . whatchamacallit. . a yin and a yang. But we get along as well as two old ladies can these days. It’s a mercy we found each other.”
“Yes,” Koesler affirmed, “it is a mercy you’re together now. I’m especially pleased that you don’t have to be alone at this time, Mrs. Hunsinger. I’m sure Mrs. Quinn will be a big help to you.”
“Well, I certainly hope to be, Father.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Father Forbes announced, “we’re going to say the rosary now. .”
Whereas there had been only the soft shuffling of feet approaching the bier, now it sounded like a subdued stampede as many tried to reach the exit before being trapped by the prayer.
“If you are seated,” Father Forbes continued, “you may remain seated. If you are standing, considering the crowd here tonight, you probably ought to remain standing.” Catching sight of the many who were making good their escape, he added, “But if you wish to kneel, you may.” He turned toward the coffin and knelt. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. I believe in God, the Father Almighty. .”
Koesler decided to offer this rosary for the deceased, who certainly needed all the spiritual help he could get, as well as for the success of the impending gathering of the God Squad. A meeting that, in all candor, he dreaded.
“I think we ought to observe a moment’s silence in memory of Hank Hunsinger.” Jay Galloway, host for the evening and thus leader of tonight’s discussion, bowed his head.
So did everyone else at the large round dining table, with the exception of Father Koesler. He was not averse to offering another prayer for Hunsinger’s soul, but he considered himself, for this evening, Inspector Koznicki’s eyes and ears. As much as possible he wanted to observe faithfully what would happen here tonight in case what transpired would help the police solve Hunsinger’s murder.
Seated at the table clockwise from himself were Bobby Cobb, Jack Brown, Jay Galloway, Niall Murray, Kit Hoffer, and Dave Whitman. Marj Galloway, having set hot and cold hors d’oeuvres on the table, was seated in the adjoining living room, whence the sound of the television set, volume turned very low, could still be heard.
He and Mrs. Galloway were, thought Koesler, color-coordinated this evening. Each was attired in black and white. The priest, as usual, wore his clericals. Mrs. Galloway wore a simple long-sleeved black dress with frilly white lace at the collar and cuffs. Why, Koesler wondered, was she wearing black? Was it in deference to the deceased Hunsinger? Or for no specific reason? No matter; even the modest dress did not detract from her elegance.
Koesler was haunted by the same feeling he had had on his previous visit to this house. Something was wrong, but he could not identify what. He looked carefully about the dining room. Nothing out of place that he could see. It must have been the other room, the living area. But what?
He would have to remember to look more closely when he was leaving.
He wondered what the others were doing with their moment of silence. Praying? That could be a reasonable assumption with a group assembled for Bible study. On the other hand, it was more than likely that someone in this room-or the next-had killed Hank Hunsinger. What would be going on in that person’s mind during a moment of silence in memory of Hunsinger? A prayer that he or she would not be found out? Scary thought.
Galloway cleared his throat. It might have been the dependable cough of a heavy smoker. In this case it was a signal that the moment of silence had expired.
There was a shifting in chairs and the rustle of Biblical pages being turned.
“Last week,” said Galloway, “we considered the raising of Lazarus from the dead, and we agreed we’d continue on from there this week. So, that’s John, chapter 11, verses 45 to 53. You want to read that, Dave?”
Whitman adjusted his half-lens reading glasses to read the passage:
“Then many of the Jews which came to Mary, and had seen the things which Jesus did, believed on him. But some of them went their ways to the Pharisees, and told them what things Jesus had done. Then gathered the chief priests and the Pharisees a council, and said, What do we? for this man doeth many miracles. If we let him thus alone, all men will believe on him: and the Romans shall come and take away both our place and nation. And one of them, named Caiaphas, being the high priest that same year, said unto them, Ye know nothing at all, Nor consider that it is expedient for us, that one man should die for the people, and that the whole nation perish not. And this spake he not of himself: but being high priest that year, he prophesied that Jesus should die for that nation; And not for that nation only, but that also he should gather together in one the children of God that were scattered abroad. Then from that day forth they took counsel together for to put him to death.
The reading was followed by an extended, almost embarrassed, silence.
Father Koesler, as was his habit, had read the assigned text shortly after the previous meeting. Of course, he had read it in the Catholic Confraternity edition. He had nothing philosophically or theologically against the King James Version. He agreed, in fact, that there were few English translations that equaled the grandeur of the King James. But he found the archaic style confusing. And he always found it difficult enough understanding some parts of the Bible without complicating the process. In any case, he had read the text and was prepared for its prophetic impact.
The others in the God Squad, as was their habit, had not read the assigned text beforehand. Understandably, they were now deeply struck by the obvious connection between the Gospel verses, which spoke of plotting a deliberate murder, and what had actually taken place within their small group in just the past week.
At length, Jay Galloway, as leader, tried to get the verbal ball rolling. “Anyone?”
Another silence.
“Well, quite obviously, it hits home, doesn’t it?” said Koesler.
“If you’re referring to the death of the Hun, I wouldn’t think so,” said Whitman. “After all, the Gospel text is talking about Jesus Christ. And I don’t see what Jesus Christ has to do with Hank Hunsinger.”