Kathleen spread mustard on thick slices of homemade white bread.
She added lettuce, bread-and-butter pickles, and ham. I counted three sandwiches on the stoneware platter. One for me, possibly? She lifted a bowl of potato salad from the refrigerator.
I always like to help my hostess. “Would you like for me to set the table?”
She whirled toward the sound, though I’d moved to the cabinet and was reaching up for dishes. “How many will there be?” 139
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She turned again. “Bill and me. But—” She glanced out the back window. “If you’re hungry, I suppose you could eat first.” It wasn’t the most gracious invitation I’d ever received, but it would do.
I opened the cabinet, picked out three plates, each in a different color, one of the charms of Fiesta pottery. I selected azure blue for Bill, pine green for Kathleen, sandstone red for me.
As I placed them on the table, she glanced through the window into the backyard and the path from the church, then demanded anxiously, “What about the nightgown?”
”Not a trace remains.” I didn’t think it was necessary to explain that the gown’s destruction had been a near thing.
She leaned against the counter, holding the potato salad. “Thank you, Bailey Ruth.”
“My pleasure.” I took the bowl from her, carried it to the table, then lifted the platter of sandwiches.
Kathleen watched its progress through the air. “What frightens me is that I’m beginning to think that platters and bowls traveling through the air untouched by human hand is normal.” I would have been insulted, but she was stressed. I didn’t bother to answer. It took only a moment more to add silverware and napkins.
She delved again into the refrigerator, added a plate of deviled eggs bright with a dash of paprika, and cut celery stalks stuffed with pimiento cheese.
I pulled out my chair. “Since Father Bill’s coming, you don’t mind if I start?” I took a sandwich, scooped up a generous amount of potato salad, plucked a deviled egg and stalk of stuffed celery. The ham was delicious, the bread fresh and yeasty. The potato salad was my favorite, made with mustard, not drenched in mayonnaise. I murmured grace and lifted my sandwich.
“He’s supposed to be here at noon.” She sounded weary. She plunked ice cubes into glasses, brought them and a pitcher of iced tea.
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I knew I was home in Oklahoma, where iced tea is the drink of choice year-round.
“Who knows if he’ll come? Bill never does.” She poured tea for us. “Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t.”
I wondered if she realized how forlorn she sounded.
Soon enough it would be time for me to demand information from Kathleen, but as my mama always insisted, “Mealtime is a time for happy faces.” Deferring to the Precepts, I couldn’t offer a smiling face to Kathleen, but I could focus on happy matters. “Will you help out at Bayroo’s Halloween party this afternoon?” Kathleen’s smile was immediate. “It’s going to be so much fun. I baked meringue in the shape of hearts and made an X on them with red licorice for ‘ X marks the spot.’ And . . .” I listened and murmured and smiled as she described the party plans. I forced myself to eat sedately, though, truth to tell, I was ravenous from my morning’s exertions and could have devoured two sandwiches in the time I spent daintily consuming one. “Bayroo says she always wears a pirate costume.”
Kathleen laughed. “With a gold eye patch, not a black one. Bayroo says her pirate is stylish.”
We were absorbed in lunch and conversation. The sudden opening of the back door shocked us to silence. Kathleen looked in panic at my plate, with its obvious remnants of a meal at a place where no one sat.
I didn’t hesitate, stealthily moving the plate and glass below the surface of the table. I put them on the floor, then reached up to grab the silverware and napkin, and dropped down again. However, a meal service is not a normal feature of a kitchen floor. I looked swiftly about. There was a space between the refrigerator and the counter. The area between wasn’t visible from the table.
Two black-trousered legs stood between me and my goal.
“Kathleen.” Father Bill’s voice was grim.
I shot up to look.
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A bleak frown combined with his clerical collar and dark suit made Kathleen’s husband appear somber. He stopped, hands clenched at his sides. He should have been handsome, his shock of sandy hair cut short to disguise a tendency to curl, deep-set dark blue eyes, straight nose, stalwart chin with a cleft. Instead he looked haggard and worried.
“Bill?” Kathleen took a step toward him. “What’s wrong?” He took a deep breath. “The police chief came to see me. He told me you went to Daryl Murdoch’s cabin Wednesday night.” Father Bill jammed his hands into his jacket pockets.
Kathleen stood as if her bones had turned to stone.
Father Bill tried to smile. “That was some story you came up with.
I know he didn’t plan a gift for Mamie. He wanted me to fire her.
But I told the chief surprises were right up Daryl’s alley. That was certainly true. And the uglier the better.” He looked even grimmer.
“I know what happened. You went because of me, didn’t you? Daryl said he had to talk to you about me.” Father Bill seemed to have no awareness of his surroundings. Now was the moment. Hovering just above the floor, I moved behind him with my plate and napkin and silverware. There was barely room to squeeze past.
Kathleen’s eyes widened. Her gaze followed the table service moving a few inches above the floor. She looked stricken.
Father Bill’s face softened. “That’s what I thought.” He moved toward her in a rush, pulled her into his arms, looked down into her face. “You shouldn’t have gone there. Did he try to get you to tell him? What did you say?”
I reached the refrigerator.
Kathleen gave him a quick look, then her eyes veered down, drawn as if by a magnet to the retreating table setting.
I tucked everything out of sight.
She closed her eyes in relief.
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“Kathleen.” His voice was suddenly soft. “Don’t be upset. You’re wonderful.” He gently took her chin, lifted her face. Her eyes opened and their gazes met. “It must have been horrible for you, the police chief demanding to know what you talked about and you trying to protect me. I’m sorry you had to go through that. Sorry about everything. But you’re my wonderful brave girl, going to that cabin, staring him down. It was just like Daryl”—his voice was hard—“to try and pry information out of you.”
“He was awful.” Kathleen’s eyes were dark with memory. “But I didn’t say anything about you.”
He loosed his grip, began to pace. “Of course not. I wouldn’t tell you anything about—well, that’s the problem, I can’t tell anyone.
That makes me suspect number one to the police.” Kathleen’s hand clutched at her throat. “You? Bill, I don’t understand.”
He faced her. “It’s simple enough. Daryl and I had a shouting match yesterday morning. Somebody must have heard and told the police. The chief wants to know what happened and why. I can’t tell him. I don’t know what Daryl may have said to anyone else on the vestry. If Daryl hinted at financial laxity, well, I may not be rector here much longer. An audit will show everything’s absolutely as it should be, but if that kind of suspicion is raised, I’m done for. Everybody will think I was going to do something illegal and Daryl called my hand. If anyone has to be above suspicion, it’s a priest.” Kathleen was distraught. “No one can ever say that about you. You’re the most honest man in the world, the most honorable, the kindest, the best.” If she’d had a sword, she would have brandished it.