“It did not concern me personally.” Father Bill’s hand tightened on the statuette.
“Didn’t it?” Cobb stared at him. ”I talked to a couple of members of the vestry yesterday. Murdoch had contacted them, called a special meeting for Sunday afternoon to address, as he put it, ‘a fiduciary matter.’ ”
Kathleen’s chat with the junior warden at the Friends’ dinner last night was probably enough to salvage Father Bill’s reputation with the vestry, but Chief Cobb might not be convinced.
“That was the warden’s prerogative.” Father Bill’s face looked pinched.
Cobb demanded, “What will you tell the vestry?” Father Bill’s voice hardened. “Nothing.” Cobb let silence build. Finally, he stood.
Father Bill came to his feet, realized he was holding the shepherd.
He glanced at it in surprise, placed it on the desk. “Chief, I regret that I can’t answer your question. However, I’m sure the matter has no connection to Daryl’s murder. If I felt otherwise, I would take action.” His face was solemn. “I swear before God that I did not see Daryl Murdoch at any time Thursday afternoon or evening. I have no knowledge of his murder.”
Cobb gave a short nod. “I’ll be back in touch, Reverend.” When the door closed behind Cobb, Father Bill walked, frowning, head down, to his desk. He settled into his chair, reached for 213
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a yellow legal pad, the page filled with dense writing. He took a breath, picked up his pen, began to reread his work. Abruptly, he flung the pen down, along with the pad. He retrieved the parish directory, opened it.
I looked over his shoulder.
His finger ran down the page, stopped at the number for Irene Chatham. He picked up the receiver, then slowly replaced it, shaking his head.
It was obvious that Father Bill intended to continue to protect Irene Chatham’s good name even though his own reputation was at risk. Even worse, he might be arrested on suspicion of a murder he had no motive to commit.
Not if I could help it . . .
The small houses on Whitlock Street ranged from well kept to dilapidated. Purple and yellow pansies bloomed in profusion in the front bed of a neat brick bungalow on the corner. Next door was a frame house painted dark purple. A jacked-up, tireless pickup looked as though it had been in the rutted drive for years. A too-thin black-and-tan dog with droopy ears was tethered to a railing on the sagging porch. His head came up. He lifted it and howled.
I veered toward him. He backed away as far as he could until the rope held him fast, body rigid. I dropped to one knee. “It’s all right, old fellow. They aren’t taking very good care of you, are they?” I stroked his head. Slowly, he relaxed. I ran my hand over his back, felt his spine and ribs. “I’m sorry, Jack,” I murmured. My son, Rob, always called his dogs Jack. “I’ll come back, I promise, and see what I can do.” Irene’s house was the third from the corner. It needed paint and a new roof. Overgrown bushes rose midway to the windows. The flower bed was a mass of leaves. Brown weeds poked from ridges and cracks in the cement walk.
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Inside the house, I sniffed in distaste at the living room’s stale, airless smell, potpourri mingling with dust. Irene stood in front of the fake fireplace, digging frantically into a shapeless crocheted bag.
She yanked out a clear plastic change purse, upended the contents on the dingy white mantel. She counted aloud. “Ten—twenty—thirty-four.” She swept the bills and assorted change back into the purse and dropped it into the crocheted bag. She moved toward the front door, eyes feverishly bright, long face drooping in misery.
A woman’s clothes announce to the world how she sees herself.
Whether she chooses the latest fashions or prefers plain and sensible, each choice tells its own story. I shook my head at Irene’s dress. One cuff was torn, a spot of grease stained a front panel, part of the hem sagged. She was a walking testament to despair. She needed fresh makeup and a good wash and brush of her straggly gray hair, but she plunged toward the door, obviously in a tearing hurry to go somewhere, do something.
In a flash, I was on the porch and became visible. I changed, reluctantly, from dashing velour into the crisp Adelaide police uniform. I was absorbed in the transformation and didn’t realize until I heard a sound behind me that I wasn’t alone. I swung about to look into the startled face of a postman.
He shifted the heavy bag, peered at me in astonishment. “You had on one outfit, now you’re in a uniform. That’s what I saw.” He was belligerent. “Where’d you come from, anyhow?” His question was understandable. I stood with one finger poised to jab the doorbell. When he climbed the steps, he couldn’t have missed seeing me. I pushed the bell, gave him a reassuring smile. “I know how it is. Sometimes our minds are a million miles away. Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
The postman jammed mail into the box, turned, and fled down the steps.
I looked after him in concern. I hoped the rest of his day went better.
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The door opened. Irene gasped and took a step backward, eyes wide with shock.
“Mrs. Chatham, may I have a moment of your time?” I looked at her sternly. “I’m Officer Loy. I need to speak with you about a matter concerning St. Mildred’s.”
Irene’s lips moved, but no words came. She opened the door with a shaking hand. She led the way into the frowsy living room, gestured at an easy chair. She sank onto the divan, clutching her purse and coat, and stared at me with desperate eyes. “Father Bill promised he wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“Father Abbott has not discussed you in any manner with the—
uh—with us.” I must remember that I represented Adelaide’s finest.
“Our information came from Daryl Murdoch’s cell phone.” Indeed it had. “You recall the photographs he took?” Irene wrapped her arms tightly across her front.
“You do recall?” I imitated the chief, bent forward, looking stern. “Two photographs. In one, you held the collection plate. In the second, you took money and stuffed it into the pocket of your Altar Guild smock.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” She took shallow breaths.
“Come, come.” I doubted my response exemplified effective in-terrogative technique. I tried again. With a glower. “Mrs. Chatham, you were photographed stealing money from the collection plate.
This would not be a serious matter from the police standpoint except for the fact that Father Abbott and Mr. Murdoch quarreled. Father Abbott has refused to explain the reason to the police, saying only that it is a parish matter which must be kept confidential.” Watery brown eyes regarded me sullenly.
I didn’t mince words. “Father Abbott’s silence has made him a prime suspect in the murder investigation.” Something flickered in Irene’s eyes. Hope? Relief? “I don’t know 216
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anything about a disagreement between Father Bill and Daryl. Daryl was”—her voice shook—“always complaining about something at church.” Her gaze slid away, sly as a fox easing into a chicken house.
Craven self-interest should never come as a surprise, but I’d been confident I could easily prove Father Bill’s lack of motive and make Chief Cobb realize that the answer to Daryl’s murder didn’t lie in the church.
Perhaps it did.
I looked at Irene in a different, more searching light. Her expression was vacuous. Deliberately so? “Mrs. Chatham, the police are not interested in internal matters at St. Mildred’s. They—we—are investigating a murder. If you explained that Father Abbott was defend-ing you and not engaged in a personal quarrel with Mr. Murdoch, it would direct the investigation away from Father Abbott.” The fingers of one hand plucked at the collar of her coat. Irene lifted her eyes, watched me carefully. “Those pictures make it look bad, but it wasn’t that way. I’d put money in the plate earlier and then I realized I had to pay some bills and I took it back.” Her voice was stronger as she spoke, realization dawning that no one could prove otherwise. Daryl was dead. “That’s all there was to it. But Daryl wouldn’t listen and he went around to Father Bill and told lies about me, called me a thief.”