chat up. Heaven only knows where Dade Costello
went. He seems to wander the neighborhood, thinking
great thoughts.”
“Or homicidal ones,” Joe put in.
“Are you going to search Bruno’s room now?” Judith asked.
“Yes. You want to come along?”
“No,” Judith replied. “I have to call Renie, and then,
if none of the guests are back, I’ll go down to St. Fabiola’s at the bottom of the hill for noon Mass. Oh, by
the way, there’s a book in Bruno’s room called
looks as if it’s been cherished. Chips Madigan said
something this morning about Bruno being on a mission. I know it sounds silly, but I’m curious. Why don’t
you bring it down and I’ll call one of my library
mavens to see if they know anything about it.”
“You never came across it when you worked as a librarian?” Joe inquired, referring to the weary years of
Judith’s first marriage when she worked days at the
public library and tended bar at the Meat & Mingle in
the evenings.
Judith shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Joe left the kitchen while Judith dialed Renie’s
number. There was no answer except for Anne’s voice
on the machine.
“Anne Jones here. If you want to reach me immediately, call my cell phone or my pager. The numbers
are . . .” After reeling off the digits, she added, “If you
must speak to anybody else, leave your—” The message cut off abruptly, as if Anne didn’t give a damn
whether the rest of the Joneses ever got a phone call.
Which, Renie asserted, Anne didn’t.
Judith took a plateful of pastries out to the toolshed,
where Gertrude picked over them with a persnickety
air. Finally she selected two custard sweet rolls and
three sugar doughnuts.
“Some breakfast,” the old lady sniffed. “Isn’t it time
for lunch?”
Judith told her mother that lunch would be a little
late. Gertrude sniffed some more.
By five to twelve, none of the guests had returned.
Their absence made Judith nervous, but accepting it
as a sign from heaven, she headed off to St. Fabiola’s. The church was near the civic center, and was
a half century newer than Our Lady, Star of the Sea.
The amber brick edifice was only a few minutes’
drive from Hillside Manor. At the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill on a quiet Sunday morning, traffic was
light. Most of the businesses were closed, and the
few that were open had just unlocked their doors to
customers.
Judith arrived just after Mass had started, so she sat
in a pew near the back. The lector was reading the first
epistle when there was a commotion behind her.
