the other provided St. Mildred’s with a sylvan setting. Cedars and pines crowded the shoreline, providing a sense of remoteness. It was a perfect spot for our rendezvous, close to the rectory but at a safe remove.
Kathleen stared fixedly at the small telephone. “I’d better take it before someone sees it hanging there, although I don’t know what kind of fool would come here on a day like this. But I’m here. It would be just my luck to have a nature class trot onto the dock. Or who knows? Maybe the Altar Guild will show up. Nothing would surprise me.” She sounded despairing.
I was pleased to see that she wore soft leather gloves. I handed the phone to her.
She took it gingerly, flipped open the lid. It still reminded me of an oddly shaped compact. I moved to watch over her shoulder. The small screen suddenly glowed. A jaunty tune sounded.
Kathleen pushed and clicked. “See, you can take pictures.” She held the phone up and suddenly wind-whipped water was in view on the tiny screen. Another click and the lake disappeared. “You can save them, too. Daryl kept a bunch. I’ll do them in order.” She clicked again. A picture appeared on the screen.
Kathleen looked puzzled. “How odd.”
Pictured was a close-up of a shaky signature at the bottom of a printed page. I squinted to make out the name:
Kathleen wriggled uneasily as if sensing my nearness.
I was sorry to crowd her, but I wanted a good view. “What do you think it means?”
“I have no idea. Georgia Hamilton almost died a few weeks ago, but she rallied and she’s home again.” Kathleen’s tone warmed. “She’s amazing. Ninety-five if she’s a day and she never misses the early service. I suppose Daryl handles some of her investments.”
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Kathleen clicked again. She made a strangled noise in her throat.
The photograph was amazing in its clarity and detail. Kathleen sat on a puffy cream leather divan. Bright red- and-gold wrapping paper mounded near the open box in her lap. She held up a red satin nightgown, her eyes wide, her mouth agape.
“Daryl snapped the picture just as I opened the box.” She glared at the screen. “I didn’t know what was inside. How could I know?
But how do I explain to anybody—especially Bill—why I was sitting in Daryl’s cabin and opening what was obviously a present and pulling out a sexy red nightgown? When Daryl called Wednesday and asked me to the cabin, he said he needed a chance for a private visit with me about Raoul. He thought it was only fair—oh, his voice was so greasy—that he and I have a conversation before he spoke to Bill.
Then he hung up. I called his cell and he didn’t answer. I know he looked and saw it was me calling and of course he didn’t answer. I was in a panic. I had to go. When I got to the cabin, he offered me a drink. I said no and he was all—oh, you know how it is when somebody’s hitting on you.”
I found the expression interesting. It was new to me, but I understood exactly what she meant.
“I told him what happened with Raoul. He pretended to be sympathetic, said he knew I’d been terribly lonely and Bill worked far too hard. Daryl said he was relieved there was nothing to this story that was getting around about me and Raoul, and since we’d cleared everything up, he had a small gift for me.
“I didn’t see how I could refuse to open it. I’d just pulled out that hideous nightgown when he took my picture. I asked him what he thought he was doing. He said he liked to take pictures with his phone and this was such a good shot he should probably print out a picture for Bill or put it on the church Web site, but if I treated him nicely, he’d keep the shot for himself.” Kathleen’s eyes blazed. “He said a good start would be for me to
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try on my new gown. He put the phone in his pocket. There was no way I could get it from him. I told him”— her voice was harsh—
“exactly what kind of a louse he was and then I jumped up and threw the gown and the box and the papers in the fireplace and ran out of the cabin. He came after me, but I got in my car and locked it and got away.” She jabbed at the phone and the picture disappeared.
Another click, a new picture. A man in his forties with thinning blond hair and sharp features hunched at a desk, writing on a piece of stationery. The sag of his head and the bleak emptiness of his expression spelled defeat, despair, hopelessness.
“Who is it?” But the picture was already gone and Kathleen shot me a mutinous glance. If she knew, she didn’t intend to tell me.
Another click. An untidy middle-aged woman looked warily over her shoulder. She wore the blue smock of the Altar Guild. She held a collection plate. Behind her was the counter with the vested chalice for Sunday. A crucifix hung on the white wall above the counter.
Walnut cabinets jutted into the room.
I knew at once that she was in the sacristy after a service, probably a weekday Communion since she was apparently doing the service alone. “She’s counting the collection.” Collection isn’t formally taken at a weekday service, but the plate is left out for any donations.
Kathleen’s brows drew down in a worried frown. “Maybe something startled her.”
The woman in the photo’s expression was oddly craven and wary.
I didn’t doubt that Kathleen and I were considering the same un-palatable possibility. Was a member of the Altar Guild getting ready to filch from the offering plate?
Kathleen deleted that picture, retrieved another. “Oh dear.” A furtive hand tucked a handful of bills into the pocket of the blue smock.
“Oh.” Kathleen’s soft cry was a lament. “I can’t believe it. I
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