don’t know what to do. But—” Swift clicks and that image, too, disappeared.
“Who was she?” I was sure Kathleen knew.
Kathleen pressed her lips tightly together.
“Kathleen”—an awful possibility struck me—“are those pictures gone forever?”
Her expression defiant, Kathleen looked toward the sound of my voice. “You bet they are.”
I was horrified. “You’ve destroyed evidence that might help the police.”
She lifted her chin. “I don’t care. Let the police find out who killed him. I’m not going to get people in trouble, maybe ruin their lives, just because Daryl was nasty enough to take pictures of them when they were down. I know that’s what he was doing. Sure, he may have been right to go after some of them, but let them get found out some other way.” Her brows drew together in a worried frown. “I wonder if the rest of the pictures are like this.” She clicked twice. In one image, an elderly black man was placing cans of food in a brown grocery bag. In another, the police officer, Anita, her face impervious, was framed in an open car window.
Kathleen relaxed as the screen went blank. “Those last two don’t amount to anything. That’s Isaac Franklin, our sexton, and he’s probably filling a sack from the food pantry for a needy family. The policewoman”—Kathleen’s smile was satisfied—“was Daryl’s bete noire. He saw himself as macho man and drove like he thought he was Dale Earnhardt.”
I was never a NASCAR enthusiast, but I remember Bobby Mac’s excitement when Dale Earnhardt had arrived.
“She put a stop to that. Everywhere Daryl went, she seemed to be behind him. He got tickets faster than confetti spills. It was great to see him drive through town at thirty miles an hour. I loved it. I didn’t even mind when she gave me a ticket a couple of weeks ago.”
Ca ro ly n H a rt
“You got rid of all the photos? For good?” I had to be sure.
“Every single one.” Her stare, a trifle to the left of my face, was unabashed.
I understood Kathleen’s reluctance to involve innocent persons in a murder investigation, but what if one of them was the murderer?
I felt a civic responsibility. I had already complicated the police efforts by helping Kathleen move Daryl’s body, though I still believed I’d made the right decision. Kathleen was innocent. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been sent to her aid.
The cell phone was another matter. I had removed it from Daryl’s body. The information it contained might make a difference in the search for his murderer. Somehow I had to aid that earnest police chief, though I wasn’t sure what I could do. “Kathleen, we can’t ignore what we’ve discovered.”
She wasn’t listening. She did something else with the phone, muttered,
“Three saved messages. I called him back. I’d better check.”
“Thursday. Four-fifteen p.m., ‘I can’t believe what you did.’” The voice was young, male, and anguished. “‘I just found out from Lily.’” There was a silence, then a quick, choked, “‘You’ll pay for this. I swear you will.’”
Kathleen punched a button.
I sighed. One more piece of information, forever gone.
“Thursday, five-oh-seven p.m.: ‘Mr. Murdoch—’ ” It was Kathleen’s voice. “ ‘There’s been—’ ”
She punched.
“Thursday, eight-twenty p.m.: ‘You got to call me.’ ” It was a woman’s voice, young but hoarse. Bravado mingled with desperation. “ ‘Listen, Daryl, I got to talk to you. You promised . . . Please. Call me.’ ” Kathleen punched. “All gone. But”—she stared at the phone—
“even though I erased the photos, there might be images somewhere inside.” Abruptly, she raised her arm and flung the telephone far out into the lake.
C H A P T E R 8
Iknelt by the chimney on the rectory roof and picked up the head cover holding the gun. Kathleen’s disposal of the cell phone was an unexpected complication. I had intended to convey both the phone and gun to Chief Cobb. Now the phone was gone.
I’d done my best to assist Kathleen. In fact, my mission appeared to be successful. Likely I would soon be recalled to Heaven, but I was uneasy. I had interfered with the proper investigation of a crime.
I looked Heavenward. Thick dark clouds obscured the horizon.
Wind pushed at me. I was definitely still here. I took that as a clear indication that I should proceed. But proceed to do what?
Arrange for Chief Cobb to find the gun.
The thought was direct and breathtaking in its simplicity. Thank you, Wiggins. I pulled the gun out of the head cover. My new coat, the gray lamb’s wool I’d selected from the catalog to go with my elegant pantsuit, had capacious pockets. I tucked the gun in my pocket.
I was ready to depart for the police station, but fortunately I glanced down. I was invisible. My coat was invisible.
The gun was not invisible.
Even though the sky was overcast, someone might look up and Ca ro ly n H a rt
note the flight of a gun through the sky if I swooped to the police station, especially since I didn’t know where it was.
