“No. It wasn’t me. I don’t know who called you. I mean, I heard it, but nobody’s here.” Her face folded in a frown. “I don’t know a thing about a gun. Well, sure, send somebody over if you want to. But I can tell you now that nobody here knows a thing. And there’s this skull that bounced . . .”
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?”
Ca ro ly n H a rt
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.
G h o s t at Wo r k
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
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.
Ca ro ly n H a rt
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.”
