hopeful, bright and fresh in what were almost certainly her newest casual clothes.
“He’ll think you’re a nice new friend who wants his birthday to be special. It wouldn’t be at all friendly to leave the cake with a note.
You march right up to his aunt’s front door and knock on it.” I raised my hand in a fist, pretended to knock. “I promise you it’s the right thing to do.”
“You’re sure?” She looked at me as if to a fount of wisdom.
“Positive.” If only I were as positive of my course this morning.
Ca ro ly n H a rt
“Okay. I’ll do it. If I can hide in the preserve when it’s getting dark”—for an instant her eyes were wide with memory that surely wasn’t pleasant, then they shone again with happiness—“I can do anything.” She absently spooned her oatmeal in a dreamy reverie.
I finished my muffin, hurriedly drank coffee, delighting in the bitter undertone of chicory. It was time to go to work. I scarcely gave a thought to my costume. Well, perhaps that wasn’t quite accurate. I took a quick peek in one of the catalogs I’d brought from the sewing room and chose a royal-purple velour jacket and slacks with a rose silk blouse and purple scarf. And white boots. No one would see except Bayroo, but a woman has to feel at her best when she sets out to destroy evidence.
However, we’d trundled over a patch of dirt to reach the pavement near the mausoleum. Last night I’d used a pine bough to erase those tracks. Had I missed any?
The breeze was chilly though the sun shone brightly. I thought of a short white cashmere coat with oversize purple buttons and immediately felt much more comfortable as well as stylish.
Despite a bright blue sky, the cemetery was shadowy beneath the overhanging limbs of sycamores, maples, sweet gums, and Bradford pears. Some leaves still clung, but mounds of red and gold and purplish leaves were banked against headstones by the erratic wind.
Three big cedars lined the path near the mausoleum.
I found a wheelbarrow trail a few feet beyond the spot where we’d left Daryl. Quickly, I smoothed over the narrow furrow, my fingers brushing against cedar needles. I’d just satisfied myself that the area near the mausoleum was clear of wheel tracks when three police cars pulled up and stopped on the other side of the mausoleum.
G h o s t at Wo r k
Hurriedly, I zoomed in ever-widening circles until I reached the fluttering yellow tape that marked the crime scene. So far so good.
Anita Leland and the young man who had helped secure the scene Thursday night led the way. “I’ll check inside the tape. Jake, start outside the tape, look between here and the church. Harry, go fifty yards east, then fifty west.” The search party fanned out, scanning the ground.
Stocky Jake began his search just past the breeze-stirred tape, head down, expression intent. I sped ahead of him. Jake and I spotted a deep gouge in a depression about twenty yards from the marked-off area. The track was on a straight line from the mausoleum to the church parking lot. “Yo,” he shouted. “Found it.” Immediately Anita and Harry joined him. Anita sighted a line leading to the church parking lot. “Okay, one of us on each side, move slowly, take your time . . .” She stuck small yellow flags on either side of tracks as they were found. The search party took on an Easter-egg-hunt atmosphere, excited shouts erupting as the unmistakable path of the careening barrow was discovered.
I hovered overhead, but there was no opportunity to erase the damning evidence. I’d not worried about the wheelbarrow when Kathleen assured me she’d returned it to the shed, but I hadn’t calculated the path she’d taken when she dashed away from the mausoleum. Unfortunately, Kathleen had ignored the gravel path and headed straight for the rectory backyard.
Anita’s fair face was flushed with excitement. She hurried across the parking lot. Perhaps most damning of all was the intermit-tent trail in the rectory backyard leading directly to the shed. Flags sprouted. Anita stood next to the shed and used her cell phone. “Send the crime van. We’ve got a fresh path, clear as can be.” I envisioned a grim sequence of events: the rectory wheelbarrow tagged in evidence, the wheelbarrow linked to the crime scene, further consideration of the unexplained dust ball laden with cat fur, Father Bill questioned again, now with greater suspicion.
Ca ro ly n H a rt
If Kathleen hadn’t flung Daryl’s cell phone into the lake, Chief Cobb would have many more suspects. Walter Carey committed fraud. Irene Chatham stole from the collection plate. Kirby was furious with his father over his treatment of Lily Mendoza. Cynthia Brown was pregnant and desperate. I suspected that Daryl’s secretary knew more than she had revealed about her boss’s departure for the church. But perhaps most significant, last night when I’d talked to Kirby’s lovely Lily, she’d been shocked that his gun was missing.
Where was Kirby’s gun? When had it gone missing?
Judith Murdoch peered out the window. She wore a black blouse, dark gray slacks, black shoes. She stood stiff and straight.
A barefoot Kirby hunched over his plate at the breakfast-room table. His gray sweatshirt and pants were fuzzy and ragged. A stub-ble of beard shadowed his face. Uncombed hair bunched in tangles.
He held a mug of coffee, but the Danish on the plate before him was untouched. Red-rimmed eyes stared forlornly at his mother. “Mom, I want to talk to you about Thursday.”
Judith turned to face him. Fear flickered in her eyes, fear and grief and despair. “You were with Lily Thursday night.” He put down the mug. “Mom, I saw—”
