Ghost at Work _a Bailey Ruth Mystery

“Here?” Father Bill looked shocked. “In the church?” Chief Cobb nodded. “Here or near the church or the rectory.

Murdoch left his office, right after five, headed this way.” He moved nearer the edge of the chair. “Where were you Thursday evening, Reverend, from five o’clock to six-fifteen?”

“At the hospital. Ted Worsham was dying.” His face was weary.

“Not unexpected, but his wife was very upset.” The chief asked quickly, “Did you leave the hospital at any time between five and seven p.m.?”

Father Bill’s face was somber. “I got there around four, but I came back here a little while later. I don’t know exactly when.”

“You left the bedside of a dying man. Why?” His eyes never left Father Bill’s face.

Father Bill rotated the Dresden shepherd around and around.

“Daryl paged me around five. I called him. He said he wanted to see me in a few minutes at the church. I hurried here. I waited half an hour, but he didn’t come.”

Cobb’s face was grim. “You didn’t say anything about this yesterday. Don’t you think it might be important to a murder investigation when the body is found next door to the church to tell the police the victim had planned to be at the church around five o’clock?” Father Bill said nothing, his face as unyielding as the chief’s.

Cobb frowned. “You and Murdoch argued Thursday morning.

You won’t say why. Now you claim he pages you Thursday afternoon, you call him, he asks you to come to the church, and you leave a dying man’s bedside to come. What was so urgent that you would do that, Reverend? Did Murdoch ask you? Or did he order you?” Father Bill’s gaze was level. “It concerned the matter we’d dis- 212

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cussed Thursday morning. I had to be here to make sure—” He broke off.

“What matter did you and Murdoch talk about, Reverend?” The chief’s glare demanded an answer. “What was so important you left a dying man to come and see Murdoch?” Father Bill slumped back in his chair, his face weary. “It was a parish matter that I am not at liberty to discuss.” Cobb snapped, “What did he have on you, Reverend?”

“It did not concern me personally.” Father Bill’s hand tightened on the statuette.

“Didn’t it?” Cobb stared at him. ”I talked to a couple of members of the vestry yesterday. Murdoch had contacted them, called a special meeting for Sunday afternoon to address, as he put it, ‘a fiduciary matter.’ ”

Kathleen’s chat with the junior warden at the Friends’ dinner last night was probably enough to salvage Father Bill’s reputation with the vestry, but Chief Cobb might not be convinced.

“That was the warden’s prerogative.” Father Bill’s face looked pinched.

Cobb demanded, “What will you tell the vestry?” Father Bill’s voice hardened. “Nothing.” Cobb let silence build. Finally, he stood.

Father Bill came to his feet, realized he was holding the shepherd.

He glanced at it in surprise, placed it on the desk. “Chief, I regret that I can’t answer your question. However, I’m sure the matter has no connection to Daryl’s murder. If I felt otherwise, I would take action.” His face was solemn. “I swear before God that I did not see Daryl Murdoch at any time Thursday afternoon or evening. I have no knowledge of his murder.”

Cobb gave a short nod. “I’ll be back in touch, Reverend.” When the door closed behind Cobb, Father Bill walked, frowning, head down, to his desk. He settled into his chair, reached for 213

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a yellow legal pad, the page filled with dense writing. He took a breath, picked up his pen, began to reread his work. Abruptly, he flung the pen down, along with the pad. He retrieved the parish directory, opened it.

I looked over his shoulder.

His finger ran down the page, stopped at the number for Irene Chatham. He picked up the receiver, then slowly replaced it, shaking his head.

It was obvious that Father Bill intended to continue to protect Irene Chatham’s good name even though his own reputation was at risk. Even worse, he might be arrested on suspicion of a murder he had no motive to commit.

Not if I could help it . . .

The small houses on Whitlock Street ranged from well kept to dilapidated. Purple and yellow pansies bloomed in profusion in the front bed of a neat brick bungalow on the corner. Next door was a frame house painted dark purple. A jacked-up, tireless pickup looked as though it had been in the rutted drive for years. A too-thin black-and-tan dog with droopy ears was tethered to a railing on the sagging porch. His head came up. He lifted it and howled.

I veered toward him. He backed away as far as he could until the rope held him fast, body rigid. I dropped to one knee. “It’s all right, old fellow. They aren’t taking very good care of you, are they?” I stroked his head. Slowly, he relaxed. I ran my hand over his back, felt his spine and ribs. “I’m sorry, Jack,” I murmured. My son, Rob, always called his dogs Jack. “I’ll come back, I promise, and see what I can do.” Irene’s house was the third from the corner. It needed paint and a new roof. Overgrown bushes rose midway to the windows. The flower bed was a mass of leaves. Brown weeds poked from ridges and cracks in the cement walk.

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Inside the house, I sniffed in distaste at the living room’s stale, airless smell, potpourri mingling with dust. Irene stood in front of the fake fireplace, digging frantically into a shapeless crocheted bag.

She yanked out a clear plastic change purse, upended the contents on the dingy white mantel. She counted aloud. “Ten—twenty—thirty-four.” She swept the bills and assorted change back into the purse and dropped it into the crocheted bag. She moved toward the front door, eyes feverishly bright, long face drooping in misery.