A woman’s clothes announce to the world how she sees herself.
Whether she chooses the latest fashions or prefers plain and sensible, each choice tells its own story. I shook my head at Irene’s dress. One cuff was torn, a spot of grease stained a front panel, part of the hem sagged. She was a walking testament to despair. She needed fresh makeup and a good wash and brush of her straggly gray hair, but she plunged toward the door, obviously in a tearing hurry to go somewhere, do something.
In a flash, I was on the porch and became visible. I changed, reluctantly, from dashing velour into the crisp Adelaide police uniform. I was absorbed in the transformation and didn’t realize until I heard a sound behind me that I wasn’t alone. I swung about to look into the startled face of a postman.
He shifted the heavy bag, peered at me in astonishment. “You had on one outfit, now you’re in a uniform. That’s what I saw.” He was belligerent. “Where’d you come from, anyhow?” His question was understandable. I stood with one finger poised to jab the doorbell. When he climbed the steps, he couldn’t have missed seeing me. I pushed the bell, gave him a reassuring smile. “I know how it is. Sometimes our minds are a million miles away. Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
The postman jammed mail into the box, turned, and fled down the steps.
I looked after him in concern. I hoped the rest of his day went better.
Ca ro ly n H a rt
The door opened. Irene gasped and took a step backward, eyes wide with shock.
“Mrs. Chatham, may I have a moment of your time?” I looked at her sternly. “I’m Officer Loy. I need to speak with you about a matter concerning St. Mildred’s.”
Irene’s lips moved, but no words came. She opened the door with a shaking hand. She led the way into the frowsy living room, gestured at an easy chair. She sank onto the divan, clutching her purse and coat, and stared at me with desperate eyes. “Father Bill promised he wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“Father Abbott has not discussed you in any manner with the—
uh—with us.” I must remember that I represented Adelaide’s finest.
“Our information came from Daryl Murdoch’s cell phone.” Indeed it had. “You recall the photographs he took?” Irene wrapped her arms tightly across her front.
“You do recall?” I imitated the chief, bent forward, looking stern. “Two photographs. In one, you held the collection plate. In the second, you took money and stuffed it into the pocket of your Altar Guild smock.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” She took shallow breaths.
“Come, come.” I doubted my response exemplified effective in-terrogative technique. I tried again. With a glower. “Mrs. Chatham, you were photographed stealing money from the collection plate.
This would not be a serious matter from the police standpoint except for the fact that Father Abbott and Mr. Murdoch quarreled. Father Abbott has refused to explain the reason to the police, saying only that it is a parish matter which must be kept confidential.” Watery brown eyes regarded me sullenly.
I didn’t mince words. “Father Abbott’s silence has made him a prime suspect in the murder investigation.” Something flickered in Irene’s eyes. Hope? Relief? “I don’t know
G h o s t at Wo r k
anything about a disagreement between Father Bill and Daryl. Daryl was”—her voice shook—“always complaining about something at church.” Her gaze slid away, sly as a fox easing into a chicken house.
Craven self-interest should never come as a surprise, but I’d been confident I could easily prove Father Bill’s lack of motive and make Chief Cobb realize that the answer to Daryl’s murder didn’t lie in the church.
Perhaps it did.
I looked at Irene in a different, more searching light. Her expression was vacuous. Deliberately so? “Mrs. Chatham, the police are not interested in internal matters at St. Mildred’s. They—we—are investigating a murder. If you explained that Father Abbott was defend-ing you and not engaged in a personal quarrel with Mr. Murdoch, it would direct the investigation away from Father Abbott.” The fingers of one hand plucked at the collar of her coat. Irene lifted her eyes, watched me carefully. “Those pictures make it look bad, but it wasn’t that way. I’d put money in the plate earlier and then I realized I had to pay some bills and I took it back.” Her voice was stronger as she spoke, realization dawning that no one could prove otherwise. Daryl was dead. “That’s all there was to it. But Daryl wouldn’t listen and he went around to Father Bill and told lies about me, called me a thief.”
“If you don’t speak out, tell the truth, Father Abbott may be arrested.” Surely she would explain when she understood the serious-ness of his situation.
Irene’s sandy lashes fluttered. She stared at the floor, didn’t say a word.
I waited.
She jumped to her feet. “I’ve got things to do. I was on my way out. I’m sorry I can’t help.”
I stood and blocked her way. “Where were you Thursday between five and seven p.m.?”
Ca ro ly n H a rt
Panic flared in her face. “I didn’t even—” She clapped a hand to her lips.
“What didn’t you do?” My tone was sharp.
“Nothing. I was here. I was here the whole time.” She shrugged into her coat, took a step toward the door. “You can’t prove I wasn’t.” Irene Chatham was terrified and in her fear was willing to say and do anything to protect herself.
Why?
If I could find the answer, I might know everything I needed to know about Daryl Murdoch’s murder.
I moved ahead of her to the door. “We’ll be back in touch, Mrs.
