Irene had been aware that Daryl was going to the church and she’d sped recklessly from her driveway at shortly before five o’clock.
What were the odds she’d driven straight to the church? I felt it in my bones. When I had bones. But . . .
I stared down. Irene listened, her gaze darting from face to face.
She looked complacent. There was no trace of her earlier panic when I’d confronted her. She nibbled at a Baby Ruth. No one ever appeared less murderous. She’d removed her hip-hop sheet. Her green print dress had seen better days, as had her limp brown cardigan. She was frowsy, down-at-heels, possibly sinking into marginal poverty. But murderous?
A desperate creature can be driven to desperate measures.
I wondered if Chief Cobb understood the enormity of her situation. She had to have money to fund her gambling. Daryl threatened what had likely been a steady source of cash. Perhaps even worse, he threatened her respectability, Irene Chatham, member of the Altar Guild, churchwoman in good standing.
Men have surely been killed for less.
Irene licked a dangling bit of chocolate and peanut from one finger.
Had this woman stood in the flower bed Wednesday evening peering into Daryl’s cabin? Had she seen Kathleen fling the red nightgown into the fire and coolly plotted a murder on the rectory back porch? Had she met Daryl at the church Thursday evening and marched him to his date with death? Had she called the Crime Stoppers line and said the murder weapon was on the back porch? On Friday, had she called again to describe the red nightgown? Were her stubborn denials of theft the product of lucky stupidity or cunning dissembling?
G h o s t at Wo r k
Irene? I moved impatiently. The chandelier began to swing. I oozed away.
The horsey woman glanced up. “The chandelier—” I put out a hand, stopped it.
She blinked, shook her head.
The dark-eyed woman said slowly, “It looked like someone gave it a push, then reached out and stopped it. Some spooky things have been happening around the church. That chandelier shouldn’t have moved. And did you hear about the cell phone Virginia Merritt saw up in the air Thursday night in the church parking lot?”
“Thursday night! That’s when Daryl was shot in the cemetery. I heard his cell phone’s missing. Do you suppose . . .” The women hunched nearer the table, talking fast.
I repaired to the chandelier. I hoped the church wasn’t in serious danger of achieving a reputation as a haunted place. However, a ghost has to do what a ghost has to do. Despite my ups and downs, I’d accomplished quite a bit. I knew more than anyone about Daryl Murdoch’s murder, yet I couldn’t name the murderer. Chief Cobb may have learned some facts to which I wasn’t privy, but not many, and surely I knew everything that mattered.
I knew Kathleen and Father Bill were innocent.
I knew the true suspects and their motives: Judith Murdoch. She’d set out to confront her husband over his latest mistress. Had she really turned away at the church?
Kirby Murdoch. He was estranged from his father because of Lily Mendoza and furious about her job loss. His .22 pistol had been shot that day. During target practice, he said. When he saw his mother’s car, had he turned away, driven to Lily’s? Wouldn’t he have been more likely to follow? Perhaps his mother had ended up at the church to confront Daryl. Or perhaps Judith turned away but Kirby followed his father.
Irene Chatham. Daryl was threatening to expose her as a thief.
Ca ro ly n H a rt
Cynthia Brown. Was her near suicide the product of despair? Or guilt?
Walter Carey. He had motive and to spare. He certainly had broken into the Murdoch house to get the keys to Daryl’s office. He would be ruined if the truth ever came out.
Isaac Franklin. Was an insult to his pride—Daryl treating him with disrespect over the groceries—reason enough to kill?
It had to be one of them but—
A fire alarm shrilled. The undulating shriek blared, high, harsh, shocking.
The lights went out.
C H A P T E R 1 7
Cries and shouts rose. “Jan, where are you?” “Wait for me.”
“Get out, everybody, get out.” “Paul, find Buddy, I’ve got Leila.” “Don’t push, please.”
“Quiet.” Father Bill’s shout was commanding. He was on the platform. “Evacuate in an orderly manner. Form lines.” The black trash bags covering the farthest window were yanked down and light spilled inside. The next window was uncovered.
Father Bill called, “Good work, Jeff.”
“Travis and I will get the bags down.” Jeff was breathless.
“That’s enough light. You and Travis help the children get out.” Father Bill pointed toward the doors. It was possible to see, if dimly.
Chief Cobb’s deep voice boomed from the south door. “Police Chief Cobb here. Remain calm. Everything’s under control. Take your time.
We’re going to get everyone out. There’s no smoke. Take your time.” The surge toward the two exits slowed, became more orderly.
