To Darkness And To Death

impossible to address Mae Bristol by her first name. “I was just about to have Reverend Clare open the-”

“This will only take a moment, Laurie.” Mae peered up at Clare with her black-currant eyes. “Mr. Hadley has brought every banner ever sewn up from the undercroft. We need you to help us select which ones to hang. Some of the older ones are quite lovely, but I’m not sure they’ll take the strain of being hoisted up to the ceiling.”

“Reverend Clare!” Clare swiveled, following the alto voice to the hallway, where Karen Burns was waving a sheaf of pink message slips. Clare stared at Geoffrey Burns’s wife.

The Castles. “Excuse me for just a sec,” she said, shouldering her way past Miss Bristol, Laurie Mairs, another member of the floral guild who had arrived to press their claim against Mae Bristol’s, and a miffed-looking Courtney Reid. Courtney, lovely, chestnut-haired, perfectly shaped, should have resembled Karen Burns, who was also all these things, but Karen wore her self-confidence and her simple, expensive clothes with an effortless style, while Courtney always seemed to be trying too hard. There was no love lost between the women.

“Have I rescued you?” Karen said, baring her perfectly white teeth. “Has Courtney spoken to you about making her the events coordinator at St. Alban’s?”

“What on earth do we need an events coordinator for?”

Karen shrugged. “Well, you know, she was the cruise director aboard one of those ships before she snagged Shaun Reid.” Her eyes glittered. “I understand she was ‘Kourtnee’ before the marriage.”

Clare tried to smother her smile. “That’s not very nice, Karen.”

“We first wives have to have some fun at the expense of these youngsters stealing away husbands twenty years older than themselves.”

“Somehow, I can’t imagine any twenty-four-year-old stealing Geoff away.”

“He knows what would happen.” She held up one hand and made a snipping motion.

Clare quickly stifled her laughter. No need to give the cluster of ladies glaring at Karen any ammunition. “Speaking of your husband, where is he?”

“He should be here any minute with the booze for the postevensong reception.”

“Oh, God, I’d forgotten about that.”

“How on earth could you forget the fifty biggest donors to the church meeting the bishop for an intimate cocktail party?”

“Do we have to serve drinks?”

“If you want to hit people up for money, believe me, it helps to liquor them up first.” She rustled the pink slips in her hand. “I’ve been calling everyone who’s RSVP’d to the evening reception. I’m reminding them that we’re asking everyone to bring a nonchurchgoing friend to enjoy the beautiful music in our stunning Gothic Revival sacred space.”

Clare could never figure out if Karen was serious or being ironic when she spoke as if she were reading out of a guidebook.

“After all,” Karen went on, “it’s all about bringing new members into the fold. New pledging members.”

Clare groaned. “I used to believe the three legs supporting the Episcopal Church were scripture, reason, and tradition. That was before I became a priest. Now I know the three legs are really get ’em in, get ’em back, and get their pledges.”

“He may already be down in the kitchen,” Karen said. “Let’s go see.” Clare trailed her down the stairs, through the hall, and into the kitchen. “Aha.” She pointed to a cardboard box containing several fifths on the counter.

Clare heard the sound of feet clattering down the stairs, and here came a small, sandy-haired man in a leather bomber jacket, arms wrapped around another box.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Geoff leaned back and pecked Karen on the cheek before depositing the second box on the counter. He sniffed. “What’s that smell?” He checked his pants. “Is it me? I was carrying Cody earlier-”

“It’s not you.” Clare stepped forward. “I was looking for you. I have a favor to ask.” She cocked her head toward the kitchen stairs. “How ’bout we go outside and I stand downwind?”

Squeezed in behind the Burnses’ Land Rover, Clare told Geoff about Becky and the hospital and Ed and the arrest. Burns didn’t say anything while she rattled out all the details she could remember, just hmm and go on and I see. When she finished, he folded his arms and frowned.

“Can you take his case? Even though he might not need to keep you on?” Clare asked.

Geoff nodded. “I’ll charge him a flat fee for advising him during questioning and arranging bail, if it becomes necessary. He can apply that toward my retainer if he decides he needs my services further.”

Clare blew out a breath in relief. “Thanks, Geoff. When can you get to the station?”

“I’ll go now if you help me hand Cody off to Karen.”

“You’ve got a deal.”

Geoff opened the back door and handed Clare a diaper bag disguised as an expensive tote. She slung it over her arm while Geoff eased the sleeping toddler out of his car seat. Cody Burns had dark hair pasted to his sweaty temples and was clutching a rubber squirrel scored by dozens of teeth marks. He let out a protesting whine and dug his face into his father’s shoulder. Burns shushed him and carefully transferred him to Clare’s arms. She buried her face in his fat neck and breathed in his sweet and pungent baby-boy smell. Still sleeping, he clutched at her. The squirrel fell, squeaked once, and bounced under the Land Rover.

“For God’s sake, get Mr. Squeaky,” Clare whispered. Burns dropped to his hands and knees, groping beneath his vehicle for the toy. Mr. Squeaky was vital to Cody’s happiness. The two-year-old came to church every Sunday with his parents, who did not like to leave him in the nursery, and Clare had grown almost used to the rhythmic squeaking that accompanied her sermons.

Geoff clambered up from the pavement and handed her the toy. “Don’t you need to give Karen the car seat?” Clare asked.

Geoff looked at her as if she had suggested he strap the kid to the running board. “We have car seats in all our cars,” he said. “But thanks.”

“Okay. Bye.” She turned and stepped slowly down the stairs, keeping a tight hold on the sleeping toddler and the toy.

Judy Morrison let Clare know Karen had returned to the office. Clare followed, Cody heavy and warm in her arms. When Karen spotted them, she crossed from the secretary’s desk and met them in the office doorway. She raised one perfectly groomed brow. “I take it my husband agreed to do that favor for you?”

“Yep. I’m sorry, I didn’t think of Cody. Is this going to be a problem for you?”

“Not if I can use your office instead of Lois’s,” Karen said, glancing behind her at the church secretary’s desk. “I just need a telephone.”

“You’ve got it.” They retreated to Clare’s office, which was warm for a change and filled with liquid afternoon light. Karen retrieved a baby blanket from the diaper bag and, easing Cody away from Clare, nested the sleeping toddler on Clare’s aged and saggy sofa.

“He can finish out his nap there,” Karen said.

“Great.” Clare bent over and kissed Cody on one rosy cheek. “I’d better get back to the others.”

“Oh!” Karen ducked out into the hall and reappeared a moment later, waving another stack of pink phone message slips. “I almost forgot. These are for you.” She laid them in Clare’s hand.

“All of them?” Clare couldn’t keep a note of horror out of her voice.

“Most of them are from Willard Aberforth. Diocesan Deacon Willard Aberforth.” Her exaggerated baritone gave Clare the feeling that Karen had spoken with the deacon herself-and had not been impressed.

“Yeah, he contacted me earlier this week. He said he wants to have a meeting with me.”

“He’s the bishop’s hatchet man, you know.”

“Karen!”

“I’m serious. One of the duties he performs for the bishop is making sure everything is ready for the annual visit. Another thing he does is make sure priests and congregations are toeing the line.” She leaned forward, her face grave. “Watch yourself with him. You’ve already had more controversy and publicity in two years than Father Hames had in twenty. I doubt the bishop looks favorably on that.”

“I didn’t expect the Spanish Inquisition,” Clare said weakly.

Karen’s mouth curved. “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” she said, completing the quote. “Don’t let