Crunch Time

needs to talk?” Yes, I needed counseling and comfort, too. But if Father Pete was busy, there was something else I could do.

A vision of the rumpled tarp flung over Stonewall Osgoode’s body made my throat close. I walked quickly through the narthex and down the darkened nave, then knelt at the intercession table. After a brief hesitation, I lit two candles: one for Ernest McLeod, who’d done much good in the world.

The other was for Stonewall Osgoode, who probably hadn’t.

The sound of voices and the door to the rector’s office closing made my skin chill. I held perfectly still and willed myself to be unseen. I really did not want to chat with any parishioners at the moment. It could be embarrassing to them to be seen leaving a counseling appointment. I breathed slowly, deeply. There was no reason for anyone to look into the darkened church, was there? As the voices and footsteps down the uncarpeted hallway receded, I ducked into the opposite hall, which ran parallel to the nave. The closed doors to the Sunday school rooms made the narrow space dark. But after years of teaching the Bible to kids, I knew my way. I took off my flats and scurried forward in my stocking feet, stopping just before the opening to the narthex.

The heavy wooden church door squeaked as it opened. Father Pete bade a muffled farewell. I listened carefully. Both a man and a woman responded. Wait a minute. I knew those voices. Why were the two of them being counseled—together? I shook my head. Hurry up, Father Pete, hurry up, I commanded silently, and finally the door squealed closed. Once I heard Father Pete shuffling back down the opposite hallway, I raced into the narthex and peeked through the barred window in the wooden door.

Sean Breckenridge was trying to embrace Brie Quarles. She pushed him away. When he tried again to hug her, she shoved him hard. I eased the wooden door slightly open, less than an inch. I prayed that I would not get to the point where the hinge needed oil.

“Leave me alone!” Brie squealed. “You promised me! You lied!”

“Sweetheart, I didn’t,” Sean pleaded. “I said we would get married. I just didn’t know I wouldn’t get any money at all from her. I never dreamed she’d stick to that crazy prenup.”

“You are a liar. When I think of all I’ve done for you,” Brie said bitterly, “it just makes me ill. You said you didn’t love her anymore. You said we’d have a wonderful life, that neither of us would have to work, that we would be able to jet all over the world. When I think of everything you said to me, I want to slap you.” Brie paused. “I don’t want you to call me anymore,” she announced loudly. “We’re done.”

“Brie—”

“Tony Ramos has money!” Brie’s tone was cruel. “A national sporting goods company paid him a couple mil for the Pitch Bitch. He told me he’s only continuing to teach because he likes to help kids with sports. He hates his wife and can’t wait to dump her. Tony’s a real man who would be able to take care of me. Unlike you.”

“Brie, sweetheart,” Sean pleaded. “How can you be so cruel? You’re a lawyer. I thought you would want to work. Please don’t go. We’re soul mates. We were meant to be together.”

“We were never meant to be anything!” Brie shot back. “No, wait. You were meant to be an accountant, and good luck with that after all these years of not keeping up with tax law.”

“Brie, honey—”

“Watch me, Sean,” Brie interrupted. I blinked and kept my eyes trained on her as she fumbled with something on her wrist. “See this antique bracelet you said you bought for me?” she cried. “I know you stole it from her. The initials RB are engraved inside the band. That’s Rorry Boudreaux, in case you’re too stupid to remember your wife’s maiden name.”

I remembered Rorry cursing when she opened a bureau drawer, looking for something—presumably cash for Yolanda that she perhaps kept with her jewels? Rorry had said, Oh, damn him, before stalking into the closet, where, I guessed, she kept a safe to which Sean did not have access. While she was searching in the drawer, though, I was willing to bet a batch of cream puffs that she’d discovered Sean had taken the bracelet.

“Watch me, Sean!” Brie shouted, grabbing my attention again. “One of the diamonds came out when I fell running away from that cabin. So now all that’s left is a very sharp setting.” Brie held her wrist with the bracelet to the top of her opposite arm, then dragged it down to her elbow.

Blood spurted out of the scratch. Sean keeled forward, passing out on the gravel of the church parking lot. Ignoring him, Brie took off the bracelet and dropped it on his back. Then she brushed the blood down her arm and got into the blue Lexus. The tires ground the gravel hard as she accelerated out of the parking lot.

I looked at Sean. He wasn’t moving. Should I call an ambulance, or go get Father Pete and ask if he has any ammonia salts? When he asks what happened, what should I tell him?

Oh, for crying out loud. God was punishing me for eavesdropping, to put me in such a quandary. I sighed, slipped my feet into my shoes, pushed through the heavy door, and sprinted to Sean’s side.

“Sean!” I said. Without ammonia salts, I resorted to shaking his shoulder. When he did not respond, I rolled him over. “Wake up, Sean.” I brushed caked gravel off his face and gently slapped his cheeks. When he still made no sign of reviving, I picked up the antique bracelet, put it into his jacket pocket, then lightly smacked his temples. “Wake up or I’ll call your wife!”

Finally, Sean blinked. “My— Who are you?”

“Goldy the caterer. You passed out.” His eyes lolled from side to side. His face was totally drained of color. Was he okay to drive? Should I call an ambulance? I put my hand on his shoulder. “Sean? I put the bracelet in your pocket. Do you want me to get—”

“Leave me alone.” He shoved my hand away. “You and your snooping. You’ve ruined my life. You and that—” He did not finish the thought.

“I and that what ruined your life? Fill in the blank for me, Sean.”

“Shut up.” Sean propped himself up on one elbow so that he was not facing me. He began to make an odd huffing noise. Oh, Lord, he was crying. He got to his feet, wobbled over to the Saab, started it up, and drove away.

You should have kept your pecker in your pocket, I thought as I raced to my van. When I turned the key in the ignition, Father Pete came lumbering out of the church. He caught sight of me and reared back, his expression one of puzzlement. I merely waved and spun my vehicle in a corona of gravel as I headed toward Main Street. At this point, I really didn’t have time to stay and visit.

But on the quick drive home, I did want to think. Was Ernest McLeod, the private investigator whom Rorry had hired, the other person who had ruined Sean’s life? Okay, Sean couldn’t stand the sight of blood. So presumably, he could not have raised a .38 and shot Ernest—not without fearing he’d pass out and be found along with Ernest’s body. But Sean could have hired someone to do the job. In fact, he could have paid Stonewall Osgoode, whose beagle puppies he had photographed, to do the job for him.

There was something else that confused me. Brie had said, When I think of all I’ve done for you . . . Apart from sex, what had Brie done for Sean?

Rorry Breckenridge’s usual routine was to avoid cooking. But on the day of the church party, Etta was gone, and Rorry had been in and out of the kitchen as much as anyone. Say our saboteur had not been aiming for Yolanda or me, as I had thought. If Rorry had been hit with the ring of pots, or had been burned by the hot oil, then what? Did Sean think he would inherit Rorry’s money if she died? Could Brie, a lawyer, have found out the terms of the previous will, which left millions to Sean, and then sabotaged Rorry’s kitchen in an attempt to get rid of her?

Could Brie have found out about Ernest’s investigation of Sean and killed him? Or perhaps she had hired Osgoode?

I had no idea how to find out. The sheriff’s department had no murder weapon yet. And the problem with contract killings was that I’d never heard of there being an actual contract, as in, on paper.

I called Boyd. He said Tom would be waiting on the porch for me, gun drawn. Very funny, I thought as my van’s engine groaned up our street.

Talking on the cell, then seeing Tom, arms crossed, on our front porch reminded me of something else. I had not heard back from Lolly Vanderpool. Oh Lord, I hoped nothing had gone wrong with our plan. Guiltily, belatedly, I realized the whole thing had probably been too dangerous in the first place. Still, Lolly had said she would be at