I stood and acted out dragging a body. You could grab the ankles, but under the arms would give you more leverage. Why would someone need to move the body? I sat back down and clicked a fingernail against my front teeth. Maybe she’d died outside, and the killer dragged her inside. Murdering someone outside would be risky though. If a neighbor had seen something dubious, they would have called the sheriff. Much safer to get her inside on a ruse and then do the deed.

  Not coming up with a better answer, I tabled that question and flipped my notebook open to the list of suspects. Most people on the list would have the brawn to move Bernie. Phyllis and Doc would have the most trouble because, at their age, they might not have the strength. Between weak motive and lack of strength to move the body, I crossed their names off my list. I hadn’t believed they would have killed her anyway.

  After dressing and packing up my laptop, I told my family I was going out and pointed my car towards Bernie’s house to look for clues. During the short drive, I said a prayer to the sleuthing gods. I hadn't considered until then how to get into Bernie's house. If I was lucky, the sheriff's department had left the doors unlocked. But there was little chance of that unless Deputy Doug had been left in charge of closing the scene. If the door was opened, I promised whoever was listening I'd never say a bad word against Doug again.

  Both doors were locked. At the back of the house, I scanned the area to make sure none of Bernie's neighbors were outside. Finding the coast clear, I tried to open each window. On the next-to-the-last one, I got lucky. The tiny bathroom window was unlocked. Sneaking another peek around, I inched the window up high enough to get through. Near the side of the house, I found an old-fashioned metal bucket. I moved it under the bathroom window and climbed on.

  Darn, my short legs. It was still quite a stretch, but I managed to use the windowsill to pull myself up. My feet dangled in the air. Grunting and groaning while trying to ignore the pain of the sill cutting into my hands, I stuck my head through the window. Once I was most of the way in, I knew I was in trouble. With a crash, I landed on the squeaky-clean linoleum. I got to my feet as quickly as possible and checked myself for injuries.

  Rubbing my sore hands on my jeans, I moved through the house to Bernie's bedroom. The room looked empty without what I now knew to be Ezra’s birdcage. A double bed covered with a fluffy flowered comforter, a small bureau, and a nightstand were the only furniture.

  Unlike at my house, even the drawers and closet were clean and tidy. I searched through each dresser drawer without finding anything of significance. Next, I gave the closet and nightstand a good going over. I reverently pulled Bernie’s Bible out of the drawer. The cover was tattered and the pages well-thumbed. Well, at least the Old Testament pages.

  Flipping through it, I found only a couple of old church bulletins. Holding the book around the spine, I reached to put it back in its place. Something bounced against my foot and thumped onto the floor. I picked up the thinnest jump drive I'd ever seen and turned it over in my hand. What a strange place to keep such a thing. If you live alone, why hide a jump drive? A smile formed on my lips as I realized this might be just what I needed. Gleefully, I tossed it into the air and caught it in my hand. Now, on to her office.

  Once there, I sat the jump drive on the desk and fired up the computer. After listening to the antiquated model loudly try to whirl to life, I stood up to snoop around while I waited. The room had originally been a bedroom, and I slid one of the closet doors open to find Bernie's out-of-season clothes hanging inside. Like a TV detective, I went through the pockets of coats and woolen trousers. I came up with nothing more than a couple of lint balls and a balled-up gum wrapper.

  I heard the computer still attempting to power up as I slid the closet door back along its tracks. Par for the course—whenever I was in a hurry to get online, my computer always needed to install program updates. I moved down the hall to the bathroom rather than sit and watch a white circle spin on the blue screen.

  As expected, everything was perfectly neat and clean. The medicine cabinet revealed the usual things—antacids, aspirin, tweezers, bandages, as well as several prescription bottles. Something nagged at my mind as I closed the mirrored cabinet door and rooted around in the cabinet under the sink.

  Bernie had an ample supply of toilet paper, hand towels, and wash clothes under the sink, along with her disposable hypodermic syringes. There was only one missing from the opened box, yet there were none in the trash can.

  From the office came a chirp before the whirling sped up, announcing the computer was finally ready to use. Taking a quick look around, I made sure everything was how I'd found it and hustled back to the office. I didn’t need to rush but being alone in a dead woman's house was more nerve-wracking than I'd anticipated.

  I'd just placed my fingers on the keyboard when I heard the front door open. I gasped, and my eyes whipped back and forth, looking for a place to hide. But my body was paralyzed. My mind, however, was firing off questions. Had Bernie's killer coming back? How was I going to explain why I was there? Or how I got in?

  As footsteps neared, my breath hitched.

  Margery Blanchard yelped when she saw me. "What are you doing here?"

  Hand to my heart, I patted a few times. "You scared me to death. I thought you were the murderer coming back."

  She hugged her purse to her chest as she glanced around. "How did you get in? I have the only spare key to the house."

  I stood shakily, laughing nervously. "Funny you should ask." I confessed to breaking and entering, though I didn't call it that. And I may have made my entrance through the window sound more graceful than it had been. But since I was here to help Bernie, I felt okay about fudging a little.

  Standing stock-still, Margery rapidly blinked at me. "But why are you here?”

  I leaned on the top of the desk, covering the jump drive with my hand. "Well, it's hard to explain. Let's just say I've thought about it some more and believe Bernie’s death bears looking into.”

  "Oh." She reached for her necklace and slid the cross back and forth along the chain.

  We looked at one another for a long minute. "Well, I should get going. I have another appointment.”

  As Margery wandered into the living room, I grabbed the jump drive and stuck it in my pants pocket. I wasn't sure how Margery would react if she knew I was removing something.

  I hated to leave before tackling Bernie's computer, but I wouldn’t be able to snoop with Margery looking over my shoulder. At least I'd netted one treasure on my trip. There must be something important on the jump drive, or Bernie wouldn't have hidden it.

  When I caught up with Margery in the living room, I asked, "So, what are you doing here?"

  "Oh, well, Bernie had all the Women's Missionary Society files and supplies. I need to go over everything since I'll be taking over."

  "You weren't the president before? That doesn't make sense since you were a missionary yourself."

  Margery shrugged. "Bernie had been the leader for years while I was in Columbia. I was in charge for a while upon my return, but it meant so much to Bernie that I gave it back over to her this year." She offered me a sad smile and started moving again. "If there's anything I can do to help with your, uh, inquiries, don't hesitate to call me."

  "Thanks for that," I said and bid her good-bye.

  ✽✽✽

  I was dying to find out what was on Bernie's jump drive, but there wasn't time to look at it now. I did, however, have enough time to stop by Tea & Sympathy to pick up cinnamon rolls to take to Phyllis's. A girl does have priorities. Besides, my toast had long since worn off.

  I pulled into the small parking area near Phyllis's bungalow at Tumbleweed Pass Retirement Village right on time. The rolls and I were about to make our way to her door when I noticed the Reverend's car parked a couple of spaces over. Looking around, I saw the man himself walking my way. I did a little finger wave at him, which earned me a toothpaste-white smile in return.

  I moved to his car and waited for him. Since Margery now knew I was poking around, everyone soon would. I might as well use this chance meeting to ask some questions.

  Reverend Holt moved in a self-confident way that was mesmerizing. I'd never seen him look anything but dapper, even in old jeans and a beat-up sweatshirt. If I were a churchgoer, I'd happily listen to his sermons and take everything he had to say as truth, which I guess was the point. His charisma and handsome face made him popular with folks, especially the widows whom he fawned over, making them feel he hung on their every word.

  He swung his keys in one hand and carried his trusty Bible in the other. The bright sun shone on him, causing his cross-shaped lapel pin to glisten as he moved.

  As he got within talking distance, he asked, "To what do I owe this pleasure? Dare I hope you brought me donuts?"

  I glimpsed down at the pink box dangling off my fingers from the cream-colored string. "Sorry, no. It's for the bride-to-be." I jerked my head in the direction of Phyllis's bungalow. "I'm here to help Phyllis with wedding plans and saw you coming." I moved aside so he could unlock his car to put his Bible inside.

  After he'd slammed the passenger's side door closed, the Reverend leaned back on the car next to me. Luckily, it looked as squeaky-clean as he did.

  Squinting one eye against the bright summer sun, he smiled. "What can I do you for?"

  I placed the bakery box on the hood of the car. "I wanted to ask about what Bernie had written in her last chapter. The character that, um, sounded much like you."

  He let the silence lay between us for a moment. Perhaps he was choosing his words carefully to sound charitable.

  "Yes, that didn't escape my notice." He cleared his throat.

  "It was kind of hard to miss." I looked down at the ground and grimaced. Best just to spit it out. "Did she get creative with the um, shortcomings for your character?”

  Now it was his turn to wince. He hefted himself off the car and moved in front of me where the sun wasn't in his eyes. "Actually, I'm glad you brought this up. I'd considered coming to you about it anyway." He cleared his throat again. "Yes, I do a bit of gambling. There's not much to do around here, and I find playing online poker soothing. But I assure you, I’m not addicted, and I certainly have never used any money but my own."

  I smiled at him, encouraging him to continue.

  "I didn't mind Bernie creating a character based on me, or even claiming my gambling was a sin. Many of my older congregates were raised to believe that even a friendly game of cards was a sin. It was the times. Times when men who gambled often drank too much and lost the money meant to care for their wives and children. Some families suffered horribly because of it."

  He moved to the other side of me and leaned back against the car. He played with his keys as he spoke, the jingling providing a soft musical score to his tale. "What bothered me was her claim I would dip into the Church's money to cover my losses. Bernie and I didn't always see eye-to-eye, and she could be a challenging woman to love. But I'd always thought she and I respected one another. I admit I was hurt. Not because I'm guilty, but because she believed me capable of stealing and would share it with others. I felt she could have done damage to my ability to minister to my congregation."

  Reverend Holt seemed like an honest, caring man who truly believed in his calling. But I still had some questions.

  "How does a pastor get into gambling anyway? I thought that was kind of a no-no in your line of work. Temptation and all that."

  He chuckled good-naturally. "Actually, it was when I was at the seminary." He saw my look of surprise and laughed outright. "There was nothing much to do around the college, so some of us got up a poker game a few nights a week. It was just for fun, and we bet nothing more than spare change. I found playing relaxing after hours of studying, and I saw no harm in it."

  "Fair enough." I was well-acquainted with how little there was to do in rural Wyoming, which was most of the state.

  Reverend Holt stood and dusted off the back of his pants. "Is there anything else I can answer for you?" He glanced at his watch. "I've got other parishioners to visit before trimming the grass in the graveyard."

  Surprisingly, I didn't feel rushed, just informed of his plans. It was easy to see how people would trust him with their secrets and pain. He gave you his full attention, something sadly unusual in our fast-paced world, even in Wyoming.

  I pushed off the car. "I won't keep you. But…well, you say you’d never take money from the collection plate—"

  "But wouldn't I say that even if I had?" He smiled beguilingly at me, no malice visible.

  "Well, yeah."

  "I have an open-door policy when it comes to the Church finances. I submit all accounts monthly to the finance committee, and anyone in the parish can ask for details if they wish."

  "I assume you knew about Bernie's health issues."

  "Oh, yes. She often asked for prayers around them."

  "So, everyone in the congregation would be aware of them."

  "Yes, I should think so." He glanced at his watch.

  I spoke quickly. “Do you have other lapel pins?"

  He glanced down at the pin he was wearing. "Yes. I have a few."

  "Are any of them missing?"

  "Not that I know of. Why?"

  "Oh, nothing important. Final question. Where were you between eight and nine-thirty a.m. on the Wednesday Bernie died?"

  "Wednesday..." Looking up, he bit the inside of his cheek, "Oh, I called early on a parishioner who's been poorly. I arrived around eight fifteen, I'd say and stayed a little over an hour. She was feeling better and was quite the chatterbox." He smiled, seeming unfazed by spending so much time with one person. Though I guess that was his job.

  I retrieved the pink box from the car hood. The sweet scent of cinnamon and sugar wafted up in the air after being warmed by the sun. I wouldn't mind taking a look at the books, but not being a member of his congregation, I thought that might be pushing my luck. I wanted to keep him on my side in case I needed to talk to him again later.

  "Okay, that's it." I held out my hand. Reverend Holt shook it. "Thanks for answering my questions. I know they were invasive."

  He opened the driver's side and slid inside.

  "Oh, wait. Would you be interested in housing Bernie's bird?"

  "No way. I've met Ezra and have no interest in listening to his selective Bible verses. But here's to all your interrogations going smoothly," he said with an impish grin.

  Chapter Ten

  I'd barely knocked on the door when Phyllis swung it open wearing her usual attire—an old flowered housecoat with tube socks and flip-flops. Her steel-gray hair was going in every direction, as usual, making me wonder for the millionth time what she did to make it so unyielding.

  Behind her, wedding magazines were scattered among numerous pieces of papers and folders. You'd think she were an excited twenty-one-year-old getting married for the first time. For whatever reason, she wanted this second wedding to be a big do. If I were to get married again, I'd have a civil ceremony in the registry office and call it done.

  After all, wasn't the important part what happened after the wedding? All the years you'll spend together. All the things you'll learn from one another. The work it will take to keep it happy. I shrugged to myself and moved into the living room. None of my affair. I wanted Phyllis to have whatever she wanted. She deserved it, and I was happy to help.

  "What held you up? You're late."

  I looked at my watch. "Only a few minutes. I ran into Reverend Holt when I got here. Besides, I brought a treat," I held up the pink pastry box dangling from my finger.

  "I need something to get my energy up. Who'da thought planning a wedding was this much work?" She threw her hands up in the air. "Guess I was a lot younger for my first nuptials, and back then, we didn't make nearly as big as a fuss as folks do now."

  I followed her into her small dining area and sat the pastry box on the table while she made tea. She moved slower than usual and seemed preoccupied.

  "You know, you can always have a simple wedding. It’s not too late to change your plans. Do whatever you and Homer want.” I sat down and watched her pour boiling water from a kettle into an antique teapot.

  She brought it to the table and poured steaming hot liquid into each of the cups. Typically, she'd go on to tell me all about what type of exotic tea she'd just poured and how she'd come by it.

  But not today. I didn't like seeing her like this. A woman of eighty-some-odd years didn't need to be stressing out. It wasn't healthy for her, and it was totally unnecessary.

  "I know. I shoulda put my foot down sooner and told Homer I didn't want nothing extravagant. But my first one was nothing elaborate. Times were tough then, and folks didn't waste money on frivolous things. And Homer, well, he's never been married, and I'd like to give him something to remember." She shrugged and picked up her teacup absently. "And I figure this will be my last chance to have a fancy wedding."

  I nearly snorted Darjeeling out my nose. How many more weddings can an eighty-something-year-old woman expect to have? I tried to recover, coughing as the tea went down wrong.

  I cleared my throat. "Do whatever makes you happy. Just don't worry so much. The point is to celebrate you and Homer finding love. I'm here to help, so put me to work."

  She perked up a little, dragging out lists of possible caterers, swatches for bridesmaid dresses, and a list of songs they'd like the band to play. I was worn-out just looking at it all. I had this to look forward to with Ellie. Christian and I had better start a wedding fund. Tonight.

  After sorting through some things, we took a break to enjoy our cinnamon buns with a fresh pot of strong English Breakfast.

  I was tired of talking about wedding stuff, so I jumped into a new topic. "What do you think about Bernie's death?"

  "Couldn't have happened to a better person," Phyllis said around a mouth full of bun.

 

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