Robert Frost: "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."

  Thomas Wolfe: "You can't go home again."

  And, of course, the greatest of them all, Dorothy Gale: "There's no place like home."

  But today, as I sit down to write a few words on the subject, I find I have mixed feelings-and mixed definitions-regarding the elusive word. Most people would assume that the house Andrea and I shared on Sandusky would be my home, but to me, in both my heart and mind, home was St. Benedict's. It was there I felt most relaxed, most comfortable. It was there I did my most important work. The house on Sandusky was chosen by a Realtor; my home at St. Benedict's was chosen by God. St. Benedict's-during the good times-gave me a sense of contentment and fulfillment far more intense than the ambiguous signals that often attended the tiny cottage on Sandusky. At St. Benedict's, I felt closer to myself, and as a result, closer to God.

  Therefore, despite all that had gone before, and some might say, despite all common sense, I looked forward to my return to St. Benedict's after my brief all-expenses-paid sabattical courtesy of the Tulsa Sheriff's Department. I naively thought that with the worst behind us, we could begin to rebuild, to do God's work. I saw it as a fresh beginning.

  Alas, I was the only one. None of my detractors had altered their opinions in the least; to the contrary, their animosity had intensified, something I would not have thought possible. Even those who had previously been my supporters did little to welcome me back; they seemed weary of the fight, more than ready to admit defeat and end the protracted power struggle. Indeed, more than one of my most ardent advocates suggested that it might be best for all concerned-for me and the church-if I resigned. Why protract the misery? they would say. Why involve the church in a high profile criminal prosecution? Everyone seemed convinced that this was the time when I should finally throw in the collar and call it quits.

  Except me. I wouldn't hear of it. I have been called to this church, I must've said a million times. The bishop installed me here to do God's work. Who am I to say that His will should not be done? Did Job quit when he was persecuted? Did Christ? Of course not. They survived their tests-for that is what this surely must be-and went on to do great work. To be cherished messengers of the Word of God. I would do the same. I would not betray my divine commission.

  That was my thinking at the time, at any rate. Now, looking back on it after so much has happened, I wonder if my reaction had more to do with ego than religion. No doubt the role of the Christian martyr appealed to me subconsciously, particularly when there was so much trauma in my life. It was all a matter of where I mentally pictured myself, of what I called home. Did I prefer to locate myself in the cottage on Sandusky, with a wife who had never really accepted the lifestyle I adopted-we adopted? Was it in the political arena of St. Benedict's, arguing with the vestry and disputing even the most minor points of theology and liturgy? Or was it on the cross, suffering with my Savior? What would I choose? What would anyone who perceived himself as a man of God choose?

  Viewed through the refracted light of memory, my choices made a sort of irrational sense. But now, after all I have seen and experienced, and in the light of the tragedy that has befallen, I can see myself for the fool I was. And am. Ben felt as if he must be carrying a magnetic charge, because as soon as he stepped through the front doors of the church, everyone began to gravitate toward him.

  Ernestine, being squired as usual by her puffball nephew, reached him first. "If you're looking for your client," she said sniffily, "he's in his office. Alone."

  "Thanks. But I'm just here for choir practice."

  Alvin Greene, the Altar Guild man, rose up behind Ben. "Is it true? Is he going to stand trial?"

  "It's true," Ben said ruefully.

  Ruth O'Connell tottered beside Ernestine. "Isn't there anything we can do to end this?"

  "No, I'm afraid-"

  "Do you mean end the trial," Ernestine asked, "or the occupation of our church by this priest?"

  "Now, Aunt Ernestine," Bruce said, patting her hand. "Let's not be testy."

  "I'm sixty-seven years old," she said sharply. "I can be testy if I want to be. Go fetch me some lemonade."

  "Aunt Ernestine, I-"

  "And hurry. My throat is dry."

  "Yes, Aunt Ernestine." He slinked away down the corridor.

  The questions continued to fly. "What evidence do they have against him?" "Do you think you can get him off?" "Is the DA seeking the death penalty?"

  Ben was reminded of the "Heal thyself" crowd Jesus had to bust loose from. He held up his hands, backing away. "Please," he said. "I'm not here to be a lawyer. Or to hold a press conference. I'm just here for choir practice."

  "I don't see that it hurts you to answer a few questions," Ruth said.

  Ben didn't care. He was already halfway down the corridor, scrupulously not making eye contact with anyone he met. He passed Father Beale's office and could see through the glass windows that he was in. He was seated in the chair behind his desk, all by himself. He didn't appear to be working or reading or anything. Just thinking. Staring at the wall and thinking. Ben couldn't guess what he might be thinking about-and didn't want to. The possibilities at this point were all too painful.

  Ben continued down the corridor, ducked inside the choir room, and closed the door behind him.

  Practice had not yet begun; most of his fellow choristers were standing around chatting. Masterson, the minister of music, saw Ben and headed his way.

  "We have two new members tonight," Masterson whispered. A small smile danced on his lips. "And I believe I have you to thank for it."

  Ben's eyes swept across the room, searching for the newcomers. It didn't take long. Two pink painted fingernails waggled at him in front of two tightly braided pigtails.

  Judy. With her friend Maura.

  "A little young for the adult choir, aren't they?" Ben asked.

  "Not really," Masterson answered. "I've always welcomed teenagers. I just never got any. Until now. Thanks to you."

  "I doubt if I had anything to do with it."

  "Oh? Then why are they both insisting on singing in the tenor section?"

  Masterson wandered away to his piano and began pulling out bolts of sheet music. Judy skittered down from the back row, Maura close at her heels.

  "Ben! Ben!" Judy leaned forward conspiratorially. "Everyone in the church is all abuzz about Father Beale and the trial."

  "I'm sure it will blow over soon enough. I'd recommend you concentrate on more interesting subjects."

  "Are you kidding? This is the most exciting thing that's happened to this church since-well, ever. Have you been investigating?"

  "Well…"

  "When you investigate, do you wear disguises? Or do you prefer to stake people out?"

  If only a lawyer's life was as exciting as it seemed to a fifteen-year-old girl, Ben mused. "I have a private investigator who does most of that sort of thing," Ben explained.

  "Does he use disguises?"

  "Oh, yes," Ben said, trying not to laugh. "And accents and wardrobe. He has eighteen different ways of limping. He's a veritable Laurence Olivier."

  "Way cool. Can I go on a stakeout with you sometime?"

  Ben shook his head. "I don't think your mother would approve of that."

  Judy snorted. "I don't think she'd ever notice."

  "I hardly think-"

  "I want to help you, Ben. I feel it's my duty to uncover the truth, being a member of this church and all."

  Maura giggled. "She just wants to get close to you."

  Judy jabbed her hard enough to leave a bruise. "I'd like to see you in the courtroom. I mean live, in person. It would be good experience. Like I told you, I want to be a lawyer someday."

  "Then the best thing you can do is read good books and concentrate on your schoolwork. Going on stakeouts won't get you there."

  "But I need field experience!"

  "All in good time." Over her shoulder, he saw that Masterson had approached his music stand and was ready to begin. "We'd better get into our places."

  "All right," Judy said. "But don't forget. Next time there's a big stakeout, I want to go!"

  "I'll make a note." Masterson, to his credit, managed to get through the rehearsal without so much as a mention of the murders or the trial. He did announce that they would be able to sing certain favored tunes that previously had been unavailable-no doubt an oblique reference to the fact that Father Beale had other things to do at the present than police the hymn list. But that was it. He took them through the songs in his usual professional manner. They ran through all the hymns for next Sunday's service, then practiced the anthems they would sing during the offertory for the next three weeks. Next Sunday's was one of Ben's favorites-a tune called "The Gift of Love," based upon the traditional Celtic folk melody "The Water Is Wide." It was so beautiful it gave Ben chills, although the closing passage contained some high Fs and Gs that were out of his range, as well as that of most of the other tenors. Happily, tonight they had two teenage sopranos in the tenor section.

  About three quarters of the way through the practice, Ben saw Ernestine slip quietly out the door. An odd thing for a devoted chorister to be doing, he thought. She had a determined expression on her face; Ben felt certain she wasn't just going to the water fountain or the bathroom. Something else was going on.

  Thirty seconds later, he was out the door, too.

  He stayed well behind her, out of sight. Fortunately, there weren't many places to go in a church building that wasn't that large, so it wasn't necessary to keep her in sight at all times. Given the direction she was headed down the corridor, she could only be moving toward the parish hall, the kitchen, or the Altar Guild office.

  Ben casually eased over to an open door, hoping to get close enough to hear what was being said without attracting undue attention. He couldn't see them, but he could hear most of what they were saying.

  Alvin Greene was speaking. He sounded agitated. "You have to give me more time."

  "I've already given you too much."

  "But I need more!" Alvin was begging like a baby. "You don't know what it's been like at home. Everything's been in turmoil. Joel practically totaled his car, Julie got braces, our roof leaks. Pam has been a wreck."

  "I know something that would make her even more upset," Ernestine said quietly.

  "Please!" Alvin said. "Please!"

  But it did no good. Nothing was forthcoming. Except cold dead silence.

  "Oh, all right. All right!" The man was weeping now. Ben heard a rustling denim sound; he guessed Alvin was pulling something out of his pocket. More rustling, followed by a decided click.

  "I'll be back for the rest," Ernestine said.

  Alvin was still in tears. He could barely speak. "M-Maybe-maybe next week-"

  "I'll be back tomorrow."

  Ben heard a squeaky heel that informed him Ernestine had made a sharp pivot. He scrambled down the hall and around a corner. Rather than be caught halfway down the corridor headed in the wrong direction, he reversed himself so she would meet him as soon as she rounded the bend.

  Which she did. "Is choir practice already over?" she asked.

  Ben shook his head. "Not yet. I'm… not feeling well." He pointed toward the men's room.

  She nodded, then passed brusquely by him, but not so quickly that Ben couldn't see that she had her little blue notebook clutched tightly in her right hand. Ben wondered how many names of the members of St. Benedict's appeared in that book. Because unless he was very mistaken, this woman was running a money-lending racket that would put Ebenezer Scrooge to shame.

  Chapter

  11

  Loving had a strong hunch that talking to the two giggling girls in the parish hall was not going to accelerate his investigation, but no one else seemed to be around at the moment, and when you had a list of suspects to interview as long as the one in Loving's pocket, every second counted.

  As he approached the table where they were folding acolyte robes, the giggling intensified. What? he wondered. Do I have something in my teeth? Is my fly unzipped?

  "Maura likes your muscles," Judy explained, after the introductions were completed. "She thinks you're a hunk."

  Maura slugged her hard enough to crack a rib. "Do not."

  "She does. She's lusting after you. She wants to have your children."

  "At least I'm not lusting after the lawyer," Maura retorted. "He doesn't have any muscles."

  "Girls, girls," Loving said, suppressing a grin. "This is flatterin', but I'm a confirmed bachelor-type. Always have been."

  "Maybe since your divorce," Judy replied. "Not before, obviously."

  Loving did a double-take. "Now how on earth do you know about that?"

  "Got it off the Internet," Maura explained. "She's read everything about Ben Kincaid and his friends and coworkers. She's head over heels about the guy."

  Loving looked incredulous. "About the Skipper?"

  "She is," Maura continued, being surprisingly garrulous. "She follows all his cases. She'd have his poster up over her bed, if he had one. Frankly, I don't see the attraction."

  "Maybe I just prefer someone with brains over some big dumb hunk of muscles!" Judy said.

  Loving tried not to take offense.

  "Maybe I think there's more to love than a physical attraction!"

  Maura was unimpressed. "Maybe you're afraid that if there isn't, you've got no hope!"

  Loving frowned. "Now that seems kinda harsh."

  "Oh, I don't mind," Judy said. "Normally Maura doesn't say anything at all. She's just talking now because she's desperate to impress you because she wants to be your love puppy."

  "Judy!"

  Loving held up his hands. "Girls, please! Personally, I love all this Truth-or-Dare stuff, but I'm kinda busy right now. Could either of you tell me where I might find Alvin Greene? He doesn't seem to be in the Altar Guild office."

  Judy checked her watch. "It's after five. I'd try the White Swan."

  "What's that? Some kind of prayer meeting?"

  Judy laughed. "It's a bar. Well, a pub, technically. Very British. As you may know, all Episcopalians are closet Anglophiles. They love all that Old World steak-and-kidney-pie fake accent stuff. Of course, they don't like to admit that's the real reason they're Episcopalians, but honestly, why else would anyone want to be an Episcopalian?"

  Loving decided not to engage in this dubious theological discussion. "Can you give me directions?"

  "Of course." She grabbed a piece of scrap paper and started to draw. "By the way, stick with the Bass Ale. That Guinness stuff is really nasty."

  Loving peered down at the fifteen-year-old girl. "And how would you know, may I ask?"

  Judy winked as she handed him the map she had drawn. "Oh, I get around. I'm very worldly." The White Swan was, as advertised, the spitting image of a British pub. The walls bore a dark wood finish, decorated with pictures of soccer matches and fox hunts. The dining room was furnished with cozy little round tables, all laden with bottles of vinegar and HP Sauce.

  Loving passed quickly through the restaurant area to the real center of action. The bar was a big brass affair, imported from a Manchester saloon dating back to the 1870s, according to a plaque on the wall. The room was packed and then some; almost all the seats were taken, and at least twenty more people were standing. The room was thick with smoke, the only drawback from the otherwise charming image. Loving didn't like to admit it, because it didn't go with his rough-and-tumble rep, but he hated smoking. He didn't do it (anymore), and he didn't like to be around people who did. For that matter, he wasn't that crazy about bars. There had been a time… but why think about that? He'd made a whole new life for himself since he linked up with the Skipper. It was a good arrangement, because it had come at the right time and Loving liked and needed it.

  He grinned. And Ben sure as hell needed him.

  Well, he was burning daylight. He took a deep breath and plunged into the smoky fray. The sacrifices I make for the Skipper, he mused, not for the first time.

  He saw several people he believed were members of St. Benedict's. Some he recognized from the wedding, some not. And he saw at least a dozen strong young men wearing matching jerseys-a soccer team, if he wasn't mistaken. And in the far corner, sitting by himself, was Alvin Greene.

  Against all odds, there was an empty chair at his table. Apparently no one wanted to sit with Alvin this evening. After taking a look at the glum expression on the man's face, Loving could see why.

  Loving introduced himself. Alvin didn't seem exactly pleased to see him, but he didn't chase him off, either. When you worked for an attorney, that was almost as good as an engraved invitation.

  "Look like you've seen better days," Loving observed. Not exactly a probing question, but Loving conducted interviews a little differently than the Skipper-especially when they took place in bars. If he could loosen the guy up a bit, both verbally and liquidly, he was far more likely to get some useful information. "Money problems?"

  Alvin looked up slightly. "How'd you know?"

  "Aww, you've just got that look on your face." That, plus he read Ben's report on what he'd overheard at choir practice. "I've been there."

  "Yeah?" This time Alvin's eyes remained off the table. "I never thought it would happen to me."

  "It'll get better. It always does."

  "Well, it sure as hell couldn't get much worse."

  "Laid off?" Loving asked.

  Alvin nodded. "Two months ago. And I've got three daughters and a son to support. Lost my wife to cancer a year back. Now one daughter needs braces, the other wants to go to Mexico for spring break, the boy wrecked his car…" He waved his hand in the air. "I just can't stand it."

  "Got any prospects?"

  "Not really. I came over from St. John's so I could fill this bookkeeper vacancy. It pays a little, but I need a real job or I'm going straight down the tubes."

  "Can you borrow?"

 

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