"And you see what the result is," she continued. "The man is in his forties, and what is he? Nothing. Oh, he's nice enough, in a puppy-dog sort of way. But he's got no job, no family. And to think this man is the last surviving member of my family. My sole heir." Her eyes brightened, as if by sudden inspiration. "You know, Mr. Loving-I think Bruce could learn a great deal from a man like you. Perhaps you two could… spend some time together."

  Gee whiz, maybe I could teach him to play catch! "That's sounds nice, ma'am, but I'm afraid I'm very busy just now."

  "Oh, I should've made it clear-I would expect to compensate you for your time, of course."

  Loving could see she was a woman who thought she could get anything if she came across with enough money. Which made him all the more determined to decline. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm spendin' all my wakin' hours on this case, at least until trial."

  "Perhaps if I just gave you a little something up front."

  Ernestine popped open her handbag and a large wad of bills tumbled out. Ernestine scooped them up quickly, but not so quickly Loving couldn't see there was a seriously large amount of cash in there. More than you would expect an elderly lady to be carrying around.

  "Mind if I ask why you're carryin' so much scratch?" Loving asked.

  "It's not-I just-" She seemed flustered. "I have some bills to pay."

  In cash? Come on, lady…

  "If you'll excuse me," Ernestine said, "I have an appointment."

  Why was she in such a hurry to leave all of a sudden? Loving started to get up, but Ernestine waved him back down. "No need for you to leave. Ruth has keys. She can lock up when you've all finished chatting. I apologize for leaving so abruptly, but as I told you on the phone, I have some… errands I must attend to." Without giving anyone an opportunity to object, she ambled toward the front door and closed it behind her.

  Bruce returned with more of the cookies, and Loving dutifully wolfed down a few. They seemed fairly tasteless to him, but he supposed he should be grateful they weren't serving little bitty cucumber sandwiches.

  "Can either of you think of anythin' else that might help this investigation? Anythin' that might relate to the murders in any way?"

  Both of them appeared to be trying, but no one offered any assistance.

  Ruth was the one who finally spoke, but she wasn't answering the question. "Will you be seeing Father Beale today?"

  "I dunno. Maybe. Why?"

  "Would you please talk some sense into him? This business of hanging on as priest at the same time he's being tried for murder-it's destroying St. Benedict's. It makes a mockery of everything we do. Our membership has been decimated. Who wants to take the sacrament from a murderer?"

  "I heard Father Beale say he was brought to St. Benedict's for a higher purpose. He thinks he was called by God."

  "Delusions of grandeur."

  "Maybe." Loving slapped his thighs and began clearing away all the tea paraphernalia. "But if the man thinks he's takin' his instructions from God, far be it for me to interfere."

  "But he's a murderer!"

  "Ben says he isn't. And in my experience, he's usually right." Well, two times out of three, anyway. "Thanks for talkin' to me." He shook Bruce's hand. "Thanks for the cookies."

  "Digestive biscuits," Ruth corrected.

  "You can call 'em whatever you want, ma'am," Loving said amiably. "But a cookie is still a cookie. And God willing, always will be." Jones and his new bride, Paula, sat in the front seat of his blue Volkswagen Beetle parked on a side street off Lewis.

  "Have I mentioned how much I love you?" Jones asked.

  "Yes," she replied, coiling her brunette hair around a finger, "but as a newlywed, I think I'm entitled to hear it several times a day."

  "More than the moon and the sun. More than the stars in the sky."

  "How Elizabeth Barrett Browning." She giggled. "You give me chill bumps when you get all poetic like that."

  "Your eyes are diamonds. Your hair is silk."

  "Do tell."

  "You're a beauty like the world has never seen before."

  "Such as."

  "Excuse me?"

  Paula twisted around in the car seat. "A beauty such as the world has never seen before."

  Jones frowned. "Why did I marry a librarian?"

  Her fingertips danced across his chest. "I'll remind you."

  About a minute later, their lips finally parted. "Wow," Jones murmured breathlessly, in a wobbly, slightly drunken sounding voice. "Don't quit on my account."

  "I'm not. Our target is on the move."

  In the rearview mirror, Jones saw that Ernestine Rupert had left her house. She was on foot, heading toward Lewis.

  "Let's go," Jones said. He started the car but stayed out of sight, a good distance behind. Jones knew for a fact that the elderly woman was nearsighted, even with glasses, so the chances of them being spotted were remote.

  About ten minutes later, Ernestine approached a modest white-walled house with an extraordinary garden out front. A middle-aged man of slight build was working diligently in it, pulling weeds and putting down mulch.

  "Do you recognize him?" Paula asked.

  Jones nodded. "Alvin Greene. Altar Guild. I'm going in closer."

  Paula held tight to his arm. "Loving said to just follow. See where she goes."

  "Because he was afraid that if I tried to do anything more, I'd screw it up. I want to hear what they're saying." He slid out of the car and quietly ran to the next house down, crossed through the unfenced backyard, then slowly crept into the area between the two houses. He was still out of sight, but he could pick up some of the conversation.

  "I know what day it is," Alvin was saying. "But I just can't do it."

  Was Ernestine replying? Jones wondered. If she was, he couldn't hear it.

  "Please. If you could only give me a little more time. There's been so much turmoil and chaos and-and-"

  Jones couldn't see his face, but it sounded as if the man was sobbing.

  "Please, I'm begging you. Pammy is still sick. Jenny has so many needs."

  The despairing quality in Alvin's voice was tearing Jones apart. What on earth was that woman doing to him?

  "Fine!" Alvin shouted. Jones didn't need to be nearby to pick that up. It was probably heard in the next county. "Take your goddamn blood money! I hope you rot in hell!" Jones heard sounds of movement, then nothing but Alvin's pathetic crying.

  He crept to the other end of the house in time to see Ernestine walking back toward the sidewalk, clutching a small blue notebook in her hand. He ducked back behind the hedge till she was gone. Then he made his way back to the Beetle.

  "Did you get anything?" Paula asked.

  "Oh yeah. Did you read the Boss's report? He thinks Ernestine's been lending money at usurious rates and demanding repayment."

  "And? Didn't you tell me Ben is usually right?"

  "About legal matters, sure. But about people?" He shook his head. "This is a situation where Ben's naIvete clouds his judgment. He's blinded by the woman's age, her blue hair, her grandmotherly face."

  "So what's the sweet old biddy doing? Organizing a renegade sewing circle? Setting up an unauthorized Scrabble tournament?"

  "Not quite." He fished the keys out of his pocket and started the ignition. "Hold on to your hat, sweetheart. That sweet old biddy is no moneylender. She's a blackmailer."

  Chapter

  15

  Christina walked briskly down the carpeted steps of Philbrook Museum, thinking, Would they never stop changing this place? It was originally the private Italian-villa style mansion of Frank Phillips, oil baron extraordinaire and founder of Phillips Petroleum. After it passed out of the family hands, it became a tourist attraction and locus for traveling art exhibitions. Then the big change-millions were spent adding wings to create a museum, with room for a permanent collection, traveling shows, a restaurant, and, of course, a gift shop. Personally, Christina thought the mansion got somewhat lost, now that it was buried under all these additions, even though it was lovely having another great art museum in Tulsa.

  And now they've updated the restaurant, she noted. Spiffy modern metal chairs and matching tables, and an all-new California-style menu. It seemed a bit antiseptic to Christina, but she supposed it hadn't really been designed with her in mind. They were presumably going for the ladies-who-lunch crowd, of which Christina was definitely not a member.

  Andrea Beale, however, was. She was on her second or third glass of white wine by the time Christina arrived. Christina detected a change in Andrea's manner almost immediately. Some of the fire she had displayed in the office had fizzled. There was a disconnected look in her eyes. A fuzzy wall between her and the rest of the world which, alcohol-induced or not, Christina sensed Andrea preferred to have surrounding her.

  "Thank you for inviting me to lunch," Christina said, taking her seat at the table. "I think this is a much friendlier environment than the office."

  Andrea shrugged, a minimalist gesture. "Beats eating alone."

  "I suppose your husband is busy preparing for trial. I know Ben is."

  Andrea took a sip of her wine. "Daniel never takes lunch with me. He's too busy. Always on the go. Lots of projects. Saving the world."

  Even if Christina had been sloshed herself, she could not have missed the note of irony. "Ben's told me about some of his political and social work. I was impressed."

  "Oh, yes. Everyone is." The waiter appeared at her side. "Glass of wine, Christina?"

  "No, thank you. I have so much work to get done today. I'll have the flavored tea, please."

  Andrea smiled slightly and ordered another glass of wine for herself.

  Christina scanned the menu. It was all too haute cuisine for her taste. She knew the portions would be too small and everything would have too much goat cheese or sun-dried tomatoes. After some deliberation, she went with the Caesar salad. Andrea ordered some sort of pasta.

  Once the waiter brought Christina her raspberry tea and Andrea her next glass of chardonnay, Christina decided to start the questioning.

  "I want you to know that Daniel is in good hands," Christina said reassuringly. "Ben is a great criminal attorney. The best, I think."

  "He seems rather young."

  "That's just because he's slim and baby-faced. Trust me, he's got more experience with murder trials than anyone I know. And he's very smart. Fast on his feet."

  Andrea nodded. "And cute, too." She eyed Christina carefully. "I think he's cute, anyway. Don't you?"

  Christina cleared her thoat. "I've been working with him so long, I hardly notice those things anymore."

  "Indeed."

  "But I know he's determined to win this case. And so am I." She readjusted herself slightly. These metallic chairs might be stylish modern art, but they were damned uncomfortable to sit in. "Do you have any theories about what happened?"

  "I'm not sure what you mean."

  "At our meeting last week you said you thought it was all politics. That Daniel's enemies at the church were out to get him. At trial we'll need some alternative explanation for the murders, and we may well use that one, if we can come up with some evidence in support. But to blame the church is a little nebulous. It would be better if we could name an individual or individuals who could have been behind the killings."

  "So you can call them to the stand Perry Mason-style and try to browbeat a confession out of them?"

  "So we can raise doubt in the minds of the jurors as to Daniel's guilt. That's what it's all about for the defense, remember. We don't have to prove who did it. We just have to establish that there's reasonable doubt about Daniel."

  "I hope you'll do more than that. Daniel shouldn't have this hanging over his head for the rest of his life. Some people will always assume he was guilty, even if he gets off. Unless you discover who the murderer really was."

  Christina nodded. Andrea wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know. But at this juncture, their first priority had to be getting a not-guilty verdict-regardless of what other people thought. "We'll do our best."

  "I really couldn't single anyone out. I don't know who might be a murderer. I mean, I can tell you who the ringleaders of the anti-Beale movement were. Both of the dead women. Susan Marino. George Finley. And of course, Ernestine Rupert."

  "Hard to imagine that elderly lady strangling two young women."

  "Well, she wouldn't do it herself. She'd hire someone. Ernestine believes she should be able to buy anything she wants-including control of the church. Daniel was able to hold her at bay for a time, because he supported that pro-choice organization she founded and still chairs-the PCSC. But after a while, that wasn't enough for her. She wanted him gone. And she had full vestry support."

  "Have you seen anything at the church-or elsewhere-that you think might possibly be connected to the murders? Something… suspicious? Something unusual?"

  Andrea shook her head. "I'm sorry. Nothing comes to mind."

  "Has anyone said anything out of the ordinary? Made any threats?"

  "Well, almost everyone in the church has threatened to do one horrible thing or another if Daniel doesn't resign. Which he won't."

  "And what's your take on that? Why won't he go?"

  "He's too proud," she said flatly. "He won't admit defeat. Ego."

  "Not that he thinks he's been called to the church by God?"

  "They're the same thing. How could any man ever believe he was doing the work of God unless he had a little ego? How could any man cling so tenaciously to his position unless he believed he was doing the right thing? Believe me, most priests-probably all other priests-would've resigned long before it got to this point. But not my Daniel. The stronger the storm, the more resolute he becomes. He's like a character out of the Old Testament." She laughed bitterly. "I'll bet Moses' wife had a hard time of it, too."

  "What's your take on why Daniel has had so many problems at this church?"

  "Well," she answered thoughtfully, "Daniel is a child of the sixties. And the members of the vestry are children of the nineties. The 1890s."

  Christina smiled.

  "Churches have different personalities," Andrea continued. "People don't realize it, but it's true. The members create a group mind-a gestalt, if you will. Back at St. Gregory's in Oklahoma City, the largest slice of the membership was composed of raised-in-the-sixties liberal activists-or would-be activists. Daniel was a perfect fit. But the transfer to St. Benedict's was a mistake. Suddenly he was confronted with a group of people who voted for Reagan and carry NRA sharpshooter certificates in their wallets. It was a disaster from the get-go."

  "I don't normally think of religion as being so… political."

  "Well, religion isn't. But churches are. Oh, don't get me wrong. Daniel had some supporters, at least at the outset. But not many. Not enough."

  Something about the tone in her voice inspired Christina to take the conversation down a side road. "What about you? Were you a supporter?"

  Andrea's eyes flickered upward. "I'm his wife."

  "Come on, Andrea. Don't give me that Pat Nixon my-husband-right-or-wrong stuff. Did you support him?"

  "I've known Daniel since the sixties. We didn't get married until much later. I was an activist in my own right. The day we both marched with Dr. King in Selma-that was also the first day we kissed. In fact, in those days, I was probably more active than he was."

  "So you knew what you were getting into when you married him."

  "Of course. It was part of what made me fall in love with him." She paused. "I've always supported his political activities."

  "Is there something else, then? Something you don't support?"

  Andrea hesitated. Her body seemed to retract, to withdraw into her chair, just as she had done back in the office. "I have always been a supportive wife. Free-thinking. Open to new ideas. But some things… some things are just… wrong. Worse than that. Evil."

  Evil? According to Ben, it was the same word Kate McGuire had used with Father Beale. Just before she was killed. "What are you talking about, Andrea?"

  "N-nothing in particular. I was just speaking generally…"

  "Don't give me that. There's something you're not telling me."

  "No, really…"

  "Tell me, Andrea."

  "I-don't-" She spun her head around, as if hoping the waiter might come to her rescue. "Let's talk about something else."

  "Andrea, listen to me. Ben and I are Daniel's attorneys. We're trying to help him. But we can't do our job if there are important things we don't know. It's absolutely crucial that you tell us everything-everything-that might relate to these murders. If we know about it now, we can prepare accordingly. Minimize the damage. If we get bushwhacked at trial, the damage could be irremediable."

  "It has nothing to do with the murders," she insisted. "It has nothing to do with anything. I was just-just-" She gasped slightly. "Nothing." She picked up her wineglass and downed at least half of it in a single swallow. "Where's my pasta, anyway?"

  Christina tapped her fork against the table. Rarely had she felt so frustrated during an interview. She was certain this woman knew something she and Ben needed to hear about before trial. She was also certain this woman was never going to tell her what it was.

  "All right," Christina said, trying another approach. "We'll avoid the specifics. But-is it something that might've turned some of the church members against Daniel?"

  Andrea's head was trembling. "It's-possible. I mean-I don't really know what you mean-I don't-I-"

  "Is it something that turned you against him?" Christina knew she was pushing-probably too hard. But the questions had to be asked. "Tell me the truth, Andrea. Is it something that turned you against him?"

  "It's… so… hard…" Christina felt as if Andrea were squeezing each word out of a narrow toothpaste tube. "I'm his wife. I mean-that's what I am." She spread her arms wide, her face strained, as if she was trying to explain the most complex matter with a hopelessly insufficient vocabulary. "I will always be his wife, no matter what. And we've shared so much-there was so much I could put up with. Effortlessly. So much I could tolerate, with barely a shrug."

 

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