One of them, the quiet pudgier one-Maura-nudged her friend. "It's him," she said breathlessly.

  The other, Judy, looked up. Her eyes immediately brightened. "Mr. Kincaid!"

  "Call me Ben." He watched as they poured a liter of Seven-Up into the punch bowl. "Did Christina put you up to this by any chance?"

  "Is she the redhead?"

  Ben nodded.

  "Yeah. How did you know?"

  "Just a hunch."

  "Ben!" A slim, middle-aged woman dressed in a print dress and sensible shoes approached. "Just the man I need."

  "Andrea. Good to see you." Andrea was Father Beale's wife and had been for more than ten years. During the time Ben was working on the ecclesiastical trial, they had gotten to know each other well.

  "You too. Got any turpentine?"

  Ben patted his suit pockets. "Darn it, I guess I left my turpentine at home. Also my thinner, my shellac, and my WD-40."

  Andrea grinned. "I've got glue all over me."

  On closer inspection, Ben saw that her hands did appear to be covered with glue and Scotch tape and bits of colored construction paper. "You helped with the decorations, I surmise."

  "No, but I cleaned up after those who did. A priest's wife's work is never done." She wandered off toward the nearest rest room. Ben found an empty seat and concentrated on finishing his cake.

  "Isn't this the most romantic thing you've seen in your entire life?"

  Christina had found the folding chair beside him. She was still wearing her pink maid-of-honor dress. Ben had heard that love is blind, and judging by most of the bridesmaid dresses he had seen, it was true.

  Ben shrugged. "I've been to weddings before."

  "Yes, but these are our friends," Christina enthused. "We watched the whole courtship. You were with Jones for their first face-to-face date."

  Actually, Ben had been Jones for their first face-to-face date, but the less he was reminded of that, the better. "Nice turnout, anyway." He gave her a quick glance. "By the way, I don't think I mentioned it before, but… you look lovely."

  Christina's eyes brightened. "Really? You think so?"

  "I do."

  "You're just saying that because I'm wearing this bridesmaid getup."

  "For you, it is somewhat… conservative."

  "Boring, you mean. But of course, you like boring. Compared to my usual wardrobe, this outfit is pretty uninteresting."

  "Compared to your usual wardrobe, nudity would be pretty uninteresting."

  A small balding man with thick black spectacles slid into the chair on Ben's other side. "Can you believe what a mess they've made of this place?" he muttered.

  "I'm not sure what you mean," Ben replied.

  "All this grotesque pink and puke rubbish. A revolting display. Who's responsible for this catastrophe?"

  "That would be me," Christina said, smiling.

  The man's chin dropped. "Oh." He winced. "Open mouth, insert foot." He tentatively held out his hand. "I'm sorry. I'm Alvin Greene. Head of the Altar Guild. And church bookkeeper."

  "Ah," Christina said, taking his hand.

  "You'll have to forgive me. I just transferred over from St. John's to fill the staff opening. I don't really know many people."

  "You must be responsible for cleaning this place up after we're all gone."

  "I'm afraid that's true."

  "In that case, you're forgiven. I might be grumpy about this decorating job if I had to take it down."

  "Still…" The man seemed to be having trouble removing his eyes from Christina's face. "I should've kept my mouth shut."

  "Tell you what," Christina said. "I'm not doing anything tonight. How about if I hang around and help clean up?"

  Greene's eyes widened. "Would you really? Oh, that would be-I mean, not that you should-but if you would-that would be-I mean-that would be-"

  Ben frowned. It appeared Christina had another admirer, and not just for her dress, either. Which shouldn't bother him…

  "Oh, Bruce, wait. I want you to meet someone."

  Ben recognized the voice-unfortunately-before he spotted her face. Ernestine, the grande dame of St. Benedict's. She was being squired by a middle-aged man with a soft face who Ben remembered from the ladies' changing room.

  "Bruce, this is Ben Kincaid." She lifted her brows knowingly. "He's the lawyer, you know."

  The man extended his hand. "Hello. I'm Ernestine's nephew."

  "Pleased to meet you. Are you-"

  "Bruce, do be a dear and fetch me a piece of wedding cake," Ernestine said, interrupting. "Not too large a piece, please. Must watch my figure, you know. All right? There's a good boy."

  "Yes, Aunt Ernestine." Bruce obediently fluttered away.

  "Ben, I am so pleased that I've been seeing you in the choir every Sunday," Ernestine said. "It gives me great satisfaction to see you there in the loft, singing your heart out. You have a lovely tenor voice."

  Ben wondered how she could possibly distinguish his voice from the eight other lovely tenor voices, but a compliment was a compliment. "You're very kind."

  "I'm so pleased that you took what Ruth and I told you to heart. I know that after all that… unpleasantness, you must've wondered whether you would really be welcome here at the church. I wanted to make it clear to you, on behalf of all of St. Benedict's, that you are."

  Ben wondered if all of St. Benedict's knew Ernestine spoke on their behalf. Presumably, when you were the church's leading benefactor, you could get away with that sort of thing.

  "Here's your cake, Aunt Ernestine."

  Ernestine looked askance at the plate he proffered. Crinkles formed around the corners of her mouth. "Bruce, dear boy, I didn't mean the groom's cake. I couldn't possibly eat chocolate. I need the white cake."

  Bruce appeared to be used to this sort of thing. "Yes, Aunt Ernestine."

  "And please find a piece a bit larger than that. I'm not diabetic, for heaven's sake."

  "Yes, Aunt Ernestine." Bruce disappeared again.

  "He's a dear boy," Ernestine said, with a small sigh. "But not much up here," she added, tapping the side of her skull. "I don't know what he'd be like today if he hadn't had me to take care of him."

  Probably a lot happier, Ben suspected, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

  "Oh, Ruth! Ruth!" Ernestine waggled her fingers at her elderly friend. "I was just about to discuss our problems here at the church with Ben."

  "Oh, my," Ruth replied. "These last few weeks at St. Benedict's, ever since the trial, have been such a strain. Many families have left us, you know. And the ones that have remained have been very disappointed."

  Their disappointment, Ben assumed, being that they hadn't been able to oust Father Beale, despite their best efforts.

  "I think it will all blow over," Ben opined. "You just need to give everyone a little more time."

  "I hope you're right. But if this church is to survive, there are going to have to be some changes. Father Beale must recognize that he can't simply go on doing whatever pleases him. He has a parish to consider."

  "Of course."

  "In fact, I think I'll find Father Beale and talk to him on that very subject. I wonder if he's in his office?"

  For Father Beale's sake, Ben hoped he wasn't. Ruth left, Ernestine departed in a different direction, and Ben managed to return his attention to his cake, which for wedding fare, was not half bad. A few minutes later, he felt Christina giving him a gentle nudge. "Have you been watching the woman with the blue hair?"

  Ben scanned the parish hall. "That doesn't quite narrow it down."

  "Ernestine. Ruth's friend."

  "Not in the last ten seconds. Why?" Ben spotted her at the other end of the room, chatting with George Finley, another member of the vestry. "What about her?"

  "That's the third man I've seen her approach. And every time she does, the man gives her something. And then she takes that little notebook out of her purse. For that matter, I saw her get that out back in the dressing room, when the minister of music came in. What do you think it is?"

  "Who knows? She's probably lining up volunteers for a bake sale or something."

  Christina's eyes narrowed. "I don't know. My great-aunt Bettie used to have something like that. It was her account book. She made a record of every penny she ever earned or spent, right down to the last postage stamp. She was seriously tight."

  "Must be that Scots blood."

  "Quite possibly."

  "There she is!" Paula came running toward them, still decked out in her bridal regalia, her full-length train trailing behind her. "Come on, Christina. It's time for me to throw the bouquet."

  Christina jumped out of her seat. "You don't have to tell me twice." She raced to the center of the parish hall.

  Paula reared back with a full fastball windup, then released the bouquet into the air. Several arms reached for it, but Christina sprang into the air with a leap that would've made Michael Jordan proud and snagged it.

  "I got it!" Christina crowed. "I got it!"

  "All right," Jones announced. "Time for the garter."

  Ben began looking for an exit.

  "Wait a minute, Boss." Jones blocked his path. A moment later, Loving had a hammerlock on him and dragged him into the center of the parish hall, where several other mildly embarrassed males were waiting.

  Ben tried futilely to escape. "This really isn't my-"

  "Shush," Loving said. "Don't spoil it."

  A moment later, Jones was at the front, garter in hand. He pulled it back on his thumb like a slingshot and let it fly-directly toward Ben's face.

  "You caught it!" Loving cheered, slapping Ben on the back.

  "As if I had a choice," Ben muttered.

  Loving jabbed his knuckles into Ben's rib cage. "And you know what this means, Skipper?"

  "You're all fired?"

  "It means you're gonna be the next to get hitched. You and-"

  "Calm down, Loving. We don't want to scare the boy off." Paula stepped between them and placed her hands on Ben's shoulders. "I have something for you, too."

  "No more undergarments, hopefully."

  "Hopefully is an adverb. You mean, No more undergarments, I hope." She smiled. "But no. Just this." She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Jones and I would never have gotten together if it hadn't been for your kindness. Thank you."

  "Nonsense. I had nothing to do with it."

  Paula shook her head. "You're a wonderful person, Ben. Even if you don't know it." She stepped away and took Jones's hand. "And now, my love, I think it's time you and I-"

  Her words were cut off by a piercing scream. Half the people in the room jumped at the earsplitting sound. Plates and punch glasses crashed to the floor.

  "What on earth?" Jones whispered under his breath.

  Paula shook her head. "We'd better go see."

  Ben held them back. "You two go on your honeymoon. I'll see what's happening."

  Jones and Paula nodded, then headed toward the rear entrance. Ben started in the direction of the scream.

  By the time he'd left the parish hall and walked down the long corridor, a crowd had gathered before him. They were blocking the entrance to the glass-encased area where all the church employees had their offices.

  "I went in looking for Father Beale, and I found her there, just like that." It was Ruth O'Connell, near hysterical, rambling to no one in particular. "I had no idea! I walked in and there she was, sprawled across the desk!" She covered her face.

  Ben pushed his way through the crowd to one of the inner offices, the one farthest from the entrance.

  "She's the one," he heard someone say quietly.

  "Guess there's going to be another vestry election," said another.

  Apparently Ben's status as the lawyer gave him some official sanction in the minds of the gathering crowd; they parted like the Red Sea as he approached.

  Ben stepped inside the office-and gasped. A woman's body was sprawled across the desk, her skirt hiked up to her waist, her legs contorted in an unnatural position. The right side of her head was covered with blood. Her tongue was black and her face was an eerie, translucent blue.

  He didn't have to get close to know that she was dead. Very dead.

  It was Kate McGuire-the woman he had seen earlier in the corridor, arguing with Father Beale.

  On a sudden impulse, Ben glanced at the nameplate on the door.

  This was Father Beale's office.

  Ben staggered out, suddenly overcome with a sickness rising fast from the pit of his stomach. Never eat wedding cake when you're about to view a corpse, he thought, trying to comfort himself with sick humor. He pushed through the crowd, hoping he could make it to the restroom in time. Throwing up all over the spectators would certainly betray his cool demeanor.

  "Someone call the police," he grunted. And as quickly as possible, he found the nearest men's room and rushed inside.

  Someone was already there.

  Father Beale stood at one of the sinks, the water from the faucet running fast. There was blood all over his hands. And like Pontius Pilate before him, he was doing everything he could to wash it off.

  Chapter

  2

  Ben watched from a distance as the various white-coveralled technicians back-and-forthed over the crime scene. To an untrained eye, it might seem like chaos in action, so many different people crisscrossing one another's paths in the tight, enclosed space of Father Beale's office. To Ben's more practiced eye, however, it was like watching scores of ants passing through the many-tiered tunnels of a complex ant farm, each drone performing his unique and specialized task. The fingerprint team scanned and dusted, the hair and fiber team scrutinized every surface with magnifying glass and tweezers, the serology team scraped, the coroner's team sniffed, and the detective's team interrogated. From the sidelines, the videographers recorded everything.

  And beside the body, supervising every one of these complex and multifaceted operations, was Major Mike Morelli, Tulsa PD's top homicide detective, not to mention Ben Kincaid's former brother-in-law.

  More than an hour after the police arrived, Mike left Beale's office for the first time ("Isn't there any coffee in this church?") and Ben was able to grab his ear for a few moments when he stepped outside for some fresh air.

  "Congratulations, Ben," Mike said, once he finally had some caffeine in him to calm his nerves and amplify his wicked sense of humor. "Once again, you're in the middle of some major nastiness. And on the side of the nasty."

  Ben ignored the gibe. "Any word on the cause of death?"

  Mike strolled down the sidewalk parallel to the parking lot. Most people would be drawn to the prayer garden, particularly lovely this time of year when the flowers were blooming. But Mike avoided it. Too many unsettling memories, Ben supposed, of the last time he'd been to this church-also to take charge of a corpse. "Oh, you know how coroners are. They don't want to say anything useful until they've had three weeks to write reports and run every test known to man."

  "What have you learned about the victim?"

  "Name's Kate McGuire. By all accounts a lovely mild-mannered young woman. Member of the vestry-senior warden, actually-which I'm told was greatly at odds with Beale and had been trying unsuccessfully to have him removed. And-get this-she was engaged to be married for the first time." Mike paused, then stared up at the sky. "She was in love. But that marriage will never happen." He took another deep breath, as if he needed some oxygen coursing through his system. "For the sword outwears its sheath/And the soul wears out the breast/And the heart must pause to breathe/And Love itself have rest."

  "Very lovely. But what do you think? About the murder."

  "You know perfectly well what we think. What does everyone think?"

  "Listen to me, Mike. I've known Father Beale since I was a kid. He wouldn't do this."

  "Yeah, that's what you told us the first time someone turned up dead here."

  "I was right then and I'm right now."

  Mike shook his head and inhaled another gulp of the coffee. "Well, I can tell you this, pal. It doesn't look good for him."

  "I noticed you haven't arrested him yet."

  "Give us a minute. This is going to be a very high profile case. Before we bring charges, we want to make sure we can make them stick." He took another swig of java, then crumpled the Styrofoam cup in his hands. "Still, at least half a dozen witnesses tell me he had an altercation with this woman just before the wedding. Two witnesses saw him after the wedding with blood on his hands. And the body was in his office."

  "Which is a good point in his defense."

  Mike chuckled. "Only a lawyer with your imagination could turn that into a good point in his defense."

  "Seriously, Mike, think about it. If he planned to kill the woman, why would he do it in his own office?"

  "I don't think he planned anything. From what I've been hearing, he has an uncontrollable temper. Explosive and sometimes violent. I'm told he was ordered to get some therapy. I figure the woman came to his office to continue the argument, and he lost his grip and did her in."

  "You can't prove any of that."

  Mike thrust his fists into the pockets of his trench coat. "Not yet, my friend. But give me a couple of hours."

  "You really want Beale, don't you?"

  "What I want is the same thing I always want, Ben. You remember what Shakespeare said in the thirtieth sonnet?"

  "Oh, stop waving your English degree in my face and just tell me."

  " 'All losses restor'd and sorrows end.' In other words, justice." He shrugged his shoulders. "Is that so much to ask?" Once everyone had been thoroughly questioned, names and addresses had been taken, and all had been cautioned not to leave town, most of the guests and the wedding party disappeared. No speed was too great when one was escaping a horror of this magnitude, Ben supposed. Only a few of the church diehards remained; some who had been at the wedding, and a few, Ben noted, who showed up as soon as they heard about the new tragedy. Ben thought he should stay as long as Father Beale did, in part, to lend his support, and in part, to make sure the man didn't say anything he shouldn't.

  To suggest that Beale was not at his best would be a pitiful understatement. He was shaken, spiritually ruptured, to a degree that was immediately evident to anyone who came near him. In that condition, Ben knew even the most innocent man might say something foolish that would haunt him ever after-especially on the witness stand.

 

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