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"Oh, right. No makeup and pillow hair. What was that you had on the radio?"
"I didn't have the radio on. I never turn it on until you come down."
"Stan the Man?"
He frowned, then nodded. "I listen to the business news while I have my bedtime cup of tea. I must have forgotten to change the station back. Sorry."
"That's okay. Just a little jarring first thing in the morning."
Setting aside the "Wall Street Journal," Doug fished the sports section out of the "Madison Cardinal-Herald" and took another long swig of water. He folded the paper neatly into quarters, plucked a banana from the bowl on the table, peeled it, folded the peel into his napkin, and took it to the trashcan under the sink.
"What's on your agenda today?" he asked. "You going to hit the 6:30?"
"Yeah. If Mass gets done in time, I'll go to the Chamber breakfast meeting. And after that, another meeting of the Highway Expansion Subcommittee. This afternoon, I've got to get some pictures of the football team practice for the homecoming tab."
"Homecoming already? I didn't even know they'd gone anyplace."
She stood and carried her mug to the counter for one last splash of coffee. At the door, she paused and turned back to him. "I'm sorry I've been so busy lately."
"And when does life get unbusy for a community newspaper editor?"
"Maybe Pierpont will pry open his vault and hire me a reporter."
"Maybe the Cubs will win the World Series."
She hurried upstairs to shower and dress. Doug was digesting his online business reports when she stuck her head in at the door of his office on her way out.
"I'll see you this afternoon."
He turned to smile at her. "Don't forget to eat something."
"I won't."
"Something besides a bag of chips and a cola."
"What's wrong with that? Fiber and caffeine, two of the essential food groups."
He laughed. "You were better off when you ate at Charlie's." He caught himself, frowned. "Sorry. Sore subject. I'll be happy to pack you a lunch."
"Tree bark and prunes? No thanks."
"I don't eat tree bark and prunes. Just good healthy fruits, veggies, and grains."
"It's Monday. Vi will bring bagels. They're good for you, aren't they?"
"Better than donuts, anyway."
She smiled, crossed the room and gave him a lingering kiss. "Gotta go," she said.
"Say a prayer for us heathens."
"I always do."
She'd have to hustle now to get to St. Anne's on time. As she reached the highway, she noted that more hand-painted yard signs had sprouted along the roadside, all expressing shrill opposition to the planned expansion of the two-lane county road between Mitchell and Sun Prairie into a four-lane divided thoroughfare. These homemade protests even outnumbered the store-bought "Support Our Troops" signs.
Two blocks from town, she braked sharply and turned in at the church parking lot, slowing for the gully. Four cars clustered near the front steps. The regulars would already be at their places--Hazel Rose Fenske, Helen Funnell, Martha Molldrum, Eleanor Howery, and Joleen Wodka.
Southern Wisconsin was experiencing a late-season spell of hot, muggy weather. Even so, the little church was cool as she walked up the center aisle, her heels clicking on the wooden floor worn smooth by generations of the faithful coming forward to receive the Body and Blood of Christ. The pew creaked under her, and the unforgiving kneeler cracked the quiet when she lowered it.
Joleen had already finished leading the rosary, but the candles on the altar weren't lit, and the lectionary wasn't on the ambo. Even as she wondered if Father had been abandoned by his altar server, Peter Layonovich appeared at the door behind the altar. He took a hesitant step. His legs folded under him, and he sat with a soft plop.
Mo reached him first, with Hazel and Eleanor right behind her.
"Peter?"
Mo sat next to him on the worn carpeting and put her arm around his shoulder. He started sobbing, his head turned away from her.
"What is it, honey? Do you feel sick?"
Peter sagged against her, giving in to wracking sobs. "Somebody better go find Father," Hazel said.
Neither she nor Eleanor moved.
Mo squeezed Peter's shoulder, then got up. "You wait here a minute," she said. "I'll be right back. Hazel, will you stay with Peter?"
Something made her pause as she reached the doorway to the sacristy. God be with me, she thought.
Father O'Bannon was lying on his back on the floor, his left arm flung out. His unseeing eyes registered no emotion.
His throat had been slit.
The door of the small wooden cabinet where Father kept the key to the saborium hung open. The lectionary lay open on the counter. Hosts littered the counter and floor. Mo turned and fled.
(continued on the next page)
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