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(back to page 6)
Mo watched until the ambulance had driven out of sight.
Leona Dudley was again sitting at the kitchen table.
"Is he coming?" Mo asked, brushing tears from her eyes.
Mrs. Dudley frowned. "Who?"
"Mr. Dudley. Your husband."
"Coming here?"
"Didn't you just call him?"
"Oh. Yes. He's not home right now."
"I'll drive you home then. Is there someone who can stay with you? A neighbor?"
"Martha," Mrs. Dudley said. "I can call Martha."
Mo helped Mrs. Dudley to the car--the poor woman was really sagging now--and drove her through town and out to her small home across the street from the entrance to Fireman's Park.
The lawn was weedy and overgrown, the bushes untrimmed. The screen door sagged on its hinges.
"Do you want me to walk you to the door?"
"No, no. I'll be fine now. I can call Martha."
"You're sure you'll be alright?"
"Yes. Thank you, dear. You've been very kind." Mrs. Dudley gave Mo's hand a quick squeeze.
Mrs. Dudley made her way slowly up the concrete walk to the front door, fished her key out of her handbag, and fumbled it into the lock. When she was safely inside and the door closed behind her, Mo pulled away. As she drove back to the "Doings" office, she had to fight the urge to turn around, go back, and make sure the poor woman was really okay. Something didn't seem right about that house.
She tried to remember if she had ever met Leona Dudley's husband and couldn't recall having seen him.
She took a deep breath. The impact of what she had witnessed was beginning to settle on her heart. She would have to deal with her feelings later. Right now, she had a lot of work to do.
CHAPTER THREE
When Mo got to the "Doings," she snapped on her computer and checked her voice mail. Her hand shook as she noted names and numbers on her pad. By the time she hung up the phone, she was trembling.
Viola stood by the desk, a mug of steaming coffee in her hand. "You look like you need a transfusion."
"Thanks."
Taking the mug, Mo spilled coffee on her skirt.
"Oh, fiddle," Vi said. "Cold water. Before the stain sets."
She bustled into the back room and returned with a wet paper towel, which she used to dab at the spots.
Mo took a deep breath. "Father O'Bannon is dead. It looks like somebody killed him."
"Oh, dear Lord." Vi sank into the chair next to Mo's desk. "I heard a siren."
Mo held her hand out, palm up, and Vi dropped the wad of wet paper into it. Mo leaned over and dropped it into the wastebasket on the other side of the desk. "Peter Layonovich found him in the sacristy. Somebody had slit his throat."
Vi slumped in the chair. "My dear Lord."
"The sheriff asked me if Father O'Bannon had any enemies. I couldn't think of any. Can you?"
In the 43 years Viola Meugard had served as receptionist, secretary, classified ad taker, complaint department, and compiler of the weekly "Looking Back" column for the "Mitchell Doings," she had seen and heard just about everything. Although Lutheran to her core, Vi knew more about St. Anne's Catholic Church than any member of the parish.
"Nobody who'd kill him!" she said. "Some folks didn't like that radio show, but..."
"Radio show?"
"The Catholic Church Universal."
"I've never heard it."
"You've never heard The Little Hour of Virgin Power?" The door banged shut behind Bruce Randall as he headed for the coffeepot.
"Don't tell me you listen to it." Vi said.
Bruce came over, grinning, and sat on the edge of Mo's desk. His bushy brown beard reinforced his resemblance to a bear.
"It's a heck of a lot better than that Bickens maniac on the Madison station. How did that subject come up?"
"Father O'Bannon's dead," Vi said.
"We found him at St. Anne's this morning." Mo watched Bruce's face as he received the news.
"Good God! Why in hell would anybody do that?" Bruce took a swig of his coffee--Mo had never understood how he could drink it so hot-- and shook his head. "I hear he gave boring sermons, but that's hardly a capital offense."
(continued on the next page)
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