(<BACK)

MURDER AT MIDNIGHT
by Marshall Cook

PROLOGUE

A long black sedan glides slowly into the parking lot. Its headlights briefly illuminate the statue of the Virgin Mary, then swing to discover the low brick school. The car stops a few feet from the church. The passenger side door opens, releasing a small pool of light and spilling Debussy's "La Mer" into the warm night air. A small man wearing black shirt and slacks and the white clerical collar of the priesthood emerges.

"Are you sure you won't come in for a nightcap?" the small man says, bending down into the still-open doorway.

A thickset man, also yoked with the collar of the priesthood, leans over. "It's late, Michael," he says, "and I have miles to go before I sleep."

"And promises to keep, I'm sure." The little man straightens up, gives his shirt an unnecessary tug, and closes the car door with a solid thump. "Good night, then," he says.

The sedan pulls slowly away. The small priest stands, his right hand in the air, as if blessing the departing man.

The car bellies through the gully and turns onto the highway. The priest slowly mounts the steps of the church, his black wingtips clicking on the concrete. He pauses to peer up into the serene face of the blessed mother. The church behind her is dark, the tall cross on the spire thrusting toward the distant, unblinking stars.

"Hail Mary, full of grace," he murmurs, his voice thick with the brogue he has never lost, "the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

A breeze stirs the leaves in the oaks looming over the church.

He puts a hand on the pedestal, pats it. "Sweet mother of mercy," he says. "Pray for us, that we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ."

He walks the few steps to the church, grasps the handles of the heavy wooden double doors and pulls. The doors stay fast. He shuffles around the far side of the church, where the little cemetery stretches down a gentle slope to the highway. The graves nearest the church run parallel with the highway. He has buried many of their occupants: Schumakers, Grossmans, Kroegers, Voghts, Schmidts. Beyond these, running perpendicular to the highway, a smaller number of tombstones announce the resting-places of Fitzgeralds, Malloys, O'Malleys, and Durnions.

The priest threads the narrow, well-worn dirt path hugging the church to the rectory. Mrs. Dudley has left the light on over the door for him.

He fishes the heavy ring of keys from his trouser pocket, fingers the door key and shakes it free of the others with a bright jingling. He inserts the key and rams the door with his shoulder, but it holds fast.

"Damned humidity," he mutters.

He again twists the key and the handle and rams harder. The door pops open, nearly throwing him into the entry hall. He extracts the key, lets the ring of keys slide back into his left trouser pocket, and is about to slip into the house when he stops and mutters again. "Damn! Mrs. Johnson's gerbil!"

With a sigh, he closes the door behind him and crosses the blank asphalt to the school. The school door opens easily, and the priest disappears inside to feed the pet.

A short, slight man steps out from behind one of the pine trees lining the far end of the parking lot. He stands motionless until a light flashes on behind one of the classroom windows. He begins walking steadily and without hurry across the parking lot. The bell in the church tower begins tolling the hour, and he counts the chimes in his head.

He reaches the door of the school and grasps the handle with his right hand. His left hand grips the hilt of a long knife, the kind a hunter might use to gut a deer.

The schoolhouse door closes silently behind him as the tower bell proclaiming the twelfth hour echoes in the still night air and is gone.

CHAPTER ONE

Doug had the coffee perking and the "New York Times" propped up at her place at the table when Mo shuffled into the kitchen on a warm October morning.

One of the advantages of being married to a morning person.

She poured herself a mug of coffee, brought it with her to the table, and settled in with the front section. Reaching out, she picked up the portable radio aligned between the salt and pepper shakers, snapped it on, and set it next to her coffee mug.

"...supposed to be out of bed ten minutes ago, you slug!" an irritating voice told her. "Get up! Time's a-wastin'! This is the old Boomer, Stan the Man, bringing you the local haps, traffic and weather in the a.m. before we get back to your calls."

Frowning, she snapped the radio off, switched it from AM to FM, and tuned it to her public radio station before clicking it on again. The considerably more mellow tones of Steve Inskeep told her it was twenty-one minutes before the hour.

The screen door on the back porch squawked open and slapped shut. Doug stomped the dirt off his sneakers before pushing his way through the back door into the kitchen.

"The world's record for the 10K is safe for another day," he announced, bending to kiss the top of her head.

He toweled off his face and neck with the square of terrycloth he kept on the porch. He picked up the radio and resettled it between the salt and pepper shakers. He walked to the counter and swiped up a spill Mo had made when she poured her coffee.

"Saw two deer up on Presque Isle Road," he said.

He took his water bottle from the refrigerator and straddled the chair across the table from his wife. He took a long swig and let out a satisfied "Aaaah," fanned open his "Wall Street Journal," and scanned the headlines.

"How was your run?" When he didn't respond, she looked up to find him grinning at her. "What?"

"Nothing. Just basking in my wife's beauty."

"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.

Hazel sat next to Peter on the carpet behind the altar. Eleanor stood gazing up at the statue of the Blessed Virgin holding the infant Jesus. Helen, Martha, and Joleen sat in their places in the pews. A few others had joined them. They eyed Mo, waiting for her to tell them what to do.

"Don't go back there," Mo heard herself say. "There's been an accident. I'm going to call for help. You all need to stay where you are."

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee," Joleen began. "Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

"Holy Mary, mother of God," the others responded. "Pray for us sinners now..."

"And at the hour of our death--" Mo murmured, digging her cell phone out of her purse as she headed quickly for the side door.

CHAPTER TWO

Mo stood at the back of the church, looking up at the painting of St. Michael the Archangel, sword drawn, doing battle with Satan, when she heard the siren approach from the east. Brakes shrieked, and a car bottomed out in the gully and raced into the parking lot. The siren suddenly ceased. The Harlan's basset, Hildy, bayed in her backyard, and several other dogs howled.

Someone brushed against Mo, and she turned to look into Dilly Nurtleman's troubled eyes.

"Why aren't we having church?"

"Father's had an accident. Somebody's coming to help."

"What happened? Is he all right?"

Mo hesitated. "No, Dill. Father is dead."

Horror spread across the young man's face. She put her arm around his shoulder, and he folded into her embrace.

"What happened to him?" he said into her shoulder.

"I don't know yet."

A short, stocky man pushed open one of the large double doors and poked his head in. "I heard on the scanner you folks got a dead person here," he said in a high voice.

He waddled up the center aisle, looking around as if he'd never seen the inside of a church before.

"Roland Kohl, Chief of Police, Prairie Rapids."

“Monona Quinn. I edit the Mitchell Doings."

Roland Kohl had a round head topped with a stubble of brown hair. His brown eyes were a touch too close together in his broad, fleshy face. His rumpled khaki uniform had black pocket flaps and black stripes on the shoulders and down the outside of each pant leg. The top button of the shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a white T-shirt. His thick belt held two sets of handcuffs, a billy club, a cell phone and a holster, which Mo assumed held a revolver under its flap.

Roland Kohl glanced from Mo to Dilly and back to Mo. "You the one solved the murder here awhile back?"

"Yeah!" Dilly said. "I helped!"

"Terrible thing." Chief Kohl shook his head. "A murder in a little burg like this. I grew up in this area, lived here all my life, and I don't remember anything like that happening before. Maybe up in Adams-Friendship, but not here."

Hazel approached cautiously and stood behind Dilly. "Officer?" she said. "May we leave now? I'd like to take young Peter home."

"We'd better stay," Mo said. "The sheriff will need to talk to all of us."

"But why...?"

The throaty growl of a big car bore down on the church. The car stopped, and two doors opened and slammed shut simultaneously. A young black woman pushed through the large double doors, followed by Sheriff Roger Repoz in suit and tie, despite the heat the day promised.

Repoz shook his head when he saw Mo. "Trouble," he said, as if it were her name.

"This is Mrs. Monona Quinn," Kohl said.

"We've met," Repoz said.

He was an inch shorter than Mo's 5'5", and lean. He kept his flint gray hair short and neat, and his reddish-gray mustache looked as if it had just been trimmed with a T-square. He nodded toward the woman standing behind him to his right.

"Detective Lashandra Cooper," he said.

The detective stepped forward to shake Mo's hand. She was several inches taller than the sheriff and solid--not fat, but substantial. She wore a cream blouse and crisp, pressed black slacks, and carried a cream-colored shoulder bag. She wore her hair in cornrows. She had large brown eyes. She wore no makeup and needed none. Her expression indicated that she wished she were someplace else.

"Roland Kohl," the officer said, stepping forward. "Chief of Police, Prairie Rapids."

Repoz gave him a curt nod. "Where is he?" he asked.

"Back here."

Mo turned and almost bumped into Dilly. Hazel stood to the side of the altar. Peter sat on the riser at her feet. "You stay out here, Dill," she said.

"Should I pray?"

"Yes. Praying would be real good."

Mo bowed her head toward the altar, crossed herself, and led them to the sacristy, where she paused to let Repoz and Cooper enter first. Kohl pushed past her. Repoz squatted down by Father O'Bannon--Mo couldn't yet think of him as 'the body' or 'the victim'--but didn't touch him.

"The altar server discovered the body," Mo said.

"That the slow kid you were talking to?"

"No. That's Dilly."

"Where's the altar server?"

"Waiting with the others."

"You take him." Repoz nodded to Lashandra Cooper.

"Would you introduce me?" she asked Mo.

"Of course."

"What do you want me to do?" Kohl asked.

"Crowd control," Repoz said without smiling.

Peter still sat on the riser, with Hazel hovering over him, making distressed noises.

"Peter?" asked Mo.

The boy looked up. His eyes were dull with shock.

"This is Detective Cooper. She wants to talk with you."

Lashandra Cooper sat on the riser next to him. "I just need to ask you a couple of questions," she said.

Peter's eyes flicked from the detective to Mo, who nodded.

"Maybe you could start by telling me your name."

The detective took a narrow notepad and pencil from her shoulder bag and set the bag beside her on the step.

"Peter Layonovich."

"You'd better spell that for me."

"P-E-T-E-R "

She glanced at him. "The last name," she said.

He spelled it.

"You're in what, eighth grade?"

"Sixth."

"Quinn! I need to talk to you." Without waiting for an answer, Sheriff Repoz turned and disappeared into the sacristy.

"Excuse me, Peter," Mo said. "I'll be right back."

"Throat slit," Repoz told her when she walked in. "Deep cut. No sign of a struggle, except for the wafers on the floor. He'd be getting those for the service, right?""

Mo frowned. "He would have used an unbroken, unconsecrated host for the Mass," she said. "He'd only need these if he ran out of the ones he blessed during the rite."

"It's hardly standing-room-only out there. Is that a typical crowd?"

"For the weekday Mass, yes. Attendance goes up during Lent."

"Just the regulars today? Nobody new?"

"No. Nobody new."

"When did the altar boy discover the body?"

"About 6:40. We were concerned because Father O'Bannon is...was never late for Mass. When I saw Peter come out from the sacristy, he was crying, and I went to find out what was wrong."

"Sacristy?"

"We're standing in it."

"Oh. You see or hear anything unusual before that?"

"No."

"Who else had access to this room?"

"Father didn't have a sacristant--a helper--for the early Mass. He and the server set up. Mrs. Dudley, the housekeeper, has the key. And Bob Burnstien, the maintenance man. I wouldn't think he'd be here this early."

"Was the church locked?"

"They use a private security firm. They would have unlocked the door about five o'clock. But this door should have been locked."

"What's the name of the security firm?"

Mo shook her head. "I could find out."

"That's okay. When did you last see Father O'Bannon?"

"Yesterday morning at Mass."

"Anybody have it in for him?"

"Not that I know of."

"Nobody was mad at him?"

"Just the typical parish battles."

"Like what?"

"A lot of folks don't think the parish can afford to run a school. And some of the CCD parents feel that their kids are treated as second class citizens."

"The what parents?"

"Many of the parents who don't enroll their kids in the Catholic school send them here once a week for religious instruction. CCD. It's like Sunday School, only on Wednesday nights. The schoolteachers say the CCD kids mess up their classrooms. It's an ongoing war in every parish I've ever been in."

Mo heard the staccato clicking of high heels and looked up to see a tall woman with raven hair enter the room. She was slender and stylish, probably early thirties.

"We've got a dead priest here," Repoz told her.

"So I see. Carol Nicks." She offered Mo her hand. "Dane County Coroner. We met a few months ago."

"I remember." Mo accepted the firm handshake.

Carol Nicks bent down next to the body. "He wasn't killed here," she said.

"What makes you say that?" Mo asked.

"Not enough blood," Chief Kohl said.

Sheriff Repoz looked at him as if he'd forgotten Kohl was in the room.

"That's right," Carol Nicks said.

"I'm taking a correspondence course," Kohl said, grinning. "And the deep slash indicates a crime of passion."

"We'd better get to work," Repoz said to Nicks. He turned to Mo. "Tell the others to hang around so we can talk to them."

"Okay."

As Mo stepped back into the church, she noticed Leona Dudley, looking alone and lost. Mo put an arm around the frail woman's shoulders and ushered her away from the sacristy door.

"Where's Father? What's happened?" Mrs. Dudley gripped Mo's arm with both hands.

"There's been an accident, Leona."

The older woman smelled of soap and talc. She wore a clean white apron over a shapeless light blue housedress. Her fuzzy pink slippers were damp from the dew on the grass. Tears trickled down her heavily powdered cheeks.

"Could we go over to the rectory for a few minutes?" Mo asked. "I could use a cup of coffee, if it wouldn't be too much trouble. I can explain everything there."

"Does Father need anything?" She looked toward the sacristy.

"No. He's...No."

Mo piloted Leona Dudley back to the rectory and into the small kitchen, where a pot of coffee gave off its morning aroma and a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and English muffins sat getting cold on the counter.

"I always have Father's breakfast ready for him after Mass."

Mo pulled out one of the two chairs at the small Formica-topped table by the window, and Mrs. Dudley slid into it. The cushion gave a soft sigh. She grabbed Mo's hand and pulled her down into the second chair. "Tell me," she said, the tears streaming down her cheeks. "What's happened?"

"Father's had an accident."

Mrs. Dudley dug around in her apron pocket, dragged out an off-white handkerchief, and blew her nose. She began rocking back and forth almost imperceptibly.

Mo took a deep breath, reached out, and took Mrs. Dudley's hands in hers. "Father's dead."

Mrs. Dudley bowed her head, as if absorbing a blow.

"Is there somebody I can call for you?"

Mrs. Dudley shook herself. She turned her ruined face to Mo. "Twenty-seven years," she said. "That's longer than most marriages last, isn't it? Well..." She drew a deep breath and stood, smoothing her apron and dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. "I'd better start fixing the food."

Mo started to say that she didn't think they'd need any food just yet but stopped herself. "May I help?" she asked.

Mo was standing at the kitchen sink, peeling and coring an apple, when Lashandra Cooper tapped on the back door and entered the kitchen. Mrs. Dudley stood to Mo's right, rolling out a piecrust between two sheets of waxed paper on the counter.

"Coffee?" Mo asked.

"I can get it."

The detective fished a mug from the drying rack and filled it from the pot.

Mrs. Dudley took a handful of flour from the bin on the counter, lifted the sheet of waxed paper covering the piecrust, and sprinkled flour on the crust before replacing the waxed paper. She rubbed the rest of the flour on the rolling pin and then scratched at her nose, leaving a streak of white. She rolled out the crust until the sheet of waxed paper curled up on the rolling pin.

Mo put the peeled apple in the colander in the sink with several others, put down the peeler, and took Mrs. Dudley gently by the elbow.

"Let's sit down for a moment," she said, and the older woman did so without resistance. "This is Detective Cooper. She needs to ask you a few questions."

Cooper set her mug on the counter, took her notebook from her bag, flipped it open, and paged through several sheets covered with small, precise script.

"We'll need at least ten pies," Mrs. Dudley said. "Everyone just loved Father."

Mo slid into the other chair and took Mrs. Dudley's hand in both of hers.

"You were Father O'Bannon's housekeeper?" Cooper asked.

"For twenty-seven years."

"What were your duties?"

"Oh..." Her eyes scanned the small room. "I do everything for Father." She drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Cook, clean house, do his laundry. The man would say Mass in his bathrobe if I let him."

She squeezed Mo's hands rhymically, probably unaware she was doing so. Mo watched the detective, who seemed to be just the least bit bored.

"I keep track of everything," Leona Dudley said.

"Do you live here at the rectory?"

"Oh, no. Mr. Dudley and I live over across from Fireman's Park."

"What time did you get here this morning?"

"I get his breakfast ready while he says the early Mass."

"And what time is that?"

"I usually start at six."

"Did you see or hear anything unusual this morning?"

"No." Her brow furrowed in concentration. "I don't think so."

"You didn't hear a siren when the policeman came?"

"Oh, yes. I heard that."

Detective Cooper frowned and made a note, her pen jabbing at the paper. "Did you see Father this morning?"

"No." Mrs. Dudley squeezed Mo's hand with surprising force, and Mo squeezed back.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

The tears started again. "Yesterday afternoon. He was going out to dinner."

"Did he say where he was going or who he was going with?"

"Oh, he didn't need to say. He has dinner with Father Kleinsorge every Sunday night, at Jerry's in Prairie Rapids."

"Did Father O'Bannon have any other appointments yesterday, that you know of?"

Mrs. Dudley shook her head. "If he had, I'd know. I keep all his appointments."

"Father didn't keep a separate calendar or appointment book?"

"No. Not Father O'Bannon."

Mrs. Dudley started to sob. Mo put an arm around her and pulled her close. "Maybe you could finish this later?" she asked Detective Cooper.

The detective flipped her notebook closed. "Sure. I'll need to talk to you, too."

"Okay."

Detective Cooper slipped a business card under her coffee mug on the counter. "If you remember anything else, please call me," she said. "I'll let myself out."

"I don't like her," Mrs. Dudley said as soon as Detective Cooper had left.

"I don't think she especially cares for us, either," Mo said. "Why don't you let me take you home now?"

She eased her arm off Mrs. Dudley's shoulders. The distraught woman looked around the kitchen, as if seeing it again after being gone a long time. "There's so much to do. We need to get the food ready."

"We can take care of that later. Maybe I could call Mr. Dudley for you, and he could come and get you."

"No! No," Mrs. Dudley said. "Don't trouble yourself. I'll call him."

Mo stood by the back door, looking out at the church, to give Leona Dudley some privacy with her phone call. An ambulance was parked in front of the church, the back door open. Two other cars had nosed up beside it. An attendant in a white coat appeared at the church door and rolled out a gurney, with another white-coated attendant handling the back. The black bag strapped to the gurney didn't seem large enough to contain a body. The two young attendants lifted the gurney, carried it down the steps, and slid it roughly into the back of the ambulance. One swung the door shut.

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."

"Arthur Schmeiling," Vi said.

"Who's that?" Mo asked.

"He was pretty mad, wasn't he?" Bruce asked.

"But he wouldn't kill anybody." Vi said.

"Who wouldn't?" Mo asked. "Why was he so mad?"

"He should have known better than to even ask," Bruce said.

"Ask what?" Mo said.

"He and Elaine were married at St. Anne's," Vi said.

Mo looked from Bruce to Vi. "What are you two talking about?"

"Father O'Bannon wouldn't marry the Schmeiling girl at St. Anne's," Bruce said. "She was shacking up with her intended."

"I don't blame him," Vi said.

"They found a priest in Madison to do the job, of course. But Daddy was pretty steamed about it. Said he'd never darken the door of St. Anne's again as long as Father O'Bannon was there."

Mo picked up a reporter's pad from her desk and took the pencil from Bruce's hand. "How do you spell 'Schmeiling'?"

"Playing detective again?" Bruce grinned as he lifted his coffee mug to his lips.

"Playing journalist again. S-C-H...?"

"M-I-E-L-I-N-G," Bruce finished.

"E-I," Vi corrected him.

Bruce shoved to his feet. "I'm going to go put the squeeze on Sy Monroe to run a bigger ad."

"Good luck," Vi said. "He's been running that sixteenth of a page for longer than you've been alive."

"Hope springs eternal."

Mo checked her watch. "The council meeting on highway expansion is supposed to start in ten minutes. I guess I'll have to tell them about Father O'Bannon. I don't imagine they'll have the meeting after that."

 Mo drove the two miles out county highway KK to the old Mitchell Town Hall. As she pulled into the gravel parking lot, she took a quick inventory of the cars--Jacob Risley's BMW, Dan Weilman's shiny silver Cadillac, Andy Krueger's Chevy SUV, William Heiss's dusty old Volvo, Frankie French's ancient Volkswagen camper van, Martha and Horace Adamski's vintage '57 T-bird, and Wallace Pierpont's battered Ford pickup.

"Well," Andy said from the front of the hall as she walked in. "I was wondering if the press was going to show up."

"You didn't happen to see the good Father wandering in this direction, did you?" Dan asked as Mo crossed the empty hall to the stage. "I hate to start without him."

The floor was littered with wood fragments, and sawdust covered everything. Exposed two-by-four studs marked where carpenters were apparently attempting to shore up the wall of the crumbling old building.

The five members of the town council plus Risley sat around a small table on the stage. Frankie French, in his fringe jacket and leather headband, slouched in a folding metal chair to stage left, his short legs extended in front of him, feet crossed, the long laces of his hiking boots untied.

She stopped at the foot of the stage. "I'm afraid I have terrible news."

Sunlight filtered through the dirty windows, leaving the stage partially in shadow. The men had covered the table with papers, and Risley had set up an easel behind him.

She waited for Frankie French to look up from his paperback book. "Father O'Bannon has been murdered."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Andy Krueger said, crossing himself.

Discovered by his young altar server, Father O's body lay on the floor of the sacristy-his throat slit.

(This text ends on page 27 of the paperback book.)

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