She looked at the clock glowing on her nightstand. It was after eleven. She’d be sore tired tomorrow. “Come on, you old woman,” she said to herself, disgusted, “it’ll keep.”

But she kept returning to it, and it might really be something Father would have to act on right away. Even if they had a suspect already, it might make a difference. He’d want her to bring it to his attention, even if she turned out not to be right. If he’d told her once, he’d told her a thousand times, “Rose, nobody’s infallible but the Pope.”

So if he’d just made that little mistake-and she wasn’t even sure it was a mistake (Lord knows, his memory was so much better than hers)-then she thought he’d want to know, especially since it concerned Eddie’s death, to say nothing of the official police investigation.

And it had been gnawing at her ever since morning when Tibbs and Renko (that’s what she called them-wouldn’t that be a good show if they put those two together?) had had that discussion where she’d poured the coffee. She’d gone over it in her mind about fifty times since then, the question of whether it had been Sunday or Monday that Father had gone out with Eddie, and she was pretty sure it was Monday.

The only reason she was sure-or thought she was sure-was that Sunday, a week ago yesterday, they had had Bishop Wright over from Oakland and she’d made a prime rib for the dinner and everybody had commented on how good the Yorkshire pudding was, and the au jus sauce. They’d invited her to eat with them, even, which was special for when they had guests.

She thought she remembered Father Dietrick opening a second bottle of wine, and the three of them retiring into the library after dinner while she cleaned up. But, of course, she couldn’t be a hundred percent sure, since she’d gone to her room after washing up and she hadn’t seen either His Excellency or the fathers again that night.

And she knew it had been an early Sunday dinner-she had timed the roast to be done at 3:30, so she must have served at around 4:00-so it was possible that their “party” had broken up early and that Eddie had come by after that.

The thing was, she remembered somebody ringing the doorbell on Monday night after dinner, but again she hadn’t seen whether or not it was Eddie. Father Cavanaugh had answered the door himself, sensitive to interrupting her, and that had been the last she’d seen of him. He hadn’t come back until after she’d gone to bed, and unlike tonight, she had slept soundly.

But it was her memory of Sunday, of Bishop Wright being there, that made her believe it hadn’t been Sunday that Eddie had come by. His Excellency had never gone home early before. Usually Father Cavanaugh and he would “burn the midnight oil” over some cognac (and nothing wrong with that-the men need to be allowed some release) while they discussed philosophy or theology or politics. She knew what they talked about because Father Cavanaugh would often share with her some of what they’d said the next morning.

She sighed, turning on her side. Eleven-twenty. Maybe she should just wake up Father Dietrick and ask him if he remembered what time their discussion had broken up that night. But no, he’d…

There it was! The back door opening and closing quietly. She swung her feet to the floor and grabbed her robe from where she’d hung it neatly on the chair next to her bed. She wanted to move quickly before Father had had a chance to get to bed-it wouldn’t do to disturb him after that-but she wasn’t about to go out with pins in her white, thin and brittle hair either, even in the middle of the night. She stopped by the bathroom and took them out. She stepped into her slippers.

Father stood in front of the open refrigerator, peering inside. Seeing him, bless him, she knocked softly on the wall by the kitchen door.

“Rose,” he said, smiling. “Caught me, I’m afraid.” She made some gesture. “What are you doing still awake?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” No point in rushing right into it now. It probably wasn’t that important. She moved into the kitchen. “Can I make you something?”

He stepped back, acknowledging the kitchen as her domain. She knew what they had left over. He leaned over and pecked her on the cheek, which made her blush with pleasure. Father loved her, and it was a wonderful feeling, as comfortable as being married.

“I’ll just sit at the table and you surprise me,” he said. “But do you think a beer while I wait would be sinful?”

He opened a Mexican beer while she took out the plate with the chicken on it. (See! It paid to take the extra minutes to slice the meat from the carcass.) Then the Best Foods (nothing but) and Clausen’s pickles. She saw the Swiss cheese. Swiss cheese? Why not. And the potato bread that came in such big slices.

“How is Steven?” she asked, assembling. Without turning around, she could see Father shaking his head. “That poor boy.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s been through a lot, but he’s all right. I’d say it’ll be a couple of months before he’s really over it.” Now sipping his beer. It really was amazing, she thought, that she knew his rhythms so well. She didn’t even have to be looking at him to know what he was doing. “Youth is really something, isn’t it, Rose?”

“That it is, Father, though I’m not the expert on it I once was.”

Father chuckled at her jokes, that was another thing. “None of us is, Rose, none of us is.”

Lettuce? No, not with the pickles. One green was enough. “Frankly,” Father said, “I’m almost more concerned about Erin and Big Ed.”

Well, of course you are, she thought. But she kept it to herself. How he felt about Erin was a secret. At least he thought it was. But anyone who knew him like she did could tell without any effort.

She brought the sandwich over, along with another beer. It was a good big one, and she knew he’d finish the first beer right in the middle of it.

“Are they all right?” she asked.

He dug into the sandwich, chewed carefully, swallowed, then drank some beer. “Oh, Ed’s a rock, you know. It’s mostly Erin.”

She nodded.

“She feels like she’s neglected Steven, drove him to running away, so everything that happened because of that is her fault.”

“How has she neglected Steven?”

“That’s what I tried to tell her. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe she had other things she was doing, but I really don’t think it was at Steven’s expense. Look at the other kids.” He took another bite of the sandwich. “Besides, Erin’s always been very active.”

“Could it be Steven just needed more attention?”

“But how do you tell that, Rose? And how do you blame yourself for it?”

She nodded again. Nothing in the universe would convince Father that Erin Cochran had done something wrong. “Great sandwich, by the way.”

She beamed.

“But you know what I think it is, really? I think-no, I’m sure -it’s still Eddie. How do people bear with all that in one week?” He closed his fist on the table and pounded it. “Dear God, if I could just change one thing…”

She reached over and covered his hand. “Now, don’t you go blaming yourself, Father. You’ve said it yourself-sometimes God takes the cream of the crop early, back to Himself. He took Eddie, and nothing you or anybody else does is going to change that. You’ve just to pick up and go on from there. Erin’s strong, and Ed will help her.”

“Go on from there?”

“That’s all you can do, isn’t it?”

His eyes softened. The pain visibly left his face. “Thank you, Rose. You’re a gem.”

She blushed again, looking down. “Finish your sandwich,” she said. Now, she thought, would be a good time. “You know, Father, while we’re talking about Eddie… What I mean is, the reason I couldn’t sleep is I was wondering if you’d made a mistake.”

Father swallowed and smiled. “No one’s infallible but the Pope, Rose. What did I do this time?”

“Well, I don’t know you did, but…” She outlined it all for him, everything she remembered or thought she did. It took only a couple of minutes, but sure enough, that must have been what had been keeping her up, because suddenly she was exhausted.