When Mrs. Nunez and the children had left, Sister Cordelia said, “That poor child. Her mother deserted her when she was an infant. She’s going to lose the great-aunt who raised her, and the father doesn’t seem to be around much. From what I gather, he isn’t worth a hill of beans.”

“He’s worth less than that,” Sister Maeve Marie interjected. Friday evening, he tried to pick Stellina up after she was already gone. He looked a little unsavory to me, so I made some inquiries about him with the boys at the precinct.”

“Keeping your hand in at your old job, Detective?” Willy asked.

“It doesn’t hurt. From the rumors, it sounds like Mr. Centino could be headed for big trouble.”

“Which means that lovely child could end up in a foster home, or a series of foster homes,” Sister Cordelia said sadly. “And in a few weeks we won’t be able even to watch out for her anymore.” She sighed. “All right, enough. Go home, Willy. You’ve been great, and you can pick up your paycheck at the end of the week.”

“Very funny.” He smiled, acknowledging her customary joke. As they left the building, they stood together for a moment on the sidewalk. “Have a glass of wine and relax, you two,” Willy said. “I would take you out to dinner, but I haven’t spoken to Alvirah since she called at noon to say she was going condo hunting, so I don’t know when we’ll be eating.”

Cordelia looked astonished. “You’re kidding. I thought you loved the place you’re in. Why, Alvirah always said she’d have to be carried out of that apartment. Don’t tell me she’s serious about buying a different one.”

“Of course not,” Willy assured her. “She’s just trying to get a line on that real estate couple who witnessed Bessie signing the will. She’s hoping that if she goes out enough with one or the other of them, she might find out there was something fishy about that witnessing. Anyhow, I’m on my way, but you girls have done a great job. That pageant is going to be terrific. You ought to invite the mayor-let him see what you’re doing.”

The compliment did nothing to put cheer in their worried faces, and when he got home, an equally troubled Alvirah was waiting for him. “I’ve walked my feet off looking at condos with Eileen Gordon,” she said.

“Learn anything?” Willy asked.

“Yes, she’s a lovely person, and I’d stake my life she wouldn’t take a sip of water that didn’t belong to her, even if she was choking.”

“So that means the Bakers probably pulled the old one-two on her and her husband,” Willy said practically.

“Yes, but I was so hoping they’d turn out to be phonies too. It’s easier to trap crooks than to convince innocent bystanders that they’ve been duped,” Alvirah said with a sigh.

Monsignor Thomas Ferris’s association with St. Clement’s had begun forty years earlier, when he was a newly ordained priest. After seven years, he had been transferred to a parish in the Bronx; following that, he was assigned to the cardinal’s staff at the cathedral office. Ten years ago, he had returned to St. Clement’s as pastor, and it was there that he hoped to spend the rest of his active life. He acknowledged to himself that St. Clement’s was his heart home; he took great pride in the church-its history and its important position in the community. The only incident that had marred his tenure; and one that still bothered him seven years later, was the theft of Bishop Santori’s chalice.

“I blame myself because it happened on my watch,” he would say to brother priests who knew how strongly he felt about the loss. “There had been warnings about a string of church break-ins, but we just hadn’t paid sufficient heed. Sure, we’d had the windows and doors alarmed, but it wasn’t enough. We should have installed a motion detector. I talked about it but just never got around to it.”

And while the cabinet containing the bishop’s chalice had been equipped with a silent alarm, it had proved useless in this situation. By the time the police had arrived, the thief and the chalice were gone.

The loss always hit Monsignor Tom especially hard at the Christmas season, because it was during Advent that the chalice had disappeared. And while he and the parishioners constantly prayed for its return, his prayers were especially fervent at this time of year.

Some saints are born and not made-Tom Ferris believed that. He always held that they are born with an inner goodness that makes its presence felt, no matter what the circumstance. He had met Bishop Santori near the end of the bishop’s life, after he had retired from official duties. The bishop had lived at St. Clement’s until his death.

The man had an aura of holiness about him, Ferris reflected; that same aura had surrounded Cardinal Cooke.

On Monday evening, as the monsignor began to lock up the church, he passed the confessional. The thief who stole the chalice had to have been hiding in there, he thought. If the diamond in the chalice had been what he was after, I can only pray that the cup itself wasn’t tossed away into a garbage dump.

The monsignor actually didn’t believe that the chalice had been destroyed. In fact, recently he had been struck with the fanciful notion that the theft had taken place because the chalice was needed elsewhere, that in exile from its home at St. Clement’s, it was fulfilling a greater mission.

As he left the church and locked the door behind him, he found himself automatically looking across the street to see if the mysterious young woman was there again today. When he saw she wasn’t, he experienced a moment of regret; he hoped she would be back. Many times he had had the experience of people hovering nearby, reluctant to unburden themselves to him, who then finally screwed up their courage and approached him. “Monsignor, I need help,” is how they usually began.

His housekeeper had left dinner for him in the oven. His curate was out for the evening, so Tom Ferris had the luxury of reading without interruption while he ate the simple meal and sipped a glass of wine. When he had finished, he dutifully rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, remembering with some amusement the old days when the pastor-usually known among his six or seven curates as “the boss”-reigned as absolute monarch, and when the rectory came with a housekeeper who could cook like a dream and happily provided, and served, delicious meals, three times a day.

It was over coffee that the tranquil part of his evening ended with a phone call from Alvirah. “Monsignor Tom,” she said, “I have a friend with a problem, and while I think I may have figured out a solution, I need to talk with you about it. You see, I’m writing a column about a young girl who, seven years ago, gave birth and left her newborn on the stoop of a rectory.” She paused. “And I’m telling you this because it was your rectory.”

“Alvirah, that never happened!”

“Yes, it did, but you didn’t know anything about it. I’m convinced that it really did happen. Anyway, the point is that my editor will feature the story on the first page, and since we’ve got to protect the identity of the mother, we want any calls to be directed to you, because, after all, it wasyour rectory. I’ll offer a big reward for information about the baby. You just have to handle the calls that come in.”

“Alvirah, slow down.”

“I can’t. This is the perfect time for this kind of story to come out. For one thing, people pay more attention to this kind of human-interest story at Christmas, and for another, the child just turned seven last week. I’m writing the piece right now, and I need to know if it’s all right to use your name as intermediary.”

“I’d want to see what you’ve written first,” he said cautiously.

“Of course. We really appreciate your cooperation, and I’m sorry to have to impose this way, but through the article and the reward we’re sure to get a lot of attention. We’re really hoping to locate the little girl, and we’re hoping that if we don’t say who the mother is, some do-gooder won’t try to make an example of her and have her arrested for abandonment or child abuse. The point is, is it better if you don’t know who she is?”