“You know what I mean. Suggesting that I was playing dirty tricks. That I wanted to railroad your client.”

“Forgive me. Prosecutors never want to get convictions, right? And your boss doesn’t care at all whether you win this incredibly high profile case. What was I thinking?”

“I’m warning you, Kincaid. If this happens again, I’m asking for sanctions.”

“Ooh. Please stop. You’re giving me shivers again.”

“You know, it doesn’t have to be like this, Kincaid. I’m not attempting anything improper. The only thing I want to do is put away a murderer.”

“Then get a new defendant!”

Exasperated, Canelli marched off to his own table. Ben sat down beside Father Beale.

“So how’d we do?” Beale asked. “When you lawyers start lawyering, I can’t tell what’s going on.”

“We won two, lost one.”

“Which one was most important?”

“Which do you think? We knew trying to get the murder weapon suppressed was a long shot. Christina found the Pezzoli case days ago; we tried to distinguish it from this case in our brief. But I figured Judge Pitcock would feel compelled to follow it.”

“What are our prospects at trial?”

“Oh, about the same as they always were. Maybe slightly better, now that we don’t have to worry about any gay-baiting tactics. We’re in good shape. Really.”

“Glad to hear it.” He paused. A thin line creased his forehead. “You know, before, I was only in jail overnight. But I didn’t like it. And the thought of being in prison, perhaps for years and years-or worse…” He shook his head. “I just don’t think I could survive it, Ben. Not now. Not at my age.”

Ben clasped him on the shoulder. “We’re not going to let that happen, Father.”

Beale nodded, but Ben could tell his words of reassurance were useless, because when all was said and done, words were just words, and words could never combat the greatest demon of them all-fear. Not even for a man of faith.

“Would you like another cup of tea, Mr. Loving?”

“Yes, ma’am. Please.”

“Digestive biscuit?”

“Yum.”

Loving sat in a violet overstuffed chair with a demitasse, saucer, cookie (which the ladies insisted on calling a biscuit), and a little lace doily that he thought was supposed to serve as his napkin. Not the usual look for Loving; it was rather as if the Selfish Giant had dropped in on Alice ’s tea party. Just as well, he mused, that he’d come alone. If Jones or the Skipper got a look at this, he’d never hear the end of it.

“Chamomile, or Earl Grey?” Ernestine asked.

“Um… yes, please.”

Ernestine hesitated a moment, then began pouring the Earl Grey. “A strong man like you needs a strong drink.” She used a tea towel to catch the last stray drop from the teapot. “I’ll save the chamomile for my nephew.”

Over his shoulder, Loving saw Bruce, the nephew, wince.

Loving sipped his tea and tried to act as if he enjoyed it. Tasted basically like hot water to him; he was used to drinks of a somewhat stronger nature. Still, it seemed to give the ladies, Ruth and Ernestine, pleasure to have him join them. And he didn’t want to disappoint. He only hoped the feeling would be mutual.

He’d come by Ernestine’s home hoping to interview her about the murders. Finding Ruth here was a stroke of good fortune; her name was also on his list, which was already far too long. And to make it even better, Ernestine had her nephew Bruce in tow. Now he could kill three birds in one throw, so to speak, and interview them all without a lot of running around. It could be a great break for him-if he could get any of them to talk about something other than tea.

“I do so love a good cuppa in the early afternoon,” Ernestine said, putting on what Loving thought was a faint trace of a British accent. “Don’t you, Mr. Loving?”

“Oh, yeah,” he answered enthusiastically. Especially if it’s laced with a little Jack Daniel’s.

“Ruth and I go to England every year or so to take the waters, don’t we, Ruth dear? Of course, I love Oklahoma, too,” Ernestine said, and an almost melancholy twinge entered her voice. “But I do feel that England has… well, just a bit more culture than we have here, don’t you think, Mr. Loving?”

“I think we’ve got culture here, too,” Loving answered. “It’s just diff’rent.”

“Of course you’re right. Still, in England, everything is so much more… civilized, somehow.”

She paused wistfully, which Loving took as his invitation to move on to subjects of considerably greater interest to him.

“Did you know the most recent victim?” he asked. “Kate McGuire?”

“Mr. Loving, I’ve been a member of St. Benedict’s for over forty years. There isn’t anyone I don’t know.”

“Did you know her, Ruth?”

Ruth nodded silently.

“Do any of you know of any reason anyone had to kill her?”

The ladies exchanged a meaningful glance. Ruth took a deep breath, then spoke slowly and regretfully, as if it were an unpleasant duty. “Mr. Loving, I realize you’re working for Father Beale, so you may not want to hear what we have to say.”

“You think he did it?”

Ruth stopped stirring her tea. “I know he did.”

“And how d’ya know?”

She paused reflectively. “I suppose it’s because I’m a lifelong student of human nature. I have an instinct-it’s a gift, really. A fundamental understanding of how people behave.”

“And that tells you Father Beale’s guilty?”

“It takes a certain kind of man to commit a murder. To kill a woman, no less. Most couldn’t do it. But Father Beale could. I’ve seen the look in his eye when he loses his temper. I’ve seen how his fists clench, how his arms and legs tremble. The man simply loses control.”

“And you think that’s what happened?”

“Yes. Twice. He lost control and strangled those poor women.”

Loving turned toward Ernestine. “What about you? You agree?”

Ernestine checked her friend, then nodded. “I can’t think of any other explanation.”

“This last victim was on the vestry, wasn’t she?”

Ruth answered. “She was. As was the previous victim, Helen Conrad.”

“Is it possible that they were killed ’cause of some… vestry problem? Some church-related thing that didn’t involve Father Beale?”

“Such as what?”

“I dunno. Maybe someone wanted to rub out their votes. Maybe someone wanted them dead so someone else would become senior warden.”

“I think that unlikely in the extreme.”

Well, so did Loving, but he had to explore every possible explanation. “What about… some kind of rivalry? Some infighting.”

“There has been strife in the past between those who support Father Beale and those who do not, but frankly, at this point, he has so little support that I don’t think the conflict exists anymore. Everyone now seems to agree that-guilty or not-it would be best for the church if he left. Everyone except Father Beale, of course.”

“Maybe it didn’t have anythin’ to do with church business. Maybe someone got mad for some other reason. Maybe some guy thought somebody was slee-er, showin’ too much attention to his wife.”

“I haven’t heard anything like that,” Ernestine said primly. “And I would’ve.”

“What about money?”

“What about it?” Ernestine replied. “Your question is a bit vague.”

“I know. Because I’m just fishin’ around. But I have been doin’ this work long enough to know that, more often than not, these things come down to money. And churches usually have money, right?”

Ernestine cleared her throat. “Well, ours is a small parish-getting smaller every day Father Beale remains. But we have been fortunate enough to receive financial gifts and legacies that are… far beyond what you might expect from a church of this size.”

“Really?”

“Thanks to my aunt Ernestine,” Bruce explained.

“Ah,” Loving said, nodding.

“Please, Bruce,” Ernestine interjected. “Don’t let’s be vulgar.”