“Aunt Ernestine, there’s nothing vulgar about-”

“Oh, Bruce, please don’t be tiresome. Fetch us some more of these cinnamon scones, would you?”

“Aunt Ernestine, I don’t-”

“Please, Bruce. Now.”

“Yes, Aunt Ernestine.” He drifted off into the kitchen.

“Poor Bruce,” she said, shaking her head, after he was gone. “He never played sports, you know. Preferred to stay inside and read books all day long. I tried to talk to his parents, God rest their souls, but they wouldn’t listen to me. ‘If he keeps reading all the time, he’s going to turn into a book,’ that’s what I said. But no one listened.”

Loving’s heart went out to Bruce. How long had he been putting up with this?

“And you see what the result is,” she continued. “The man is in his forties, and what is he? Nothing. Oh, he’s nice enough, in a puppy-dog sort of way. But he’s got no job, no family. And to think this man is the last surviving member of my family. My sole heir.” Her eyes brightened, as if by sudden inspiration. “You know, Mr. Loving-I think Bruce could learn a great deal from a man like you. Perhaps you two could… spend some time together.”

Gee whiz, maybe I could teach him to play catch! “That’s sounds nice, ma’am, but I’m afraid I’m very busy just now.”

“Oh, I should’ve made it clear-I would expect to compensate you for your time, of course.”

Loving could see she was a woman who thought she could get anything if she came across with enough money. Which made him all the more determined to decline. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m spendin’ all my wakin’ hours on this case, at least until trial.”

“Perhaps if I just gave you a little something up front.”

Ernestine popped open her handbag and a large wad of bills tumbled out. Ernestine scooped them up quickly, but not so quickly Loving couldn’t see there was a seriously large amount of cash in there. More than you would expect an elderly lady to be carrying around.

“Mind if I ask why you’re carryin’ so much scratch?” Loving asked.

“It’s not-I just-” She seemed flustered. “I have some bills to pay.”

In cash? Come on, lady…

“If you’ll excuse me,” Ernestine said, “I have an appointment.”

Why was she in such a hurry to leave all of a sudden? Loving started to get up, but Ernestine waved him back down. “No need for you to leave. Ruth has keys. She can lock up when you’ve all finished chatting. I apologize for leaving so abruptly, but as I told you on the phone, I have some… errands I must attend to.” Without giving anyone an opportunity to object, she ambled toward the front door and closed it behind her.

Bruce returned with more of the cookies, and Loving dutifully wolfed down a few. They seemed fairly tasteless to him, but he supposed he should be grateful they weren’t serving little bitty cucumber sandwiches.

“Can either of you think of anythin’ else that might help this investigation? Anythin’ that might relate to the murders in any way?”

Both of them appeared to be trying, but no one offered any assistance.

Ruth was the one who finally spoke, but she wasn’t answering the question. “Will you be seeing Father Beale today?”

“I dunno. Maybe. Why?”

“Would you please talk some sense into him? This business of hanging on as priest at the same time he’s being tried for murder-it’s destroying St. Benedict’s. It makes a mockery of everything we do. Our membership has been decimated. Who wants to take the sacrament from a murderer?”

“I heard Father Beale say he was brought to St. Benedict’s for a higher purpose. He thinks he was called by God.”

“Delusions of grandeur.”

“Maybe.” Loving slapped his thighs and began clearing away all the tea paraphernalia. “But if the man thinks he’s takin’ his instructions from God, far be it for me to interfere.”

“But he’s a murderer!”

“Ben says he isn’t. And in my experience, he’s usually right.” Well, two times out of three, anyway. “Thanks for talkin’ to me.” He shook Bruce’s hand. “Thanks for the cookies.”

“Digestive biscuits,” Ruth corrected.

“You can call ’em whatever you want, ma’am,” Loving said amiably. “But a cookie is still a cookie. And God willing, always will be.”

Jones and his new bride, Paula, sat in the front seat of his blue Volkswagen Beetle parked on a side street off Lewis.

“Have I mentioned how much I love you?” Jones asked.

“Yes,” she replied, coiling her brunette hair around a finger, “but as a newlywed, I think I’m entitled to hear it several times a day.”

“More than the moon and the sun. More than the stars in the sky.”

“How Elizabeth Barrett Browning.” She giggled. “You give me chill bumps when you get all poetic like that.”

“Your eyes are diamonds. Your hair is silk.”

“Do tell.”

“You’re a beauty like the world has never seen before.”

“Such as.”

“Excuse me?”

Paula twisted around in the car seat. “A beauty such as the world has never seen before.”

Jones frowned. “Why did I marry a librarian?”

Her fingertips danced across his chest. “I’ll remind you.”

About a minute later, their lips finally parted. “Wow,” Jones murmured breathlessly, in a wobbly, slightly drunken sounding voice. “Don’t quit on my account.”

“I’m not. Our target is on the move.”

In the rearview mirror, Jones saw that Ernestine Rupert had left her house. She was on foot, heading toward Lewis.

“Let’s go,” Jones said. He started the car but stayed out of sight, a good distance behind. Jones knew for a fact that the elderly woman was nearsighted, even with glasses, so the chances of them being spotted were remote.

About ten minutes later, Ernestine approached a modest white-walled house with an extraordinary garden out front. A middle-aged man of slight build was working diligently in it, pulling weeds and putting down mulch.

“Do you recognize him?” Paula asked.

Jones nodded. “Alvin Greene. Altar Guild. I’m going in closer.”

Paula held tight to his arm. “Loving said to just follow. See where she goes.”

“Because he was afraid that if I tried to do anything more, I’d screw it up. I want to hear what they’re saying.” He slid out of the car and quietly ran to the next house down, crossed through the unfenced backyard, then slowly crept into the area between the two houses. He was still out of sight, but he could pick up some of the conversation.

“I know what day it is,” Alvin was saying. “But I just can’t do it.”

Was Ernestine replying? Jones wondered. If she was, he couldn’t hear it.

“Please. If you could only give me a little more time. There’s been so much turmoil and chaos and-and-”

Jones couldn’t see his face, but it sounded as if the man was sobbing.

“Please, I’m begging you. Pammy is still sick. Jenny has so many needs.”

The despairing quality in Alvin ’s voice was tearing Jones apart. What on earth was that woman doing to him?

“Fine!” Alvin shouted. Jones didn’t need to be nearby to pick that up. It was probably heard in the next county. “Take your goddamn blood money! I hope you rot in hell!” Jones heard sounds of movement, then nothing but Alvin ’s pathetic crying.

He crept to the other end of the house in time to see Ernestine walking back toward the sidewalk, clutching a small blue notebook in her hand. He ducked back behind the hedge till she was gone. Then he made his way back to the Beetle.

“Did you get anything?” Paula asked.

“Oh yeah. Did you read the Boss’s report? He thinks Ernestine’s been lending money at usurious rates and demanding repayment.”

“And? Didn’t you tell me Ben is usually right?”

“About legal matters, sure. But about people?” He shook his head. “This is a situation where Ben’s naÏveté clouds his judgment. He’s blinded by the woman’s age, her blue hair, her grandmotherly face.”

“So what’s the sweet old biddy doing? Organizing a renegade sewing circle? Setting up an unauthorized Scrabble tournament?”