“But it ended.”

“Yes. As I knew it would. It was only an interim position. I managed to work at a series of different churches. And each one, if you’ll forgive me for being blunt, seemed to be smaller and more ignorant than the one before. Until finally I ended up here.”

“St. Benedict’s is a long way from Juilliard.”

Masterson made a grunting noise. “No comment.” And he went right on tightening.

“Still, it isn’t the worst church in the world.”

“You mean, it wasn’t,” Masterson corrected him. “That’s true. In the early days, before Father Beale arrived, it was a nice place. Small, of course, and filled with hicks, but nice. Didn’t pay me squat. I was forced to moonlight, taking teaching jobs at ORU or filling in at special events downtown. Playing the celesta for the Nutcracker every Christmas. Now there’s an insipid piece of pabulum if ever there was one. But I made ends meet. I was fine.” He paused. “Until Father Beale arrived.”

“You don’t like Father Beale much, do you?”

“I have no personal feelings for him one way or the other,” Masterson insisted. “But he’s been a horrible rector. Look what he’s done to this church. I realize he’s your friend and client, Ben, but let’s be honest-he’s torn this place apart.”

“I’m not sure everything that’s happened can be blamed on him.”

“I am. I saw disaster coming the first day I met him. And I was right.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been around enough priests to know when trouble is brewing.”

“But what exactly did Father Beale do wrong?”

“It’s not really what he did, Ben. It’s who he is. Whether you care to admit it or not, the man is a raging egomaniac. I mean, all that save-the-world folderol, with the protest marches and equal rights and gay rights, et cetera. What is that, when you get right down to it, but egotism? ‘If only the world was as truly holy as I am.’ ”

“Did you have trouble working with him?”

“Always. And without exception. And I am mindful of the fact that the church canons say the rector is the boss. But any sensible rector, anyone with a modicum of respect for other people’s work and talents, would not constantly interfere.”

“But Father Beale did?”

“He was always overruling me, choosing different hymns, vetoing anthems. And he didn’t have the foggiest idea what he was doing. Some of his selections were flat-out tasteless. He favored trite familiar hymns to anything interesting or of quality. He would choose too many hymns too similar, instead of giving the congregation some variety. It was an artistic outrage.”

“I’m sure he was trying to do what he thought best for the church.”

“I don’t think so. I think he was trying to show his total and utter contempt for me. He was trying to prove that he was the boss. That this was his church so he could do anything he wanted. It was egotism, pure and simple.”

“So… you were hoping that… somehow… he would leave the church?”

Ben could not see, but could hear, the grin on Masterson’s face. “Trying to find a motive, are we?”

“Can’t blame me for trying.” Ben wondered how much longer they were going to be in this cramped attic. Both his legs had fallen asleep. If he was here much longer, he probably wouldn’t be able to move at all.

“I didn’t frame him for murder.”

“Can you think of anyone who might’ve done it?”

“Ben, virtually everyone in this church might’ve done it. They certainly had cause. But I don’t believe they did. Because when all is said and done, to commit crimes of this nature, horrible crimes, requires an anger, a… a meanness, that no one here has. No one but Father Beale.”

Ben sighed. He’d heard this story far too many times. “What about the two women who were killed? Do you know of any reason anyone might’ve had to do that?”

“Other than the strife in the vestry regarding Father Beale? None whatsoever. They were both lovely women. Treasures. I knew them both and loved them both. What happened to them was an atrocity.”

“Ernestine Rupert suggested to my investigator that Kate McGuire might’ve been in some sort of trouble.”

“Ernestine Rupert.” The words dripped with contempt. “Well, she would know, of course.”

“You don’t like Ernestine?”

“Let’s move on to another subject.”

“Why don’t you like Ernestine?”

No answer. Masterson was ignoring him. So of course, he plowed right on ahead. “Was she blackmailing you?”

Masterson dropped his wrench. “What has she told you?”

“She hasn’t told me anything. But my assistant thinks she’s blackmailing… someone else, and judging from the thickness of her little blue book, I’m guessing he’s not her only source of illicit income. Am I right?”

Masterson’s voice became hard. “I told you, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay, let me ask you a slightly different question. Why was she blackmailing you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. And if you don’t drop this line of inquisition immediately, I’ll toss you out of my attic. Headfirst.”

Ben let it pass. Whatever it was, Masterson obviously didn’t want to talk about it, or he wouldn’t be paying hush money. It probably wasn’t germane to the murders, and Ben was in no position to browbeat Masterson, with his legs fast asleep and his nose pressed against the floor. “I’ve noticed that you talk about the importance of music and the purity of the selections, but you never actually seem… oh…”

“Devout?” Masterson said, completing the sentence.

“Yeah. Are you an Episcopalian?”

“Got bad news for you, Ben. I’m not even a Christian. Not in the organized religion sense, anyway.” He slapped his hands and closed the metal panel. “Oh, I am on paper. But after all I’ve seen…” He shook his head.

Ben was stunned. “Isn’t that sort of like… a requirement for being a minister? Even of music?”

“Nope. All they ever quiz me about are my musical credentials. They assume religion from the fact that I work in churches. And to be fair, I do consider myself religious. But as for all this kneeling and bowing and such-forget it. I mean, it’s pretty medieval, isn’t it? With the robes and the candles and incense and all. Primitive. And rather creepy. Don’t you agree?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You say that, Ben, but I don’t see you up at the communion rail Sunday mornings.”

“Well… that’s different.”

“You know what the difference is?” Masterson squirmed around on his elbows until he was facing Ben. “The difference is-I’m honest about it. I don’t believe in all this hocus-pocus, and I won’t pretend that I do. I won’t put on a show for the audience. I don’t hedge my bets with heaven just in case I’m wrong. I try to be intellectually honest. And I don’t make exceptions. Not even for God.”

Ben was sitting at the piano in his apartment, trying to learn a Janis Ian tune called “Hopper Painting,” when he heard a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Lasagna,” came the reply.

Ben flung open the door. Joni Singleton stood on the other side, cradling a baking pan in her arms.

“Lasagna who?”

She smiled. “If this is a joke, I don’t know the punch line. Make way, Benjamin. I fixed you dinner.” Without waiting for an invitation, she pushed past him and made her way to the kitchen.

Ben checked his watch. “Isn’t it a little late for dinner?”

“What, like you’re going to tell me you’ve eaten already? You’ve been banging on that piano since you came home.” She peered down at an open box of Cap’n Crunch on the coffee table. “Honestly, Ben, you eat like an eight-year-old.”

“I like to keep my life simple.”

She opened the cupboard and began removing plates and silverware. “You need someone to take care of you, Ben. In the worst way.”

“I beg your pardon. I think I get along quite nicely.”

“For a sad-sack thirtysomething who isn’t married and as far as I know isn’t even dating regularly and lives alone and thinks dip made from onion soup mix is a gourmet treat, yeah, you’re getting along great.”