“I keep comin’ back to the fact that Alvin Greene dated the last victim, Skipper.” The large man shifted his weight uncomfortably in a chair that was much too small for him. “And that no one else in the church seemed to know anythin’ about it. Seems suspicious to me.”

“Alvin Greene?” Christina said. “That sweet little Altar Guild guy? He couldn’t harm a fly.”

“Yeah, that’s what they said about Ted Bundy. Looks can be deceivin’. I know this guy is hidin’ somethin’. He practic’ly admitted it to me, but I couldn’t pry it out of him, come hell or high water.”

“You think it has something to do with the church?” Ben asked.

“I know it does. The question is-what?”

“Maybe he was hinting about Ernestine’s blackmail racket,” Jones suggested.

Father Beale did a double-take. “Ernestine Rupert? A blackmailer?”

“Like I said,” Loving grimaced, “looks are deceivin’.”

“Now there’s a woman,” Jones said, “who strikes me as being capable of doing just about anything.”

“Like hirin’ a hit man?” Loving suggested.

“I don’t know if I’d go that far. But she’s a strong-willed woman. And even if it’s just gossip, everyone seems to think she’s quite wealthy.”

“Fabulously wealthy would be more like it,” Paula said. She opened a red folder and slid a report across the table. “I went onto the Internet and researched all our suspects. She’s loaded.”

“How rich is fabulously rich?”

“Well, she’s not quite up there with Elizabeth II, but it’s impressive, just the same. Her estate is around eight or ten million.”

Ben whistled. “That could buy you a few hit men.”

“Yes. And anything else you wanted.”

Jones frowned. “If this woman is so wealthy, why is she blackmailing people?”

“Greed,” Loving suggested. “Coupled with fundamental meanness.”

Ben addressed his client. “Did you know how wealthy she is?”

“I knew she had a lot. I knew it because she reminded me of it constantly. Reminded me what an outsize proportion of the St. Benedict’s budget comes from her annual tithe. She frequently implicitly threatened to withdraw her support if I didn’t give her what she wanted.”

“And did you?”

“More often than not. Though not often enough to please her. We have a lot of wonderful, warm, giving people in our church-but few who have any money to speak of. The truth is-if Ernestine withdrew her pledge, I don’t know if we’d survive.”

“What about her nephew?” Ben asked.

Loving grinned. “Now there’s someone who really couldn’t harm a fly. Though I suspect he’d like to. But he’s totally under his aunt’s thumb.”

“You can’t see him slipping away to cause a bit of mischief?”

“When would he have time? He’s too busy fetchin’ his aunt’s slippers and stirrin’ her tea.”

“I talked to Paul Masterson yesterday myself.” Ben turned toward Father Beale. “He’s got a few axes to grind with you.”

Beale stroked his beard. “The man is a consummate musician, but unfortunately, he suffers from a huge inferiority complex. I have suggested that he try some counseling, but of course, he was not receptive.”

“He says you overrule him and change his hymn selections for the services.”

“That’s true. Did he tell you why?”

“Not really.”

Beale tried to explain. “Selecting a hymn is more than just picking a pretty song. Masterson is untouchable when it comes to musicality-but he sometimes forgets that there is more to a hymn than an interesting tune. There is a text, too. They’re little homilies. Short sermons. The Book of Common Prayer sets forth our scriptures for each service-chooses our topic, if you will-and the hymns should be coordinated with that topic. When Masterson forgets to do that-or does it poorly-I intervene.”

It sounded rational enough to Ben, but he had a hunch Masterson might have a rebuttal. “What about you, Christina? Did you find anything out from George Finley or Susan Marino?”

“Well, I told you, I think they’re very close.”

“Are we talking romance here?”

She shrugged. “They denied it. But there was definitely something between them. Some tension or uneasiness or… something.”

“More secrets,” Loving mused. “How many can this church have?”

“We need all the information we can muster in that courtroom,” Ben said. “I can’t cross-examine people effectively when I don’t know what’s going on.”

“We know, Skipper,” Loving said. “We’re still lookin’.”

“Good. I need Christina with me in the courtroom. But the rest of you-keep investigating. Follow these people. Talk to their friends. Dig around on the Internet. The most trivial detail might turn out to be important.”

Jones nodded. “Got it, Boss.”

“I know we’ve been in tight scrapes before. And there have probably been cases where we went into trial with less information, too. But this is different.” He tried to avoid looking at Father Beale. “This time we know the prosecution has a strong case. We know public sentiment has already tried and convicted our client. We know there are secrets no one is talking about.” He paused. “We know the odds are stacked against us.”

He took a deep breath. “But we can’t let that get to us. No matter what-we have to win this case. We-we-” His voice broke. He turned to Father Beale. “We will win this case. That’s a promise.”

After the rest of his staff departed, Ben remained in the office with Father Beale. Beale had uncorked a bottle of merlot, and he and Ben were sharing a drink.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Beale explained. “But I know this trial could go on forever, and I know once it starts, drinking will not be an option.” He winked. “So I wanted to get in a few good gulps while the getting was good.”

He swirled the burgundy liquid around in his glass. “I do love red wine, don’t you?”

“Well, I’ve learned how to drink it,” Ben answered. Not a cool response, he supposed, but you can’t lie to your priest. “I’m not much of an aficionado.”

“You should be. It’s smart and relaxing and-in my opinion-even holy. Benjamin Franklin said beer was proof that God loves us.” He smiled. “It’s all part of making the most of what God has given us. Taking comfort from his treasures. While we can.”

Ben arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me, but are you promoting the consumption of alcoholic beverages?”

“Well, I am a priest, aren’t I?” He took a deep swallow. “And speaking of religion-”

“Do we have to?”

“I noticed you still didn’t take communion last Sunday. It would be hard to miss-since virtually everyone else in the sanctuary walked out on me.”

“I’m sorry about that, Father. I thought that was nasty and… and inexcusable. Regardless of the circumstances.”

“Yes, but don’t change the subject. When are you going to stop toying with religion and really commit yourself? Take a leap of faith?”

“I’m not twelve anymore, Father.”

“Do you have to be a child to believe?”

“Father, if you’d seen some of the things I’d seen…”

“Oh, please.”

“Look, I’ve got too much to do at the moment, Father. More than I can handle, what with this trial and everything.”

“Have you asked God for help?”

Ben’s neck twisted. “You see-that’s what I dislike most about religion-the power-of-prayer bit. People say, God answers prayers, so pray for what you want, and you’ll get it. Unless you don’t. Then it means God said no. Which is pretty convenient, isn’t it?”

“We can’t begin to understand why God answers some prayers and not others.”

“I mean, it’s really like a celestial Santa Claus. You make out your list and send it up. If you get some of it occasionally, it proves Santa exists. Except, of course, that he doesn’t.”

“But you’re so wrong, Ben,” Beale said. “Santa does exist. If you don’t believe me-ask a five-year-old. Santa is the spirit of Christmas.”

“Oh, don’t give me that ‘Yes, Virginia ’ rot.”