Their disappointment, Ben assumed, being that they hadn’t been able to oust Father Beale, despite their best efforts.

“I think it will all blow over,” Ben opined. “You just need to give everyone a little more time.”

“I hope you’re right. But if this church is to survive, there are going to have to be some changes. Father Beale must recognize that he can’t simply go on doing whatever pleases him. He has a parish to consider.”

“Of course.”

“In fact, I think I’ll find Father Beale and talk to him on that very subject. I wonder if he’s in his office?”

For Father Beale’s sake, Ben hoped he wasn’t. Ruth left, Ernestine departed in a different direction, and Ben managed to return his attention to his cake, which for wedding fare, was not half bad. A few minutes later, he felt Christina giving him a gentle nudge. “Have you been watching the woman with the blue hair?”

Ben scanned the parish hall. “That doesn’t quite narrow it down.”

“Ernestine. Ruth’s friend.”

“Not in the last ten seconds. Why?” Ben spotted her at the other end of the room, chatting with George Finley, another member of the vestry. “What about her?”

“That’s the third man I’ve seen her approach. And every time she does, the man gives her something. And then she takes that little notebook out of her purse. For that matter, I saw her get that out back in the dressing room, when the minister of music came in. What do you think it is?”

“Who knows? She’s probably lining up volunteers for a bake sale or something.”

Christina’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. My great-aunt Bettie used to have something like that. It was her account book. She made a record of every penny she ever earned or spent, right down to the last postage stamp. She was seriously tight.”

“Must be that Scots blood.”

“Quite possibly.”

“There she is!” Paula came running toward them, still decked out in her bridal regalia, her full-length train trailing behind her. “Come on, Christina. It’s time for me to throw the bouquet.”

Christina jumped out of her seat. “You don’t have to tell me twice.” She raced to the center of the parish hall.

Paula reared back with a full fastball windup, then released the bouquet into the air. Several arms reached for it, but Christina sprang into the air with a leap that would’ve made Michael Jordan proud and snagged it.

“I got it!” Christina crowed. “I got it!”

“All right,” Jones announced. “Time for the garter.”

Ben began looking for an exit.

“Wait a minute, Boss.” Jones blocked his path. A moment later, Loving had a hammerlock on him and dragged him into the center of the parish hall, where several other mildly embarrassed males were waiting.

Ben tried futilely to escape. “This really isn’t my-”

“Shush,” Loving said. “Don’t spoil it.”

A moment later, Jones was at the front, garter in hand. He pulled it back on his thumb like a slingshot and let it fly-directly toward Ben’s face.

“You caught it!” Loving cheered, slapping Ben on the back.

“As if I had a choice,” Ben muttered.

Loving jabbed his knuckles into Ben’s rib cage. “And you know what this means, Skipper?”

“You’re all fired?”

“It means you’re gonna be the next to get hitched. You and-”

“Calm down, Loving. We don’t want to scare the boy off.” Paula stepped between them and placed her hands on Ben’s shoulders. “I have something for you, too.”

“No more undergarments, hopefully.”

“Hopefully is an adverb. You mean, No more undergarments, I hope.” She smiled. “But no. Just this.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Jones and I would never have gotten together if it hadn’t been for your kindness. Thank you.”

“Nonsense. I had nothing to do with it.”

Paula shook her head. “You’re a wonderful person, Ben. Even if you don’t know it.” She stepped away and took Jones’s hand. “And now, my love, I think it’s time you and I-”

Her words were cut off by a piercing scream. Half the people in the room jumped at the earsplitting sound. Plates and punch glasses crashed to the floor.

“What on earth?” Jones whispered under his breath.

Paula shook her head. “We’d better go see.”

Ben held them back. “You two go on your honeymoon. I’ll see what’s happening.”

Jones and Paula nodded, then headed toward the rear entrance. Ben started in the direction of the scream.

By the time he’d left the parish hall and walked down the long corridor, a crowd had gathered before him. They were blocking the entrance to the glass-encased area where all the church employees had their offices.

“I went in looking for Father Beale, and I found her there, just like that.” It was Ruth O’Connell, near hysterical, rambling to no one in particular. “I had no idea! I walked in and there she was, sprawled across the desk!” She covered her face.

Ben pushed his way through the crowd to one of the inner offices, the one farthest from the entrance.

“She’s the one,” he heard someone say quietly.

“Guess there’s going to be another vestry election,” said another.

Apparently Ben’s status as the lawyer gave him some official sanction in the minds of the gathering crowd; they parted like the Red Sea as he approached.

Ben stepped inside the office-and gasped. A woman’s body was sprawled across the desk, her skirt hiked up to her waist, her legs contorted in an unnatural position. The right side of her head was covered with blood. Her tongue was black and her face was an eerie, translucent blue.

He didn’t have to get close to know that she was dead. Very dead.

It was Kate McGuire-the woman he had seen earlier in the corridor, arguing with Father Beale.

On a sudden impulse, Ben glanced at the nameplate on the door.

This was Father Beale’s office.

Ben staggered out, suddenly overcome with a sickness rising fast from the pit of his stomach. Never eat wedding cake when you’re about to view a corpse, he thought, trying to comfort himself with sick humor. He pushed through the crowd, hoping he could make it to the restroom in time. Throwing up all over the spectators would certainly betray his cool demeanor.

“Someone call the police,” he grunted. And as quickly as possible, he found the nearest men’s room and rushed inside.

Someone was already there.

Father Beale stood at one of the sinks, the water from the faucet running fast. There was blood all over his hands. And like Pontius Pilate before him, he was doing everything he could to wash it off.

Ben watched from a distance as the various white-coveralled technicians back-and-forthed over the crime scene. To an untrained eye, it might seem like chaos in action, so many different people crisscrossing one another’s paths in the tight, enclosed space of Father Beale’s office. To Ben’s more practiced eye, however, it was like watching scores of ants passing through the many-tiered tunnels of a complex ant farm, each drone performing his unique and specialized task. The fingerprint team scanned and dusted, the hair and fiber team scrutinized every surface with magnifying glass and tweezers, the serology team scraped, the coroner’s team sniffed, and the detective’s team interrogated. From the sidelines, the videographers recorded everything.

And beside the body, supervising every one of these complex and multifaceted operations, was Major Mike Morelli, Tulsa PD’s top homicide detective, not to mention Ben Kincaid’s former brother-in-law.

More than an hour after the police arrived, Mike left Beale’s office for the first time (“Isn’t there any coffee in this church?”) and Ben was able to grab his ear for a few moments when he stepped outside for some fresh air.

“Congratulations, Ben,” Mike said, once he finally had some caffeine in him to calm his nerves and amplify his wicked sense of humor. “Once again, you’re in the middle of some major nastiness. And on the side of the nasty.”