“No need of that. I’ll tell Mr. Munce about your questions and we’ll see if he remembers her.”

24

The rectory at St. Elizabeth’s was a short ten-minute drive. Given the fact that I have little or no experience with the Catholic Church, I wasn’t sure what kind of reception to expect. I got out of the car with the mailing pouch in hand, which I thought of by now as my calling card. I had my choice of the church proper, the administration building, and the religious education building, which also included St. Elizabeth’s Parish School, serving prekindergarten through eighth grade.

I went first to the sanctuary, where the outside door stood open. I passed into the dimly lighted foyer and found that the double doors leading into the church were closed. I paused long enough to pick up a copy of the program for that week. The Pastor and Pastor Emeritus were listed, along with Father Xavier, Retired, and Father Rutherford Justice, Weekend Associate. Masses were said daily at 7:45 A.M., with two on Saturday and two on Sunday. Baptisms were the first and second Sundays of the month, and weddings could only be scheduled if the bride and groom were already registered, contributing, and active members of St. Elizabeth’s Parish for at least one year before requesting a marriage date. Clearly, no hasty marital shenanigans would be tolerated.

I shifted the mailing pouch to my left hand and slid the four-page newsletter into my shoulder bag. I returned to the parking lot, where I saw a sign pointing to a small building I thought might house the nuts-and-bolts business of running a parish church. I felt like an interloper, which of course I was, unclear on the underlying etiquette of secular matters in a sanctified setting.

I reached a door that said OFFICE and peered through the glass window. There was no one in evidence. I tried the knob and found the door unlocked. I opened it and stuck my head in.

“Hello?”

No response. I hesitated and then stepped inside. The interior was quite ordinary. Aside from a smattering of religious art and artifacts, the office was simply office-like: two desks, office chairs, file cabinets, bookcases.

I heard approaching footsteps and a woman appeared from a short corridor to my right. She was in her midseventies, with iron gray hair worn in a halo of tiny frizzy curls. The look reminded me of the ads for Toni Home Permanents back when I was a little girl. In those days, a beauty salon permanent cost fifteen dollars, while a Toni Home Permanent kit cost two dollars, sulfur-scented waving lotion and curlers included. The savings alone was thrilling, especially when you considered that a refill was only a dollar more, which further reduced the cost. My Aunt Gin’s friends were smitten with the prospect of beautification at home. Aunt Gin sniffed at the very idea. In her mind, spending even one dollar on beauty products was a waste. As it turned out, she was the only one among her friends who had the patience to follow directions, so our trailer was the source of an entire army of frizzy-haired women smelling of spoiled eggs.

I said, “I’m looking for Father Xavier.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’m Lucille Berrigan, the parish secretary. Is he expecting you?” She wore a navy blue rayon pantsuit and crepe-soled shoes.

I handed her a business card, which she didn’t bother to read. “I don’t actually have an appointment, but I’m hoping he can spare a few minutes of his time.”

“You’ll have to be quick about it. He’s out in the garden with his sun hat and trowel and looks to be settling in for a snooze.”

“Would it be better if I returned another time? I hate to interrupt.”

“Now is fine unless this is something I might help you with . . .” She glanced at the card. “. . . Ms. Millhone.”

“I have questions about Lenore Redfern.”

“Then he’s definitely the one to consult. He was close to the family. Wonderful people. If you’re interested in matters of chronology, we have handwritten records of every marriage, baptism, confirmation, funeral, and sick call going all the way back to the turn of the century.”

“You do?”

“Yes, ma’am. Looking after our families is one of the roles we fill.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. If you can show me where he is, I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Of course.”

She motioned me to the window and pointed to an old gentleman in jeans and a black shirt with a clerical collar. He’d settled on a weathered wooden bench with his legs outstretched and a wide-brimmed canvas hat tilted down over his face. She gestured for me to follow, and I trotted after her to a side door that opened onto a hard-packed dirt-and-gravel path. The garden itself was enclosed by a round-shouldered adobe wall that looked like it had been there for a century.