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Chapter One
           

The crows meant nothing to Page Hawthorne. There were always crows in Rockville, and the trio this morning picking apart her carefully bagged garbage was annoying, no more. No, it was just a day like any other, unfolding on schedule. Her sons, Walter and Tal, inhaled their breakfasts according to routine, scooped up their brown-bag lunches and backpacks and headed for the car. They tumbled and rolled and vaulted out of the kitchen, bickering non-stop until she dropped them off at their school amid a flurry of hugs and kisses and restated pledges of love. As soon as Page was alone she threw a word of thanksgiving to God and entreated Him to fill her sons with faith, virtue, knowledge, temperance, patience, and godliness. Just the usual. She smiled and turned her aging Volvo toward work.

As always Page avoided the highway, taking the slow but steady route, the path that curved gently eastward past an industrial, commercial stream of storefronts and restaurants and auto repair shops, until it gradually gave way to the broad lawns and impressive homes of Middle Essex. The twenty-minute trip forced her to slow down after her always frantic mornings and to gather her thoughts before the work day began. This morning she sang along with Ralph Stanley and the Clinch Mountain Boys, lending them her best high lonesome sound, then paused before parking her car to help Dwight Yoakam and Ralph put a good scald on “I Just Got Wise.” When she opened her eyes at the end of the song she smiled at the dignified stone edifice of the Church of the Holy Comforter with a possessive pride typical of the entire parish membership. It was beautiful. She felt a great wave of love rise within her, but the feeling was transitory. Her eyes drifted down the street and she noted the cars parked by the church. A Rolls Royce, a Mercedes, a Lincoln, 2 BMWs, and a Land Rover waited decorously at the curb as their owners attended the 7:30 Morning Prayer service. Oh, you cows of Bashan, she thought…and, God help me, I am one.

Page was early. She had forgotten about Morning Prayer and its increasing popularity—the street was clogged with cars and she had to park a block away. Normally she arrived long after the morning service was over, when those who had attended had scattered like blown leaves, skittering to their cars, nodding to each other and calling words of mutual acknowledgment. She had heard about this surge in attendance at staff meetings and had seen the Rev. Miles Costello, associate priest at Holy Comforter, bow his head and nod modestly as his friends gleefully attributed it to his popularity and charisma. She would have been blind not to notice the coterie of mature women he was gathering around him, all of them social leaders with money and self-confidence to spare. Dangerous, she had thought, but a well-known pattern in priests of a certain type. Miles Costello was the type. He owned a renovated condo, had taken a four-week trip to Ireland last summer, and it was rumored that he would soon be entering an expensive postgraduate program at the university. It did give one pause. She paused long enough to remind herself once again that it was none of her business.

Page hoisted her over-stuffed canvas briefcase and a plastic crate loaded with folders out of her Volvo and, balancing the crate on one hip, closed the back of the wagon. She transferred the briefcase and her purse into the crate and carried it, straight-armed, to the huge wooden doors of the church. Turning, she hooked one elbow skillfully through the handle and pulled the door open, backing through the doors, muttering cheerfully that there was never anyone around when you needed help.

            As she entered the building she felt suddenly and with a strange shiver the change from the brisk, clear air outside to the heavier, warmer air of the dark narthex. She stepped lightly past the open doors to the nave, glancing down the long center aisle to the marble altar, still placed, despite the bishop’s disapproval, against the wall. Change came slowly to Holy Comforter, if at all.  She murmured along with the worshipers For thou only art holy, thou only art the Lord…and crossed the polished stone floor into the carpeted hallway. Down the stairs, still struggling, she paused at the fire doors. What was that smell? This time she had to put her crate down in order to open the heavy glass doors. She wrinkled her nose again. What? Then realization, like torn fabric, ripped open her mind.

Smoke. Down the hall. Coming out of Miles’ office. Run. Go. She lurched around the corner and stumbled down the hall, coming to an abrupt halt, her arms spread wide, at the door. Her hands gripped the door trim. Oh Jesus. Jesus. Miles. Oh God. She turned and ran down to the fire doors and tore the alarm out, and as it shrieked forth, she turned back and staggered into the laundry room across from Miles’ office, barely reaching the sink before a spume of vomit projected out of her. Leaning over the sink she retched violently and gagged till she felt turned inside out, sinking finally, shaking and weak, to her knees. She folded, then, like a rejected rag doll against the metal legs of the sink.

            She could not stay there, however. No way. She struggled to her knees and looked around until her eyes settled on a bucket, a metal one used for cleaning. She crawled over to the bucket and, bracing herself on it, stood up. She filled it as best she could with water, then, carrying it with both hands, she stumbled into Miles’ office. Be bold, Little Sister. She stood over his inert body and proceeded to pour the water carefully on his head. Steam erupted where the water met the smoking coals. Page turned away.

She wanted to run and never look back, but, steeling herself (Be bold, Little Sister), Page knelt at his side and looked for signs of life. She could not bring herself to touch him. He must be dead, she thought. He must be dead. It was a grotesque sight. His eyes stared unseeing. He did not see her. He would never see her again. Oh Miles. With all our heart and with all our mind, let us pray to the Lord, saying, “Lord, have mercy.”

It looked, she thought numbly, as if Miles Costello had been stabbed in the back. After he had fallen to the floor, burning coals had evidently been poured on his head. Another bucket, similar to the one Page had filled with water, was turned on its side under a blue chair. For the salvation of our souls, let us pray to the Lord, Lord have mercy.

She knew not to touch. She had seen enough TV shows and read enough mysteries to know that the police would want the scene to be untouched. Don’t touch. She looked up and saw the crow on the bookshelf. Its beak was open. She screamed. She screamed again. That we may end our lives in faith and hope, without suffering and without reproach, let us pray to the Lord, Lord have mercy.

*

The rector, having uttered familiar words of comfort from the Book of Common Prayer, gazed down at the half glasses folded in his hands. He seemed to be having trouble gathering his thoughts. Page Hawthorne likewise looked down at her own hands, fixing her eyes on the rings on her right hand, which she fiddled with nervously. She knew what was coming; most of the other twenty or so people in the room did not. She could not blame her boss, therefore, for a certain degree of abstractedness in his manner.  His associate has just been found horribly murdered in the building, in the church.  Not that they were particularly friendly. In fact, some people thought they didn’t get along at all, that they hated each other, that Miles had delusions about becoming the rector himself. If the rector had been found dead instead of Miles, Page might even have suspected Miles. But that isn’t what had happened. As it was, she could never imagine Charles Pinkney, their rector of five years, indulging in violence, much less murder. He was too soft-hearted (some thought weak), too adept at turning the other cheek. Now, as he raised his head to address his staff, his brown eyes burdened by the weight of their lids and glassy with unshed tears, Page’s own eyes stung as she imagined what trials he would be put through.

“My heart is sick,” the rector said and sighed. He looked around the room slowly and, Page thought, beseechingly at the faces circling the table. They stared blankly back at the rector, waiting. He straightened his shoulders. “Miles Costello is dead.”

The room seemed to suck in air en masse. At least one person started to sob.

“He was scheduled to read Morning Prayer, but when he did not show up, parishioner Tom Ward read the service. Nobody thought much of it apparently. Not enough to look for him anyway. His body was discovered at 7:45 this morning by Page Hawthorne. The police arrived on the scene shortly thereafter. Detectives Roy Merton and Leona Vesba will head the investigation.” He nodded in the direction of the two strangers in the room.  “Detectives, perhaps one of you would like to say something now,” the rector said hopefully, indicating the tall, dark man who had heretofore been leaning against the wall in the corner with his arms crossed in front of his chest and the red-haired woman next to him, whom Page could not help notice, had alarmingly fat legs. All eyes left the rector and moved to the detectives.

“Hello,” Detective Merton said, stepping forward. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” He paused then, surveying the room. His gaze settled on Page who sat to the left of the rector between the Rev. Colin Whitefish and Sophie Carl, the clergy secretary. “Ms. Hawthorne handled a difficult situation admirably. Thank you.” He nodded. Page smiled weakly and looked down at her hands. Usually she liked to be singled out and praised, but today, under these unlikely and shocking circumstances, she wished she could disappear. Her heart raced.

“At this point we know very little. Miles Costello was killed early this morning not long before Ms. Hawthorne discovered the body. He had been stabbed once with a black-handled kitchen knife, which was still lodged in his back. Burning coals—actually barbecue briquettes—had been piled on his head. We don’t know yet if he was dead from the stab wound when this occurred.”

A group gasp was uttered at these last words, and Sophie Carl lay her head on the table with an audible thud, which made the already jumpy assemblage turn and look at her. Midge McIntyre, the Director of Outreach Ministries, began to cry softly.

Merton cleared his throat and reached out his hand to the rector who passed him his Book of Common Prayer. “Mr. Pinkney tells me that the designated psalm for October 9th, today, is 140. Please bear with me while I read verses 8-10.”

“Do we have a choice?” muttered Gracie Griggs, the Newcomer Coordinator. “God, I need a cigarette.”

“Amen to that,” nodded Diana Dunwoody, the church Registrar.

Merton stared at the two of them for an entire ten seconds. Gracie Griggs met his gaze as she slumped in her chair. Diana Dunwoody, underweight and nervous, looked away down the table. Merton once again cleared his throat and began: Do not grant the desires of the wicked, O Lord, nor let their evil plans prosper. Let not those who surround me lift up their heads; let the evil of their lips overwhelm them. Let hot burning coals fall upon them; let them be cast into the mire, never to rise up again.”

“So the murderer,” drawled choirmaster Baylor Valentine, “was a religious person, most assuredly an Episcopalian.”

“What a relief!” sniffed Gracie Griggs. “Thank God it wasn’t an outsider.”

Heads swiveled back and forth around the table like spectators at a tennis match. Several mouths hung open stupidly, including the one belonging to Sophie Carl, who slapped the table and whined, “How can you joke about this? I can’t believe you can joke at a time like this.”

“Who’s joking?” deadpanned Gracie, staring at Merton as Diana Dunwoody sputtered beside her. “No, I’m serious,” she said. “Isn’t that the detective’s point? It had to have been an inside job, someone who knew the lay of the land, the service schedule, who knew Miles for God’s sake. So I guess they can round up the usual suspects and we can get on with our lives.”

Everyone stared at Gracie. It’s too early for her to have started drinking, thought Page, glancing at her watch.

“The Usual Suspects?” asked Merton.

Gracie looked the puzzled detective squarely in the eye, pausing for effect. “Yes, Detective. The cinematic allusion aside, I meant A) those people Miles was counseling at present and B) those people Miles was screwing at present.” She paused again. “You might want to start with your capable Ms. Hawthorne," she concluded with a toss of her hand in Page's direction.

“Oh good lord, Grace, please,” interrupted the rector. “We musn’t make a bad situation worse by atttacking each other…I expect that the detectives will want to speak with each of us individually. Am I correct in assuming that, Detectives?”

“Yes, sir. We’ll begin right after the meeting,” said Merton whose gaze had once again settled on Page, sitting startled and pale and silent.

“Excuse me?” said Page, who had felt unusually cold throughout the meeting but now felt unusually warm. She also realized suddenly that she was in serious danger of being sick again. She quickly gathered her day-timer and keys and unceremoniously rose from her chair and headed for the door, muttering another “excuse me” as she passed behind the rector. Merton, his eyebrows raised, opened the door for her and followed her out.

The rector, his eyes still aimed doggedly at his hands on the table, said, “Well, I suppose we’ll close for now so that the detectives can get on with their investigation. I just want to say that Colin and I will, of course, be available to all of you…if you want to talk…. I’ll get in touch with the diocesan office. They’ll have people who can help. I know you’ll want to talk about this…terrible thing…So please, do feel free...”

“However,” said Colin Whitefish leaning forward beside him. “I’m sure we don’t need to tell you not to talk to the press at all. The rector will handle all outside interviews.”

“Yes,” nodded Pinkney. “Of course.” He paused, gathering his stray thoughts. “Oh, by the way, is everyone her? Are we missing anyone?”

“Charlotte Pentecost,” volunteered Diana Dunwoody. “I haven’t seen her yet this morning.”

“She called in about 8:45. Said she was having car trouble,” explained Tammy Spivy, the church receptionist. “I told her what had happened. I hope that was okay.”

“Yes, of course,” said the rector distractedly. “I’ll call her after the meeting. Anyone else? No…then, as our savior Christ hath taught us we are bold to say, Our Father who art in heaven…”

Everyone around the table, responding to the familiar words, stood and clasped hands with his or her neighbor, except for Baylor Valentine who stepped back and folded his arms. Det. Vesba, taken off-guard, joined hands with Tammy Spivy and Midge McIntyre and continued on with the rest, “hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…”

*

Page hurried through the Great Hall and out a side door that led to the small, enclosed Latham Garden. She steadied herself on the arm of a black iron patio chair, then lowered herself into it as if she were fragile and might break. Merton, who had followed her through the Great Hall, stopping to pour a glass of ice water, entered the Garden and looked around. He offered her the glass of ice water in his hand. “Thanks,” Page said, taking it and sipping. “I really thought I was going to be sick again.”

Merton took the seat across from her under a spreading leafless dogwood tree. He said nothing, but gazed at Page sympathetically. Her dark blond hair hung in smooth sheets to her shoulders and her almond-shaped hazel eyes caught the sun and looked amber. She wore jeans and a simple white t-shirt. She was thin, almost skinny, and nervous. One mocassin-clad foot swung up and down mechanically as if some unseen hand had turned a key, winding it up. “You know,” she stammered, after taking another sip of water, “I don’t usually dress this way for work, but I wasn’t planning to…meet with the public today. I thought I was going to spend the day sequestered in my office putting together the Holy Comforter newsletter on the computer. That’s why I came in early. Funny how things turn out…Anyway, it was so embarrassing having to go to a staff meeting like that.”

“Embarrassing?”

“Well, I don’t know…not embarrassing. I just felt powerless, like a little girl or something. Like going onstage without the right costume…This whole day just started off all wrong…And I’m freezing,” she said, standing up. She began to walk, rubbing her arms as she paced. “I wore a sweater, but, of course, it’s like a sauna in my office…Now I can’t get warm.”

“Here,” said Merton, standing up. “Would you like my jacket?”

Page looked over at the detective, as if noticing him for the first time. “No,” she answered, an expression of shock spreading over her face. “Don’t be silly. Of course, not…I’m fine.”

“But you said…”

“I know what I said,” she interrupted, her teeth beginning to chatter. She sat down and made a motion with her hands, signifying that there would be no more discussion of his coat. She spilled some water and put the glass down on an iron table. “Just forget it. I’m okay…I just keep picturing Miles…and remembering that smell…and then that woman, that Gracie Griggs…I haven’t the slightest idea what she was talking about, by the way…I can’t imagine,” she said, her voice trailing off as she stared at the glass of water on the table. “Episcopalians do not cry in church,” she said. “Everyone knows that.”

“If you say so.”

“No,” she said picking up the glass of water. “I don’t say so. That was my husband who told me that. Episcopalians wear linen dresses and starched cotton shirts. They do not stain their clothes with tears. They do not respond to the music and the words and the ceremony emotionally, but intellectually. It is the denomination for thinking people. That’s what Chester always said anyway.” She turned to him, her eyes wide and bright.  “And that’s the way they think around here. Perhaps you would be wise to keep that in mind.”

The detective nodded and put his hands in his pockets. Then the door swung open and the rector stepped out. “Page, are you all right?” he asked, concern creasing his brow.

“I’m fine,” she said putting down the glass of water. She stood up to meet him as he crossed the brick floor and embraced her. The detective looked on, his face expressionless. He sat down. Page covered her mouth with both hands as she began to cry, great choking sobs. “I’m sorry.” Her shoulders shook.

The rector patted her back and handed her his handkerchief. “Page, you’re shivering.”

“I’m sorry,” she said inanely. “I’m freezing. I can’t get warm…”

“Here. Take my jacket,” the rector said calmly, taking it off as he spoke and wrapping it around her small shoulders. “Better?”

“Thank you. Yes, I feel better.”

“Let’s go to my office, Page. I have a few minutes.”

        “All right,” she said, turning to go, still leaning against him. The ice water sat forgotten on the table, as invisible apparently as the detective under the dogwood tree.