Sergeant Bickerton gamely plowed on. I could see why he was a sergeant. “And did you happen to notice what she ate or drank?”
“Well, there were some of Carol Morgan’s butter tarts. I’m sure she would have had some of those, except, now that I think of it, I don’t think they were there when she came down, not that they’d all been eaten up, although they often are, right off the bat, everyone wants one, the most delicious butter tarts anywhere, well, perhaps not anywhere, but certainly at St. Grimbald’s, in fact, I often tell Carol she should start a butter tart business, although not a business, more of a home kitchen thing…” He trailed off, unconsciously licking his lips in remembrance of butter tarts past. “Although,” he rallied, “they were gone because Dorothy had taken them back to the kitchen.”
“She didn’t offer them to Mrs. Francis?”
“Good grief, no! Dorothy wouldn’t give Edith anything! They were mortal enemies, well not mortal any more, more like immortal I guess, what with Edith being gone and all. But they never got on, never since Dorothy discovered that it was Edith who told the regional president of the A.C.W. that Dorothy…Oh! Shoot! It’s a secret. Dorothy said she’d have my…well, let’s just say it wouldn’t be pleasant, if I told anyone. Can’t say a thing, not a thing, silence of the confessional and all that, not that she confessed, at least not to me, but then she wouldn’t, would she, confess that is. ‘Vengeance is mine’ is Dorothy’s personal motto. No, no, I can’t say another word.” With this, he made the motion of locking his mouth shut, turning the key and throwing it away.
“So they didn’t get on?” Sergeant Bickerton leaned forward intently. “Was Ms. Peasgood in the kitchen then?”
“Who? Ms. Peasgood? Oh my sister, of course, I always think of her as just ‘Dottie’. Yes. She was in the kitchen.” He sat on the edge of the desk and lifted both legs up, held them rigid and slowly lowered them back down. His face mottled a bright purple. Steady, I thought, or we’ll be having two funerals at St. Grimbald’s this week.
“And did you see Mrs. Edith Francis drink anything?”
Father Donald looked off into space. I could almost see when the light bulb went on. “Why yes! I did! She drank the cup of coffee Dorothy gave her.”
Sergeant Bickerton was instantly alert. “So, you’re saying that Ms. Peasgood did give Mrs. Francis something, after all?” he asked in a voice of steel. “I think I should have a little talk with Ms. Peasgood myself.”
“Oh, dear, must you? She gets upset so easily. It’s her nerves, you know—very delicate. Always have been, although not when she was younger of course, not that she’s all that old now, but still, the pills have made a great difference, although she’d rather not have anyone know that she takes them, in fact please don’t mention I told you, she’ll kill me, I’m sure. She’s capable of almost anything when she gets in a temper…”
After that, I watched it go steadily downhill. The upshot was that Dorothy was asked to go into the station with Sergeant Bickerton to give a statement, and Father Donald insisted on going along to give her moral support. Frankly, I feared he’d given her far too much support all ready. I, of course, was asked to take the Parish Council meeting in his absence.
I arrived several minutes late, but contrary to their usual practice, everyone was already there. Even Morley Leet made it, although I thought he still looked a bit shaky. It seemed appropriate that I break the news about Edith so that we could begin with a moment of silence for our dear departed substitute organist.
“I have some very sad and serious news,” I began. “Today, we have lost a vital part of St. Grimbald’s, someone who is near and dear to each and every one of us, someone whom we will all sorely miss, someone who unselfishly contributed so much towards the spiritual worship in our congregation. I know you all feel as saddened as I do by this tragic loss.” I paused dramatically, thinking I’d done pretty well by poor old Edith, and wondered if I’d be called upon for the funeral eulogy. Before I could continue, Morley Leet stood up.
“I’d like to say a few words,” he said. I was surprised, since I hadn’t realized he was especially fond of Edith.
“I’d like to have it put on the record that I have always admired the steadfast leadership and deep spiritual qualities that were brought to this parish by Father Donald. I’m sure I speak for us all when I say that he was a good rector and an all-around good human being.” He wiped a tear from his eye, sat down and looked solemnly around him.
Before I could say anything, the door banged open and Father Donald bounded into the room. “I’m back! Well I wasn’t really away, just gone for awhile, but I was with you all in spirit. So how’s the meeting going, Charles—have you told them my good news?”
Morley Leet stood up. His chair fell with a crash backwards onto the cement floor. He thrust an arm towards Father Donald. “You! You’re, you’re…” and he fainted dead away.
Suddenly, I flashed back to yesterday’s coffee hour, and I could see the arm thrusting the cup of coffee into the Father Donald’s hands. I could hear the voice, “Here you are, Father Donald. A double-double. Just the way you like it.” It had been Morley Leet. The drugged coffee was not only deliberate, but it had been meant for Father Donald. And Edith was dead because of Dorothy’s vigilance, not vengeance.
“Shoot! I knew Morley Leet was going to love my news about the money, but I never expected him to be this excited, well maybe not excited, although he is pretty overcome.” Father Donald rushed to Morley’s side and slapped him, not too gently on the cheeks. Morley sat up and looked groggily at Father Donald.
“I guess ten thousand is a lot of money, Morley, enough to make any treasurer faint,” Father Donald told him.
“Ten thousand! I never took that much! Just enough to put a down payment on the boat!”
“No, no! You’ve got it all wrong. The Bishop has given us a grant of $10,000 for a new well and septic system. I don’t think we can help you with your boat, although, perhaps you could get some kind of grant from the government, they’re always handing out money for fishermen, although you don’t fish do you, or at least not professionally, although on the other hand…”
It was time for me to intervene. “Excuse me, Father Donald, but Morley Leet and I have some business with Sergeant Bickerton, don’t we, Morley? I’ll just leave you to carry on with the meeting.” I got a firm grip on Morley’s arm and hustled him into the kitchen, where I could lock the door while I made the phone call. Behind me, I could hear Father Donald’s voice.
“Shoot! What a shame! Charles has let the cat out of the bag, and I wanted to be the one to tell you the good news, well not really news now since you already know, and not really good since I suppose he told you about poor Edith, well, not poor in spirit, but poor in, well, not poor at all, especially where she’s gone. At least I presume that’s where she’s gone, although, on the other hand…”
PAT WILSON AND KRIS WOOD have been friends for over 30 years, although they’ve seldom lived near each other. Instead, they’ve run businesses, written stories and collaborated on many projects through e-mail, fax and phone. Pat is an international speaker. Kris is a gerontologist. Both are published authors. Now they are next-door neighbours living in Nova Scotia. The characters in this story will be appearing in a full-length mystery novel that the pair are currently preparing.
SEIGNEUR POISSON
R. J. HARLICK
Maudite neige!’ Jacques cursed as he fought through another deep snow drift. Those stupid old fools to go fishing in such weather.
With his eyes half shut against the stinging snow, he scanned the frozen lake, hoping to see his grandfather and great-uncle. The sooner he found Pépère and Mononcle Hippolyte, the sooner he could get back to his tape of last night’s hockey game.
“Impossible