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“Let's stick to the issue, folks.” Brendan Shaw smiled ingratiatingly and made a steeple of his fingers. “I think what we're trying to determine is if a parish-council member's conduct is reason for dismissal. Do we have any rational discussion?”

Monica raised a tentative hand. “I think we should try to understand Mr. Lucci's reasons for being upset. It's not right for us to be judgmental without knowing the circumstances.”

Luce didn't seem grateful for Monica's qualified support. “I told you, Bill Daley pissed me off—”

“Stick it, Luce!” Francine broke in. “I'm voting
against you, so you can save the bullshit for your court date when Bill sues your butt off.”

“Sues me!” Luce roared. “I'd like to see that chicken-shit try it! I've sued bigger fish than him!” He rounded on Brendan Shaw. “I shoulda sued you, too, you cheap weasel! Tryin' to screw me out of my workmen's comp!” Next he glared at Jake. “And you, O'Toole—when was the last time you gave me credit at your freakin' store? Cash on the barrelhead, that's all you know! Some Christian!” Staggering slightly, Luce got to his feet. “You bastards won't can me! I don't want to have anything to do with any of you two-faced pansies! I quit!” Luce limped out of the parlor.

“Oh, dear!” Monica gasped.

“Good riddance.” Francine sneered.

“I volunteer to fill the vacancy,” said Ed.

Jake stared at Ed. “Ah … is that legal?”

“I'm not sure,” Monica said.

“I'm confused,” Jake admitted. “Maybe we should wait until Father Den gets back.”

“We can't do that,” Ed declared. “We're already in a mess with this school-board deal. How can we operate while we're short a parish-council member? I say, strike while the iron is hot.”

“Strike
whatT
Francine demanded. “Come off it, Bronsky. You're on a power trip.”

“Ed has a point, though,” Jake began.

“On his head,” Francine snapped, and glared at Ed, who glared back. “Father Den will be here in a couple of days. What can happen between now and then?”

Brendan was fingering his fleshy chin. “Something sure happened to Ursula Randall between the time she announced her candidacy and the actual election. Maybe we shouldn't take any more chances.”

Jake darted a look at Ed, then at Brendan. “Ed's just trying to do us a favor.” Now he dared to meet Francine's
dagger-eyed gaze. “I mean, it's not like this is Congress, or something.”

“Go ahead,” Francine said with ill grace. “It's late. I'm tired. If we could impeach Luce, we can always impeach Ed.”

Ed started to bluster, but Jake had risen to shake his hand. Brendan joined them, all three men standing in the middle of the room. I hurriedly shot a few obligatory pictures.

Monica had hung back, her pale face increasingly troubled. “Did Mr. Lucci really try to kill his wife?”

“I doubt it,” Francine said, gathering up her Sharif handbag and London Fog raincoat. “Delia's got no spunk. Luce is the kind that if you call his bluff, he'll roll over. He's different from Buzzy.”

An awkward silence engulfed the little parlor. “What do you mean?” Jake asked.

A flush rose in Francine's fine skin. “I heard about the little episode at Emma's today. Betsy called me. I guess Laura told her.”

“Damn!” Jake held his head.

“Don't get worked up, Jake,” Francine counseled. “That's what I mean about Buzzy—he got out of control because he's like a cornered animal. His back's against the wall, and he lashes out. But he's really harmless. That's not true of Luce. He can be mean—in the way that bullies are.” Slipping into her coat, she poked Ed in the paunch. “You win, Bronsky. Welcome aboard. Enjoy the ride—while it lasts.”

Monica burst into tears. I happened to be standing next to her, and automatically put out a comforting hand. “What's wrong?” I asked as Ed stared and the rest of the group looked only mildly surprised. I suspected that it wasn't unusual for Monica to lose the grip on her emotions.

“It's … nothing.” Monica sniffed as she wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of what appeared to be a handmade cardigan. “It's just that … I can empathize … with
Buzzy. I mean …” She sniffed again, trying to get herself under control. “What we need is more understanding. That comes from the Holy Spirit. Why can't people realize that?”

The garbled response seemed to bewilder all of us except Francine. “Get a grip on it, Monica,” she urged quietly, though her sympathy had a hard edge. “It's fine to let the Holy Spirit sail around over your head, but keep both feet on the ground, okay?”

Monica's swimming gray eyes hovered on Francine's face. “Will you come with me?”

Francine took an abrupt backward step. “Come where?”

Monica swallowed. “To Mrs. Patricelli's. I want to pray at her vision.”

“Oh, hell!” Francine twirled around, colliding with Brendan Shaw. “No, Monica, I won't. That vase isn't the only thing that's cracked around here. I'm going home. Good night.” Francine's Chantal high-heeled boots car-ried her quickly across the faded carpet.

Though she didn't say a word to me, I saw the appeal in Monica's teary eyes. “I'll go,” I said, surprising myself and probably Monica as well.

It turned out that she had gotten a ride to the rectory from Brendan Shaw. Since I had discovered that the Vanciches lived so close to me, I insisted that it would be no trouble to drive Monica to Polly's house and then take her home.

We had gone only one of the two blocks between St. Mildred's and the Patricelli residence when I realized that there was nowhere to park on the street. As I slowed in front of Polly's I saw why. There were at least two dozen people threading their way up the broken front steps that led through the rockery. Some of them carried candles, which flickered and sputtered in the rainy night.

“Oh, my!” I breathed. “Polly's drawn a crowd. I suppose it was the TV exposure.”

“Pardon?” Monica seemed puzzled.

“One of the Seattle stations featured the vase on the news last night,” I explained, preoccupied with trying to find a parking place. “Damn! I wonder if this has been going on all day?” The thought of missing another story annoyed me.

“Wonderful,” Monica murmured, her hands clasped together. “The Spirit
is
moving. How dare I doubt?”

I dared to ease the Jag into a tight spot around the corner on Fourth. At least I had the camera with me. Hopefully the flash would work. It had functioned in the rectory parlor, but sometimes it was unreliable.

“It's like a pilgrimage,” Monica said in an awed voice, not moving from the passenger seat. “Like Lourdes. Or Medjugorje.”

“I've seen the vase,” I said, wrestling with the camera and my handbag. “You go ahead and do your thing. I'll stay outside, take some pictures, and interview people.”

Monica didn't seem to hear me. Wearing a beatific smile, she slowly got out of the car and walked off as if in a daze. Clutching my things, I hurried after her. I had my own vision, of Monica stepping in front of an oncoming car.

But she made it safely across the street. A moment later she was at the end of the line, which now stretched onto the sidewalk. I searched through the rain for a face I recognized, but found only one: Buzzy O'Toole.

Apologizing for pushing my way up the uneven stairs, I greeted Buzzy with what a few dark looks told me was inappropriate enthusiasm. Buzzy, however, made a brave effort to smile.

“This is for
The Advocate”
I warned him, fumbling with a notebook. “What made you decide to visit the vase?”

The smile disappeared quickly. “My sister. I want to pray for her soul.”

“Ursula?” I said stupidly. “Of course.” Given Buzzy's
other troubles, it struck me as very generous that he was thinking of someone other than himself.

Buzzy nodded faintly. “Yeah. I think Ursula needs some prayers. She wasn't always …” He stopped, staring at the notebook. “Sorry. I forgot you were taking this down.”

“It's okay,” I assured him. “I won't mention anything personal.”

The line moved up as three people edged past me on their way out. The too-thin woman behind Buzzy was a stranger. Introducing myself, I asked why she had come to the Patricelli shrine. Cancer, she replied through taut lips. The ascetic-looking young man in front of Buzzy had AIDS. A couple from Everett were praying for their daughter who was in prison. Another set of parents wanted to ask Jesus to help them find their son who had disappeared three years ago. The litany of human burdens went on, all the way to Polly's front door.

Buzzy was now at the bottom of the porch. After clicking a few pictures, I tried to spot Monica. She was about where I had first encountered Buzzy. I decided to slip inside the house and ask Polly some questions about the phenomenon. Announcing “Press” in a discreet voice, I entered the dark hallway. The living room was jammed. Muffled sobs reached my ears, as did the muttering of a few prayers. I refocused the camera, but thought better of it. This wasn't the place for flashbulbs.

Polly was standing by the arched entrance to the living room. Her eyes were downcast and she was fingering her rosary. I waited, but she didn't look up. At last I put a gentle hand on her arm.

“When did all these people start coming?” I inquired in a hushed voice.

Polly's cloudy old eyes scanned my face. “Oh. Mrs. Lord.” She sighed. “This morning, after Mass. They were waiting when I came home.” She signed herself with the silver crucifix, then kissed Christ's broken body.

Again, I glanced into the living room, where long, wavering shadows trembled against the walls. In the crush of worshipers, I could barely see the votive candles. An old couple, weeping and clinging to each other, came out into the hall. A Vietnamese woman in her thirties carrying a baby moved into the room. So did a Hispanic man who held a holy card of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

“They've been coming all day?” I asked Polly.

“Yes. Pete will be here soon so that I may go to bed.”

I stared at Polly. “You mean—you'll let them in until they stop showing up?”

Polly's gaze was uncomprehending. “What?”

“I mean …” I fumbled for words.

Polly's bowed shoulders shrugged. “It's not a store.”

I pressed my knuckles against my lips. An ancient African American woman supported by a tall, graying middle-aged man who might have been her son, came out into the hall. “No. Of course it's not.”

A silence fell between us, deep as the gap that divides generations, wide as the chasm that separates cultures. The ebb and flow continued. Buzzy, with a brief nod to Polly and me, now entered the living room. I wondered about Ursula, with her smug, self-centered sense of religion. Where was she now? Would Buzzy's loving intentions move her? Would she laugh? But I had no idea of how the dead responded to the living, or if they responded at all. I wasn't even sure of what was going on in Polly Patricelli's living room.

“Ma.” It was Pete, a man I knew primarily as an advertiser for Itsa Bitsa Pizza. He leaned down to peck at his mother's cheek. “You're drawing quite a crowd, huh?” His gap-toothed grin took me in. “Hi, Emma. What do you think? A little stand down on the sidewalk, hawking rosaries and statues and prayer cards?”

I didn't know if Pete was serious. But his mother made a sharp, slashing motion with one gnarled hand. “No, no!
Don't blaspheme, Pietro! Why is it always money with you?”

Pete hugged his mother and chuckled. “It's not, Ma. You know that. I'm only joking. Go to bed. I'm here for the next shift. Rita will be along about sunup if you've still got customers.
Pilgrims
, I mean,” he corrected himself hastily.

I'd forgotten about Rita, the dark horse in the school-board election. I was about to mention her candidacy when Monica Vancich glided along in her pious daze to the living room. Someone near the shrine was wailing, a heartrending, keening sound that made me wince.

It bothered Polly not at all. Maybe she'd already heard similar cries earlier in the day. Or even before. I had to admit that I was woefully ignorant of what had passed previously in this house. Pete was kissing his mother good night. Polly gave me a tentative smile and headed for the staircase in the deep, dark recesses of the hall. Pete took up her post, rubbing at one eye and belching discreetly.

“I ought to be selling pizzas to this crowd,” he said in a tone that I suspected was only half-joking. “They must get hungry, waiting out there. I heard some of them had come all the way from British Columbia.”

“I should interview more of the visitors,” I said, and failed to suppress a yawn. I couldn't see my watch in the dark, but knew it must be going on eleven. “What do you think, Pete?”

Pete laughed. “Heck, I don't know. That vase looks like a bunch of cracks to me. I guess when it comes right down to it I'm not real religious.”

Buzzy O'Toole was emerging, along with a teenager who had obvious Slavic features and a startlingly beautiful woman in a sari. Impulsively I touched Buzzy's arm. “Do you … feel better?” I inquired for lack of anything more profound.

Buzzy, however, took the question very seriously. “I
feel … more at peace. But I don't think Ursula does.” His pallid blue eyes fixed on my face. “I think she hasn't come to rest. Her soul is all messed up. I guess that's because she was murdered.” With a slight shake of his head, Buzzy walked away.

Pete's chuckle was jagged. “That's putting it on the line. What do you think, Emma? I heard it was some dumb accident.”

I shook my head. “I don't think the sheriff knows for sure. It's a problem I have to cope with tomorrow when we get ready to go to press.”

“Wow.” Pete leaned against the wall with its peeling floral paper. “Why didn't Doubles figure it out before he brought that woman up to Alpine?”

I regarded Pete with a curious stare. “Ursula? What do you mean?”

“Oh …” Pete now looked embarrassed. “My delivery kid, one of the Gundersons, dropped off a pizza Friday night at Francine's. He said Warren came to the door and paid for it. So what was Doubles doing with his first wife when the bride-to-be was sitting around in her fancy house in The Pines? It sounds kind of funny to me.”

It sounded more than funny. I was about to press Pete for details, if any, when a weeping Monica Vancich shuddered her way into the hall. She didn't seem to notice me, so I swiftly excused myself and followed her out onto the porch.