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“What's going on in there? I got out of line to have a cigarette and now it sounds like all hell's broke loose.”

“It has,” I panted. “The devil broke the vase. Or so Polly would have us believe. Excuse me, Warren, I've got to dash.”

“But …” Warren let go of my arm, though his blue eyes were stunned as he watched me leave. Then, cutting through the muggy night, I heard him cry out: “Alicia! Help me!”

As far as I could tell, Alicia was nowhere in sight. Under any other circumstances, I would have queried Warren hard and fast. But not now. I had to salvage
The Advocate.
Five minutes later I was in the back shop, consulting with Kip MacDuff. He had only just begun the press run, having gone over to the Burger Barn to get his dinner.

“I ran into a couple of guys I knew from high school,” he began in apology, “and that's why I was kind of late getting started.”

“Never mind,” I said hurriedly. “It turns out to be a blessing in disguise. Wait here, I'm going to write a new lead for the miracle-vase story.”

It didn't take long, though I realized I was missing various details, including Polly's fate. In deference to Vida, I didn't include Roger's name. We could sort out the fine points in next week's edition. The hardest part was cutting enough of the original story so that the copy would still fit without having to redo the page one layout.

Kip was finishing a large Coke when I rejoined him in the back shop. “I never did see that vase,” he said in a
musing voice after he read my new lead. “Was it really special?”

“I don't know,” I replied in a tired voice. “There were a lot of people who thought so.”

Kip ran a hand through his wavy red hair. “1 guess we'll never find out now.”

In my mind's eye, I saw the long lines of old and young and black and white and rich and poor who had come to Polly's house. “Maybe not,” I said after a long pause.

Kip eyed me curiously, then set to work. A few moments later the press was humming. I watched for a while, and then left. On the way home, I drove by St. Mildred's. The church was dark, as I'd expected. All the same I stopped the car and sat for a few minutes, staring up at the single wooden spire that was outlined faintly against the September night. My eyes traveled up to the cross, which legend said was made of iron fashioned from a piece of machinery in the original Alpine mill. During the past few days I had been so caught up in my work that I hadn't taken time to think about the makeshift shrine in the Patricelli living room. My concerns had all been worldly, the outward signs of a life caught up in material goals. Did we purposely make ourselves so busy that there was neither time nor room for spiritual contemplation? It was much easier to think about deadlines than death.

I had not seen Christ in Polly's vase, but I could see the cross. Maybe, I thought, there are many things we cannot see.

But they are still there.

V
IDA WAS CASTIGATING
herself. “I should have driven to the funeral in Seattle,” she fretted that Wednesday morning. “Someone should represent the paper. Hardly anyone from Alpine is going as far as I know.”

“It's a workday,” I pointed out. “Ursula hadn't kept up with her old friends here. You said so yourself.”

Vida pursed her lips. “That's not important. Now. Oh, Jake and Betsy went, perhaps Laura and Buzzy. Warren, of course, with Alicia.”

“Alicia?” I gave Vida a curious look. “Why not Francine?”

“Francine has to stay at the shop.” Vida glanced at the clock, which showed that it wasn't yet nine. “I could still make it if I left now.” She stood up, grabbing her purse and camera. “I'm going. I'll see you later this afternoon.”

Leo watched Vida make her exit. “The Duchess wouldn't miss a good funeral for anything,” he remarked. “Do you suppose she'll take pictures of Ursula in her coffin?”

“I hope not,” I replied rather vaguely. My thoughts were elsewhere, at St. James Cathedral. I wondered if Murray Felton would be on hand, studying the mourners. I also wondered if I should call him to pass on the news about Ursula's insurance policy. But then I remembered that I didn't have his number. Perhaps I could reach him through the TV station. “No,” I said suddenly, returning
to reality. “Vida doesn't photograph dead people. It's in poor taste.”

Carla looked up from a news release she'd been perusing. “What's being dead got to do with poor taste? Death is part of life.”

Leo grinned at Carla. “That's deep, sweetheart. Don't tell me you've been thinking?”

Carla made a face at my ad manager. “Leo, sometimes you're a real jerk. I think all the time. Like now, I was thinking you're a jerk.”

The comment made no dent on Leo, who, I noticed, was acting more like himself this morning. A few minutes later, after Carla had left to interview the county commissioners about progress on the new bridge over the Sky, I came out of my office and sat down next to Leo's desk.

“So what's new?” I asked in a lighthearted tone.

Leo set aside a mock-up for the local General Motors dealership. “Not much. How about you?”

“The same. Except that it's been hectic around here lately.” I gave a little shrug. “I had to stop the press last night for the first time since I bought the paper.”

Leo took a bite out of a sugar doughnut Ginny had picked up at the bakery. “The vase deal? Yeah, that was a hell of a thing. What really happened?”

I was still loath to name names. Vida had called me late last night, asking how I intended to handle the story. I'd informed her that it was a
fait accompli
, but I hadn't mentioned Roger. Naturally she had defended him, insisting that his youthful curiosity—such a fine attribute in a young mind—had triggered the incident. I had said nothing. Word would get out soon enough. Indeed, it probably had within an hour of the disaster. I wondered if that was the real reason that Vida had been anxious to get out of town.

But apparently Leo hadn't heard the details. I was reluctant to tell him, since I knew that his opinion of
Roger was as unfavorable as mine. On the other hand, I didn't want to upsfet Leo's newly regained good humor. Certainly he would find out the truth before the day was done.

Leo, however, changed the subject before I could reply. “That Kelly's pretty sharp,” my ad manager said, brushing sugar from his plaid sport shirt. “How come you never told me about him?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked in surprise. “I've mentioned Father Den often, and usually with praise.”

Leo fingered his upper lip. “Hunh. Maybe I wasn't paying attention.”

“Maybe you didn't want to hear it.” As a falien-away Catholic, Leo wasn't inclined to take in anything positive about the Church. “So now you two are chums?”

“Not exactly,” Leo replied. “We had a little talk last night. I happened to run into him at Cal Vickers's station after work. Kelly had just come back from Tacoma.”

I regarded Leo with amusement. “So you yukked it up around the gas pumps?”

Leo stretched in an exaggeratedly casual manner. “Actually I went over to the rectory and had a drink with him. He's really down-to-earth. I guess it's his army-brat background. He doesn't go around with his head in the clouds like some of the priests I've known.”

“You've met my brother,” I retorted. “Ben's as real as they come.”

Leo tipped his head to one side. “Ben's okay. But he's like you—kind of indecisive. Neither of you likes taking a stand.”

That much was true. In my case, I called it journalistic objectivity, and being fair in print. As for Ben, he acted out of Christian charity, unwilling to judge. To observers, we sometimes seemed wishy-washy.

I wasn't about to argue with Leo. “Talking to Father Den seems to have improved your mood,” I said lightly.

Leo's gaze was ironic. “Are you asking if I unburdened myself?” Before I could answer, he chuckled. “Maybe I did, in a way. But we didn't have much time. He got a phone call that seemed to throw him. I decided I'd better split.”

I recalled the busy lines at Marisa's and at the rectory. “Do you know who phoned him?”

Leo looked perplexed. “No. It was none of my business. It's not like Kelly's my new best bud. We just had a drink and yakked for a bit. Who do you think called him? The Village Harlot?”

“Hardly.” My tone was priggish. “In case you haven't been reading
The Advocate
, and since you don't attend church, you may have missed the controversy that's going on at St. Mildred's.”

Leo feigned terror. “Wow. Which is the greater sin, missing Mass or skimming your stories?”

My ad manager's disposition may have improved, but mine was deteriorating. “Look, a member of the parish was found dead last Friday night. Maybe it was an accident, maybe not. But if somebody deliberately drowned Ursula Randall, then it could have something to do with what's going on at St. Mildred's. Don't tell me you haven't noticed, Leo, or I'll have to cut your salary.”

“Relax, babe. I've noticed. Parish politics are a pain in the ass. Even in those dark, dim days when I used to go to church, I kept out of that crap. It's pure poison. If people want to backstab and spread scandal and incite hostilities and screw up basic ideologies, then they should join the Democratic party. The trouble is,” Leo went on, now looking quite serious, “you've always got a bunch of the Little People in any group who have to prove they exist by causing trouble. The bigger the institution, the nastier the attack. They're not only weasels, they're hypocrites. Fuck 'em, I say. That's another reason I don't go to church.”

I was sure that Leo's list of reasons for staying in bed
on Sunday morning was lengthy. But he was right about parish troublemakers. “I should go see Father Den,” I said, more to myself than to Leo. “I've felt all along that there's more to this parish conflict than meets the eye.”

“It wasn't all Liza's fault.” Leo made the statement while staring at the GM mock-up.

“What?” It took me a moment to recall that Liza was Leo's ex-wife.

“The breakup.” Now he did look at me. “I was an asshole. It's a wonder she put up with me as long as she did.”

I knew that Liza had left Leo for another man, or so he had told me. I also knew that the reality was that Liza had left, period. The other man may have been waiting in the wings, but he wasn't the reason that the marriage had failed. Leo had had difficulty keeping a job, he had been an unsatisfactory parent, he had neglected his wife, he had drunk too much. All of these things he had acknowledged, but never had admitted what a disastrous impact his flaws had had on his marriage.

I didn't know exactly what to say. “You're not an asshole now,” I finally allowed. “Not often, anyway.” I smiled.

“People don't change,” Leo said, his voice a little ragged. “But maybe they sort of mutate.”

The phone was ringing in my office. “Maybe.” Gingerly I patted Leo's shoulder. “I'm glad you finally sat down with Father Den.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” Leo returned to his mock-up.

I returned to my office and caught the call just before it trunked over to Ginny. Delia Lucci's anxious voice touched my ear.

“Could I see you, Ms. Lord? I need … some advice.”

Giving advice is a trap. If volunteered, it's usually scorned. If sought, it's rarely taken. People don't want
advice, they want sympathy and reinforcement of their own beliefs and actions.

But Delia was pathetic. She was still at the shelter, so I said I'd meet her there in twenty minutes. Unlike larger cities, where anonymity is more easily achieved, there is nothing secret about Alpine's shelter. It's located in an old three-story house on First Hill off Highway 167. Officially run by the town's churches, the staff is made up of volunteers. When I arrived just after ten-thirty, Shirley Bronsky met me at the door.

“Emma!” she squealed, jiggling around in her lime-and-black-striped tank dress. “Have you come to lend a hand? We could use it—Mrs. Bartleby from Trinity Episcopal and I have been here since six this morning. The place is jammed—as usual. Do you know that we've got women who've come all the way from Wenatchee?”

Female figures skittered in and out of doors along the narrow hall while children yipped and skipped around the living room, which had been turned into a play area. With a twinge of guilt, I informed Shirley that I hadn't come to relieve her or the wife of the Episcopalian rector, but to see Delia Lucci. Since I wasn't a volunteer, Shirley immediately became officious. Had Delia sent for me? Did she expect me? How had the meeting been arranged?

I explained about the telephone call, adding that I understood Shirley's insistence on security. Seemingly satisfied, she led me to the old-fashioned, high-ceilinged kitchen, where Delia was preparing a vat of macaroni and cheese.

“I kept the kids out of school today,” Delia said shyly as she wiped her hands on a dish towel and sat down at the long trestle table. “It's the first day, and they won't miss much.”

“Probably not,” I agreed.

“Is it true that Luce is in jail?” As soon as she asked the question, Delia lowered her eyes.

“He was last night,” I said. “He got into a row with Verb Vancich over those bikes.”

Delia looked up and blinked. “What bikes?”

“The bikes that were stolen from Verb's store. Verb believes that your kids may have taken them.” I saw no point in softening the blow.

But Delia was indignant. “That's dumb! Luce bought those bikes for the twins' birthday.”

The last thing I wanted to do was get into a dispute between the Luccis and the Vanciches. “Verb thought otherwise,” I said, dumping the burden where it belonged. “In any event, Luce threatened Verb, and Verb called the sheriff. I suspect that your husband will be released today.”

“Mmm.” Delia cupped her round chin in her hand. “So where does that leave me? Not here—I hate it. The kids hate it. But I won't go back to Luce. I hate him.”

The words were spoken without rancor, a simple statement of fact, which made them all the more jarring. “So you plan to leave Luce?” I asked.

Delia sighed, her plump bosom heaving under the same stained shift I'd last seen her wearing at Sunday Mass. “I guess. I just don't know where to go, Ms. Lord. That's what I wanted to ask you.”