Page 27 of Dead to Rites

That was what Hazel had already told me about ghosts and the details of their deaths, so what Father Frank was saying, if disappointing, wasn’t that much of a surprise.

“But,” he went on, “I can tell you that I’d been troubled about a private matter, and I kept going back and forth with myself, trying to decide whether to tell you something that concerns Hazel.”

“What about Hazel?” I asked, trying to sound innocent. For a second or two, I debated telling him that her ghost was currently inhabiting the big Victorian house the way he was now stuck inside Copper State Cellars, but I decided against it. I hadn’t told anyone else about Hazel, and although some people might have argued this was an entirely different case, I wasn’t so sure.

“I can’t say,” Father Frank said, his tone now almost sad. “It was Hazel’s business, and Hazel was my friend. I don’t think it would be right to tell you something that Hazel didn’t choose to share herself.”

Oh, man. I wanted to tell him it would be fine, but the thing was, I didn’t know for sure whether it would actually be okay.

I reached for a packet of precut salami and began extracting the pieces, laying them in a gentle curve next to the cheese. “Maybe she wanted you to tell me and just left out that part.”

The edges of his mouth lifted. “I think both you and I know that Hazel wasn’t the sort of person to ‘just leave out’ things.”

Okay, I couldn’t really argue with him on that one.

Before I could speak, he continued. “I’ll tell you whatever I can, as long as it doesn’t violate any confidences, and of course I’ll be a witness to anything that happens here at Copper State Cellars from now on. I’ll also think hard about anyone who might have wished me harm. But Hazel’s secrets are Hazel’s secrets, and I can’t violate her privacy.”

My eyebrows lifted. “Hazel went to confession?”

“Not in the strictest sense of the word, but the meaning is the same.”

And before I could say anything in reply, he drifted away and then vanished altogether.

During that entire exchange, Mack Donovan had been loitering in a corner of the kitchen and listening in. I wished I could have shooed him away, but I didn’t know how to shoo a ghost.

Besides, it didn’t seem as if Father Frank had even noticed the other spirit eavesdropping on our conversation. I didn’t know if that was because he simply didn’t know Mack existed, or because he’d been so caught up in what he was telling me that he hadn’t realized the bar’s other resident ghost was listening to the whole thing.

“That dead priest is going to be useless unless he puts on his big boy pants,” Mack remarked, and then also disappeared before I could admonish him for being so utterly disrespectful.

I blew out an annoyed breath, picked up the charcuterie board, and headed out to the bar.

The lull continued. We had some people at the bar, including the couple who’d ordered the charcuterie board, but it seemed to me that most people had been in a rush to get to Copper State Cellars as early as possible so they could pay their respects. Now they’d mostly gone on to run their Saturday errands or attend a kid’s soccer game, and I was allowing myself to relax a bit. Not all the way, of course, but enough that I was thinking I should really tell Roz to go home so she could reclaim at least a little of her day off.

Then the door opened, letting in a waft of cold air, and a man came into the bar.

I knew I’d never seen him before, because I would have noticed. He looked like he was in his mid- or late thirties, with thick, near-black hair and strong features that maybe weren’t conventionally handsome but were still arresting enough to make him worth a second glance.

His jaw was tight, though, and his eyes had that bruised, shadowed look to them that told me he’d been grieving, and recently.

Then his gaze caught mine as I stood there behind the bar, staring. His mouth thinned, and he strode over toward me. His hands were hidden inside the pockets of the peacoat he wore, but somehow I knew they were balled into fists.

“You’re Lorelei Cosgrove.”

Those words sounded more like an accusation than an identification, but I made myself say calmly, “Yes, I’m Lorelei.”

“I’m Jude Marsh.” He paused for a second, as if he thought that name might mean something to me, but I only stared at him blankly. I didn’t know the guy from Adam.

If nothing else, I would have remembered that face.

“I own the bookstore down the street,” he continued.

Then it clicked. Marsh & Hollow, the interesting little bookshop I’d noticed that one day when I went over to Farm Provisions to get myself a sandwich.

Well, the store was a lot more welcoming than the man himself.

“Father Francis Brennan was my closest friend,” Jude added. “And he died in your bar. I want to know what the hell happened.”

I almost said, I’m so sorry for your loss, but one look into those furious hazel eyes told me those sorts of pat condolences wouldn’t find a friendly audience. Not that I’d intended the condolence to be automatic — I knew all too well what it felt like to suffer such a dramatic, shocking loss. It was just that those words had been used so many times that they no longer had any real meaning.