Page 28 of Dead to Rites

“Father Frank came in for a drink,” I said quietly. “And then he went into the bathroom, and someone attacked him. I don’t know anything more than that.”

I suppose I’d hoped that by keeping my tone low, Jude Marsh might have followed suit. However, he was clearly too angry and grief-stricken to give a damn about modulating his voice.

“How can someone just come in here and attack an innocent man?” he demanded. “What kind of place are you running, anyway?”

As awful as the situation was, I could feel an incongruous little chuckle wanting to rise in my throat. I’d been in some of the diviest dive bars in the greater Phoenix area, thanks to the way the Voodoo Dollies would take pretty much any gig as long as it paid, and to hear this Jude Marsh person referring to quiet little Copper State Cellars in the same tone he might use to talk about Shady’s or the Bikini Lounge made me want to laugh out loud.

I didn’t, though. However, I also wasn’t as measured in my response as I probably should have been.

“I’m running a wine bar,” I returned. “And Father Frank was a regular here. He came in at least once a week, so apparently he didn’t have your low opinion of his surroundings.”

That reply obviously didn’t earn me any points. Still glaring, Jude said, “Father Frank wasn’t a drinker.”

“Well, he drank wine,” I said, and crossed my arms. “I suppose he thought if it was good enough for Jesus, it was good enough for him.”

Scowling, Jude replied, “If you think this is some kind of joke — ”

Of course it wasn’t a joke. It was a terrible tragedy, and to have this man I’d never met before getting in my face when I was running on less than four hours of sleep and dealing with a kind of formless guilt about the entire situation was enough to pluck my last nerve.

“I’m not joking,” I retorted. “I’m just trying to tell you what happened. If Father Frank didn’t share his drinking habits with you, then maybe you weren’t as good friends as you thought you were.”

The man’s jaw tensed, and I could see his lips begin to part as he prepared to deliver some kind of comeback. Before he could speak, though, Roz was at my shoulder. I’d been so focused on Jude Marsh that I hadn’t even seen her emerge from the office, but it seemed she must have heard at least part of the ugly exchange.

When she spoke, her voice was almost preternaturally calm. “Jude, you’re upset. I think you need to go and cool off somewhere.”

Again, it looked as if he intended to say something. Whatever it was, though, he seemed to think better of it, because his shoulders hitched under the heavy peacoat, and then he gave a kind of half nod before turning and stalking out the door.

I remained where I was, arms still crossed, heart beating stupidly fast in my chest.

“You all right?” Roz asked.

Obviously, I wasn’t, but I only gave a single nod. “I’m fine. Thanks for the rescue.”

She smiled and laid a friendly hand on my arm for just a moment. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Then she went off to check on the couple with the charcuterie board, who were looking a little shaken and had probably heard at least some of my angry conversation with Jude Marsh.

Mack had been standing at the end of the bar, listening to the whole thing. “That one was a priest,” he said, and I stared at him, startled. “Hazel mentioned him to me a couple of times — said he ran the bookstore and that he and the Father were thick as thieves. I’d give it a day or two and try to mend that fence, doll. The man is hurting.”

That fence felt as if it had been torn down and was far beyond any repair, but I just nodded, the only reply I could really give.

But Mack seemed to understand, because he tilted his head at me and then disappeared.

It was going to be a very long day.

That night, though, instead of heading straight for home, I walked the block or so down the street to Marsh & Hollow. I wasn’t sure what led me that way, except that I kept hearing Mack’s voice in my head.

Try to mend that fence, doll.

Mending fences at ten-thirty on a Saturday night probably wasn’t the best idea in the world, but by that point, I was running on fumes, and my brain most likely wasn’t functioning properly.

The sign on the door at Marsh & Hollow said Closed, and it was mostly dark inside. However, I could see a single light through the big front window, a light that looked as if it sat on an antique desk of some sort. Sitting at the desk was Jude Marsh, or at least, I guessed it was. All I could really see was his dark head in his hands.

A tortoiseshell cat was curled up in his lap.

I stood there for a moment, not sure what I should do in the face of such naked grief.

I didn’t knock. Instead, I turned and headed for home.