Page 32 of Dead to Rites

Her nostrils flared ever so slightly as she said “Phoenix,” as if the word smelled bad. I’d already learned that a lot of Prescott’s citizens didn’t have much use for the sprawling megalopolis to the south, so I was more amused than offended.

Before I could reply, Diane had already taken me by the arm and was steering me toward a thin woman a few feet away, with limp brown hair pulled back into a skimpy bun and wide eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

“Nell Whitaker,” Diane said. “She’s our parish secretary. Nell, this is Lorelei Cosgrove, Hazel’s great-niece.”

Nell extended her hand, and I shook it. Her palm was slightly damp, and I was glad when she let go after a brief second.

“It’s such a tragedy,” she said, and her voice was as wispy as her appearance. “I saw Father Francis just hours before he passed.”

I waited, expecting her to add something to that comment, but it seemed that was all she wanted to offer.

“Very nice to meet you, Lorelei,” she said, and drifted away toward the table where the coffee urns were located.

Diane didn’t appear put off by this, and guided me over to a man I realized was one of the people I’d seen at the bar on Saturday, the one in the sports coat who’d said his name was Bob. It turned out he was Dr. Anselmo, a podiatrist, and the woman standing next to him tonight, shorter by almost a foot and with a closed-off, watchful expression, was his wife, Joanne.

“A damn shame,” Bob said, the same words he’d used on Saturday. At his elbow, his wife nodded but didn’t say anything.

I agreed that it was, even while I thought that something didn’t quite feel right about the couple. Maybe they’d fought on their way over here, or maybe Joanne was just annoyed that her husband hadn’t brought her with him to the impromptu gathering at Copper State Cellars the day before.

Diane murmured something appropriate, and again, I was moved along before I could even begin to form an opinion.

The next man she introduced me to was Hal Pruitt, and I recognized him as the tall older man I’d seen at the bar on Saturday afternoon. Diane said he was one of the pillars of the church community, and maybe he was. He gave me a brief nod, said, “Father Frank was a good man, and Prescott has far too few of those,” and then wandered off into the crowd.

Just weird, but I also knew that grief could make people act in odd ways. Case in point, Jude Marsh, who’d gotten in my face even though I had absolutely nothing to do with Father Frank’s death.

Another brief introduction, this time to a woman named Terry Gallego, who was tall and model-slim and slightly harried, and looked as if she was a year or two older than I. She had a little boy clinging to her hand, one I thought was probably five or six, which I supposed could explain the distracted way she said hello after Diane introduced us.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Terry said. “But I was just taking Dylan to the bathroom. Please excuse me.”

And she hurried across the hall, her little boy almost running to keep up.

As Alice in Wonderland might have said, “ Curiouser and curiouser.”

Across the way, I saw the older woman in the navy blue sweater whom I’d noticed in the church earlier. A much younger man, whom I guessed was her grandson, was handing her a cup of coffee and nodding as she spoke.

But it seemed Diane didn’t think they were important enough to merit an introduction, because after a brief glance their way, she steered me to the other side of the room so I could meet a few more members of the parish council.

As I was exchanging pleasantries with them, I saw Jude Marsh enter the hall. He paused just inside the door, and for a second, his eyes met mine.

Then he nodded.

It was a very small nod, and it didn’t seem particularly friendly. On the other hand, it didn’t appear unfriendly, either. It was more like he’d acknowledged my presence and was ready to leave things there for now.

And I was surprised to see Adam Emerson walk in. We’d exchanged a few more texts and had tentatively agreed to dinner on Tuesday night, but I’d never in the world expected him to show up at this reception.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, and I managed a limp smile.

“Okay,” I said. “I think maybe I’m still in shock.”

“Understandable,” he replied. “Are you still okay with seven on Tuesday?”

“Sure,” I said faintly, and he smiled, murmured, “See you then,” and kept going.

Diane watched our exchange with slightly lifted brows — maybe she was surprised that I’d already managed to snag a date with one of Prescott’s most eligible bachelors after being in town for barely two weeks — but she didn’t say anything. No, she introduced me to a few more parishioners and got me a second cup of coffee, and when I made noises about needing to head home, she gave me her number and told me to call anytime.

“I know you don’t have many friends in Prescott yet,” she said, “and Father Frank would have wanted all of us to look after you. I know all about the bar’s history — Hazel and I weren’t close, but we were acquainted — and if you ever need to talk, I’m here.”

Those words were a relief. It was true that I hadn’t made a lot of friends yet, mainly because I’d been busy enough getting settled in at the bar and into my new life that I hadn’t had a chance to send out any feelers to see if I might find someone with similar interests to mine. And Diane, with all her connections in the community, would be a great ally.