Page 62 of Dead to Rites

I didn’t even have to think about it. “Sure,” I replied.

The corners of his mouth lifted. “And then tomorrow, we’ll figure out how to prove what I think we both know.”

Although I didn’t quite sag with relief, his words still made a rush of gratitude go through me.

I wouldn’t have to do this alone.

Sunday wasn’t crazy busy, just steady enough that I could keep my focus on the bar and didn’t have to think about my conversation with Jude too much, or dwell on how much I was looking forward to dinner with him.

But I couldn’t quite let go of what Hazel had said about something being different, how Frank had come to see her one last time and how he’d told her something he hadn’t told her before, even though he couldn’t remember what it was.

What if Hazel really did know? What if she’d been about to write down whose confession Father Frank had been carrying inside all that time, and whoever killed Frank had killed her as well to keep her from revealing who that person was?

The thought chilled me, even as I poured wine and mead and beer, even as I put together the afternoon’s latest charcuterie board.

As far as I knew, no one had been in the house in any meaningful way since Hazel had died — well, except me and her cleaning service, the same people she’d worked with for twenty years. The reception after her funeral had taken place at the bar, not in her home. As far as I knew, Wes Lindley had never been in Hazel’s house.

But I didn’t know that for sure.

I’d already told Marco and Alix that I needed to leave a little early, so I ducked out around six-thirty instead of staying until eight, got into my car, and drove about five minutes to my destination.

Jude’s house was close to downtown, an adorable stone cottage that looked vaguely pueblo-style and not like most of the Victorian and Craftsman-style houses that dotted the older parts of Prescott. The inside was just as cozy as the outside, with a stone fireplace and wide-plank wood floors and a jumble of antiques that shouldn’t have gone together but somehow did.

We sat at a farmhouse table in the dining room and had pasta with pesto, along with a grenache I’d brought from work, hoping it would work well with whatever he’d made for dinner. The pairing worked beautifully, and I allowed myself to be proud of that. It seemed the wine bar was rubbing off on me.

By some unspoken agreement, Jude and I didn’t talk about murders and ghosts. Instead, we talked about Prescott, about his favorite places to eat, about how his family had always been members of Sacred Heart’s parish.

“Well, until recently, anyway,” he added as he poured me some more wine. “My parents moved to Sun City about three years ago. They got tired of the winters up here.”

“Are they that bad?” I asked, trying to visualize myself shoveling mountains of snow or wading through waist-high banks to get to work.

He chuckled. “Not really. We get some snow, and some winters we’ll get a storm or two that can be kind of nasty. But it’s not like living up in Flagstaff. You’ll do fine.”

I hoped he was right. Halloween was now just a few days away, and a month after that, it would be Thanksgiving, and then Christmas.

Would Prescott get a white Christmas?

That might be kind of fun.

We cleared the dinner plates, and Jude made coffee. After a brief pause so he could get a fire started, we sat down on the couch.

The atmosphere was warm and almost comforting, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to bring up the topic at all. But we’d been avoiding it all evening, and I knew I needed to bring it up.

“I’m afraid Hazel might have been murdered as well,” I blurted.

Jude just looked at me for a moment. Something in his eyes told me he wasn’t going to tell me I was imagining things, however.

“If you’re right about that,” he said, “then this isn’t just about Father Frank. This is about both of them. And whoever did this would have gotten away with one murder already, which could be what gave them the nerve to commit the second.”

The same suspicion had already been rattling around in my mind. But suspicions weren’t enough. We needed solid proof. And with the case getting colder by the day, we needed to do something quickly.

“We need a plan,” I said.

“We do,” Jude agreed.

His hand moved toward mine. Without speaking, we sat there with our fingers twined together, watching the logs burn steadily in the big stone fireplace.

I still didn’t know what we were about to do…but at least we’d be doing it together.