Ms. Peasgood? Oh my sister, of course, I always think of her as just ‘Dottie’. Yes. She was in the kitchen.” He sat on the edge of the desk and lifted both legs up, held them rigid and slowly lowered them back down. His face mottled a bright purple. Steady, I thought, or we’ll be having two funerals at St. Grimbald’s this week.
“And did you see Mrs. Edith Francis drink anything?”
Father Donald looked off into space. I could almost see when the light bulb went on. “Why yes! I did! She drank the cup of coffee Dorothy gave her.”
Sergeant Bickerton was instantly alert. “So, you’re saying that Ms. Peasgood did give Mrs. Francis something, after all?” he asked in a voice of steel. “I think I should have a little talk with Ms. Peasgood myself.”
“Oh, dear, must you? She gets upset so easily. It’s her nerves, you know—very delicate. Always have been, although not when she was younger of course, not that she’s all that old now, but still, the pills have made a great difference, although she’d rather not have anyone know that she takes them, in fact please don’t mention I told you, she’ll kill me, I’m sure. She’s capable of almost anything when she gets in a temper…”
After that, I watched it go steadily downhill. The upshot was that Dorothy was asked to go into the station with Sergeant Bickerton to give a statement, and Father Donald insisted on going along to give her moral support. Frankly, I feared he’d given her far too much support all ready. I, of course, was asked to take the Parish Council meeting in his absence.
I arrived several minutes late, but contrary to their usual practice, everyone was already there. Even Morley Leet made it, although I thought he still looked a bit shaky. It seemed appropriate that I break the news about Edith so that we could begin with a moment of silence for our dear departed substitute organist.
“I have some very sad and serious news,” I began. “Today, we have lost a vital part of St. Grimbald’s, someone who is near and dear to each and every one of us, someone whom we will all sorely miss, someone who unselfishly contributed so much towards the spiritual worship in our congregation. I know you all feel as saddened as I do by this tragic loss.” I paused dramatically, thinking I’d done pretty well by poor old Edith, and wondered if I’d be called upon for the funeral eulogy. Before I could continue, Morley Leet stood up.
“I’d like to say a few words,” he said. I was surprised, since I hadn’t realized he was especially fond of Edith.
“I’d like to have it put on the record that I have always admired the steadfast leadership and deep spiritual qualities that were brought to this parish by Father Donald. I’m sure I speak for us all when I say that he was a good rector and an all-around good human being.” He wiped a tear from his eye, sat down and looked solemnly around him.
Before I could say anything, the door banged open and Father Donald bounded into the room. “I’m back! Well I wasn’t really away, just gone for awhile, but I was with you all in spirit. So how’s the meeting going, Charles—have you told them my good news?”
Morley Leet stood up. His chair fell with a crash backwards onto the cement floor. He thrust an arm towards Father Donald. “You! You’re, you’re…” and he fainted dead away.
Suddenly, I flashed back to yesterday’s coffee hour, and I could see the arm thrusting the cup of coffee into the Father Donald’s hands. I could hear the voice, “Here you are, Father Donald. A double-double. Just the way you like it.” It had been Morley Leet. The drugged coffee was not only deliberate, but it had been meant for Father Donald. And Edith was dead because of Dorothy’s vigilance, not vengeance.
“Shoot! I knew Morley Leet was going to love my news about the money, but I never expected him to be this excited, well maybe not excited, although he is pretty overcome.” Father Donald rushed to Morley’s side and slapped him, not too gently on the cheeks. Morley sat up and looked groggily at Father Donald.
“I guess ten thousand is a lot of money, Morley, enough to make any treasurer faint,” Father Donald told him.
“Ten thousand! I never took that much! Just enough to put a down payment on the boat!”
“No, no! You’ve got it all wrong. The Bishop has given us a grant of $10,000 for a new well and septic system. I don’t think we can help you with your boat, although, perhaps you could get some kind of grant from the government, they’re always handing out money for fishermen, although you don’t fish do you, or at least not professionally, although on the other hand…”
It was time for me to intervene. “Excuse me, Father Donald, but Morley Leet and I have some business with Sergeant Bickerton, don’t we, Morley? I’ll just leave you to carry on with the meeting.” I got a firm grip on Morley’s arm and hustled him into the kitchen, where I could lock the door while I made the phone call. Behind me, I could hear Father Donald’s voice.
“Shoot! What a shame! Charles has let the cat out of the bag, and I wanted to be the one to tell you the good news, well not really news now since you already know, and not really good since I suppose he told you about poor Edith, well, not poor in spirit, but poor in, well, not poor at all, especially where she’s gone. At least I presume that’s where she’s gone, although, on the other hand…”
PAT WILSON AND KRIS WOOD have been friends for over 30 years, although they’ve seldom lived near each other. Instead, they’ve run businesses, written stories and collaborated on many projects through e-mail, fax and phone. Pat is an international speaker. Kris is a gerontologist. Both are published authors. Now they are next-door neighbours living in Nova Scotia. The characters in this story will be appearing in a full-length mystery novel that the pair are currently preparing.
SEIGNEUR POISSON
R. J. HARLICK
Maudite neige!’ Jacques cursed as he fought through another deep snow drift. Those stupid old fools to go fishing in such weather.
With his eyes half shut against the stinging snow, he scanned the frozen lake, hoping to see his grandfather and great-uncle. The sooner he found Pépère and Mononcle Hippolyte, the sooner he could get back to his tape of last night’s hockey game.
“Impossible to see in this soup,” he muttered at the wall of swirling white. He pulled his hood tighter.
Wondering how far he’d come, he looked back to the shore and groaned when he saw the red blur of the barn, its light the only sign of life in this vacuum. Sacrifice! He’d only come a short distance. But then again, it meant the beer he’d abandoned was still within easy reach.
It would serve those two crazies right if he left them to handle things on their own. After all, it was their pig-headedness that had forced him out in this blizzard.
He wavered for a second. He could almost feel the smooth beer running down his throat. Then with a deep drag on his cigarette, he turned back into the storm’s fury. He had no choice; he had to find those stupid old men.
It was difficult going. And the blasted snowshoes didn’t make it easier. He heaved one foot out of the snow and slapped it onto the shifting surface in front of him. It disappeared under a foot of powder. He picked up his back leg and swung it around.
“Tabarnac!” he yelled when his leg, minus a snowshoe, plunged into the snow. He’d kill that old man when he found him. He jammed his boot back
