Murder on the Prowl by Rita Mae Brown Page A

from BoomBoom Craycroft.”
    â€œGood God.” Irene turned on her heel, leaving him next to his wildly expensive vehicle much favored by the British royals.
    Later that evening when Little Mim reluctantly briefed her mother on the meeting—reluctant because her mother had to know everything—she said, “I think I can make the film department happen.”
    â€œThat would be a victory, dear.”
    â€œDon't be so enthusiastic, Mother.”
    â€œI am enthusiastic. Quietly so, that's all. And I do think Roscoe enjoys chumming with the stars, such as they are, entirely too much. Greta Garbo.
That
was a
star.”
    â€œYes, Mother.”
    â€œAnd Maury—well, West Coast ways, my dear. Not Virginia.”
    â€œNot Virginia,” a description, usually whispered by whites and blacks alike to set apart those who didn't measure up. This included multitudes.
    Little Mim bristled. “The West Coast, well, they're more open-minded.”
    â€œOpen-minded? They're porous.”

8
    â€œWhat have you got to say for yourself?” A florid Skip Hallahan glared at his handsome son.
    â€œI'm sorry, Dad,” Sean muttered.
    â€œDon't talk to me. Talk to him!”
    â€œI'm sorry, Mr. Fletcher.”
    Roscoe, hands folded across his chest, unfolded them. “I accept your apology, but did you really think phoning in my obituary was funny?”
    â€œUh—at the time. Guess not,” he replied weakly.
    â€œYour voice does sound a lot like your father's.” Roscoe leaned forward. “No detentions. But—I think you can volunteer at the hospital for four hours each week. That would satisfy me.”
    â€œDad, I already have a paper route. How can I work at the hospital?”
    â€œI'll see that he does his job,” Skip snapped, still mortified.
    â€œIf he falters, no more football.”
    â€œWhat?” Sean, horrified, nearly leapt out of his chair.
    â€œYou heard me,” Roscoe calmly stated.
    â€œWithout me St. Elizabeth's doesn't have a prayer,” Sean arrogantly predicted.
    â€œSean, the football season isn't as important as you learning: actions have consequences. I'd be a sorry headmaster if I let you off the hook because you're our best halfback . . . because someday you'd run smack into trouble. Actions have consequences. You're going to learn that right now. Four hours a week until New Year's Day. Am I clearly understood?” Roscoe stood up.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œI asked you this before. I'll ask it one last time. Were you alone in this prank?”
    â€œYes, sir,” Sean lied.

9
    A ruddy sun climbed over the horizon. Father Michael, an early riser, enjoyed his sunrises as much as most people enjoyed sunsets. Armed with hot Jamaican coffee, his little luxury, he sat reading the paper at the small pine breakfast table overlooking the church's beautifully tended graveyard.
    The Church of the Good Shepherd, blessed with a reasonably affluent congregation, afforded him a pleasant albeit small home on the church grounds. A competent secretary, Lucinda Payne Coles, provided much-needed assistance Mondays through Fridays. He liked Lucinda, who, despite moments of bitterness, bore her hardships well.
    After her husband, Samson, lost all his money and got caught with his pants down in the bargain in an extramarital affair, Lucinda sank into a slough of despond. She applied when the job at the church became available and was happily hired even though she'd never worked a day in her life. She typed adequately, but, more important, she knew everyone and everyone knew her.
    As for Samson, Father Michael remembered him daily in his prayers. Samson had been reduced to physical labor at Kendrick Miller's gardening business. At least he was in the best shape of his life and was learning to speak fluent Spanish, as some of his coworkers were Mexican immigrants.
    Father Michael, starting on a second cup of coffee—two lumps of brown sugar