Murder on the Prowl by Rita Mae Brown Page B

and a dollop of Devonshire cream—blinked in surprise. He thought he saw a figure sliding through the early-morning mist.
    That needed jolt of caffeine blasted him out of his seat. He grabbed a Barbour jacket to hurry outside. Quietly he moved closer to a figure lurking in the graveyard.
    Samson Coles placed a bouquet of flowers on Ansley Randolph's grave.
    Father Michael, a slightly built man, turned to tiptoe back to the cottage, but Samson heard him.
    â€œFather?”
    â€œSorry to disturb you, Samson. I couldn't see clearly in the mist. Sometimes the kids drink in here, you know. I thought I could catch one in the act. I am sorry.”
    Samson cleared his throat. “No one visits her.”
    â€œShe ruined herself, poor woman.” Father Michael sighed.
    â€œI know. I loved her anyway. I still loved Lucinda but . . . I couldn't stay away from Ansley.” He sighed. “I don't know why Lucinda doesn't leave me.”
    â€œShe loves you, and she's working on forgiveness. God sends us the lessons we need.”
    â€œWell, if mine is humility, I'm learning.” He paused. “You won't tell her you saw me here, will you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIt's just that . . . sometimes I feel so bad. Warren doesn't visit her grave, and neither do the boys. You'd think at least once they'd visit their mother's grave.”
    â€œThey're young. They think if they ignore pain and loss, it will fade away. Doesn't.”
    â€œI know.” He turned, and both men left the graveyard, carefully shutting the wrought-iron gate behind them.
    At the northwest corner of the graveyard a massive statue of the Avenging Angel seemed to follow them with his eyes.
    â€œI just so happen to have some of the best Jamaican coffee you would ever want to drink. How about joining me for a cup?”
    â€œI hate to trouble you, Father.”
    â€œNo trouble at all.”
    They imbibed the marvelous coffee and talked of love, responsibility, the chances for the Virginia football team this fall, and the curiousness of human nature as evidenced by the false obituary.
    A light knock on the backdoor got Father Michael out of his chair. He opened the door. Jody Miller, one of his parishioners, wearing her sweats as she was on her way to early-morning field hockey practice, stood in the doorway, a bruise prominent on her cheek and a red mark near her eye that would soon blacken.
    â€œFather Michael, I have to talk to you.” She saw Samson at the table. “Uh—”
    â€œCome on in.”
    â€œI'll be late for practice.” She ran down the back brick walkway as Father Michael watched her with his deep brown eyes. He finally closed the door.
    â€œSpeaking of curious.” Samson half smiled. “Everything is so important at that age.”
    It was.
    Five minutes after Samon left, Skip Hallahan pulled into Father Michael's driveway with Sean in the passenger seat. Reluctantly, Sean got out.
    â€œFather!” Skip bellowed.
    Father Michael stuck his head out the backdoor. “Come in, Skip and Sean, I'm not deaf, you know.”
    â€œSorry,” Skip mumbled, then launched into Sean's misdeed before he'd taken a seat.
    After Skip ranted for a half hour, Father Michael asked him to leave the room for a few minutes.
    â€œSean, I can see the humor in calling in the obituary. I really can. But can you see how you've upset people? Think of Mrs. Fletcher.”
    â€œI'm getting the idea,” Sean replied ruefully.
    â€œI suggest you call on Mrs. Fletcher and apologize. I also suggest you call Janice Walker, editor of the obituary page at the paper, and apologize, and lastly, write a letter of apology and send it to ‘Letters to the Editor.' After that, I expect the paper will take your route away from you.” The good priest tried to prepare him for retaliation.
    Sean sat immobile for a long time. “All right, Father, I will.”
    â€œWhat possessed you to do this? Especially