Page 64 of Welcome to Murder Week

“Delightful,” she says, and resumes walking.

It seems we’re making laps around the graveyard.

“In full disclosure, I’m neither a real or pretend murderer or a real or pretend gossip. I never lie, but I don’t always tell the whole truth, as a matter of ethics. I do my best to be available to my parishioners twenty-three hours a day, seven days a week. because I leave one half hour a day for running.” She stops, lifts a foot, and wiggles her toes. “And a half hour for silent meditation. I put on my oxygen first, so to speak.”

She turns her attention to me with a look of concern. “You’ve lost someone recently? Someone dear to you?”

“How can you tell?” I say.

“It’s the way you’re not looking at the headstones.”

I don’t know what to say. It feels intrusive how she’s guessed at something so personal. Amity and Wyatt take a step away, suddenly interested in reading the inscriptions on the old graves. Arms folded, the vicar waits, like she has all the time in the world.

“My mother died,” I say, with an unfamiliar pang of sadness.

“Yes.” Sally takes my hands. Hers are cold. Did Germaine tell her about my situation too? “Anything I can do, I am here. I will not say that suffering brings great enlightenment, but it often does. May the Lord comfort you.”

Even more unexpected than a blessing from a vicar is the lump in my throat. I don’t know what to say, so I turn away.

The gravestones are old, many with moss covering their inscriptions. When I was in middle school, I used to ride my bicycle to the cemetery where my father was buried. His grave was on the edge, near a grove of birch trees. I’d sit there and try to talk to him, like people do in movies. But I had never known him. Was I supposed to introduce myself? Tell him I was good at spelling and volleyball? Or should I confess something, like the time I took my mother’s favorite earrings because I thought she might come back for them? I had so many questions, and I wanted answers. To know what he was like, what my mother had been like when he was alive. If he hadn’t died, would she have stayed?

“You can ask me anything,” the vicar says, as if she’s been reading my mind. “Anything else you’d like to know about death?”

Of course. She’s reminding us that we’re there not to inquire about a real tragedy but a fake one.

“Amity, Wyatt, any questions?” I say.

“What can you tell us about Tracy,” Amity says. “Did you know her well? Was she a churchgoer?”

“As I said, I will not pass along idle talk, but I can share observationsof existing facts. It’s conveyance of information, not gossip. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” we say in unison.

“Tracy came to Sunday services regularly. It was impossible to miss her because every week she’d have a new elaborate hairdo. They were spectacular, often high up enough on her head to cause a stir. She loved them, but my parishioners did not. More than once, I had to ask her to sit in the back, on the far outside edge of the pews, so as not to block anyone’s view. But wherever Tracy sat, she would gaze attentively in one direction.”

“At the pulpit?” Amity asks.

Sally lets out a big laugh.

“Of course not. She would stare at Stanley Grange.”

“Who’s Stanley Grange?” Wyatt asks.

“Why was she staring at him?” Amity says.

“Who wouldn’t? He’s a beautiful man. Chiseled features, bold jawline, always glowing like he was freshly exfoliated. Tall, with a head of lustrous dark hair. That would have appealed to Tracy, as a hair professional, don’t you think? He’s a successful businessman and very well-dressed. Posh clothes to go with his expensive car. A red Tesla in Willowthrop. Fancy that!”

“Let me get this straight,” Wyatt says. “Tracy came to church alone every Sunday, all dolled up, and stared at handsome Stanley Grange, who also came to church alone every Sunday in his red Tesla?”

“Who said Stanley came alone? Au contraire. He was always with his beautiful wife, Pippa.”

“Pippa?” Amity says.

“Yes, Pippa Grange,” Vicar Sally says. “Do you know her?”

I open my phone and find the photos of Tracy’s flat. The wiltedflowers, the legal notice, and finally her to-do list on the calendar in the Filofax. And there it is, a note to herself to “TELL PIPPA!” I show it to Amity and Wyatt.

“What was Tracy going to tell Pippa?” I say.

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