“Sure. Understood.”
Banyan rose from his chair. “Okay. I’m off. Going over to Harriette’s place to see how she’s doing?”
“Harriette?” Eli asked. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Didn’t come into work today. Called and said she was under the weather. I thought I might take her a nice fresh cup of coffee.
Twenty-Six
LEAP OF FAITH
“These are really fabulous!” Goldie exclaimed, looking at a collection of photographs that Father Fitz had taken for her article. It was now Tuesday afternoon, December 8, and she was downstairs in the basement of St. Mark’s. The photos were all on eight-by-ten-inch photo paper and were lined up on long tables. The young priest stood behind them, smiling proudly with his hands behind his back.
“You really think so?” he asked, wanting to relish the moment.
“You know these are great,” she affirmed like a supportive kid sister. “You’ve got a truly gifted eye for faces, lighting, and angles. You’re like Andy Warhol without the weird hair.”
“Thank you! Uh, who’s Andy Warhol?”
“Some guy back east. It’s not important.”
In no particular order, Father Fitz had captured a six-year-old Patty Bellows throwing the oversized light switch at the community tree lighting with a smile to match the tree’s wattage, a four-year-old boy looking mesmerized at the tree, a couple holding hands while walking through the covered bridge, an overview of the town taken from a serious hike up one of the mountains, the sealed-up entrance to the main Maynard mine, the pastry chef from the Pine River Inn presenting his homemade streusel-topped cherry pie to the camera, the line of gingerbread houses Goldie had judged at the community dance, and several others.
“Wow, this is going to be hard,” she said. “We’re probably only going to use four to six of these, and you’ve given me three times that many.”
“Well, I wanted to give you a choice of color or black-and-white,” Father said. “I’ve seen both in the magazine.”
“The photos are still predominantly black and white,” she noted, having reviewed several issues. “Color ain’t all that cost-effective yet.”
She picked up and handed him the photo of the sealed-up mine entrance. “Better put this one away. After me draggin’ you up there, I’m not sure I’ll use it. If you get a photo credit for the article, people will know you trespassed to take it. Better to use a photo from the historical society from when the mine was still active.”
“I wish you’d thought of that in the first place,” Father said, taking the photo and slipping it into a thin box for photography paper. “So, you’re going to write a complimentary story about the town, butstillgo after the mayor?”
“One doesn’t have anything to do with the other,” she replied. “I mean, yes, there’s a connection, but why should an entire town be damned because of one guy? So, yeah, my magazine is gonna run a story about Sparkledove bein’ the perfect place for Christmas next year, while the Associated Press might run a story about Banyan much sooner. I mean—that’s the plan, anyway.”
“And Evie Hines is going to exhume her father’s body?”
Goldie nodded. “She called the hotel, left me a message, and we spoke last night. She’s gonna petition a judge who happens to be an old friend of her dad’s to have his body dug up and perform an autopsy.”
“What are you expecting to find?” Father asked.
“That he was poisoned,” Goldie said with certainty. “Arsenic, rat poison, drain cleaner or somethin’. Once we determine that, I think the Associated Press story is a lock.”
“Can they determine that from an autopsy?” Father asked. “After all this time? After the body has been embalmed?”
“If the doctor knows what he’s lookin’ for, absolutely. Findin’ poison in embalmed bodies dates back to the 1880s. I researched it at the library.”
“Amazing,” the priest said.
“And if poisonisfound, that sure supports Martha Eggleston’s suspicions about Bucky.”
“I have to admit, Goldie, I challenged you to find more proof. The mere fact that Evie Hines is evenconsideringher father might’ve been poisoned is very compelling. It’s also very disturbing. Like somebody wanting to hear the mass in English instead of Latin.”
“Yeah. Don’t get too attached to that, Father,” she advised.
About five minutes later, Goldie stepped out the front door of the church and into a gleaming white winter’s day. A nice nativity creche with plastic figures had recently been put on the small front yard of the church, and she turned to look at it before noticing that Peter was waiting for her. He was dressed for work in a suit with no tie, wearing his winter overcoat, and leaning against his station wagon parked on the street.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said as she approached.
