I took the card. Looked at it. Looked at him.
A good Catholic girl, my mother would have said,is courteous to strangers.My mother had also never lived in St. Francisville, but the reflex was older than geography.
“I'm the administrative coordinator,” I said. “Can I help you?”
His eyes did a fast, professional assessment — not the way the men at the fundraiser had looked at me, nothing like that.
“I’ve been hired by a local family to look into a certain matter,” he said with a slight drawl and produced a photo from the inside of his linen jacket.
“I'm looking for a girl,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve seen her?”
The moment I took the photo, the cold thing was back. Immediate. There was a crease down the middle — an older picture. In it the girl was younger but I was more than certain this was the one from the flyer. Celeste.
“I saw a flyer,” I said carefully. “On Main Street.”
“Her mother put those up. The girl went missing on the 8th,” he said.
“What happened exactly? If you don’t mind my asking.” I handed the photo back. I was certain of it now. Celestewasthe girl I had seen during the fundraiser. Which meant… Judah had lied.
The more important question was — why?
“She simply didn’t come home,” the investigator said, tucking the photo away. “Police aren't treating it as high priority. Her mother doesn't agree with that assessment. Says Celeste was responsible, wouldn't simply run off, you understand.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Sweetheart, you said you saw the flyer—”
“Yes. But that’s all I can tell you. I don’t know much else. I’m a newcomer myself,” I told him.
He offered me one of those genuine old man smiles. “It’s always the newcomers who peep what the rest don’t,” he said, almost conspiratorially, tapping the side of his face. “Fresh eyes.”
I took a small breath.
The door — which could’ve only been the one to Judah’s study — opened and closed, and for whatever reason, I became acutely paranoid about what I could’ve disclosed to the PI.
“I wish I could be more helpful,” I told him.
“You’ve been,” he assured, and winked, but his gaze slid past me, to the source of the footsteps closing in.
Judah.
“Pastor Beaumont?” the investigator asked with a polite smile.
“Indeed,” Judah said, stopping next to me. He extended his hand for the investigator. “How can I help you, Mr…?”
“Hall. Gerald Hall.” The investigator's handshake was brief but firm. “The good southern winds have blown me in to look into the disappearance of a certain Celeste Taylor. I understand she attended service here?”
Something passed across Judah’s face, but it was gone before I could think on it. The investigator didn’t notice; he was fishing for something in the pockets of his jacket.
“Yes, with her grandmother occasionally.” Judah’s hand came to rest on the small of my back, so lightly I almost couldn’t feel it. “Though I believe she wasn’t living in St. Francisville.”
“Wasn’t?” the investigator repeated, finally finding what he was looking for. A silver case. Of cigarettes. “You mind if I smoke?”
“Perhaps not quite inside the church,” Judah said, gesturing to the outside. “I’m just locking up; we can talk more outside. While you smoke.”
“Smart thinking,” the PI agreed.
The three of us stepped outside into the humid evening air. The investigator immediately lit his cigarette, taking a deep drag before exhaling a cloud of smoke that hung in the still air.
“So. About the girl,” he continued, studying Judah's face. “You mentioned she wasn’t local?”
“Came and went, as far as I know,” Judah said. His hand remained on my back as we stood. I could feel the heat of his palm through my blouse. “Grandmother lives in St. Francisville, but as I understand, her family is not from here.”
