Chapter One

Chapter One


The night was dark as pitch, the moon and stars erased by a thick cloud cover that gave those wandering outdoors the feeling that they were in the midst of a cavernous mine.

It was after nine o'clock, considered late by most Dorsetville standards. Still, the members of Saint Cecilia's parish council lingered, attributable to both Mrs. Norris's apple-cranberry pie and the icy patches that only hours ago had been soft pools of water under the March thaw. Folks huddled over hot cups of coffee, reluctant to brave the brisk wind, the icy interiors of their cars, or the dark drive home.

Father James watched George Benson cut his fourth wedge of pie and a slice of Vermont cheddar. At this rate, there wouldn't be any leftovers, a problem he had never encountered before George was elected to the parish council.

"Pass the cream," George said, refilling his coffee mug.

Harry Clifford had brought a large thermos of coffee from the Country Kettle. This, too, George had nearly depleted. Father James passed the cream and harnessed a growing sense of resentment.

George wolfed down a sizable wedge of cheese, licked his fingers, then belched. His manners were about as uncouth as his appearance-greasy overalls, oil-stained fingers. This newest council member owned a heating and air-conditioning business and didn't feel it necessary to wash or change for meetings, which accounted for the strategic seating arrangements. George sat alone on one side of the ten-foot table. Ethel Johnson, Harriet Bedford, Sam Rosenberg (who had driven Harriet), Mary Pritchett, Harry Clifford, Mike Gallagher, and Father James were crowded along the opposite si