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Gielczowski thought he should testify for her at her trial. Do you know if he’s still in the Chicago area?”
    Cardenal shook his head. “He has advanced dementia, from what I’ve heard. The Polish ladies visit him sometimes and come back sad because he doesn’t know them.”
    Gielczowski with dementia. What a horrible punishment, even for someone as hurtful as he had been. “Would he have written something down? Notes for his testimony at her trial, something like that?”
    “If he made notes for trial testimony they’d be in his private journals, not here.” He held up a hand as I started to ask. “No, I don’t know if he even kept a personal diary, or who has it if he did. Parish records are about money and meetings.”
    “Can I look at the meetings the night that Annie Guzzo died?”
    Cardenal made a face. “I wish you’d asked me when I still was covered with plaster dust, but yes, we can find them, I guess.”
    The records were in yet another chilly room with a cracked ceiling and dirty windows. Cardenal left me alone with the cartons. They weren’t stacked in any particular order, and the parish had celebrated its 125th anniversary five years back. Twenty-seven of the forty-two years Gielczowski had been the priest had been among the most active in St. Eloy’s history. I read about baptisms and weddings until my eyes glazed over. The only thing that was remotely relevant was the report of the bingo game for the Wednesday night Annie died: 192 people had taken part, the top prize of $250 had gone to Lyudmila Wojcek, and the income net of prizes and refreshments had been $318.50.
    I put the registers back where I’d found them, and brushed as much of the dust from my shirt and jeans as I could. Father Cardenal wasn’t in his office when I went to say good-bye, so I left a short thank-you note. I added a twenty, with a message to put it into the building fund.

WHIFFING THE CURVE
    Back in my office, back in my present life, I put on Mozart’s Requiem , with Emma Kirkby singing the soprano line—almost with Gabriella’s purity. The music suited my bleak, elegiac mood.
    I had given Frank his free hour and then some, but I couldn’t quite let the matter go. He wouldn’t have come to me if he hadn’t been feeling desperate, or at least worried, by what was going on with his mother.
    I wrote down everything I could remember, both from his conversation and from hers. The choir had finished their plea for eternal light before I finished comparing what Frank and Stella had each said. I studied the chart I’d made before calling Frank’s cell.
    I could hear traffic noise in the background when he answered. Don’t talk while driving, I thought of admonishing him, but really, I wanted to get the conversation out of the way as fast as possible.
    “Frank, I went to see your mother this morning, and I don’t know who is more confused, her, me or you.”
    “You went to see her?” he repeated, indignant. “Why did you do that? I thought you were going to investigate Annie’s death.”
    “I had to start someplace, and she’s the person with the most intimate knowledge of your sister’s death. You can’t have thought I wouldn’t go to her.”
    “Why didn’t you start with the cops?”
    “I did: those files went into cold storage a long time ago.” Clients are always thinking they have a better action plan than the investigator they hired—even clients who tried to comfort you when their mothers had disrupted your own mother’s funeral.
    “Ma let you in? How did she—what did she say?”
    “A lot of stuff: the same old, same old about my mother and your dad, and then newer stuff about Boom-Boom and Annie, and then stuff I never knew about you. Your tryout with the Cubs.”
    “She talked about that?”
    “Yes. When did that happen?”
    I heard honking and braking in the background. Frank swore at some other driver and hung up. When I reached him again, traffic sounds had been replaced by Muzak