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alternative had she found particularly appealing. So when Father Koesler hesitantly asked whether she would consider working with him again downtown, her problem was solved. Her only continuing concerns were the daily drive between Dearborn and Detroit, and getting used to how this antique parish functioned. She decided to live with the former and gradually solve the latter.
    All that shoveling, plus his failed attempts at getting the blower started, had reduced Koesler’s routine to rubble. He had time only to duck briefly into the kitchen, acknowledge Mary’s presence, and hurry over to church.
    He had practically no time for any last-minute preparation for the day’s brief homily, but this day he didn’t need much time. It was the feast day of St. John the Evangelist, one of Koesler’s favorite saints. Author of the fourth Gospel and three touchingly simple Epistles, he was self-identified and known as “the disciple whom Jesus loved.” John alone, of all the apostles, stayed with Jesus at the cross to the end.
    And yet, what an odd and controversial conclusion to his own life. Tradition has it that he was the only apostle to escape literal martyrdom. Yet he is considered a martyr, since legend has it that the Roman emperor Domitian had John plunged into a cauldron of boiling oil from which he miraculously emerged alive. If this really happened, one wonders why Domitian didn’t try it again. Maybe there was some sort of Roman law forbidding double jeopardy. Maybe pardon was a reward for escaping death. Maybe it never happened.
    In any case, Koesler determined to develop a three-minute homily on John as a very old man constantly urging his disciples to love one another. When they complained about this repetition, John assured them that, “It is the word of the Lord and if you keep it, you do enough.”
    The fervorino on love went over well with Koesler’s tiny but devout congregation.
    By the time he finished Mass, Koesler could almost taste the coffee Mary O’Connor was keeping hot for him. It was not yet midmorning but already he felt as if he’d put in a considerable day.
    Cold cereal, a banana, and coffee would constitute breakfast. As he began eating, Mary joined him, pouring herself a cup of coffee. This was unusual. Ordinarily, he breakfasted alone while Mary continued to prepare St. Joseph’s books and records for the twenty-first century.
    “Did you hear the news?” Mary asked.
    Koesler looked up, startled. They did not often discuss current events unless it was something of truly pressing importance, “No, I guess not.” He’d heard the eleven o’clock news last evening, but that had contained nothing that Mary would consider vital. “I haven’t started the Free Press yet and, seeing my duty, I cleared snow instead of listening to the radio. Something important happen?”
    “Sister Joan Donovan’s sister was murdered.”
    “The delegate for religious? I didn’t know she had a sister.” This though Koesler had been around long enough to be extremely familiar with the archdiocesan structure and personnel.
    Mary sat down opposite him, cradling her cup. “My impression is that not many people knew. According to the news report, her sister was a high-priced call girl.”
    “No kidding!”
    “The report I heard said she was killed at St. Leo’s convent … at least that’s where they found her body.”
    “Wait a minute: Sister Joan lives at St. Leo’s. Everybody knows that. Was her sister visiting her?”
    “I don’t really know. The report was kind of sketchy and I’m not sure of all the details. I guess the body was found sometime this morning—not too long ago; there’s nothing in the paper about it.” A playful expression crept into Mary’s eyes. “It’s times like this that I wish I knew someone who knew somebody in the police department so we could find out what really happened.”
    Only gradually did what she was saying dawn on Koesler, “You mean—” He smiled as he