Liturgical Mysteries 01 The Alto Wore Tweed Read Online Free PDF

wing her before she made the door. Nah.

    • • •

    We went through the sanctuary, into the sacristy, out the back door, down some steps into the alley and into the back door of the kitchen. The parish hall, of which the kitchen was a part, was a separate building with a hallway linking it to the sanctuary from the front but opening to an alley in the back. JJ Southerland was standing by the stove stirring a large pot of soup with a cut off canoe paddle.
    “I presume that soup is for the supper tonight?”
    “Of course, dahling.”
    JJ’s southern accent is hard to place. It’s almost British in its gentility and it is a joy to listen to her. Of course, she’s just plain nuts and one of my favorite people. She’s been cooking for the church for years. She’s not part of the staff, but she enjoys doing what she has time for. Sometimes her soup is delicious. Sometimes it is the worst stuff you ever put in your mouth.
    “Your crew isn’t coming for supper,” I said to JJ as I poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Meg who had come in right behind me.
    “I heard. But I might as well finish the soup for Sunday.”
    “It was Willie.”
    “Well, I’m sorry,” she said, not looking up from her pot, her two hands continuing to pull the paddle though the vegetable-laden hodgepodge.
    Dave had gotten a soda out of the machine. I got a cup of coffee for myself and for Nancy. The good thing about the St. Barnabas kitchen was that there was always a cup of coffee and it was always good. Not that weak, watery swill that most churches pass for coffee. St. Barnabas had Community Coffee shipped in monthly from Louisiana. I didn’t know if we had a Minister of Coffee or if angels came down and fixed it on a regular basis, but there was always a pot ready to drink. It was sort of like Elijah and the jar of oil that never emptied—an analogy I enjoyed.
    Dave walked over and looked into the pot. “Mistake,” I thought. JJ didn’t like people looking into a pot of unfinished soup.
    “What’s in it?” Dave asked. “Did you say it was beef?”
    “No,” said JJ. “Not beef. I said beak. Duck beeeeak.”
    Dave was an easy mark.

    • • •

    I drank my coffee and turned to JJ. “You didn’t make the 911 call, did you?” I was trying to be as offhand and innocuous as possible.
    “No, I did not!” said JJ emphatically, glaring at me. “You think I would do that without calling you first?”
    “Nah. I guess not.” I paused, then framed another question. “I think Willie might have been poisoned. Did he come by here and get anything to eat before he went to work?”
    JJ stared daggers at me, pulling up one of the straps on her overalls that had slid down over her shoulder. “I’ve been here since three. He came by once but didn’t take anything. Then I did pass him in the hall on my way to the bathroom. That was about five, I guess. But if he was poisoned, it wasn’t anything that I cooked!”
    “Any food missing?”
    “Nothing I brought. I don’t know what was in the fridge.”
    Meg was leaning against the counter, cupping her coffee in both hands as if trying to warm herself over the mug.
    “Why would someone do such a thing?” sheed of no one in particular. Nancy put an arm around her.
    The refrigerator was stocked with staples. It was a commercial model of stainless steel with wire racks. I pushed around some sticks of margarine, mayonnaise and other condiments, some leftover Jello salad from last week, some kind of marinade and other unidentifiable but seemingly harmless stuff. I really didn’t know what I was looking for.
    “Let’s empty the refrigerator and send everything down to the lab in Boone. I know it’s a pain, but we don’t need to take any chances.”
    I lifted the bowl of marinade and gave it a sniff, but in reality, I didn’t have a clue what I was sniffing for. I thought briefly about sticking my finger into the bowl and giving it a taste, but a vision of Willie lying up in the