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to attend the Sunday services, to join their Bible study, to simply search deep inside for whatever gift God had dealt him. But Milton wanted no part of any of it.
    “Why should I?” he’d asked. “What’s God ever done for me, or the church, for that matter? I don’t need salvation, if that’s what you’re hintin’ at. All those fancy speeches you make . . . they’re just a lot of gobbledygook to me. Real pretty, maybe, but they don’t amount to much of anything. Besides, your pretty words haven’t seemed to help the God-fearing people of this town much. If anyone needs saving, it’s them. Biggest bunch of hypocrites I’ve ever seen.”
    Milton had shown an interest in one aspect of Fister’s life, however: teenage Maddy.
    “She’s a good-lookin’ thing and ripe as a tomato. Better keep your eye on her, Preacher, or someone’s gonna pluck her right from under your nose,” Grone had said, getting a look in his eyes that couldn’t be mistaken.
    Earnest tightened his hands into fists at the memory.
    No. He couldn’t say he’d miss Milton Grone. In fact, he forced himself to admit, what he felt, if not gladness, was a sense of relief.
    Though the truth in this instance was something he had to work his way around gently, or he’d have nothing to say at the funeral tomorrow. Nothing, save for “Amen.”

 
    Chapter 5
    H ELEN E VANS STOOD behind the screen door of her porch, refusing to open it to the twenty pound yellow tomcat who sat just outside, the remains of a field mouse dangling from his jaws.
    “I’m sorry, Amber,” she said, “but you’re not coming in with that thing in your mouth. Go on then. Shoo. Have your snack somewhere else and come back when you’ve finished.”
    The cat stared at her for the longest time, as if debating whether to go or stay. Then with an irritated swish of his tail, he popped onto his large paws and descended the stoop, the dead mouse swinging like a rubber toy.
    Helen shook her head as she watched him go, thinking that having a cat was much like coexisting with a very independent child: in the end, like the child, the cat often seemed to get his way. Except when there was a rodent involved, she decided, shuddering.
    She checked her wristwatch.
    Twenty to noon.
    She’d better get a move on if she wanted to make it to Lola Mueller’s on time for her luncheon date with the girls. “The girls” being about a dozen other ladies of River Bend who were members of their weekly Stitch and Sew, more commonly referred to as “Stitch and Bitch” since there was, admittedly, a good deal more gossip that went on than actual needlework.
    In fifteen minutes she was out of her sweatsuit and properly attired in blouse and skirt. She even managed to tame her wiry gray hair into an acceptable style. She added a touch of pink lipstick to her mouth before she snatched up her quilting bag and headed out the door.
    Clara Foley lumbered by just then, heading in the same direction. After breezy “hellos,” Helen fell into step with her. A few minutes later they reached Lola’s place. The porch buzzed with vociferous chatter, and Helen was reminded of the noisy banter of caged birds in the pet store.
    “Helen! Clara! Come right on in,” Lola’s mellifluous voice called out from behind the porch screens. “You’re the very ones we’ve been waiting for.”
    Clara went inside first, her pink muumuu billowing with a gust of wind. Helen entered next, acknowledging greetings sent her way by those already gathered on their wicker perches.
    Ida Bell and Dorothy Feeny sat side by side on a wooden swing bolted to the beamed ceiling. The two looked uncomfortable as always, out of place anywhere, Helen imagined, but their Save the Animal meetings. They attended Stitch and Sew under duress from their friends and, Helen decided, doubtless with hopes that one day their remarks about the demise of this species or that would send the less political women into action.
    Clara positioned