“You can say son of a b***h and I won’t mind,” I said.
“You wouldn’t, but my mother would.”
“Father Pete,” I said as I refilled his sherry glass, “does your personal prohibition against gossiping mean you won’t tell me anything negative about Patricia Ingersoll, Elizabeth Wellington, or Neil Tharp?”
He sipped his drink and smiled. “That is exactly what it means. But I will importune you for something to nibble on, if that’s all right. Please don’t think I’m the first priest a curious parishioner tried to squeeze secrets out of by getting him to drink too much, and on an empty stomach, no less.”
“I’m that transparent, huh?” I rummaged in one of our cupboards, pulled out a can of salted nuts, and poured them into a glass bowl.
“Alas. You are.”
He took a handful of nuts, then ducked to
