Seventeen
I WAKE UP FRIDAY MORNING with the happy knowledge that, with the exception of Noon Mass, I have no other meetings or other obligations all day. Especially after last night, I’m looking forward to a more-or-less quiet day.
As quiet, that is, as a day in a parish can be.
Especially when someone I care about is accused of murder.
To find out where things stand, I call Helen a little after 8 a.m. She answers on the first ring. “Hey,” she yawns.
“Did I wake you?” I ask.
“Are you kidding?” she says, the weariness clear in her voice. “I stayed with Gladys and didn’t get to sleep until 4 a.m. Then Nate woke us up at 6 a.m., knocking on the door.”
“What was Nate doing there at six in the morning?”
“He wanted to talk to me about joining the police department, Tom,” she says sarcas
