Nineteen
THANKFULLY, AFTER 12 p.m. Mass, I’m able to work uninterrupted the rest of the afternoon on my homily. I finally stop at 4 p.m. to begin preparing dinner, all of Helen’s favorites: pot roast, mashed potatoes, brussel sprouts with bacon.
Because bacon just makes everything better.
I’m puttering around the kitchen when my phone rings. I’m surprised—and a bit concerned—when I see it’s Helen.
“Hey,” I say, “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you before you came over. Anything new on the case?”
“No,” she grumbles. “Not really. We’re trying to interview people from the Hoot-n-Holler, the bar where Gladys and Chad met, who were there Monday night. We’ve found a couple of witnesses. But that’s not why I called. I just wanted to make sure we were still on for tonight.” I hear the exhaust
