Twelve
I SEE HELEN ONLY BRIEFLY on Sunday at 8 a.m. Mass.
“Sorry, sweetie,” she says, “I’m going to be at the office all day going over the evidence. I’ve already had a call from the Archbishop, asking for information, and I have precious little to tell him yet.”
“When did he call you?” I ask.
“At 6 a.m.,” she grimaces. “At least I was awake and had a cup of coffee.”
“Did you get any sleep?” I say, yawning.
“About as much as you did, it looks like. How was the Applegates’ guest room?”
“Comfortable, but it’s not my own bed. I don’t sleep well in a strange bed. Never have.”
“Well, the Archbishop didn’t sound like he slept much, either,” Helen says. “Father Stratton’s murder really has him shaken.”
“I think what happened with Anna didn’t help,” I say.
“You know, someday I really nee
