I ARRIVE AT THE MYER Estate an hour later. Rebecca Myer greets me at the door.
“Thanks for coming, Father,” she says as she closes the door behind me.
“Sorry I took so long, I had a stop to make first.”
“Parish emergency?” she asks.
“No, I just had to see someone,” I say.
She shows me into the dining room, where the table is spread with a variety of food. Fruit bowls, vegetable platters, a variety of cold cuts, and breads. I grab a plate and make myself a sandwich. I get a glass of water and go to find a quiet place to sit down for a few minutes.
The crowd is conversing quietly in small groups. In one of the armchairs sits Marjorie Watson. Edmund sits next to her on a folding chair. I walk up to the Watsons.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask.
“You’ve already done enough,” Edmund Wats
