“ ‘b***h your eye’?”
“I thought maybe she was referring to a woman named Yoreye, as in that b***h, Yoreye. Or something like that. She kept saying, ‘That’s why I’m here. To tell people. That b***h your eye stole our pattern.’ ”
“ ‘b***h your eye stole our pattern,’ ” I repeated. I wanted to make sure I was hearing this right.
“Then today, you introduced me to Bishop Uriah, from southern Utah.”
“Oh my God.”
“Yes. But a pattern? What pattern? I mean, how many men do you know who sew?”
I nodded, but not because I knew any men who did sewing. My mind was going along different lines: liturgical ones. I was also remembering what Meg had told me, that when she’d driven Charlie home from the party, he’d been agitated, and wanted to hire a private detective. And then there was what I’d just r
