“May I help you with somethin’?” the man’s voice called. I crossed the quiet street and walked closer to the window.

“I’m looking for Pastor Quinn,” I said. “Does he live here?”

“He lives here, yes.”

“Is he here now?”

“Right now? Well, yes. Right now he’s lookin’ out the window at you.”

It took me a moment, and then I laughed.

“Come on in,” he said, pointing toward the door. “I’ll meet you in the dining room.”

I walked to the door and turned the knob, stepping into a warm, roomy kitchen. It had an industrial dishwasher and double ovens, and through a large doorway I stepped into a room with seating for about 20.

“This is nice,” I said when he came in. “I bet you can feed a lot of people in here.”

“Even more than you’d think, lass,” he answered. “Have a seat. How can I help you?”

I pulled up a chair at the corner table and sat.

“My name is Callie Webber,” I replied. “I’m here on an investigation.”

“An investigation?” he asked. “A policewoman, are you?”

I shook my head.

“It’s a private investigation,” I said. “But if you’re Pastor Quinn, you can really help me out.”

“I’m Ian Quinn. You got somethin’ to ask me, child?”

“Sidra Smythe,” I said. “Do you know her?”

“Do I know her?” he cried. “She’s one of the Lord’s angels, she is. Comes to church almost every day, helps out in the church office, even cooks with the soup kitchen in here on the weekends.”

“My.”

“A lovely girl. So what is the problem?”

“I need to know if she was at Bible study here on Monday morning. Around 10:30 or 10:45.”

He sat back and squinted intelligent blue eyes at me.

“Same time of day that her father-in-law was murdered, is that what you’re asking?”

I hesitated for a moment, startled by his bluntness.

“She’s not necessarily a suspect,” I finally replied. “Right now, it’s still sort of a process of elimination.”

He leaned forward and rested both elbows on the table, looking at me earnestly. He seemed to be in his late 60s or early 70s, robust and healthy, with a tinge of a suntan on his face and the wiry body of a runner.

“Well, about fifteen other parishioners and I can tell you that Sidra Smythe was here for ten o’clock Bible study on Monday morning. She led the prayer. Got here well before ten.”

“What time did she leave?”

“Around noon—not until after she had helped straighten up after the service and helped us set up the tables for our Wednesday night prayer meeting.”

“Good.”