It wasn’t a single paper, but a sheaf of papers, folded and haphazardly shoved into the pocket. Phyllida extricated them, and when she played the light beam over the collection of papers, she gave a quiet sound of satisfaction.

The missing story contest results.

There would be plenty of time to wonder how and why they were in Rita’s possession—and how long they’d been there. Now she needed to alert Constable Greensticks and Inspector Cork about yet another dead person. There was a telephone in the rectory that would be more efficient than walking several blocks to the constabulary.

Phyllida stuffed the papers into her own pocket and rose from the pew. She had just slipped into the aisle to walk down and out when she heard the quiet sound of a door shift and thunk in its frame.

Someone was trying to get in through the side door she’d locked.

Phyllida turned off her torch and ran silently down the aisle to the main entrance, planning to hurry around to the side door and head off whoever was there. She didn’t want to open the door to a murderer; she’d rather take him or her—although she’d fairly well decided upon the culprit’s sex by now—by surprise.

Slipping out into the night through the main door, Phyllida dashed on light feet toward the side of the church, then stopped when she got to the edge of the building.

Peering carefully around the corner, she squinted into the dark, seeking any sort of movement, listening for any sound of humanity. The oak trees cast long, bushy shadows in the half moon, and their leafy branches skittered and scattered against one another in the soft breeze.

Everything was silent. There was no sign of human movement. Only the sound of her heightened breathing filled her ears.

Then, suddenly, she felt something—someone—behind her.

With a strangled cry, she spun—just in time to dodge something dark and heavy. It whooshed down, skimming past her ear and banging hard onto her shoulder. Her defensive movement and the blow knocked her off balance, and she stumbled, dropping her torch as she caught herself against a tree trunk.

“Stop!” cried Phyllida, but her attacker had darted off into the shadows.

She didn’t wait, but took off after the figure who accosted her. The weight of Bradford’s pocketknife bounced comfortingly—if a bit awkwardly—in her dress pocket, and Phyllida put her hand over the opening to keep it from falling out as she ran.

She could see only hints of the figure as it darted away from the church, away from the village green, and into the center of town, all the while staying in the shadows. Whoever it was wore a hat and a long, flowing coat, which, along with the darkness, obstructed any details of the culprit.