“Somebody slashed these tires,” he said, showing her the cuts in the black rubber. “Do you have any idea who did it?”

“Of course not. Why?”

“You better file a police report or the insurance won’t pay.”

“Really?” Lucy had been hoping to get on the road as soon as possible.

“Really.”

It took the mechanic almost an hour to change all four tires, and then Lucy spent another half hour at the police station, filing a report that morphed into a complaint against Preston. Lucy knew it was necessary, but she didn’t feel comfortable about it as she finally began the trip. The last thing she wanted was for the situation to escalate.

As she turned into the carefully landscaped grounds of St. Bernard’s Home, Lucy belatedly wondered if she should have called ahead. For all she knew, Father Keenan could have one of the terrible diseases of aging like Alzheimer’s, ALS, or Parkinson’s. Or perhaps he was fit as a fiddle and maintained a busy schedule of golf and bridge. She’d been foolish to assume he had nothing better to do than sit and wait for her to come and ask him questions. But when she asked for him at the reception desk she was relieved to be sent out back to the garden, where she found him picking tomatoes.

“Father Keenan?”

“How can I help you?” replied a tall, lean man wearing a black cotton shirt with a backwards collar, farmer’s overalls and a straw hat. His creased face was deeply tanned and he had bright blue eyes.

“I’m looking for information about a family in your parish,” said Lucy. “Do you have a few minutes?”

“I surely do,” said the priest, with a shrug. “And I wouldn’t mind getting off my feet for a bit.”

“I’m Lucy Stone, from the Pennysaver newspaper in Tinker’s Cove, Maine,” said Lucy, extending her hand.

His grip was warm and strong. “I guess you know who I am. Formerly parish priest and now gardener.”

“A very fine gardener,” said Lucy, eyeing the basket of ripe, red tomatoes. “Those are gorgeous. What’s your secret?”

“I talk to them,” said Father Keenan, a twinkle in his eye. “They say they like the carbon dioxide in your breath but I prefer to think plants enjoy a bit of company. As do I.”

“I’m afraid this goes back quite a few years,” began Lucy. “I’m looking for information about a family named O’Toole. They had a daughter named Mary Catherine and a son named Thomas Preston. I think they may have lived in Jamaica Plain.”