She was surprised to see a spark of recognition in the old man’s eyes. “I remember them well. They were adorable children. She was the older and she took great care of her little brother. I always thought what a wonderful mother she would make.” He sighed. “It was a great tragedy, what happened to their father. It was in all the papers at the time, I’m sure you’ll remember it.”

“I didn’t grow up around here,” said Lucy. “I was raised near New York City.”

“Even so, it made national news. It was that shocking. Their father was a police officer, one of Boston’s finest. He was shot attempting to stop a bank robbery. Shot and killed. His wife, a lovely woman but very fragile, never got over it. She took her own life shortly after.”

“Who raised the children?”

“They went into foster care, I believe.” He shook his head. “Like I said, it was very sad.”

“Were the robbers caught?”

“I believe so. There was a trial, I remember. Very sensational. It was during the last years of the Vietnam War, you see, and they had some crazy idea of robbing the bank to finance some sort of protest against the military-industrial complex. They were defended by a prominent leftist lawyer from Harvard, his name escapes me right now but it will come back to me eventually.” He smiled apologetically. “Usually it does, but sometimes it takes a day or two. Funny, I can remember his long, curly hair but I can’t remember his name.”

“I know the feeling,” said Lucy.

He smiled. “Now it’s my turn to ask the questions. Why do you want to know about the family O’Toole?” A faint trace of an Irish brogue crept into his speech.

Lucy hesitated before answering. It was warm on the stone bench and the garden was peaceful and quiet. The only sound was the hum of cicadas and she could smell the peppery scent of the tomato leaves. She didn’t want to bring violent death into this lovely place.

“I’ve heard it all before, you know,” he prompted her. “I have heard things in the confessional that would curl your hair.”

“I can well imagine,” said Lucy. “They’re both dead. Mimi, I mean Mary Catherine, was stabbed in her kitchen. Her husband has been charged with the crime. Her brother was homeless but somehow he heard about the funeral and came to Tinker’s Cove but they found his body in the harbor, drowned.”

Father Keenan picked up one of the tomatoes and stroked its silky skin with his callused thumb. “Did Mary Catherine have any children?”

“Yes,” said Lucy, eager to give him some good news. “Two boys. Preston is eighteen and Tommy is fifteen.” She saw no need to mention Tommy’s suicide attempt or Preston’s threats. “Nice boys.”

“It must be a very difficult time for them.”