The word was spreading like wildfire through the patrons. Some were weeping, one woman fainted, and some men wanted to give chase—but after whom? And to where?

Father Paul was trying to maintain some control, with Father Thomas, too, reaching out to their flock, reminding them to “stay calm and pray, seek God’s counsel.”

Father Frank was shell-shocked, leaning on the rail of the raised podium, looking as if he would keel over. Dr. Sam had managed to compose herself. Ty Wheeler, her husband, who had been in the crowd, ran forward to stand next to her, placing a strong arm over her slim, bare shoulders.

Montoya took the mic and reconfirmed what he’d tried to yell out earlier as he raced to the stage. “Everyone, listen up! I’m Detective Montoya, NOPD. Several of us are here, and we want you to know that we’re handling the situation, but we need your help. Everyone stay calm. Return to your seats. We’ve got a . . . situation here, but as long as we all work together, it’ll be okay. More officers and emergency workers are on their way, and as soon as they get here, we’ll start talking to each of you, taking statements and letting you leave. Until then, please, just sit tight.” He glanced over at Father Thomas and Dr. Sam, then added, “The auction will have to be postponed, and the staff at St. Elsinore’s will handle it and get in touch with all of you. For now, please, everyone just sit down.”

Fear was palpable, evident in the round eyes and white faces. The woman who had passed out was being attended to by a doctor.

Montoya and Bentz had managed to keep everyone but those onstage, and briefly the doctor, away from the body and had called for more backup, but the place was a nightmare.

Some people were craning their necks trying to look inside the piano. Others were at the doors trying to escape, while still others huddled together, worried and afraid, their night ruined, all concerned that a killer could be in their midst.

Montoya didn’t doubt it for a minute. He closed the lid of the piano while Bentz talked to the guy who pushed it into the display area.

How had Sister Louise, a big woman, been lifted inside and no one knew? Where had she died? When?

A dozen questions would have to be answered if they could, but for now he had to deal with crowd control, help keep the panic at bay.

Father Frank, who heretofore had been quiet, almost paralyzed, gathered himself, straightening his shoulders as he took a step toward the podium. “I suggest we pray again,” he said, and before anyone could argue, he bowed his head and made the sign of the cross over his vestments. In his deep baritone, he began, “Holy Father . . .”