Most of the church ladies chimed in either with the rumors they’d heard or to say how anxious they were. But by some unspoken agreement they all deferred to Minerva’s superior cause for alarm—after all, she was not only a known enemy of the fleeing killer but her husband was even now risking life and limb to bring the fugitive to justice. Several of them vied to see who could refresh her tea.

“I’m sure we’ll all be praying for a speedy end to this terrible situation,” Robyn said. She clasped Minerva’s hands. “And for the safety of our brave law enforcement officers, and for the soul of poor Mr. Vess.”

“And for Mr. Lightfoot, too,” put in Reverend Wilson, craning around from behind the table, where he was filling cups of cider. “For ‘I say to you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repents, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.’ There is still hope for Mr. Lightfoot.”

There were murmurs of “amen,” from the assembled tea ladies and Minerva lifted her chin and looked comforted.

“Although I hope no one will object if I hope Mr. Lightfoot starts his repenting very soon, and from the inside of a jail cell,” I added.

“Lord, yes,” Minerva said.

“I look forward to the day when he is safely locked up,” Reverend Wilson said. “And I can begin to help him wrestle with the heavy burden of sin he must be carrying.”

“I just hope Henry finds him before Christmas Day.” Minerva looked anxious. “I remember one terrible year back in Baltimore, not too long after we were married, when he was working twenty hours a day trying to catch a serial arsonist and didn’t have time to open our presents until three days after Christmas. And he’s not a young man anymore.”

“Oh, that reminds me, dear,” Mother said. “Before I forget.”

She glided over to the tea table, reached underneath, and pulled out a gaily wrapped package.

“This is for you, Meg dear.”

I suppressed the urge to ask her why she felt it necessary to give me the present now, when I would either have to run out to the car to stow it or lug it with me during the entire play.

“Thanks,” I said instead. I couldn’t help noticing that she was displaying none of the delight she normally took in presents, even when they were intended for other people. In fact, she had looked relieved the second it left her hands. “Who’s it from?”

“Cousin Sylvia.” From her grave tone of voice, she obviously knew how I felt about getting a parcel from Sylvia. For that matter, how everyone felt. We both stared at the parcel for a few moments in silence.

“What’s wrong?” Robyn asked.

“Cousin Sylvia is an avid knitter,” I said.

“I love hand-knitted presents,” Robyn said. “Lucky you!”