Bernadine said, “Oui, Papa,” in a small voice, but when Pierre had hung up, she said, “Well, at least I have two days before I need to leave. What can we do?”

“Go to church.”

Her mouth dropped ludicrously. “This is a joke, right? Since when have you ever gone to church? And if you think I need to attend Mass—”

“I need to go to church.” Mindful of the mike under the desk, I didn’t elaborate. “Did you bring anything respectable to wear?”

“I thought we would be detecting. I have only jeans and sweatshirts.”

“Then that’s what you’ll wear to worship.”

I put on my new jacket, a new superfine wool top in my favorite rose, my new jeans, and my Lario boots. Since Bernie was wearing jeans and her Northwestern Wildcats shirt, I had her run with Peppy up and down the hills on the university campus on our way into town.

When she was back in the car, I told her about the mike and explained why I wanted to attend worship: to see if there was any possibility that St. Silas or Riverside was harboring August and Ms. Ferring.

At that, of course, Bernie became animated, even excited, and was annoyed with me for stopping at the Hippo. We still made it to North Lawrence in good time for St. Silas’s morning service, but the church doors were locked: a notice in a plastic sleeve reminded parishioners that they were worshipping this morning at Riverside United Church. Great. I’d be able to see everyone. I drove back across the river, Peppy leaning out the window, happily anticipating a swim, Bernie chattering brightly about the possibility of locating August in Riverside’s basement.

The lot was full, with two buses labeled st. silas ame parked near the entrance, alongside vans from several assisted-living facilities. There was even one from St. Raphael’s. I managed to slide in between an SUV and the church’s garbage cans.

The service started at ten. We were fifteen minutes late, but not the only stragglers: a family whose mother was shouting in a whisper at her bickering daughters blocked the entrance until an usher hurried over to move them on.

Another usher handed us programs and escorted us to stairs that led to a balcony. As we climbed, the joint choirs of the two churches were singing a prelude, the music so loud that my diaphragm vibrated.

We squeezed into a spot in the middle of the right side, which gave me a good view of most of the main floor. Nell Albritten was in a front pew, flanked by her son and a tall teen who I supposed must be a grandson, perhaps a great-grandson. Bayard Clements, her pastor, was in the chancel with a large number of other people.