We changed the subject as Barbara Rutledge came over. I didn’t want a relationship between Bernie and Cady to blossom—Cady’s ardor, and her desire to explore the ground where she’d been born, would inevitably ignite a wildfire in Bernie.

Rutledge merely wanted to report that she hadn’t found a connection between Doris McKinnon and Francis Roque, the dead pathologist. “I thought maybe they were cousins or in-laws or something, but he moved here from South Dakota when he finished medical school. He doesn’t have any family in the area.”

“His tech seems to think it was because he’d done high-profile work on a murder case some years ago that involved black mold,” I said. “Ms. McKinnon wanted soil samples tested. Maybe she thought her soil had black mold in it.” When the words came out, I wondered if that was the case: not radiation poison in her farm but something almost as toxic.

After that, it seemed as though everyone in the room wanted to talk to me, or at least about me. I could make out some of the comments, since most people weren’t bothering to whisper:

That’s who’s hunting Emerald Ferring? She found Doris down by the Kaw? No, the Wakarusa. Didn’t Gisborne arrest her? Did she murder Doris? Who’s the girl with her, her daughter? No, it’s a student she’s training to become a detective.

I claimed a need for a toilet. Barbara offered to escort me, but under cover of taking my dirty dishes to the kitchen I slid out through a rear exit. Bernie was still in conversation with Cady, but that couldn’t be helped.

A door there led into the church proper. It was empty now, the white-painted pews and simple stained glass a respite for the spirit. I climbed the two shallow steps to the chancel. During the service the pastor and lectors had entered via a curtain behind the choir stalls. I went through it and found what I was looking for: a door that took me to a flight of stairs leading to the church basement.

Riverside had been rebuilt thirty years after Emancipation, but they were proud of their abolitionist heritage. In the basement they had re-created the rooms where fugitive slaves were harbored. One inner door was locked. I took out my picks and worked it open, holding my breath, but on the far side I found a strong room, not Emerald Ferring or August Veriden. There were shelves bearing silver and gold goblets and plates, some probably very valuable indeed. Labels in front of the items identified the families who’d donated them: a who’s who of transplanted New England aristocracy—Cottons, Pearsons, Cabots, and so on.

“I assume you have a reason for being here?”