Clara looked at me in confusion. “Lennie never dyed her hair. She was always a brunette.”

“Not in the photograph I found.”

“I don’t think so. There must be some mistake.”

I reached down and removed the photograph of Lenore and April in the red leather frame and passed it across the table to her.

She barely glanced at it. “That’s not Lennie.”

“Who is it then?”

“Ned and his mother, Frankie,” she said. “That photograph was taken two days before she left.”

I took another look. “You’re telling me that’s a boy? I assumed the child was April.”

“She was the spitting image of Ned at the same age, but that’s not her. It’s him.”

“Doesn’t that look like a little girl to you?”

“Of course. Even though the boy was almost four, Frankie refused to have his hair cut. It wasn’t until she left that his daddy took him to a barbershop and had it all shaved off. Poor little boy cried like his heart would break.”

I took one more look, still only half convinced, and then returned the photograph to the pouch. “Is there anyone still around who was with the police department back then? Because I’d love to talk to someone who actually remembers Lenore’s death.”

“I know a gentleman who worked for the coroner’s office. Stanley Munce is retired now, and I’m not sure how helpful he’d be. He’s off visiting his daughter, but I can ask when he gets home. I don’t believe there was much of an investigation.”

“Did Pete intend to talk to anyone other than you and Lenore’s priest?”

“Father Xavier’s the only one I know about.”

“I’d like to talk to him myself. It was my primary reason for driving up.”

“He’ll be at the rectory. Do you know where that is?”

“I passed it earlier when I was touring the town,” I said. “Would it be all right with you if I mentioned our conversation?”

“You don’t need my permission. I keep no secrets from him. He still hears my confession every week, though I must say my sins are so boring, he falls asleep half the time.”

“You have my card,” I said. “If you think of anything else, would you give me a call? You’re welcome to make it collect.”

“No need of that. I’ll tell Mr. Munce about your questions and we’ll see if he remembers her.”

24

The rectory at St. Elizabeth’s was a short ten-minute drive. Given the fact that I have little or no experience with the Catholic Church, I wasn’t sure what kind of reception to expect. I got out of the car with the mailing pouch in hand, which I thought of by now as my calling card. I had my choice of the church proper, the administration building, and the religious education building, which also included St. Elizabeth’s Parish School, serving prekindergarten through eighth grade.

I went first to the sanctuary, where the outside door stood open. I passed into the dimly lighted foyer and found that the double doors leading into the church were closed. I paused long enough to pick up a copy of the program for that week. The Pastor and Pastor Emeritus were listed, along with Father Xavier, Retired, and Father Rutherford Justice, Weekend Associate. Masses were said daily at 7:45 A.M., with two on Saturday and two on Sunday. Baptisms were the first and second Sundays of the month, and weddings could only be scheduled if the bride and groom were already registered, contributing, and active members of St. Elizabeth’s Parish for at least one year before requesting a marriage date. Clearly, no hasty marital shenanigans would be tolerated.