I shifted the mailing pouch to my left hand and slid the four-page newsletter into my shoulder bag. I returned to the parking lot, where I saw a sign pointing to a small building I thought might house the nuts-and-bolts business of running a parish church. I felt like an interloper, which of course I was, unclear on the underlying etiquette of secular matters in a sanctified setting.

I reached a door that said OFFICE and peered through the glass window. There was no one in evidence. I tried the knob and found the door unlocked. I opened it and stuck my head in.

“Hello?”

No response. I hesitated and then stepped inside. The interior was quite ordinary. Aside from a smattering of religious art and artifacts, the office was simply office-like: two desks, office chairs, file cabinets, bookcases.

I heard approaching footsteps and a woman appeared from a short corridor to my right. She was in her midseventies, with iron gray hair worn in a halo of tiny frizzy curls. The look reminded me of the ads for Toni Home Permanents back when I was a little girl. In those days, a beauty salon permanent cost fifteen dollars, while a Toni Home Permanent kit cost two dollars, sulfur-scented waving lotion and curlers included. The savings alone was thrilling, especially when you considered that a refill was only a dollar more, which further reduced the cost. My Aunt Gin’s friends were smitten with the prospect of beautification at home. Aunt Gin sniffed at the very idea. In her mind, spending even one dollar on beauty products was a waste. As it turned out, she was the only one among her friends who had the patience to follow directions, so our trailer was the source of an entire army of frizzy-haired women smelling of spoiled eggs.

I said, “I’m looking for Father Xavier.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’m Lucille Berrigan, the parish secretary. Is he expecting you?” She wore a navy blue rayon pantsuit and crepe-soled shoes.

I handed her a business card, which she didn’t bother to read. “I don’t actually have an appointment, but I’m hoping he can spare a few minutes of his time.”

“You’ll have to be quick about it. He’s out in the garden with his sun hat and trowel and looks to be settling in for a snooze.”

“Would it be better if I returned another time? I hate to interrupt.”

“Now is fine unless this is something I might help you with . . .” She glanced at the card. “. . . Ms. Millhone.”

“I have questions about Lenore Redfern.”

“Then he’s definitely the one to consult. He was close to the family. Wonderful people. If you’re interested in matters of chronology, we have handwritten records of every marriage, baptism, confirmation, funeral, and sick call going all the way back to the turn of the century.”

“You do?”

“Yes, ma’am. Looking after our families is one of the roles we fill.”