“I’ll keep that in mind. If you can show me where he is, I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Of course.”

She motioned me to the window and pointed to an old gentleman in jeans and a black shirt with a clerical collar. He’d settled on a weathered wooden bench with his legs outstretched and a wide-brimmed canvas hat tilted down over his face. She gestured for me to follow, and I trotted after her to a side door that opened onto a hard-packed dirt-and-gravel path. The garden itself was enclosed by a round-shouldered adobe wall that looked like it had been there for a century.

I stood for a moment, reluctant to disturb his nap. She made an impatient shooing motion, urging me to move on. She gestured in roughly the same manner as my Aunt Gin when I was five and waiting in line to see Santa Claus. On that occasion, I’d burst into tears and refused to talk to him at all. What upset me was that his lips were too wet and he had a wen beside his nose that looked like a kernel of burnt popcorn.

“Father Xavier?”

His bony hands were loosely clasped across his waist, and I could see his lips puff outward with every breath. He had to be in his late eighties; well into the shrinking part of life. He was thin, so narrow through the shoulders and hips that he probably had to buy his pants in the boys’ department.

I cleared my throat. “Father Xavier?”

“Listening.”

“Sorry to bother you, but I have some questions about Lenore Redfern and the package she sent you. I was hoping you could tell me about the circumstances.”

I thought he was formulating a response, but then his lips made a tiny sound as they parted with the next breath.

I waited a beat. “Just in your own words would be fine.”

No response.

I sat down beside him on the bench and checked my watch. It was just after the noon hour—12:17 to be exact. I surveyed the area, thinking how heartily Henry would have approved of the garden. The sun was hot. The earth surrounding us was largely hard-packed dirt. No grass at all. The plants were roughly divided between cacti and succulents. No sprinklers, no soaker hoses. I did see a birdbath, but it was empty. A chickadee, undismayed, enjoyed an extravagant dust shower and flew away. The air smelled like rosemary. I could do with a snooze myself.

I glanced at the office window, where Ms. Berrigan was acting out an elaborate pantomime of waking the priest, urging me to shake his arm. I couldn’t do it. I put a hand behind my ear as though I’d failed to comprehend. She turned and looked behind her, which I took to mean the phone was ringing or someone else had appeared in the office, requiring help.

I checked my watch again and saw that one whole minute had flown by. I took a quick look at Father Xavier, whose dark eyes were open. His face was pleated with wrinkles. His pupils were almost engulfed by the pouches above and below his eyes. He sat up, looked at me briefly, and then saw the mailing pouch.