Sylvia’s face turned ashen. Blake guessed she now realized her chances for survival were slim to none, even in prison.
“I sent a car over to pick up your husband. We have him as an accessory after the fact. My guess is, he’s smarter than you, and will give you up and then deal himself into the Witness Protection Program and rat out the rest. Don’t you just love it when all the pieces finally fit?”
“What if I deal first?”
“Sorry, murder is non-negotiable, and besides, it’s your husband who has the information the FBI wants, not you. No, it’s the slammer for you, lady. Take her out,” he said to Billy, who grinned and led her away reciting her Miranda rights.
“You know, for a dumb country cop and a Reverend from Philadelphia, we did a pretty good job of work tonight.”
“Reverend is not a noun. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“It’s a Commonwealth of mind, then.”
Blake laughed and then winced at the stabbing pain in his shoulder. “It’s been a long day, and nobody will ever accuse you of being dumb again, Ike, least of all me.”
Schwartz left humming the theme from Rocky.
Blake lifted the phone and dialed. A sleepy Mary Miller picked up on the sixth ring.
“Hi,” he said. “I didn’t want to wake you but I wanted to apologize for being so rude tonight.”
“You don’t have to, Blake. You are not the kind of man who would deliberately hurt someone. I know that now. If you told me to leave, it must have been for a very good reason.”
“It was. And now the whole business is over. Mary?”
“Yes, Blake.”
“The other thing I said to you, I meant it.”
“Me too. G’night.”
Epilogue
Rose Garroway, in spite of her horrific typing and total lack of computer skills, had installed herself as secretary pro tem. She fussed over Blake and tried to make his recuperation as easy as possible. But he knew he needed to hire someone permanently, and soon.
“Big news, Rose,” he called around the door.
“What?”
“I’ll let you know in a minute. Can you get Philip Bournet on the phone?”
A moment later she shouted, “He’s on.”
Blake heard the footsteps on the stairs as the Wednesday Bible Study began to assemble in the outer office.
“You might as well use the speaker phone, Rose, since you were going to listen in anyway. It will be easier for the others, too.”
“Blake, I never….”
“Philip, I have some amazing news.”
“I heard, but I would never have guessed that Sylvia Parks could do such a thing. I thought the husband might be a little shady, you know, but never dreamed he was involved in organized crime—the Mafia and all that.”
“That’s not the news I had in mind.”
“There’s more?”
“Yes, but first, you can tell your charming Betsy she can stop worrying about her plans for Mary Miller. We have that under control. The news, Philip, is I just got off the phone with Bishop Farnsworth. You remember the woman who caused me all the trouble in Philadelphia? Well, she got caught in a sting operation—went to the well once too often, I guess. At any rate, I have been exonerated and am now officially in good standing. Funny thing about honor and truth—no one would believe me when I said I was innocent, but when Gloria Vandergrift was splashed across four channels in a very badly reported and quite inaccurate story on the eleven o’clock news, everyone became a believer.”
“That’s wonderful news, Blake.”
“No, sorry, that’s just the background, so to speak. Here is the news—Farnsworth offered me the job of Dean of the Cathedral.”
“Well, that really does warrant congratulations. It is what you always wanted, Blake. You are only a very short step from a mitre cap and crosier. Shall I call you Bishop now or wait a year or two?”
“Not anytime soon. I turned him down. I’m not going. I want to stay here and be the vicar of Stonewall Jackson Memorial Episcopal Church. There is work to do here and it’s real work. That is, if it’s all right with you.”
“Of course it’s all right, but are you sure? You’re walking away from a big opportunity. This part of the world isn’t known for producing many bishops. Are you sure?”
“I am. But I don’t think I can get Stonewall Jackson to independent status in the time left, though.”
“I don’t care about that, Blake. I told you before, I don’t need a mission in Picketsville, but apparently God does and he wants you to be its vicar. Take all the time you need…and Blake?”
“Yes?”
“God bless you.”
Blake cradled the telephone and stared at the wall.
“I don’t believe I did that,” he said aloud, addressing a faded print of Archbishop Cranmer. “A year ago I would have given my right arm for what I just turned down.”
“Is that because you did not want it, or because you don’t have much of a right arm left to give at the moment?” Rose asked through the door.
“What do you think? Did I make the biggest mistake of my life, or what?”
“Well, me and the rest of the girls are divided on that.” He heard them murmuring in the background. “We are divided on the job thing, but unanimous on how happy we are you will stay here with us. Here’s one person who is beyond happy,” she added and pushed a tearful Mary Miller around the corner. Rose stood beside her and proffered a box of Kleenex.
“Here,” she said, “blow. She’s a little choked up right now, Blake—can’t talk just yet. Oops, add blushing to choked up.”
Mary managed one of her thousand-watt smiles and dabbed at her eyes.
“Let’s go, girls,” Rose ordered, “no Bible study this week either. You two—try to behave.”
***
“You should get this car washed,” Ruth said and kicked at a crumpled coffee cup near her foot.
“Guys on maintenance duty are supposed to do that,” Ike said.
“So, what’s the holdup?”
“It’s a very small operation—Billy to be precise. It may take a while now that he has acquired some stature in the community for collaring Ms. Parks.” He grinned. Some things never change.
“What’s funny?”
“You haven’t said anything about my scent.”
“Is that Hugo Boss?”
“I thought men were the only species that couldn’t tell one scent from another.”
“I’d know Old Spice.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“This is Old Spice.”
“Isn’t.”
“Male pheromones are all pretty much alike.”
“Give me a break, Schwartz. And what am I supposed to do with those spooks you put in my basement?”
“They are going to create a museum for you on the top floor. Selected pictures from the National Gallery will be brought in on a rotating basis. They will provide docents and a curator to run it. They will pay you a ridiculously high rent. They will solve more of your problems than you could ever have imagined. Learn to love them.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I never kid, and you’re right, it isn’t Old Spice.”
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