At first Nick didn’t recognize Maggie’s voice. It was loud, shrill and belligerent—this from a woman who appeared to be the essence of control.

“I want to see Father Francis now,” she said and pushed past Father Keller before he could explain. She almost ran into Nick. She backed away, startled. Her eyes met his. There was something wild and dark in hers—something a bit out of control to match her voice.

“Nick, what are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing. Don’t you have a flight to catch?”

She looked small in the oversize green jacket and blue jeans. Without makeup and with her windblown hair, she could have passed for a college coed.

“Flights are delayed.”

“Excuse me,” Father Keller interrupted.

“Maggie, you haven’t met Father Michael Keller. Father Keller, this is Special Agent Maggie O’Dell.”

“So you’re Keller?” There was accusation in her voice. “What have you done with Father Francis?”

Again, the belligerence. Nick couldn’t figure out this new approach. What happened to the cool, calm woman who usually made him look like the hothead?

“I tried to explain…” Father Keller tried again.

“Yes, you do have some explaining to do. Father Francis was supposed to meet me at the hospital this afternoon. He never showed up.” She looked to Nick. “I’ve been calling here all afternoon and evening.”

“Maggie, why don’t you come in and calm down?”

“I don’t want to calm down. I want some answers. I want to know what the hell’s going on here.”

“There was an accident this morning,” Nick explained, since she wouldn’t allow Father Keller to speak. “Father Francis fell down some basement steps. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

She was quiet, her entire body suddenly still. “An accident?” Then she looked up at Father Keller. “Nick, are you sure it was an accident?”

“Maggie.”

“How can you be sure he wasn’t pushed? Has anyone examined the body? I’ll do the autopsy myself if necessary.”

“An autopsy?” Father Keller repeated.

“Maggie, he was old and frail.”

“Exactly. So why would he be going down basement steps?”

“Actually, it’s our wine cellar,” Father Keller tried to explain.

Maggie stared at him, and Nick noticed her hands clenched into fists. It wouldn’t have surprised him if she took a swing at the priest. Nick couldn’t figure out her angle. If she was playing bad cop, good cop, he wished she’d let him know.

“What exactly are you implying, Father Keller?” she finally asked.

“Implying? I’m not implying anything.”

“Maggie, maybe we should go,” Nick said, taking her gently by the arm. Immediately, she wrenched it from his hold and shot him a look that made him take a step backward. She stared at Father Keller again, then suddenly pushed past both of them and headed for the door.

Nick glanced at the priest, who looked as embarrassed and confused as Nick felt. Without saying a word, he followed Maggie out the front door. He caught up with her on the sidewalk. He reached for her arm to slow her down, but thought better of it and simply increased his pace to stay alongside her.

“What the hell was that about?” he demanded.

“He’s lying. I doubt that it was an accident.”

“Father Francis was an old man, Maggie.”

“He had something important to tell me. When we talked on the phone this morning, I could tell someone else was listening in. I’m guessing it was Keller. Don’t you see, Nick?” She came to a halt and turned to look at him. “Whoever was listening decided to stop Father Francis before he had a chance to tell me whatever was so important. An autopsy may show whether or not he was pushed. I’ll do it myself if—”

“Maggie, stop. There’s not going to be an autopsy. Keller didn’t push anybody, and I don’t think he had anything to do with the murders. This is nuts. We need to start looking at some real suspects. We need to…”

She looked as though she would be sick. Her face went white, her shoulders slumped, and her eyes were watery.

“Maggie?”

She turned and hurried off the sidewalk into the snow, back behind the rectory and out of the bright streetlights. Shielded from the wind and clinging to a tree, she bent over and began retching. Nick grimaced and kept his distance. Now he understood the belligerence, the loud accusation, the uncharacteristic anger. Maggie O’Dell was drunk.

He waited until she finished, standing guard in the shadows, keeping his back to her in case she was now sober enough to be embarrassed.

“Nick.”

When he turned, she was walking away from him, behind the rectory toward a grove of trees that separated the church property from Cutty’s Hill.

“Nick, look.” She stopped and pointed, and he wondered if she was delusional. Then he saw it, and immediately he, too, felt sick to his stomach. Tucked back in the trees was an old blue pickup with wooden side racks.