Murder in the Raw by C.S. Challinor

sermon.
    “I am sorry about Moira.”
    “Aye, but I knew it couldna be good news after so long. It’s still better than finding out she got kidnapped or blown up.” Just barely .
    “What about that nice woman who called from Derby? The one you met at Christmas at Swanmere Manor? She sounded so pleasant on the phone.”
    “Helen d’Arcy. She sent me a postcard saying she’d be stopping on St. Martin next week for the day. She’s on a Caribbean cruise.”
    “Well, I’m glad aboot that. I have to say I’m verra disappointed in Moira Wilcox. Running off wi’ a photographer! The ones on TV look so scruffy. And she’s so straight-laced. I just canna credit it.”
    “It’s different out there, Mother. There’s a war going on.”
    “I suppose you’re right. And I’m glad you’re taking it well. When are ye going to bring Helen to tea?”
    “I’ll have to see how things go when I see her.”
    “It may all turn out for the best,” his mother said cheerfully. “Have you been in touch wi’ Campbell?”
    “We spoke yesterday. He sends his love.”
    “I wish the lad would write more.”
    “He probably would if he could e-mail you.”
    “E-mail! At my age.”
    His mother could not even fathom the television remote, and so Rex refrained from extolling the convenience of computer technology. Imagining her in front of a laptop was as incongruous as picturing a robot taking tea at a table set with his mother’s lace doilies.
    “Reginald?”
    “Mother?”
    “Reread the Gospel according to Matthew, chapter eleven, verses 28 through 30. It will make your suffering easier to bear.”
    “Aye, Mother.”
    However, in the event, he did not resort to the scriptures. Leaving Brooklyn’s phone on the counter, he strode back through the sliding glass doors in a frigid blue fury. The sand felt hard and cool beneath his pounding feet. He barely noticed when he stood on a burr. The beach, deserted and devoid of the vibrant color of later morning, looked unwelcoming, but the water was just beginning to glimmer with promise. He ripped off his briefs, abandoning them on the shore, and splashed into the sea as fast as the resistance of the water permitted.
    We didn’t mean for it to happen, but it’s God’s will.
    Moira’s echoing words infuriated him. How many times had he heard “God made me do it” as an excuse in court? God must be incensed by all the stupid feeble excuses dumped at his feet. Rex swam parallel to the beach, his strong strokes tugging the sea out of the way as he furiously blinked the salt from his eyes. When he reached the promontory, he U-turned under the water and returned the way he had come, using his cabana as a landmark, the vigorous exercise gradually driving all meaningful thought from his brain.
    Och, that’s better , he thought, flinging his upright legs through the shallows to where his cotton briefs lay unceremoniously tossed on the sand. Realizing he had forgotten his towel, he used them to brush off the excess moisture from his body. He spotted Paul and Elizabeth on their patio at the third cabana and gave a peremptory wave before hurrying back to his place, loosely holding the underwear in front of his privates.
    After rinsing off under the outdoor shower, he went inside to shave, and then lingered over a Sudoku puzzle while drinking his coffee. The puzzle took longer than usual since his mind kept wandering back to Moira. He still had trouble believing the news.
    Brooklyn wandered onto the patio in his bathrobe, yawning and stretching. He looked even better with dark stubble, Rex noticed with envy. His own chin sprouted ginger hairs and he had bedhead first thing in the morning.
    “There’s coffee in the pot,” he informed Brooklyn.
    “Thanks. Did you get your news?”
    “Aye, nobody died but me. My girlfriend left me for another man—a photographer from Down Under.” Rex reported the facts and even managed to make them sound humorous.
    “Good on ya, mate,” Brooklyn