Wife of Moon by Margaret Coel Page B

reminding everyone that a murderer was somewhere among them. The sense of unease was as palpable as the electric charge preceding a storm.
    â€œLet us pray together,” he said.
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    THE RESIDENCE WAS quiet, apart from the clank of a metal pan and the rush of water out of a faucet. Father John tossed his jacket onto the bench in the hall and walked back to the kitchen. Shafts of daylight worked their way past the white curtains at the window above the sink. The air was thick with the aromas of fresh coffee, hot oatmeal, and half-burnt toast. Walks-On pushed himself off the blanket in the corner and set a wet muzzle in the palm of his hand. Father John scratched the dog’s ears, then stepped over to the counter and poured some coffee into a mug. Elena was at the stove ladling oatmeal into a bowl. Seventy-some years old, part Arapaho, part Cheyenne, the woman had been the housekeeper at St. Francis longer than she professed to remember. She ran the house like a drill sergeant, he sometimes thought, with the pastor and the assistant priest expected to march along in time. It wasn’t a bad thing. It sometimes kept him on time.
    He sat down across from his assistant, who was scraping the traces of oatmeal out of a bowl, the Gazette opened on the other side of his mug.
    â€œMy God! The paper says that the police think Christine was abducted.” Father Damien thumped his fist against the paper, his eyes running down an article on the first page. The man’s mind was like a shotgun—one barrel for the latest news, the other for conversation. “Paper says you were the last one to see her before she disappeared.”
    â€œLast one before whoever took her.” Elena set a bowl of oatmeal in front of Father John. The steam curled over the rim and smelled of melted brown sugar.
    â€œYou don’t think her disappearance is related to her job here at the mission, do you?” A note of incredulity worked into the other priest’s voice.
    â€œOf course it has to do with the mission.” Elena patted at the white apron tied over her blue dress. “A lot of people come to see the Curtis photographs, and that white woman was like a chicken. Couldn’t stop pecking. ‘Who was your ancestors? When did they come to the rez?’ ”
    â€œSo somebody abducted her?” The incredulity in Damien’s voice had slid into scorn.
    â€œLook, we don’t know what happened to Christine. Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Father John poured some milk into the bowl and took a spoonful of the oatmeal. “Thank you, Elena.” He glanced up at the woman hovering at the edge of the table, her round face frozen with expectancy. “This is gourmet oatmeal, without a doubt.”
    â€œNow how would you know that?”
    â€œTrust me, I’m a connoisseur of oatmeal.”
    â€œI don’t see how Christine disappearing could have anything to do with the mission,” Father Damien said, answering his own question and folding the Gazette. He got to his feet, as if the matter were settled. “I’ll call Senator Evans’s campaign manager right away and assure him that the senator will be perfectly safe at St. Francis. No doubt the poor woman had some personal problems . . .”
    â€œWe don’t know that,” Father John said.
    â€œProcess of elimination, John. If her disappearance isn’t connected to the mission, where, need I remind you, she has been employed for one month, it must be connected to some problem she brought with her. I think I can make a strong case that will reassure the senator’s people. By the way”—he tapped his knuckles against the table—“I’ve asked Leonard to repaint the front of the museum, so that when the TV cameras pan across, it will look spruced up. He’ll have to cut back some cottonwoods so they don’t throw shadows over the place.”
    â€œExcuse me, Father,”