Page 65 of Dead to Rites

I’d noticed the same thing, even though I hadn’t understood the full importance of that omission. But Jude, who’d once been a priest and had known all of these people for years and years, would have noted it right away.

“You think he knows?” I asked.

“I think he’s been keeping something inside for a long time,” Jude replied. “And I have a feeling that the timing of him not taking communion at Frank’s funeral suggests that whatever he’s been hiding just got a lot heavier.”

“So what do you suggest? Do you think you should talk to him?”

At once, Jude shook his head. “I’m still too close to the parish. Hal would probably clam up with me. But you — you’re an outsider. Yes, you’re part of Prescott now, but you’re not a parishioner at Sacred Heart. He’d be less likely to think you’d spill any of his secrets.”

I suppose that made some sense. Still, I was less than enthused at the idea of approaching Hal Pruitt all on my own. I didn’t think he’d resort to violence or anything, but something about him was forbidding nonetheless.

But we needed to figure this out. If finding Father Frank’s killer meant that his ghost would be able to move on, then I couldn’t stop. I needed to keep at it, no matter what.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.”

Hal’s house was a small bungalow off Mount Vernon Avenue, probably built in the post-World War II boom, with a neat lawn, a sycamore tree in the front yard — now mostly bare — and a Vietnam veteran’s flag in the window. Jude had told me he’d most likely be home at that hour, which was good or bad, depending on how you looked at the situation.

I pulled in a bracing breath of chilly air, then lifted my hand and knocked.

He opened the door right away. I detected a hint of surprise on his bony features before he seemed to shut down.

“Ms. Cosgrove,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

No, probably not.

I put on what I hoped was my politest expression and said, “Mr. Pruitt, I’m so sorry to come over here without calling. Can I come in for a couple of minutes? I need to talk to you about something.”

For a couple of agonizing seconds, he didn’t say anything, and I wondered if he was going to shut the door in my face.

But then he stepped back and let me inside.

The place was immaculate. Small, true, but the wooden floor gleamed with polish, and every surface looked as if it were dusted at least weekly if not more. Photographs lined the mantel — a younger Hal in uniform, a wedding photo with his late wife, a photo of Hal and another man who I guessed must be Donald Lindley, grinning broadly as they held up some pretty impressive trout, more photos of kids between the ages of five and twelve who I thought were probably Hal’s grandchildren.

“Go ahead and sit down,” he said, gesturing toward one of the side chairs.

I sat. The cushions smelled faintly of pipe tobacco, aromatic and clubby.

He sat down on one end of the sofa so he was facing me, his hands resting on his knees. But he didn’t speak, as if he was waiting for me to say something.

All right, then.

“Mr. Pruitt,” I said. “I’m trying to understand what happened to Father Frank, and I have a feeling that you might know something. I don’t want you to tell me anything told to you in confidence, though. I’m just asking you to think about whether what you know might matter now in a way it didn’t matter before.”

Hal Pruitt was silent for a moment, staring at me with faded blue eyes under heavy gray brows. Then his gaze flicked over to the photo of himself and Donald with their trout before it returned to me.

“You’re not the police.”

An odd little quiver of excitement went through me, but I managed to say calmly, “No, I’m not.”

“And what do you plan to do with what I tell you?”

I stared down at my hands. My favorite Midnight in Moscow OPI polish had begun to chip, but I hadn’t had any time over the past week to sit down and redo my manicure. No rings, mostly because I still hadn’t quite summoned the courage to start wearing some of Hazel’s jewelry in a more casual way.

Then I said, “If I think that what you’ve told me is relevant to who killed Father Frank, then I’ll find a way to relay that information to the police. But I’ll tell you before I do that, so you’ll have a chance to get the information to them yourself.”

Hal nodded slowly. He also looked down at his hands, at the gold wedding ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. I had a feeling that ring would never come off.

“Donald Lindley was my best friend.” Now Hal was speaking quietly, almost as if he was talking to himself rather than to me. “We fished together every weekend for close to forty years. He was the godfather of my oldest son. He held my hand when Margaret was dying. There’s nothing in this world I owe to anyone the way I owe that man.”