Murder at the Bus Depot by Judy Alter

Author:Judy Alter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: amateur sleuth, Texas, culinary, historic preservation, murder, unsolved crime
Publisher: Alter Ego Press
Published: 2018-04-06T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Church once again tested Delia’s standing in town, especially after Jake Dawson’s funeral. I decided afterward the results were not good. I met Donna and the Sheffields in the tiny narthex minutes before the service started. We were seated near the back and to one side, which suited me so that I could slip out and go to the café. The Sheffields settled by the aisle. “We’re watching for Delia,” Ida explained confidentially. “She won’t want to sit in front with Mrs. Russo.”

Even as she spoke, Delia trailed nervously in behind Ambra, who walked with confidence, head held high. Delia, however, seemed to have lost her bravado. You know the buzz that goes on in a church just before the organist pounds out those first notes. When heads turned, and people saw Delia, the congregation became silent. I think Delia would have turned and run if Ambra had not turned with a smile to say something low and encouraging and then taken her hand. She led her reluctant guest directly to where Ida Sheffield was frantically waving both arms, as though Ambra could miss her in that small gathering. I deliberately got up and gave Delia a public hug, but then the organist started in, and I hastily took my seat.

The only person missing from this scene, I thought, is Silas Fletcher, but I guessed he wasn’t the churchgoing type. He’d as much as said so.

We praised God and asked for his blessing, sang in gratitude and supplication, prayed and offered our gifts to the church, and all the while people snuck looks at Delia. I knew it and, worse, she knew it. She kept her head down, as though in constant prayer. Every bit of the bravado she had shown at Jake’s funeral was gone, and I could only marvel—and worry—about how mercurial she was.

During the last hymn before the sermon, when the congregation was standing and looking forward and I would be little noticed, I slipped out and hurried quietly to the narthex. As I dug in my purse for my keys, I realized that someone stood right behind me. Turning, I saw a grim-faced Delia.

“I’m coming with you,” she said, and her tone left no room for discussion.

Before I could answer, Stephen Sheffield slipped up behind her. At least his voice was quieter than his wife’s. “Delia, don’t leave.”

“I won’t be stared at like a curiosity...or a murderer,” she said defiantly. Suddenly, her voice was not at all quiet.

“Let’s not have a scene,” I whispered. “I’ll take Delia to the café. You all come after church, and we’ll talk it over, sort it out.”

Stephen was a wiser man than I gave him credit for. He nodded his head, and slipped back into the sanctuary. Delia and I pushed out the door and headed to my car for the brief drive to the café.

March never did come in like a lion, and the day was sunny and showing signs of turning warm. In other circumstances, with other company, I would have reveled in it.

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