I couldn’t resist the jab. But I was secretly glad Mama was focused on Delilah’s fashion faux pas instead of mine.

“You’re absolutely right, Mace.’’ She looked contrite. “It isn’t nice to gossip. But I almost busted out laughing when she said how the congregation enjoys her husband’s sermons. The only thing that keeps most of them awake is the promise of the Pork Pit when it’s over.’’

I patted her on the arm. “Don’t worry, Mama. The people who really know you would never believe you had anything to do with the murder. The Dixons are fairly new, aren’t they?’’

“Just since this year.’’ She formed an O with her lips in the mirror, and painted them with her favorite shade, Apricot Ice. “Bob Dixon replaced Pastor Gooden, who everybody loved. And that wife of his doesn’t help his case. There’s something a little off about the two of them, Mace.’’ Shaking her head, she tossed the lipstick back in her purse. “At least half-a-dozen members have quit since they arrived.’’

Making our way inside, we were forced to step around a card table stacked high with homemade DVDs. The covers showed a dark-suited man, looking reflective in a beam of light from a stained glass window. Walking the Path with Pastor Bob, the title said. I turned it over. Fifteen bucks, according to a bright red price sticker on the back. I returned it to the pile.

Mama’s minister must have found a fancier church than Abundant Hope to stage his DVD photo. This one just had the store window, and not a pane of stained glass in sight.

Several people waved and smiled. But a few stared with cold eyes as we found two seats halfway down a row of folding chairs. Mama fiddled with a stack of church books under her seat, looking for a hymnal. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to notice the nasty looks before the music minister hit the first chord on a portable organ.

A young man in the front row lifted a video camera to his eye. The red Record button lit. The choir burst into What a Friend We Have in Jesus. As Mama warbled along, I counted the fake lilies in pots lining a raised wooden altar. I’d gotten to twenty-two, and started in on studying the Ten Commandments on three big panels against the wall, when a commotion broke out behind us.

“I told you, I WILL NOT sit down.’’ It was a woman, and she sounded on the verge of hysterics. “I have something to say, and I’m going up there to say it.’’

There was some quiet murmuring and shushing from behind us.

“People should know. They should know!’’ She let loose a wail, which sounded familiar.

I turned around to see Emma Jean Valentine being corralled toward the exit by a short man in a dark suit. Pastor Bob? Emma Jean’s green skirt was two inches too short. A kitty-cat pin shone on the lapel of her neon blue jacket.

Delilah Dixon stepped in, trying to help steer her out the door.

“Take your hands off of me!’’ Emma Jean’s eyes were wild. She raised her hand, and along with it a threatening-looking tire iron.

Mama clutched my elbow. “Oh, my stars and garters! Emma Jean is fixin’ to murder Delilah and her husband, the preacher.’’

Emma Jean backed up, knocking over the card table display. The DVDs clattered to the floor. As the guy with the camera moved in for a closer shot, Pastor Bob swiped his hand across his throat, yelling “Cut! Cut!’’

Now every head in the church was turned to the rear. Even the choir had quit singing to stare. Delilah and the reverend backed off a few steps. Emma Jean lowered the tire iron a fraction. She raised her other hand to her head to straighten a straw hat decorated with green-and-white daisies.

“Most of you know me.’’ Her voice rang out in the pin-drop silent room. “I suffered a terrible loss this week when Jim Albert was murdered. And now I’ve discovered something that hurts almost as bad as losing him. I’ve been looking into a few things. Jim was cheating on me. And the woman he betrayed me with is a member here, supposedly a good Christian.’’

Shocked gasps rippled through the seats. A loud clap sounded on the floor by the choir. I turned in time to see a pretty blonde soprano stoop to retrieve the hymn book she dropped.

“I just wanted y’all to think on something, sitting here in this church: People aren’t always what they seem. There’s a woman here who tried to take away someone I loved. She’s here among you, pretending to be pious and holy. But really she’s just a common whore.’’

Mothers covered their kids’ ears. The Reverend Dixon put out a hand to silence Emma Jean. She shook her tire iron at him, and his hand dropped like he’d touched a hot stove.

“God gave Moses the commandments.’’ Emma Jean’s voice rose like a preacher’s. “All of you know the one about coveting thy neighbor’s wife. Well, someone here coveted the man who was going to be my husband.’’

She walked halfway up the aisle and stopped, tire iron raised like a staff. All eyes followed her as she looked slowly around the church, pointing her arm like a weapon toward any woman under seventy. For a long moment, her gaze held on the soprano. The young woman cast her eyes down as she fidgeted with a barrette holding back her hair.

Finally, Emma Jean broke her stare, speaking again to the full congregation.

“I’m not going to rest until I find out which one of you is the adulteress who seduced my Jim,’’ she said. “And when I do, I may break one or two of God’s commandments myself.’

Mama and I spun on our stools in Gladys’ Diner, listening to the mechanical hum of a plastic cylinder with six shelves of revolving pies. The scent of sizzling hamburgers wafted from the open kitchen behind the counter. More than half of the dozen tables in the restaurant were filled. A harried waitress rushed by. Barrel-sized tumblers of sweet tea crowded her tray, and her forehead glistened with sweat.

“I’ll be with y’all just as soon as I can,’’ she said.

“Take your time,’’ Mama said. “We’re in no hurry.’’

We’d headed to the diner after services at Abundant Hope. Once Emma Jean dropped her bombshell, Delilah hustled her out the door. Pastor Bob immediately took to the pulpit, and signaled the cameraman to start rolling again. Aiming a pious smile at the lens, he acted like there’d been no interruption from an unhinged churchgoer, screaming about adultery and murder.

With a rich tenor he launched into “Are You Washed in the Blood?” and nodded to the choir to join in. I thought the hymn was a poor choice, given the circumstances.

I’d jiggled my leg and tapped my fingers through at least half of his long sermon. Mama pinched my arm and promised me pie if I stopped squirming.