Charlene, clearing plates off an adjacent table, shot a surprised look over her shoulder.

“Sorry, darlin’.’’ Mama slapped a hand over her mouth. Then she leaned in and whispered through her fingers. “This is bad, Mace.’’

“I know it, Mama.’’

“It’s real, real bad. I was going to tell you that Pastor Bob never did come back for poor Delilah today. That’s why I’m so late. I stayed there with her. First, she was embarrassed. Then she got irritated at him for keeping her waiting. Finally, she got plain worried. The woman was in tears, Mace. She kept calling and calling him on his cell phone.’’

“No answer?’’

“Straight to voice mail. She phoned the church office, thinking he might be there. The beep on the answering machine went on forever. Delilah said that meant there were lots of messages. She couldn’t figure out why.’’

I tapped the paper again. “I’ve got a pretty good idea, after reading that.’’

“Finally, D’Vora offered to run her home. They dropped me off here on the way.’’

We both looked down at the Times.

“What do you think it means, Mace?’’

“I’m not sure. But I aim to find out. A lot of little strands have been unraveling all around Jim Albert’s murder. Money seems like a common thread. Now, here comes another string, leading straight to Pastor Bob Dixon.’’

___

“Delilah?’’ Mama pounded for the fourth time on the Dixons’ front door. “Let us in, honey. We just want to help.’’

We called D’Vora to find out where she’d dropped Delilah. I was proud of Mama. She hadn’t given away a word, just said she had something for Delilah she’d forgotten to give her.

The house was modest, a one-story white stucco on a quiet street, only a couple of miles from the church. There was no car in the driveway. A wooden welcome sign with a clump of silk flowers in yellow and white decorated a front door painted robin’s-egg blue. A plaster cross hung beside the door, with a passage from the book of Joshua engraved in fancy letters: As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.

I doubt the Lord would consider it in His service to rip off hurricane victims.

Mama kept pounding. Finally, heavy steps sounded behind the door. Pale blue curtains rustled at the window.

“Honey, we don’t mean you a bit of harm. We figured you’d need someone to talk to. Now, open up,’’ Mama ordered through the door.

The door cracked. A thick pair of eyeglasses and one red-rimmed eye peeked out. Delilah opened up a fraction wider and looked both ways. Her face was a mess, but her hair looked terrific. Betty had done a remarkable job.

“No reporters?’’

“Not a one,’’ Mama said.

“That man from the Himmarshee Times has been calling ever since I got home. I finally answered and told him I have no idea what he’s talking about. Bob handled all the money for the church and the house.’’

“May we come in?’’ I asked. “The neighbors will wonder why we’re talking to a door.’’

She stood aside to let us by, then turned and stalked away. “Suit yourselves.’’ Her tone was hard. “I suppose you’ve come to gloat.’’

The newspaper was on Delilah’s otherwise spotless carpet, open on the hurricane story.

“We’re not gloating,’’ Mama said. “We’re women, just like you. We feel for what you’re going through.’’

A sniffle came from Delilah’s direction. The hard shell was beginning to crack. “Would you like a cup of coffee?’’ she asked in a softer voice. “I was just about to make myself a pot.’’

Before I could scream “No More Coffee!” Mama said, “We’d love a cup. That’s very nice of you, Delilah.’’

As she busied herself preparing the pot, Mama and I took seats at the table. Images of butterflies were everywhere. They fluttered across the curtains. They danced on the coffee cups. They formed a butterfly bouquet in a vase on the table. The way Delilah’s words stung, she was more like a wasp than a butterfly. And she was big, like a hawk. Yet, deep inside, she seemed to identify with the most fragile of winged creatures.

Or, maybe she just liked butterflies.

She poured a coffee for each of us. My bladder tightened in protest.

“I may as well get right to it, Ms. Dixon. Mama and I read the story in this afternoon’s Times. Is it true?’’

She looked into her coffee cup, avoiding our eyes. A tear plopped onto the table, and her shoulders began to shake.

“I don’t know if the newspaper has it right or not.’’ Sobbing, she took off her glasses and slipped them into a pocket on her housedress. “Like I said, Bob takes care of all the financial matters. But …’’ she stopped, raising her light brown eyes to ours. Hers were filled with tears.

“But what, honey?’’ Mama stroked Delilah’s thick arm.

“He’s definitely gu … guh … gooonnnne.’’ More sobs. “He cleaned out all his drawers and his side of the closet. He even took the envelope the cashier at the grocery gave me yesterday. It had fifty-six dollars the store collected for the hurricane fund. I left it on the hall table until Bob could get to the ba … buh … baaaank,’’ she wailed.

Mama pulled a boysenberry-colored handkerchief from her purse. She patted and murmured. I envied her ability to let bygones go, comforting the same woman who’d razzed her about her jail stint. I hold onto a grudge tighter than Midas with his money. I’m not saying I’m proud of it.

Her sobs finally subsided into hiccups. “The whole thing is my fault.’’

“Why?’’ I asked.

“Don’t be silly.’’ Mama jumped immediately to Delilah’s defense. “What could you possibly have done to make your husband do an awful thing like this?’’

I said nothing, withholding judgment until I heard her answer.

“I don’t think this would have happened if I hadn’t pushed Bob beyond his limit. He’d already been under a lot of stress because his plans to grow his ministry weren’t working. And then I come along and …’’ she couldn’t finish the sentence. “I’m so ashamed to admit it …’’

“Honey, there’s not a one of us pure enough to cast a stone,’’ Mama reassured her. “We’ve all done things we’re sorry for. Go on and say what you need to say.’’ She brushed the well-coiffed hair from Delilah’s forehead.

“It’s all because of me that Bob wasn’t thinking straight.’’ Delilah fiddled with her teaspoon. “You know that woman Emma Jean came into the church shouting about? The woman who was having an affair with her man?’’