Introit
On Groundhog Day when Robespierre, my
from his place on the window seat, one thought popped into my head.
Company. Who? After following him to the kitchen, I watched him push
his bulky, brown and black body through the hinged opening at the bottom
of the door. Moments later I peered down the dimly lit stairwell.
Robespierre had sprawled in the center of the third step and blocked my
visitor’s progress.
“Good grief, Katherine, I hope he’s not planning to bite me again.”
Edward Potter, pastor of St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church, glared at the cat.
His voice had risen to a high pitch. “Whatever do you feed him? He’s ever
so much bigger than Bitsy.”
The temptation to say my pet fed on pastors was strong. I refrained
and fought to control a grin that threatened to blossom. Teasing Edward
usually results in a lecture delivered in an indignant voice.
With an air of disdain, Robiesperre stretched. His back rippled in a
way I envy. Then he slithered around Edward.
When Edward reached the top of the steps, he turned and peered at
the cat. “He’s becoming more brazen.”
“Only toward selected guests. He ignores most people.” I turned my
head and Edward brushed my cheek with his lips.
Edward is a dapper little man with an ear for gossip and a penchant
for turning even the slightest event into a fiesta or a disaster. He’s astute
about church politics. The coffers at St. Stephen’s are filled through his
ability to cosset and cajole the elderly population of the church, mainly
wealthy women. I partially fit the category, being over sixty-five, and while
not rich, I’m at least comfortable.
When he entered the sunlit kitchen, the expression on his face
announced a problem. He walked into the living room. Unlike most of my
guests, he considered chats at the kitchen table for commoners. In the
living room, he perched on the edge of a Queen Anne chair, purchased
years ago before antiques became the rage. In the past twenty years,
stores selling every manner of old things have spread plague-like in the
business district of the
“You’re tense. How about a cup of mint tea?”
“Not all the tranquilizers in the world will calm me. It’s a disaster, a
complete and utter tragedy.” His hands fluttered. The words rolled out like
a sermon promising hell and damnation. “How will we maintain the quality
of the services? Easter will be a disaster.”
My forehead wrinkled. What in the world had stirred him into this
state? The last time had been when one of the altar boys had spilled the
communion wine. Had there been a fire at the church? A flood? A
plague? The strident fire whistles had been silent for days. What had
occurred? Knowing a full and dramatic scene would develop, I wanted
mint tea.
“I’ll heat the water. Then you can tell me about this tragedy.” Mint
tea is my all-purpose remedy, calming nerves and stimulating the mind,
bringing alertness or sleep.
I retreated to the kitchen, filled the kettle and stuffed a silver ball with
an assortment of dried mint leaves. While the water boiled, I assembled the
pottery mugs, sugar and spoons on a wooden tray.
“Why will Easter be a problem?” I set the tray on a Duncan Phyfe
table.
“We may have to cancel the season.” He patted his thinning light
brown hair.
I swallowed a laugh. “How can we cancel one of the main reasons
for St. Stephen’s existence?”
“Are you making fun of me?” His voice rose in pitch. “I’m
absolutely serious.” He accepted a mug. “Mary’s husband has been
transferred. It’s a disaster.”
I mentally sorted through all the Marys in the congregation and tried
to decide which one’s leaving would cause Edward to fall apart. Who had
triggered the word of the day? On another level, the need to giggle soared.
Perched on the edge of the chair and holding a teacup with both hands,
