House of Blues

What denomination, for instance?"
    "Not really. I have the impression it was
something kind of off-brand. I don't even know where it was."
    " You mean, whether it was in New Orleans or
somewhere else?"
    "Uh-huh. I realize I don't even know."
    And she was the one who knew the most.
    Skip left, thinking it was a hell of a family she'd
gotten involved with.
    Oh, well. Mine's no great shakes either.
    Her dad hadn't spoken to her for nearly two years
after she told her family she was going on the job; her brother
Conrad sold her information in return for fixing his parking tickets
(actually she paid them herself); and her mother judged herself, her
husband, and every member of her family by what she thought other
people thought of them.
    Naturally, since Skip didn't have a high-status job,
she was usually found wanting. On the other hand, whenever she got in
the paper over some case or other, she enjoyed a brief flurry of
maternal popularity.
    But at least we don't
murder each other.
    * * *
    She went back to headquarters and looked in the phone
book. Dozens, probably hundreds of churches. She started scanning for
"lamb" names.
    In the end she had a list of five. She could call
them, but a little background wouldn't hurt. She dialed the Times-Picayune and
asked for Eileen Moreland.
    "Skippy Langdon. You must want something."
Moreland had the world-weary air of a reporter from Central Casting.
    "You know me, Eileen. I'd never take advantage
of our friendship. "
    "What friendship? You ask me for clips and I
give them to you. You make me promises and you don't deliver."
    "Let me say the magic word. 'Arthur Hebert'."
    "Arthur Hebert what?"
    "I don't know yet. But something when the case
breaks. Something for your column. I'll take notes."
    "Oh, sure. Just like always."
    "Lunch, then."
    "How about fixing my parking tickets?"
    " How about lunch?"
    " Oh, forget it. You'd probably stand me up. What
do you want anyway?"
    "Clips on five churches."
    Eileen sighed. "Shoot."
    As it happened, there were clips on only one: Blood
of the Lamb Baptist, which was renowned for its fine Gospel choir.
    Skip said, "Maybe you could introduce me to the
religion editor."
    "Stanley? Oh, all right."
    She could tell Eileen was done with her. One day she
really would have to give her a decent news tip.
    There were a few seconds of silence, then some rings,
and finally a high male voice. "Detective Langdon, this is an
honor. How may I assist you?"
    A godly man indeed. I wish more people thought it was
an honor.
    She asked for a rundown on the five churches.
    Three—including Blood of the Lamb—were
established neighborhood churches. The other two he knew nothing
about.
    " But I've got a hunch about Great Mount
Precious." (Full name: Great Mount Precious Lamb of God.) "Why
don't you check it out?"
    "Check it out for what?"
    "What are you looking for?"
    "A recent convert. A born-again who may have
pretty much devoted her life to the group."
    " Oh. That kind of church. More or less a cult."
    " I'm not sure."
    "Check out the Precious one. I don't think it's
what you want, but it might be something you never saw before. Maybe
they pray to St. Expedite." He chuckled delightedly. "I
know I do."
    "I'm going over right now and light a candle to
him."
    She hung up, thinking she would if she knew how. She
could use a little help of the sort he was said to supply. St.
Expedite, unknown to the Vatican, had arrived in New Orleans in a
box, some time long ago. That is, a statue in a saintly robe had, and
the box was stamped "Expedite." The polytheists who passed
for Catholics in New Orleans had clasped him joyously to their bosoms
and the statue stood big as life, even now, in a church on North
Rampart Street.
    Having been brought up Episcopalian, Skip didn't
quite know how to pay homage to him. In lieu of a candle, she wrote
the word "expedite" over her list of lamb churches and
started phoning them.
    The first three were the ones Stanley had known
about. At all three she talked with a nice machine that said its
owner would call back.
    At Great Mount Precious she got another machine:
giving only the time of Sunday's service.
    At the last one, Blood of the Lamb Divine Evangelical
Following, she talked to a woman who said she'd get back to her.
    By the end of the day, calls had been returned and
she was singularly unimpressed, as Stanley had predicted, with the
first three. Nice church ladies had looked up records and said no
Evelyne Hebert had ever been a member,