In Death 27 - Salvation in Death

after I have López show me the source of the wine and the other thing.”
    “Should we release the other dead guy?”
    Eve frowned at the casket. “He’s waited this long. He can wait a little longer.” She turned back to López. “I need to see where you keep the . . .” Refreshments? “The wine and the hosts.”
    With a nod, López gestured. He walked up, turned away from the altar to lead Eve through a doorway. Inside cabinets lined one wall, and on a table stood a tall box, deeply carved with a cross. López took keys from the pocket of his pants and unlocked the door of the box.
    “This is the tabernacle,” he explained. “It holds unconsecrated hosts and wine. We keep a larger supply in the first cabinet there, also locked.”
    The wood gleamed with polish, she noted, and would hold prints. The lock was a simple key into a slot. “This decanter here is where you took the wine for the cup?”
    “Yes. I poured it from here to the vessel, and took the host. I brought them to Miguel at the beginning of the Eucharistic Liturgy.”
    Purplish liquid filled the clear decanter to about the halfway point. “Did the substances leave your hands at any time before that, or were they unattended?”
    “No. I prepared them, kept them with me at all times. To do otherwise would be disrespectful.”
    “I have to take this into evidence.”
    “I understand. But the tabernacle can’t leave the church. Please, if you need to examine it, can it be done here? I’m sorry,” he added, “I never asked your name.”
    “Lieutenant Dallas.”
    “You’re not Catholic.”
    “What gave you the first clue?”
    He smiled a little, but the misery never left his eyes. “I understand you’re unfamiliar with the traditions and rites of the church, and some may seem strange to you. You believe someone tampered with the wine or the host.”
    Eve kept both her face and her voice neutral. “I don’t believe anything yet.”
    “If this is so, then someone used the blood and body of Christ to kill. And I delivered them to Miguel. I put them in his hands.” Beneath the misery in his eyes, Eve saw the banked embers of anger. “God will judge them, Lieutenant. But I believe in earthly laws as well as God’s laws. I’ll do whatever I can to help you in your work.”
    “What kind of priest was Flores?”
    “A good one. Compassionate, dedicated, ah, energetic, I’d say. He enjoyed working with young people, and was particularly good at it.”
    “Any trouble recently? Depression, stress?”
    “No. No. I would have known, I would have seen it. We live together, the three of us, in the rectory, there behind the church.” He gestured vaguely, as if his mind was crowded with a dozen other thoughts. “We eat together almost daily, talk, argue, pray. I would’ve seen if he’d been troubled. If you think he might have taken his own life, he wouldn’t. And he would never do so in such a way.”
    “Any trouble with anyone? Someone with a grudge, or a problem with him—professionally or otherwise?”
    “Not that he mentioned, and as I said, we talked daily.”
    “Who knew he’d be doing the funeral today?”
    “Everyone. Hector Ortiz was a fixture in the parish. A well-loved and well-respected man. Everyone knew about the funeral mass, and that Miguel was officiating.”
    As she spoke, she crossed to a door, opened it. The May sunlight beamed through the exit. The door had a lock, she noted, nearly as simple as the one on the wooden box.
    Easy in, easy out.
    “Were there any masses earlier today?” she asked López.
    “The
six o’clock weekday Mass. I officiated.”
    “And the wine, the host came from the same supply as the funeral mass?”
    “Yes.”
    “Who got it for you?”
    “Miguel. It’s a small service, usually no more than a dozen people, maybe two. Today, we expected less as the funeral would be so well attended.”
    Come in, Eve mused, attend Mass. Go back, poison the wine. Walk away. “About how many did you bring in this morning?”
    “At morning Mass? Ah . . . Eight or nine.” He paused a moment, and Eve imagined him going back, counting heads. “Yes, nine.”
    “I’ll need that list, too. Any unfamiliar faces in that one?”
    “No. I knew everyone who attended. A small group, as I said.”
    “And just you and Flores. Nobody assisting.”
    “Not for the
six o’clock. We don’t generally use a minister for the morning weekday service, except during Lent.”
    “Okay. I’d like you to write