Sacred Sins

candles and flowers.
    As the senator carved the turkey, Ben had thought back on the Thanksgivings he'd experienced as a child.

    Because they had always eaten at midday rather than evening, he'd woken to the enticing smells of roasting fowl, sage, cinnamon, and the sausage his mother had browned and crumbled into the stuffing. The television had stayed on through the Macy's parade and football. It was one of the few days of the year when he or his brother hadn't been drafted to set the table. That was his mother's pleasure.
    She'd take out her best dishes, the ones used only when his Aunt Jo visited from Chicago or his father's boss came to dinner. The flatware hadn't been sterling, but a more ornate stainless. She'd always taken pride in arranging the napkins into triangles. Then his father's sister would arrive with her husband and brood of three in tow. The house would be full of noise, arguments, and the scent of his mother's honey bread.
    Grace would be said while Ben ignored his cousin Marcie, who became more disagreeable every year, and who, for reasons of her own, his mother would insist on seating next to him.
    Bless us O Lord with these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christour-lordamen.
    The last of the prayer always ran together as greed became overwhelming. The minute the Sign of the Cross was completed, hands began to reach out for whatever was closest.
    There had never been a silent Oriental seeing the glasses were full of Pouilly-Fuissé.
    “I'm glad you could join us tonight, Detective.” Writemore helped himself to another serving of asparagus. “I often feel guilty about keeping Tess all to myself over the holidays.”
    “I appreciate the invitation. Otherwise I'd probably be eating a taco in front of the television.”

    “A profession like yours doesn't leave time for many quiet meals, I'd imagine. I'm told you're a rare breed, Detective, being dedicated.” When Ben only lifted a brow, the senator gave him a bland smile and gestured with his wineglass. “The mayor's been keeping me informed on the ins and outs of your case, as my grand-daughter's involved.”
    “What Grandpa means is that he gossips with the mayor.”
    “That too,” Writemore agreed easily. “Apparently you didn't approve of Tess being brought in to consult.”
    Blunt, Ben decided, is best met with blunt. “I still don't.”
    “Try some of these pear preserves on that roll.” Genially, the senator passed the dish. “Miss Bette puts them up herself. Do you mind if I ask if you disapproved of consulting with a psychiatrist or of consulting with Tess.”
    “Grandpa, I don't think Thanksgiving dinner is an appropriate place for a grilling.”
    “Nonsense, I'm not grilling the boy, just trying to see where he stands.”
    Taking his time, Ben spread the preserves on the bread. “I didn't see the point in a psychiatric profile that involved more time and paperwork. I prefer basic police work, interviews, legwork, logic.” He glanced over at Tess, and saw her studying her wine. “As far as law enforcement is concerned, it doesn't matter to me if he's psychotic or just mean. This dressing's incredible.”
    “Yes, Miss Bette has quite a hand.” As if to corroborate, Writemore took another forkful. “I'm inclined to see your opinion, Detective, without wholly agreeing. That's what we in politics call diplomatic bullshit.”
    “We call it the same thing in law enforcement.”
    “Then we understand each other. You see, I'm of the opinion that it's always wise to understand your opponent's mind.”

    “Insofar as it helps you stay a step ahead of him.” Ben turned his attention to Writemore. The senator sat at the table's head in a black suit and stiff white shirt. The dark tie was held in place by a single unadorned diamond. His hands were big and rough looking against the elegant crystal. It surprised Ben to note that his own grandfather's hands, the old butcher's hands, had been much the same—worked, thick at the knuckle, wide backed. He wore a plain gold band on his left hand, the sign of a commitment to the wife who had died more than thirty years before.
    “Then you don't feel Tess's work as a psychiatrist has helped you in this particular case?”
    As if she were sublimely unconcerned, Tess continued to eat.
    “I'd like to say that,” Ben answered after a moment. “Because if I did it might be easier to convince her, or to convince you to convince her to stay out of it