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My hand went to my neck, the cool, round shapes of the pearls somehow soothing under my fingers. “Good,” I replied. “It seemed to be the right thing for the occasion.”

“Pearls are the right thing for almost every occasion,” she said. A hint of a smile, one that faded as she appeared to recall the reason for my current ensemble, and I guessed she was wishing she could go with me to pay her respects, that she wasn’t trapped in this house.

I smiled back and gave her a very slight nod to acknowledge that I understood how she was feeling. Then it was time to head downstairs, Chauncey at my heels, with a brief pause to grab the fur-collared coat from the closet near the entry.

The dog also followed me to the back door, since I’d decided it would probably be better to drive. My shoes were comfortable enough despite their slender heels, but I still didn’t want to walk a half mile in them.

“Take good care of Hazel,” I told Chauncey, and bent down to scratch him behind the ears. “I shouldn’t be gone too long.”

He tilted his head up at me, and I could tell he wanted to come along, especially since it looked like I was going to take a car. The weather had been cool enough that I’d brought him along with me sometimes while I ran my errands, so I knew he loved car rides.

But that wasn’t what tonight was about.

“Maybe next time,” I said, and petted him again before heading out to the back stoop and firmly closing the door behind me.

I’d already decided to take the Mercedes. The Cadillac was amazing, but it was also really flashy, and I thought it might look kind of disrespectful if I rolled up in that thing to attend a vigil for a murdered priest. Not that a Mercedes E-Class was exactly the most understated thing in the world, especially in a place like Prescott, where two out of three vehicles were either trucks or SUVs, but it would still draw a lot less attention than a flawlessly maintained ’65 Coupe de Ville.

As I backed out of the garage, I hoped I wasn’t making a mistake. Some people might look at me sideways for attending Father Frank’s vigil, since he’d died under my business’s roof and I wasn’t a parishioner, and yet I couldn’t think of a more efficient way to get some intel.

And after all, what better way to honor his memory than to find the person who murdered him?

The streets weren’t too busy at that hour on a Sunday evening, although the parking lot was almost full when I got to Sacred Heart. Luckily, I found a space at the end of one row, so I parked there, grabbed my purse, and got out of the car.

I was surprised to see that the church looked fairly modern. With so much vintage architecture in town, I’d just assumed that Sacred Heart would also be old, especially since I’d read somewhere that it had been founded in the 1870s.

But maybe the original church had become too small, or maybe it had gotten damaged somehow, and the parish had decided to build a newer facility.

People were still entering the building, so I slipped in behind a large group, a family with members spanning several generations, and then took a seat in a pew toward the back of the church. The atmosphere inside was almost stuffy after the cool evening air in the parking lot, or maybe it just felt that way because the scent of lilies and incense seemed to surround me, not quite cloying, but sweeter than I’d expected.

Well, to be honest, I didn’t know what I’d expected. I’d never been to a Catholic wedding or a funeral, so I didn’t have any real frame of reference.

Everyone seemed somber, and most people were dressed in black like I was, or other similarly subdued shades like dark gray or dark green. People spoke in hushed murmurs, and none of them seemed to be paying any particular attention to me.

I supposed I should be grateful for that.

The casket I’d half-expected to see at the front of the church wasn’t there. In its place was a low stand draped in white that held a framed photograph of Father Frank in his vestments. His smile was the same one I remembered, warm and slightly tired. A tall white candle burned beside it, and a green stole, one I assumed had belonged to him, was folded across the stand.

No casket meant that the medical examiner must not have released him yet and that the autopsy wasn’t complete. The thought of Father Frank lying somewhere on a cold steel table while we sat here in warm, lily-scented candlelight and tried to remember him made unexpected tears burn in my eyes.

Good thing I’d grabbed some tissues at the last minute and had shoved them in my purse.

A priest went to the lectern, paused and looked down at the assembled mourners for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“My name is Father Esteban Reyes,” he said. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m the associate pastor here at Sacred Heart. I served alongside Father Francis for the past six years. He was my brother priest, and my friend, and I am — as so many of you are — at a loss tonight.”

Father Esteban let the silence that followed those words linger for a moment before going on. I guessed he was probably in his early fifties, with iron-gray hair and the kind of weathered face that suggested he’d spent plenty of time outside at some point in his life. His vestments were plain, a black cassock with a simple white surplice over it, and a small gold cross at his throat caught the candlelight when he moved.

When he spoke again, it was to lead the congregation in a prayer, followed by a reading from the Bible. I didn’t recognize the passage, but when everyone rose, I belatedly got up from my seat and hoped no one noticed my awkwardness. However, what came after that was something I actually did know.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want….

Those damn tears were burning my eyes again. I scrabbled in my purse for a Kleenex and then dabbed away, telling myself I needed to sit through this without smearing my careful cat-eye liner all over the place.

Another reading from the Bible followed the Psalm, and then Father Esteban paused, his sad, dark gaze moving over the silent congregation before him.

“The Gospel we just heard,” he said, “is one of the most familiar in our tradition. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. Father Francis chose this reading for his own future funeral years ago — he told me so over coffee one morning in the matter-of-fact way he had about most things, including his own death. He said he liked the image of a house with rooms enough for everyone. He said it sounded like home.”

A small, sad laugh moved through the pews. Next to me, an older woman pressed a tissue to her eyes. My own tissue was a damp ball in one fist.