“Animals?” The parson’s echo was laced with confusion.
“That shrew murdered my nanny goat!” she screamed, sending a shock wave across the congregation. All my thoughts of Ezra disappeared as Violet struck her palm against the pulpit.
“My wife would never do such a thing!” Edmund Latheton said, jumping to his feet half a beat after Prudence prodded him in the ribs.
Parson Briard held up his hands. “Can you tell us what happened, Violet? I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this.”
Her nose flared. “No need to get to the bottom of anything. I know who did it and I want retribution! The Elders need to—” She stopped short, looking about the sanctuary. “Where are the Elders?”
We looked about, noticing their absence.
“Amos said he’d be here soon,” Martha McCleary answered. “Said something needed tending to.”
The Elder had not been seen since the market day in February, and a dark conspiracy was whispered among some that Amos had died and the other Elders were covering it up, giving them time to plan for his successor.
“We have things that need tending to,” Violet said, jumping onto the older woman’s words. “Calvin—tell them!”
Her husband stood up, peering anxiously about the congregation. “It’s true—someone did slaughter our goat in the night. When Violet went out to milk her this morning…” He swallowed deeply, unable to continue.
“I opened the door and was greeted by her head on a spike. Nearly scared me to death! Just like she wanted,” Violet hissed, glowering at Prudence.
“That’s an unfortunate situation—” Parson Briard began.
“ ‘Unfortunate’ doesn’t even begin to cover it, Preacherman,” Violet snapped.
“But you can’t make accusations on conjecture and hearsay,” the parson continued.
“I know it was them. Tell them about the hammer, Calvin! Tell them!”
He scratched at the back of his head. “The weapons were left behind. A handsaw and a strange little wooden hammer. Looks an awful lot like a carpentry mallet.” He glanced meaningfully at Edmund.
“Those tools were stolen from my workshop weeks ago!” Edmund roared. “I haven’t been able to finish any of my projects!”
Prudence narrowed her eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised if those two stole them, then killed the goat in the middle of a drunken escapade.”
“Now, look you here—” Violet started, launching herself down the steps. Parson Briard caught her before she reached Prudence, and lashed his arm about her waist as she struggled. “Unhand me, Preacher! This isn’t none of your concern!”
“By accusing Prudence Latheton in front of all of Amity Falls, you’ve made it my concern,” he said, wincing as she threw a bony elbow into his gut. “Now, calm down and we’ll discuss this like rational adults.”
“There’s nothing to discuss. I didn’t do a damn thing!” Prudence insisted, fighting her way into the aisle. She charged up, pointing her finger like a dagger at the tavern mistress.
“Enough!” Parson Briard’s voice boomed into the rafters. “Accusations and curses hurled in the house of the Lord! I will not tolerate it! Stand down before I throw both of you out myself!” He wiped a trembling hand over his ruddy cheeks. “This is no way to behave, not here, not ever. May I remind you you’re at a funeral? What would Ruth Anne say if she could see what’s going on?”
Violet pressed her lips together, looking almost remorseful.
Prudence folded her arms across her chest, clearly unwilling to let the matter die away. “She’d be appalled,” she quipped. “Just as I am. I came here to mourn the passing of my good friend—”
Winthrop let out a soft snort. The Mullinses and the Lathetons had openly squabbled over minor annoyances for years.
“My very good friend,” Prudence insisted, more loudly on her second attempt. “And this is how I’m treated? I won’t stand for it.”
She turned on a sharp heel and stormed out of the church without a backward glance. After a moment’s pause, Edmund excused himself from the pew and trailed silently after his wife. The door closed behind him with a dull thud that settled over us all as we uncomfortably waited to see what would happen next.
Parson Briard trudged to the pulpit. Running fingers over the open Bible, he took one deep breath, then another, as if struggling to recall what he was meant to be doing.
“I know…,” he began, then cleared his throat. “I know tensions, and nerves, have been…frayed as of late.” He smiled at his understatement. “We’ve all suffered unimaginable hardships this winter. Lack of supplies, failed crops.” He let out a small, humorless laugh. “There was certainly no shortage of trials. Which is why…” He paused, thinking. “Which is why my family and I would like to host a social, this Saturday, on the town green, to celebrate the resilience of the Falls. We will roast chickens and a pig and…invite anyone able to bring their favorite dish to pass and share.” He brightened. “Thaddeus McComb—will you lend us your fiddle?”
The farmer nodded.
“Excellent. There will be songs and dancing, a true celebration of God’s unfailing abundance.” His face was radiant with inspiration. Then he faltered a step, looking out over the sea of black mourning clothes. “If no one else has any other words…we will now adjourn to the burial site.”
* * *
Mounds of freshly turned dirt dotted the sacred ground of the church cemetery, reminders of all the townsfolk who had not made it through the winter. The earth had been too frozen for the bodies to be buried, so they’d been kept in a little shed farther down on church property, waiting for spring.
So many people had been buried in the last month, there had been no coffins ready when Widow Mullins had died, and hers had had to be hastily assembled. The wood was so green, it still bled sap as the four pallbearers carried it to the site. Corey Pursimon tried to wipe the sticky residue from his hands after they’d lowered the box into the gaping maw, and ruined his best dress pants.
“We shall all receive the due reward of our deeds,” Parson Briard said, casting a gimlet eye over all who’d gathered. It landed and lingered on Violet Buhrman, appraising her thoughtfully.
Winthrop Mullins, eyes red and wet, was the first to throw in a handful of dirt.
It landed on the pine box with a thud as loud as cannon fire, signaling the start of the burial. We all came forward to say one final prayer at the foot of the widow, then scooped up a handful of rich black earth and dropped it into the depths. With quick work, the coffin was covered, and most of the townspeople headed to the Gathering House for a shared luncheon, leaving the heavier work for Simon Briard to finish.