"Will she be able to care for the children?"

"Yes, we think so. It might help to give her a day or two to settle in, if possible. I understand her cousin is having a time of it, four children in a one-bedroom apartment. . . ."

"We'll do whatever it takes on our end."

"Excellent. Let's just say two weeks, maximum."

"Thanks be to God!" He felt a weight move off his heart. "Thank you, Doctor. Well done!"

"Father Tim?"

"Speaking. Is that you, Rodney?"

"All we could turn up on th' back door an' th' knob was Puny's prints. Then we dusted your mantel and your desk and so on, but didn't find anything. She's rubbed a good bit of lemon oil around in there."

"Right."

"Course we found some of your prints on th' desk drawers, you remember we took your prints a few years ago."

"I do."

"Sorry to be so long gettin' back to you."

Ah, well. He'd done his duty, they'd done theirs, and that was that.

Had Emma Newland vanished from the face of the earth? Whenever she called, he fervently wished she hadn't. When she didn't, he wished she would. Go figure.

Maybe they were still in Atlanta. Maybe Harold had seen the phone bill and laid down the law. Maybe she didn't care anymore what happened to her old boss-out of sight, out of mind.

He dialed her number and charged the call to Dove Cottage.

"Hello!"

"Emma?"

"Is that you?"

"It's me, all right. What's up in Mitford? Tell me everything, it's my nickel."

"After we went to Atlanta and saw Jean, we went to New Orleans, Harold had three weeks piled up with th' post office. The food in New Orleans was great, it was unbelievable, you'd never in a hundred years believe how much we ate, I think I have gout."

"Gout?"

"From eating all that French food, they say it'll give you gout."

"Does your big toe hurt?"

"My big toe? What does that have to do with anything?"

"With gout, that's usually what's affected. Very painful."

"My toe is fine and dandy, so it must be somethin' else."

"Where did you eat?"

"Sometimes we got carry-out Cajun and ate in th' RV, th' rest of th' time we ate in th' restaurant in th' motel. Meals came with the room, and all for only eighty-eight dollars a day. For two!"

"You definitely don't have gout," he said.

"Have they gotten you any help yet? Even Harold has help."

"Everybody pitches in." He wondered why on earth he'd called.

"I haven't checked Ed Sikes in Oregon, if that's why you called. We just got in a few days ago, and I'm up to my ears in laundry, plus Snickers has fleas and they're so bad they're jumpin' on th' counter, I thought I'd spilled pepper. Th' termite man is on his way right now, you wouldn't believe what it's goin' to cost and I have to be out of th' house for three hours while they do it, and then come home and vacuum for five straight days, it's all that rain we had, I'm sure Barnabas is covered with fleas. . . ."

"Not that I've seen."

"Well, I don't know why he doesn't have fleas, the way th' weather's been, fleas breed in weather like we've had."

His erstwhile secretary was positively hopping mad that his dog didn't have fleas.

"Speakin' of fleas, did you hear what Rodney Underwood just got to hunt criminals, you'd never guess."

"True. I wouldn't."

"A rockwilder! You should see people scatterin' when it trots down th' street, Adele Hogan walks it every morning and it drags Joe Joe Guthrie around every evening, I'd hate to be a criminal in this town! Speakin' of criminal, have you heard what Miss Pattie's done now?"

Miss Pattie was a Hope House resident whose mind had been lost some years ago and was found only on the rarest of occasions. Her antics had long been of particular interest to Emma.

"Miss Pattie's too old to get into mischief, I should think."

"Well, think again, she steals everything she can get her hands on in Mr. Berman's room, then goes and throws it out her window."

"No!"

"His money, his bedroom shoes, his good leather belt, you name it. He got undressed the other night and looked around for his pajamas and they weren't there, so he draped himself in a blanket like a red Indian and called the nurse and told her if Miss Pattie didn't stop this mess, his son will sue for a million dollars."

"Can't the staff do something?"

"They locked her window, that's the best they can do, they say she's going through a phase."

"What does Mr. Berman say?"

"He says she has a terrible crush on him."

"That makes sense," he said, recalling that Mr. Berman was a very handsome old man.

"Speakin' of crazy people, Coot Hendrick actually believes he's going to win th' election. Can you imagine havin' a mayor who's two san'wiches short of a full picnic?"

He suddenly realized that Emma's sluice gate had opened and he was being swept along as if by a raging torrent.

"So, Emma, glad to hear you had a great time in New Orleans. Let me know what you find out about Ed Sikes."

He hung up and wiped his face with his handkerchief.

The search committee was meeting regularly, chatting each other up in the churchyard, whispering among themselves in the parish hall, polling the congregation for general opinion, and basically going about the task of replacement as if eager to unload their interim.

When he laughed with Sam Fieldwalker about their apparent urgency, his senior warden insisted that quite the opposite was true. The committee was hastening to do their job, yes, but in fact, several parishioners had expressed a desire to have their interim remain full-time. Besides, Father Tim was too young to retire. Hadn't Father Grace served St. John's until he was eighty-seven?

Not every interim was urged by the parish to stay on. In fact, many were viewed with suspicion and some with utter disregard. He remembered what one of his early bishops was fond of saying-that the interim who didn't make enemies was a man who wasn't doing his job. The job, it was popularly supposed, was to stir things up, to throw out the old and make way for the new.

Who could, after all, forget Father Harry?

Father Harry, who was seventy-one when his life as an interim began, thoroughly relished the task of disrupting the comfort level of a parish. His style was to barge in and take command before they knew what hit them.

If the congregation was attached to Rite Two, he celebrated Rite One. If they were stubbornly fond of traditional music, he switched them to praise songs. If they venerated their choir and organ, he had them sing a cappella for weeks on end. If they believed children should be seen and not heard, he invited the small fry to take up collection and read simpler Epistles. If their former priest had avoided the very mention of mammon, Father Harry talked about it at considerable length, with special emphasis on tithing. Further, he enjoyed reinstituting the observance of Morning Prayer, which, if not entirely forgotten by most parishes, was thought to be quaintly antique.

When the incoming priest was finally in place, the congregants were so relieved to be done with the old troublemaker, they went for almost anything the newcomer cooked up.

Father Harry could get the job done, all right. As for himself, Father Tim leaned rather more to what C. S. Lewis had said about worship procedures in Letters to Malcolm.

"A good shoe is a shoe you don't notice. . . . The perfect church service would be one we were almost unaware of; our attention would have been on God. But every novelty prevents this. It fixes our attention on the service itself, and thinking about worship is a different thing from worshipping."

He relished a note left on his desk by nine-year-old Margaret Wheeler.

Deer Father Tim when we get a new priest I hope he is just like you.

Love, Margaret PS But I hope he has kids!!!

Mayoral Candidate Agrees with Opponent Andrew Gregory, one of two mayoral candidates for the election on November 3, says he agrees with his opponent, local native Coot Hendrick.

"Mr. Hendrick is absolutely right to fight for the preservation of early Mitford history, though the hope of winning this particular battle appears lost. If elected, I shall do everything in my power to preserve what is good and positive about Mitford. One of my first projects will be to encourage owners of several local buildings to seek listings on our National Register, and receive federal funding assistance for much-needed restoration.

"For nearly two decades, our incumbent mayor, Esther Cunningham, has set an example of community service that raised the standard of this office for all time. It will be a privilege to try and carry on her remarkable vision."

Gregory said that, if elected, he would also work to bring "sensitive, balanced growth to Mitford, which includes increased lodging, food and retail opportunities."

Gregory, his wife, Anna, and his brother-in-law, Anthony Nocelli, are owners of the popular Lucera Restaurant, located in their private residence known to one and all as Fernbank. Mr. Gregory is also the owner/proprietor of Oxford Antique Shop, a Main Street landmark.

Town Council Meeting Turns Musical Mrs. Beulah Mae Hendrick, 92-year-old mother of Mitford mayoral candidate, Coot Hendrick, was a surprise visitor at last Monday's meeting of the town council.

Mrs. Hendrick was allowed to open the meeting with a song learned from her grandfather, who was the son of Mitford's founder, Hezikiah Hendrick. Local legend has it that Hezikiah Hendrick shot five Union soldiers running from their regiment, and buried them on what is now property belonging to Ms. Edith Mallory.

State law rules that property containing grave sights can not be be disturbed or developed. Ms. Mallory contends there is no proof or evidence that such graves exist on her 90-acre property. Ms. Mallory is currently beginning construction on a 3,000 sq. ft. extension of her home, Clear Day, near or on the sight of the stone foundations of the old Hendrick cabin.

Mrs. Hendrick, who stood beside her wheelchair to sing the song, said afterward, "It will prove we're right!" A written copy of the lyrics was sent to Ms. Mallory by certified mail last Tuesday morning.

Shot five Yankees

a-runnin' from th' war

Caught 'em in a cornfield

Sleepin' by a f'ar

Now they'll not run no more, oh

They'll not run no more!

Dug five graves

With a mattock and a hoe

Buried 'em in th' ground