“Well, technically, I need to sign papers by the end of the day, or else I’m going to locate my cocktail bar at 18th and Guerrero. Prime spot in the gourmet ghetto."

  “It’s a great property. Right between two three-star restaurants, where you can grab a drink while you wait for a table at either place. I think Allison should stick with it.” Naomi emitted a wistful sigh and grinned.

  Mr. Mustache focused on her. He was totally queer, but even he wasn’t immune to her smile, which drew a blush to his cheeks.

  He cleared his throat. “Let me see what I can do.” He picked up the handset on a black desktop phone, which I only noticed because next to it stood a pristine white phone. Maybe he had direct lines to heaven and hell.

  If so, we were getting the downstairs connection. “Hey, Tony. I’ve got a prospective tenant here for the Fourteenth Street property… Yeah, that one… I know. But if it’s empty at the moment, you could sneak them in the back. Just stay behind the yellow tape.”

  Naomi glanced at me, her eyes widening.

  An electric thrill bolted through me. This was far more than just the scoop on the keys we’d hoped for, including confirmation Kearney Properties considered itself above the law.

  “Good. I’ll meet you out front with them in two minutes.” He smiled obligingly at us. “Just give me a minute to locate the keys to the property.”

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Naomi turned to me, one eyebrow up. “Allison Lemmon, renowned mixologist?”

  I shrugged, secretly basking in her astonishment.

  “What happens when Tony drives us away and Mr. Bowtie Googles your Ms. Lemmon?”

  “Actually, his name is Mr. Mustache. And I don’t know yet. I haven’t gotten that far.” I curled my fingers, trying to cling to her warm wonder instead of her harsh pragmatism. “But I know if we’d invoked David’s name, we’d never have come this close.”

  Naomi sighed. “I seriously hope Tony doesn’t trade in concrete shoes.”

  Mr. Bowtie Q. Mustache, esquire, hooked his head around the doorframe. “There's a slight problem with the keys.”

  “Oh?” Naomi cocked her head.

  “The red-tagged master is missing.”

  Of course it was. But David’s hadn’t had a red tag. Did the set found at the crime scene?

  Two things happened then. Heaven called on the white phone, and an ear-piercing honk sent me half an inch in the air. I turned toward its source and saw a shiny black town car at the curb.

  The receptionist dashed back to his desk and grabbed the white handset. “Hello?”

  Instantly, he yanked the phone several inches from his ear, conveniently permitting Naomi and I to hear the caller.

  “—that woman! Bring her up here immediately.”

  Now Naomi swung her head toward me. “It seems someone upstairs is a fan of yours, Allison.”

  I took a deep breath. If the purple color rising from the man’s bowtie up his neck was any indication, this might be the time to cut our losses.

  “Thanks anyway.” I spoke loud enough that he could hear me over the man shouting through the telephone. “But if you don’t have a key, I suppose it’s the gourmet ghetto for me.” I locked my arm around Naomi’s elbow and spun us.

  Tony blocked the door. He looked exactly like you’d expect a concrete shoe salesman to look. I don’t want to stereotype guys who resemble the cast of the Sopranos. I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice man. Probably teaches Sunday school at St. Clare’s. But he was thicker than me and Naomi put together, and he didn’t happen to be stepping aside to wish us godspeed.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Lemmon, if that is your real name, Mr. Kearney would like to meet you.”

  “Fabulous. Perhaps you can mix him up one of your specialties,” Naomi chirped. “Maybe he’d like that one you call Deep Trouble?”

  Damn—I liked this girl. I glanced at my watch. 4:45 p.m. “Why not? It’s five o'clock somewhere.”

  Bowtie—yes, I now considered us on a first name basis—led Naomi and me into the lobby, pushing the up button on the elevator.

  When the doors whooshed open, Tony stepped in behind us. He smelled like the too-piney aftershave Cesar’s dad wore, which did not put me at ease. Mr. Garza wasn’t my biggest fan.

  Our escort pushed the button for the fiftieth floor.

  “It’ll be five o’clock here by the time we reach the penthouse,” Naomi muttered.

  In fact, it only took three minutes to zoom up to the top floor. When the elevator opened again, a small woman wearing a white pantsuit with a Nehru jacket greeted us, her silver hair pulled into a tight bun.

  “Thank you, Tony. Mr. Kearney is waiting for his guests.” She dismissed the brawny man with the lift of her chin. Either they didn’t think we were a physical threat, or she was a white-clothed, old-lady ninja. Option B was totally awesome even though I preferred to think we weren’t being forcibly detained.

  That’s when I noticed everything in the penthouse was white. There weren’t even chrome fixtures on the doors or silver veins in the marble floor. Not a gray throw pillow in sight. Every surface was pure, clouds-of-heaven white.

  Okay. So Kevin Kearney was more eccentric than I’d realized.

  “Mr. Kearney asks all his guests to put these on over their shoes.” The majorettedomo held up white surgical booties. I slid them over the soles of my boots. Naomi did the same with her Mary Janes.

  “This way, please.”

  The penthouse was blindingly bright, with wall-to-wall windows. Kearney sat at a white table. When I’d seen him on the news clip, he’d been wearing a navy-blue sport coat and red tie. Today, he’d buttoned a white oxford up to the middle of his chest so that his faded orange chest hair sprouted from the top. An unidentifiable white food lay on his plate—yolk-less omelet? Tofu patty?

  I had the crazy urge to find a pepper shaker and grind it all over his table and his shirt, too.

  He did not stand as we approached. “What the hell are you doing here, Lee?”

  “Um…” I know I’d eschewed the direct approach earlier, but now it was my only option. “Just wondering if you were the one who murdered my friend.”

  He laughed, a low, slow chuckle that sent invisible bugs crawling down my spine.

  “The police already have their man.”

  Naomi sucked in a breath.

  He squinted at her. “Who are you?”

  “She’s a friend.” I inched closer to her. “Were you at the The Carlos Club late Wednesday night?”

  “It’s not The Carlos Club anymore. It’s 800 14th St.”

  “And you wanted it back so bad, you knocked Cindy over the head to make sure you got your bar vacated on schedule?”

  “Look, I’m glad that bitch is dead. But I didn’t kill her.”

  Cindy’s favorite T-shirt had read, You say bitch like it’s a bad thing. Still, I didn’t like the word in his mouth, a man so hateful he insulted the dead.

  “You make a very convincing argument,” Naomi said.

  “I don’t have to make an argument, I have an airtight alibi.”

  No doubt provided by Tony and the majorettedomo.

  “What is it then? Where were you on Wednesday night?”

  “That’s between me and the police.” He grinned.

  Even though his teeth were straight and clean, there was something large and unpleasant about them. Perhaps they were veneers that didn’t quite fit the size of his mouth. They were certainly too white.

  “In fact, speaking of the police, I’m sure that polite Detective Garza would like to know you two are here snooping around.”

  I held my ground and tossed out a gambit. “How did your master keys end up at the crime scene?”

  His blue eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He hadn’t expected me to know that. “As I already told the police, I have no idea how that happened.”

  How interesting.

  “And now, Tony will show you out.”

  He did so without mention of concrete shoes, and we breathed a sigh of relief in unison when we stepped safely onto the sidewalk outside Kearney’s building.

  We headed home more frugally, walking down the steep Nob Hill to catch BART in Union Square. On the train, Naomi invited me out for a drink.

  Damn, I wanted to say yes, but I’d learned a hard lesson about late Saturday nights. Even raging extrovert priests get worn out on Sunday morning. Showing up irritable and just hung-over enough to find the smell of communion wine nauseating did not make me feel good about how I was living up to my ordination vows.

  At home alone, I indulged in self-pity over how my career cramped my social life and tinkered with my sermon until I began to doze at my computer, then went to bed.

  Chapter Seven

  With St. Giles’ gorgeous green silk vestments on, I entered the church and found it packed, with people standing in the side aisles. It wasn’t even like this on Easter morning.

  I’m not a crier—my emotions helpfully block my airways rather than exit my tear ducts—but all those visitors were there for Cindy. Their presence was enough to make my eyes prick with tears.

  Before I came to serve as the vicar of St. Giles’, Sunday attendance had trickled down to about two dozen people. They’d consolidated their services to a single, 9:00 a.m. Holy Eucharist. Over the last two years, we’d risen to eighty most weeks, and the small sanctuary grew cozy on well-attended days.

  Prevailing wisdom said it was time to split into two services again, to leave room in the pews for newcomers. But the tight crowds exuded joy and togetherness in a way empty seats never could. So I’d ignored the sages of church growth and followed a restaurant management philosophy. If it’s crowded, they will come.

  If even a sliver of Cindy’s mourners came back regularly, we’d have to start taking reservations on the Open Table app or return to the 8:30 and 10 a.m. schedule.

  I turned on my lavaliere mic. “Blessed be God, Parent, Child, Holy Spirit.”

  “And blessed be their kingdom, now and forever,” came the response.

  Did you hear that, folks? At St. Giles', we know God’s queerer than anybody in our queer city, refusing to be categorized, boxed in as one gender, so that all people, regardless of their plumbing and how they identify, know they're made in God’s image.

  Too bad half the people in the room weren’t regulars, and their response was tepid at best.

  “Newcomers and friends, let’s try that again.” I reminded them of their line, then bid the opening sentence a second time.

  The reply was a roar, as if everyone present understood what the words meant about them and our sister Cindy.

  I processed down the aisle as we sang “In Christ there is no East or West.”

  Too full of emotion, I tried not to look at any one person’s face for moral support. If I made eye contact, I might have burst. I didn’t even peek when a shimmer of mahogany waves made me wonder if Naomi was in the congregation.

  The service proceeded slowly because I added in lots of guidance for the first timers in the pews. Still, it had the same joyful exuberance of every Sunday, and it buoyed me right until the moment I slipped into the pulpit. Only my senior warden Al seemed preoccupied. He wore his perpetually worried expression and, as usual, he scribbled on the margins of the bulletin nonstop throughout the entire liturgy.

  I began with a passage from Jesus's sermon on the mount.

  “You have heard what was said to people who lived long ago. They were told, ‘Do not commit murder. Anyone who murders will be judged for it.’ But here is what I tell you. Do not be angry with a brother or sister. Anyone who is angry with them will be judged.”

  Then I told the story of arguing with Cindy Wednesday night, in a way that flattered her, of course. These were her mourners, after all, and Lynn was right there in the front row. Plus, I’d learned from my preaching professor to tell stories that revealed my flaws, not ones that showed me as a victim or a hero.

  “Jesus warns us that holding on to our anger, fanning its flames, leads us down a path toward violence. Instead, we should resolve our differences right away. We may not get another chance in this life to make peace with our brothers and sisters.”

  “Of course, sometimes our anger isn’t about a personal slight, but a righteous cause. Stoking that fire fuels our passion for justice. But as every great change-maker has taught us, all the way back to Jesus and the Buddha, before we act, we must move past the anger and towards strategy, drawing on what we know is right to resist peacefully.”

  And lastly, I said the same prayer for Cindy that I had when I’d found her body. “Now, she is one of those saints in the light. And I trust she's still with us in a new way. I’ve heard her voice, ribbing me the way she always did. The good news is, in some mysterious way, Cindy and I have made peace after all. Because—and this is why we come together here every Sunday—love is stronger than death.”

  I scanned the faces in the pews. Some of the women had been at The Carlos Club on Wednesday night. Some of them had applauded me when I turned off “Everybody Dance Now” and again when I stood on the bar top and gave an empty inspirational speech.

  No one clapped now. Instead, the church fell into a deep, reverent silence. I breathed it in, let it comfort me, convince me of my own words.

  I’m sorry, Cindy.

  Right back atcha, Alls.

  Another deep breath, and I rose to continue the service. Next came the creed, the prayers, and the collection of an offering that overflowed the plates, dedicated to the GLBTQ Youth Center on Market Street. Then I stood behind the altar with my arms spread wide to begin the Eucharistic Prayer.

  I sniffed. What was that smell? Onions.

  I glanced around. Jenny Wong, who was serving as a Eucharistic minister, shrugged. I eyed the pita bread on the paten. It had telltale brown flecks of onion in it. Yikes. Clearly one of the altar guild ladies had bought the wrong package. Probably Lois, whose eyesight seemed to be failing fast. Mental note—I needed to check that she had enough help at home.

  I glanced back at the sacristy. Were some of those cardboard-like communion wafers hiding somewhere? Oh, who cared?

  “Well, folks—this is a little strange. Today, the body of Christ is onion flavored. I guess we’re doing things differently in honor of Cindy.”

  A few chuckles rumbled in the congregation. They built up to a round of laughter, which caught hold of me, too, so that I stood, giggling, my arms still wide in the gesture of prayer.

  There—two-thirds of the way back in the packed church—I glimpsed Naomi. Her gorgeous mouth was spread into a grin that seemed to be just for me.

  Warmth rained on me as if from above. She’d come. Maybe I could listen to her give the sermon at next week’s Shabbat services.

  “The Lord be with you.” I began the prayer, brimming with the peace and sense of profundity the service had brought. There, behind the altar, I'd never felt more grateful to be a priest, more certain of the calling that had gripped me the first time I’d walked in to Grace Cathedral as a teenager. God wanted me to be right here.

  As soon as the service ended, I hung up my vestments and raced to the parish hall in search of Naomi. Where had she gone?

  I spotted Lois of the bad eyesight instead. She returned a muffin to a plate and rushed toward me. “Reverend Alma, I am so sorry about the bread this morning. They must have changed the packaging. I always buy the one with the orange label.”

  “It’s okay. I think we needed to laugh today. And it was perfectly delicious.”

  She giggled. “You are so refreshing, dear.”

  Would she still think so after I called her daughter about my concerns she needed more help? “I’d like to come visit you this week.”

  “Wonderful.” She squeezed my hand in her bony one. “I’ll make those vegan brownies you love.”

  “You are a saint.”

  Please, God, let her tell the salt from the sugar.

  Behind her, people circled me at a distance, as if they all wanted a moment with the priest but didn’t want to be pushy about it. Where was Naomi, and why wasn’t the one person I wanted to see in my orbit?

  Al smiled at me from near the coffee urn and headed my way. Great—this was so not the time I wanted to have our much-needed face-to-face. Would he whip out the laundry list of my leadership failures he’d been writing on the bulletin?

  Before he reached me, Lynn pushed through the dense asteroid belt of parishioners. Her nose was head-reindeer red and raw around the nostrils. Ouch.

  “Oh, Alma, that sermon…” She opened her arms, and I stepped close, accepting her hug. “It hit me right in the gut. Cindy and I were having so many problems. She must have told you?”

  I wriggled free. “She told me a little.” But I’d always suspected it was nothing close to the whole story, and I respected Cindy’s impulse to keep marital strife private.

  “It seems so stupid now.” Lynn’s lower lip trembled. “I’d forgive anything to have her back, you know?”

  “I do.”

  She swallowed the tremulous lip, nodding, and grabbed my arm. “There’s something I need to tell you—”

  “Can you hear me?” A too-loud voice came over the parish hall sound system. Jenny, up on the stage.

  What the heck was she doing?

  “It's wonderful to see you all here. What a tribute to Cindy. On behalf of all her friends in this church, I sincerely thank you for being here. And I want to draw your attention to an issue that was near and dear to her heart—affordable housing. I campaigned with a promise to bring more low-income units onto the rental market, and you voted for me for the same reason.”

  I scanned the crowd for signs everyone found this impromptu speech as inappropriate as I did. On the contrary, all my satellites seemed positively rapt. Great—they were free to orbit Jenny for as long as they wanted.

  She extended her hand, palms up, and indicated everyone in the room. “I want to invite you to a rally later this afternoon in China Basin. There’s a property under development there with the potential for two hundred units. The Board of Supervisors needs to know you demand the developer designates twenty percent for affordable housing!”

 

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