A Beeline to Murder

Philippe heaved a heavy sigh. “God willing, my brother’s soul can rest in peace now.” He stared at the painting, then finally turned and retreated to a pew, where he slid onto the ages-old, worn wooden seat. Hunched over, eyes closed, Philippe fell silent.

Abby strolled quietly and slowly toward him. She marveled at how the clerestory window light bathed the interior and splayed across Philippe’s dark hair, highlighting strands and creating shimmering undertones of color. Shut out of his interior world, she imagined he was thinking about the site they were about to see and perhaps wondering what criteria to use in deciding if it would be the right place for Jean-Louis. Or maybe Philippe was reacquainting himself with interior prayer.

She strolled to where he sat. As she gazed down at his bowed head and perfectly proportioned hands folded in his lap, her heart swelled with the desire to throw her arms around him and to whisper words of comfort. Wasn’t that what he needed? What everyone needed when they felt bereft and alone? But Abby stopped herself—as she always did—with thoughts of how such spontaneity could muddy the boundaries of their relationship. Maybe if she were entirely truthful, it was she who needed the warmth and the words of comfort. She quickly moved past the thought, turning her attention to the church’s sparse design and interior furnishings.

With its lovely simplicity, the small sanctuary could be appreciated not in terms of what it had, but in terms of what it didn’t have. It had no fancy architecture, no stained-glass windows, and no statuary in niches. Rather, the small church offered a cool refuge against the heat of the mountains, a quiet place to sit, and nothing to detract from prayer. The room smelled woodsy, earthy, as if the wooden surfaces had been anointed with oil of cedar, sage, and camphor.

Absorbed in her observations, Abby was surprised to hear Philippe whisper her name. His hand reached for hers. Taking it and responding to his gentle tug as he scooted over, Abby permitted him to pull her gently down into the pew.

Philippe whispered hoarsely, “Who could have imagined such an ending for someone on purpose with his life? He was destined for better things. I can’t make sense of it.”

Abby shook her head. She was aware only of the gentleness of his hand wrapped around hers, the warmth of his fingers.

“I wrestle with what is not possible to know. Did he die quickly”—Philippe’s voice faltered—“or did he know in his final moments that he was leaving?” He fell silent for a beat. “Has his spirit ascended some great distance or to a place unknowable except in death?”

Abby tried to think of something consoling to say. “Some say we can feel those who love us around even after they are gone.”

“I cannot feel him. And I know not about an afterlife, although my faith tells me there is one.” Philippe stared at the altar.

Struggling with her own feelings of sadness, Abby remained quiet. His dark despair might seem unbearable to him now, but she knew it would eventually lift. She would do whatever was needed to help him through this period—be the caring friend, a warm body sitting close, fully present to his pain.

His voice cracked as he spoke again. “But I am thankful for you. . . . Vous êtes ma lumière.”

She swallowed and looked away. There were times when she wished she could allow herself to express her feelings at the moment she felt them. Referring to her as his light was such a tender thing to say. It deserved a response. But which? A hug, a kiss, a thank-you . . . ? Abby briefly tightened her fingers against his but said nothing. More moments passed, during which she was acutely aware that not only were their hands touching, but so, too, were their thighs.