Bishop's Road by Catherine Hogan Safer Page B

doing now that I’m all the way over here.”
    â€œNo. You shouldn’t. She needs her rest and we’re justabout to have breakfast.”
    â€œHow are you cooking breakfast if the stove is broken?”
    â€œIt’s not broken, Father. It exploded. We put the oven door back on and it’s as good as it ever was. Which isn’t to say it won’t blow us all to kingdom come tomorrow but it will do for the likes of us. Why don’t you run along, now, and change your shirt? You’ve got egg all down the front of it.”
    â€œI’m home,” sings Ruth. “Be it ever so humble. Pity about the body in the sitting room - but hey.”
    â€œWhat has gotten into you Ruth?” asks Eve. “Ginny Mustard has done a dreadful thing and you are treating it like a joke. It’s not funny Ruth. A man is dead. And Ginny Mustard will end up going to jail for the rest of her life.”
    â€œYes. Well I thought about that while I was out. You’re right, of course. She’ll have to go to jail. It’s too bad she turned out to be smart. A few days ago she could have pled stupidity and got away with a few months in the nuthouse. The girl’s got lousy timing - that’s for sure. I think we’d best call a meeting of the tenant’s association. I’m going to put this beer away. Let’s have break-fast and discuss the matter at hand. What do you say, old Eve? Think we can work our way out of this mess? And we thought bones in the attic was a problem.”
    Again Ruth is laughing. “Someone bring food to the grieving widow. I can hear her moaning and groaning all the way down here. And then let’s eat before Mister starts to go bad. We’ll have to work fast or we’ll never get the smell out.”
    Breakfast is leftovers. Everything from night before last and some vegetables slightly past their prime. Ruth says, “Ginny Mustard you have found your calling. You’re not a half bad cook. And you’re a pretty good shot too. There may be a place in the world for you yet, girl.” And the others smile at that. Cautiously. Unsure of the etiquette of doing so with one newly deceased in the next room.
    After the plate scraping and dishwashing have been done, things put back the way they were, Ruth calls them to Mrs. Miflin’s room to discuss their latest dilemma. They are in agreement that Ginny Mustard did the right thing. Mrs. Miflin provides vivid details of her married life. The more she talks the less she whimpers. The less she whimpers the clearer her focus. She is more like her old self but without the fuzzy edges that had never made sense. They can see that the man was scum. And that’s all he was. Didn’t matter that he had been a sweet baby once upon a time, that someone had taken the trouble to name him, maybe played with him. In their minds he was never anything other than what he had become.
    If Mrs. Miflin had mentioned the flowers he brought her. Or the way he rubbed her back when she had been sewing for too long. Or the times they walked to the river and threw pennies in to buy a wish, or sat up late at night watching out for falling stars. If she had told them that he cried when their first baby died so soon after he felt it kick, gentle hand on her belly. Oh how he had cried. She had never known a man could cry. If she had told them anything at all, other than what she did, then things might have been different. They might have felt something for the man, some sadness for the waste of life. Might have questioned his fall from saint to monster. Not exactly blissful in their ignorance but, free of pain and regret, they plot to save Ginny Mustard and conceal her wrongdoing.
    â€œWhat we need,” says Ruth, “is a freezer. That’s a bit cliche to be sure but I can’t think of anything else at the moment. It will have to be big enough so we can store him in one piece. I am not about to start hacking