The Taint by Patricia Wallace Page A

it?”
    “That’s what I’d like to talk to Nora Samuels about.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Somehow, she found out that Randy Cruz was dead, and during the night she sneaked into Tina’s room and told her.”
    “Why on earth would she do a thing like that?”
    Rachel stood. “She’s dying. Maybe she resents anyone else’s peace of mind.”
    They started walking back to the entrance.
    “One thing bothers me,” Rachel said. “What time did you find the body?”
    “A little after three a.m., why?”
    “That’s very strange, because Tina was medicated last night, and the nurse’s notes say she slept very soundly after two.”
    “And . . .”
    “From what I can gather, Nora Samuels told Tina that her husband was dead before you found the body.”
     
     

TWENTY-FOUR
     
    The Reverend Martin Frey pulled up in the driveway which ran between the church and the house, his mind full of Sunday’s sermon. He needed an ending, a careful blend of condemnation and forgiveness, to illustrate the complex mercy of God. He sighed. It was much easier before the advent of television preachers.
    Amanda was in the kitchen, as usual, and his lunch was under covered dishes on the table. He kissed her on the cheek and sat down to eat.
    “How did your visits go, dear,” Amanda asked, rolling dough out on a floured board.
    “Quite well.” He lifted the cover off the largest plate. His favorite egg salad and black olive sandwiches, made on white bread with the crusts cut off. Cherry tomatoes, celery and carrot sticks. He smiled and lifted the smaller cover. Bread pudding. A perfect meal.
    Amanda came to the table and poured steaming water into the teapot which sat beside the fruit bowl. Lemon wedges were arranged on a crystal plate to the left. “Anything else you need?”
    He beamed at her. “Thank you, no.” She really was the perfect wife, and he watched her fondly as she returned to her baking. Pies, today.
    He turned his attention back to his lunch and indulged himself in guiltless appetite. Amanda continued to bustle about, shaping pie crust into the glass dishes, lined two deep along the counter. Then she began to fill them from an enormous mixing bowl. Apple, what, with raisins?
    “You really shouldn’t work so hard,” he admonished as she manhandled the large bowl, scooping the apple mixture into the pie dishes.
    “We have the potluck tomorrow afternoon,” she reminded him. She finished filling the dishes and lugged the heavy bowl to the sink. For a second she leaned against the cabinet. “I’ve done the gelatin salads,” she counted on her fingers, “the banana nut bread and the noodle casseroles, and now the pies. All that’s left are the hams, and I’ll put them in as soon as the pies are done.”
    “You must remember your health. Dr. Adams has arranged for you to have another transfusion Sunday evening.”
    “I’d almost forgotten . . . is it time again?” She looked around the kitchen.
    “Yes, and the rest will do you good.” He finished the last of the bread pudding. “By the way, were you able to find the wax Mrs. Price was telling you about? The altar is sadly neglected.”
    “I’ll do that this afternoon.” She rushed back over to the pies.
    “And Tina Cruz has lost her husband. Maybe you could take a hot dish by the house.”
    She latticed the pie crust strips over the apples, her fingers working furiously.
    “The poor child . . . whatever comfort we can offer . . .” He poured another cup of tea. “Oh, dear.”
    “What is it?”
    “The water’s gone cool, I’m afraid.”
    She turned the fire on underneath the kettle, and put the first two pies into the oven. She stood for a moment, putting her hand to her head.
    “Are you feeling faint?”
    “I’ll be fine.” She began to clear the table in front of him.
    He stood. “Well, I’d better get over to the church and work on my sermon.”
    The kettle whistled behind her. “But your tea . . .”
    “My dear, I think you should