The pastor seemed to grasp onto that word, accident.
“Yes”, he said. “That’s it.”
Tears filled Della’s eyes and coursed down her cheeks. “Is he all right?” she whispered.
Squirt hurried to Della and knelt in front of her. “You’ve gotta be brave, Della.”
“Well, where is he?” she demanded, jumping up and knocking Squirt onto his backside. “Is he in the hospital? I’ve got to go to him.”
She started toward the door but Rufe and Clay stepped in front of her. They, being somewhat larger than Squirt, stopped Della in her tracks.
“No, he’s not in the hospital, Miss Della,” Rufe said.
“He’s dead,” Clay added.
At that, Della collapsed. She sank to the floor and everyone gathered around her, fanning her face and shaking their heads. I stood frozen in place. Dead? Newell? But, this was his wedding day. He couldn’t be dead.
I shook my head to clear it and zeroed in on Della. Running to the bathroom, I came back with a wet paper towel. I knelt beside her and gently dabbed her forehead and chin. Dixie Ann grabbed a hymnal and began fanning her while Squirt rubbed her wrists.
“Get her feet up,” I said, pushing a pew cushion toward her.
Della began to moan and her eyes started to flutter open. Relieved to see that she was coming around, I struggled to my feet, using a book shelf for support. What had happened to Newell? I motioned toward Pastor Drumwright and stepped into the hall.
Crossing my arms across my chest, I faced my pastor. “What?” I asked. “What kind of accident? What killed Newell and where?”
Pastor Drumwright shook his head and sighed. He started toward the sanctuary, motioning for me to follow.
“I dismissed the people,” he told me as we stepped toward the altar. The quiet church was empty except for the flowers and the ribbon bedecked pews.
I could hear the wail of approaching sirens.
“This way, Jenny,” the pastor said. “But, prepare yourself for a shock.”
The hush of the place seemed oppressive and heavy. I tiptoed into the sanctuary, following Pastor Drumwright to the altar. Without a word, he pointed to the floor under the bank of freshly-cut flowers. A thin, red ribbon ran from under them. My heart flip-flopped and my mouth went dry. Gingerly stepping over this trail of blood, because I was sure that was what it was, he parted the flowers. There, between the roses and the lilacs, his face to the floor, lay Newell Abernathy, a knife protruding from the wedding coat on his back.
Manos Mysteries
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