Free The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) by Connie Shelton Page B

robes but at this distance could not be certain that it was Andreas.
He would prefer not to cross the other man’s path until he had implemented his
plan. Fewer questions that way.
    The final prayer ended and
Benedict made his way to the tall, carved doors through which the parishioners
would pass as they left. He smiled benignly at each family, taking note that
Miguel and Maria Borega were walking slowly through the nave and would soon
reach the doors. He edged slightly to the right, making sure that among the
several clergy he would be the one to speak with them.
    “Good evening Señor, Señora,” he
said, making eye contact and giving his most practiced, benevolent smile.
    “We’ve not seen you in our home
in several days,” Maria said. “A small supper will be prepared by the time we
arrive. Would you care to join us?”
    The conversation was almost an
exact replica of the one they exchanged each fortnight. He filled his dialogue
in the scene with a gracious acceptance. Miguel Borega gave a small salute as
he donned his soft hat and Maria preened a little as others around them noticed
the favorable attention bestowed upon their family.
    An hour later, Benedict arrived
once more at their front door and this time was escorted into the large hall
and offered wine. He sipped it, surreptitiously eyeing the staircase and
considering what pretense he might use to wander into the artist’s studio on
the second floor.
    Outside, the tower clock chimed eleven.
    The meal took far longer than he
would have liked. He observed the various household members—the children who
were sent to bed early, the artist who seemed distracted for some reason, the
man’s daughter who spooned up small pieces of fruit and studiously avoided
talking to him. He kept up a lively discourse, telling stories on some of the
parishioners who had participated in the recent Semana Santa observations, how the man charged with carrying the crucifix
along the parade route had nearly dropped it. The tale drew polite laughter,
nothing more.
    Twice, someone else at the table
had excused himself in the delicate manner that suggested he was visiting the
outdoor privy. It seemed as good a reason as any to go away alone for a few
minutes. He said the appropriate words and left the dining hall, turning in the
direction he had seen others take. Once out of sight of the doorway, he slipped
up the stairs and took quiet steps along the wooden floor. If he remembered
correctly, the studio was the third door at the right. A cautious peek—yes.
Moonlight streamed in through the windows where no one had closed the shutters
yet. He let his eyes adjust to the gray-toned interior until he could make out
objects on the man’s work table. The box sat near some jars of ground pigments.
    The clock struck once, a signal
of the half hour. He visualized the bishop’s face as he had ordered Benedict to
meet him at midnight. He must hurry—carefully.
    He picked up the box and
something inside it rattled as it shifted. Lifting the lid, he saw small lumps
of rock. Carrying those along would not do; the slightest sound would give away
the fact that he’d hidden something inside his robe. He turned the box to its
side, letting the rocks slide onto the table top.
    Out in the corridor he heard
footsteps. With the stealth of a cat he tucked the box into one of the inner
folds of his robe. The steps passed by the studio and a door down the hall
opened and closed.
    He eased the studio door open and
peered both directions into the corridor. No one in sight. He edged out and
hurried toward the stairs. He had been gone too long already.
    Voices rose from the large hall
below and he had almost reached the stairs.
    “Father Benedict?” It was Miguel
Borega and the man obviously wondered how the priest had gone so far off the
track to his stated goal.
    “Ah, Señor, I so admired this
tapestry at the top of the stairs. I had to come up to examine it more
closely.”
    Maria Borega appeared at