Free Antiques Swap by Barbara Allan

Calvary pastor ran to the long-winded side. And while those poor souls were still on their knees getting saved, we still got to the restaurants first, claiming all the best tables not to mention wheelchair parking.
    As Mother and I entered the sanctuary, a noticeable murmur rose among those already seated—some half-turning, craning their necks—word apparently having circulated quickly about Wes’s arrest, and our connection to the murdered woman. No surprise, as the socially prominent Sinclairs were members of New Hope.
    As the organ music began, drowning out the whispering, Mother and I took our usual place in a back pew, next to four of Mother’s gal pals from the Red-Hatted League—a mystery book club offshoot of the Red Hat Society—who we always sat with. (More about these avid mystery fans later.)
    When we first joined the church, I had been surprised that Mother preferred sitting way in back, but then realized she enjoyed being behind everyone. That way she could see who was there, keep track of who was playing hooky, what people were wearing, and whether their wigs or toupees were on straight, plus which ones bowed their head during the sermon, not in prayer, but slumber.
    Several times Pastor Tutor tried mixing up the seating to encourage his flock to enjoy fellowship in the company of different members. But his sheep always strayed back to their pew of preference. And woe betide the person who sat in someone else’s preferred pew. You don’t want to cross a regular churchgoer.
    After the opening hymn, I had trouble keeping my eyes open—yes, the back pew was my preference in case I needed to finish a sleep cycle—but I was alert during the Prayers for Members portion of the service. Plump Pastor Tutor—a short bespectacled man in a simple black robe with purple shawl—offered a few carefully chosen words about the Sinclairs, of the “our thoughts and prayers are with them” variety.
    Then the choir performed a contemporary number, after which the sermon began, Pastor Tutor reading from Matthew 7:1-5 ( Judge not that you be judged ), and 19:19 ( Love your neighbor as yourself ).
    Pastor Tutor had a wonderful manner of never looking at the congregation, but behind and above them, so that no one ever felt uncomfortable under his gaze, in case his teachings/scoldings hit too close to home. Nor did he mean to embarrass them had they nodded off.
    Which I was getting ready to do, when Pastor Tutor segued into 1 Timothy 5:13, saying, “And they learned to be idle, wandering about from house to house; and not only idle, but tattlers also and busybodies, speaking things which they ought not.”
    He was trying to head off the inevitable gossip about Vanessa and Wes, which was a valiant attempt, but about as likely as the second coming of Christ happening next Tuesday.
    Knowing how close to home this hit, I looked sideways at Mother, who wore an angelic expression, the sun shining down on her from a skylight above in a halo effect. Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor? Everyone else seemed to be sliding down in their seats.
    Pastor Tutor concluded his sermon, after which came the last hymn followed by the benediction. And it was a sheepish flock (couldn’t resist) that filed out of the sanctuary, no one daring to acknowledge Mother and me with anything more than a simple hello-how-are-you. If Mother was disappointed by the lack of attention, she didn’t show it.
    In the hall outside the sanctuary, we stood in a quiet line to shake Pastor Tutor’s hand, and upon our turn, he asked us to stay behind for a moment; we stepped to one side. Perhaps the pastor felt a need to further instruct us (that is, Mother) on the evils of gossiping.
    Then, when everyone else had gone, he turned to us, clearly concerned. “I’m here for counsel should either of you feel the need to talk about what has happened . . . it must have been terribly upsetting