Free Holy Terror in the Hebrides by Jeanne M. Dams

weeping and wailing for a guy we hardly knew, and would have been as happy not to know at all?”
    All the same, Jake wasn’t eating much, and neither was anybody else. Apart from the tumult of the wind, the room was quiet; the silence thickened. I cleared my throat. “I suppose,” I said tentatively to the room in general, “someone ought to let his family know. Or will the Coastguard do that, or the police?”
    “Don’t know if he had kin,” said Hattie Mae. “Never talked about his family—that I heard.”
    There were nods and mutters of agreement around the room.
    “Well, then, his church,” I said, trying again. “Someone should call his church. What time would it be in Chicago? I’ve forgotten how many time zones away they are.”
    That at least sparked a brief discussion, since the United Kingdom had just switched back from Summer Time to Greenwich Mean Time, whereas America was still on Daylight Savings Time, and no one was sure whether that meant Chicago was now five hours or seven hours earlier than Scotland, rather than the usual six-hour difference.
    “Look, why don’t I just try to make the call?” I finally said, impatient with them. “It might be easier for me, since I didn’t really know him. I don’t suppose anyone knows the number?” Of course they wouldn’t. Why would anyone carry around the phone number of somebody else’s church?
    But Grace stood up and went to the bookshelf where she had laid her elegant leather purse. “It’s in my church directory. I always carry it, and unless I took it out for the trip—no, here it is. St. Paul’s United Methodist Church on Taylor Street.” She handed me the book, a small personal phone directory. It listed dozens of churches by denomination, with addresses, phone numbers, and staff names, all in tiny, precise handwriting.
    I must have shown my curiosity. “It’s for my work,” Grace said with a shrug.
    “Excuse me?”
    “I coordinate soup kitchens all over Chicago,” she explained briskly. “I learned long ago that I never know when I may need the help of someone from a neighborhood church, so I compiled this. Please give it back to me as soon as you’ve finished; it’s extremely valuable to me and would take some time to duplicate.”
    “Yes, of course.” Whew! Formidable lady.
    “Please use the phone in the office,” murmured Andrew, who had been standing by unobtrusively. “Come with me.”
    Jake followed me, and when I was about to sit down at the desk, he laid a hand on my arm.
    “You want maybe I should make the call? I didn’t have to see it happen.”
    I hesitated for only a moment. I felt some responsibility, but it was foolish, I knew. Jake was being a dear. “Thank you so much, Jake. Of course I’d rather you did it. But I’ll stay here, in case they want—well, whatever.”
    “The details they can wait for,” said Jake with a frown, and punched in the long series of numbers for an international call.
    He was efficient on the phone, very much the important rabbi. “Hello? This is St. Paul’s? Speak up, I’m calling from Scotland.
Scotland!
This is Rabbi Jacob Goldstein, from Sinai Temple. Is your minister, um—” he consulted Grace’s directory “—is Dr. Allen available?”
    There was a pause.
    “Never mind, then, this is costing money. When he gets back, tell him there’s some very bad news. Are you sitting down? I have to break something to you. Yes, it’s about Mr. Williams. An accident, yes. I’m afraid it’s the worst news—yes. A drowning accident, this afternoon.”
    Another pause. Jake shook his head impatiently.
    “This connection isn’t good. I’ll fax the details as soon as I can. Look, is there anybody else who should know?” Pause. “Okay, you do that. Yes, we’re all very—shocked. Well, I guess he can maybe call if he wants, but it’s almost nine o’clock here—no, at night—and we’ll be going to bed pretty soon—we’re wiped out after all the trouble. Tomorrow