Free Wife of Moon by Margaret Coel Page B

of minutes, and he was talking to a female operator at the Riverton Police Department. He should remain at the house, the woman said. A patrol officer was on the way.
    Father John tossed the phone onto the seat and walked back to the woman sitting on the front stoop, head pitched forward, arms clasped around her knees. He sat down beside her on the cold concrete.
    â€œJust when everything was coming together for her.” Jana Harris turned sideways, studying him a moment. “Christine was excited about the Curtis exhibit. Said people were coming from all over to see the photographs. She’d already started working on another project . . .”
    This was new. Christine hadn’t mentioned bringing in another exhibit. Usually the museum showed Arapaho artifacts—beaded clothing and moccasins, necklaces and belts, eagle-feathered headdresses, bows and arrows and quivers, a tipi once owned by Chief Sharp Nose. The collections kept growing. The Curtis exhibit was the first exhibit from outside.
    â€œWhat kind of project?” he asked.
    â€œYou don’t know? You’re her boss.”
    â€œThe boss only thinks he knows everything.”
    â€œI thought you were some kind of ogre, making her work every evening.”
    â€œShe was working on the project in the evenings?” That explained Christine’s Range Rover parked outside the museum after closing time.
    â€œWhat else?” Jana was clasping and unclasping her hands between her knees. “Christine never told me what it was, but she was obsessed, I can tell you that. I said to her, Christine, you gotta get out more. I know a fun bar. We can go have a couple drinks, meet some cowboys. Nothing like a few laughs to take your mind off work, but she didn’t want any part of it. Work, work, work. That’s all she wanted.”
    Father John watched the white police cruiser slide alongside the curb. Blue lettering on the doors read RIVERTON POLICE . The driver’s door swung open. Father John got to his feet as an officer in a dark-blue uniform, trousers, and jacket, crawled out, slammed the door shut, and started up the sidewalk. The brim of his hat shaded a round, boyish face.
    â€œFather O’Malley?” he asked.
    Father John nodded, and the officer turned his attention to Jana Harris. “And you are?”
    Out of the corner of his eye, Father John saw the woman start to get up, swaying to one side. He reached down, took her arm, and guided her upward as she gave the officer her name and, nodding toward the next stoop, said that she lived next door. Father John realized that she was shivering beside him.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” The officer locked eyes with Father John.
    â€œWe came to check on Christine Nelson, the woman who lives here,” he said, gesturing with his head toward the door. Then he explained that Christine had been the curator at the museum at St. Francis for the past month, that she’d left the mission last night to attend a meeting and hadn’t come to work today. The house had been ransacked.
    â€œWait here,” the officer said, sliding past the half-opened door. Several moments passed. From inside the house came the mufflednoise of boots on carpet, the rattle of paper and the crackle of glass. Cold permeated the air, and fingers of blue shadows had started to spread over the yard. From down the block came the sound of a motor coughing into life, and somewhere nearby, a cat was meowing.
    A quiet, normal neighborhood, he thought, trying to push away the images crowding into his mind. He didn’t want to think of Christine coming home last night in the dark, blundering in on someone ripping her house a part.
    â€œLooks like somebody got mad as hell,” the officer said, shouldering his way past the door and onto the stoop. “Any idea who the lady was going to meet?”
    Father John said that he had no idea.
    The officer faced Jana. “Were you home last