Alex Kava Bundle - Alex Kava [38]
She glanced over her shoulder as if expecting to see a casket being rolled up the aisle behind them. She could still hear the click-clack of rollers, the soft tap of a dozen leather shoes marching in unison along with her father’s casket. When she looked up, Morrelli was watching her, waiting for her at the altar.
“Everything okay?”
He had left her hotel room at five o’clock to go home, shower, shave and change clothes. When he arrived two hours later to pick her up, she hardly recognized him. His short hair was neatly combed back. His face was clean-shaven, and the white scar on his chin—even more pronounced—added a rugged edge to his good looks. Underneath his denim jacket he wore a white shirt and black tie with crisp blue jeans and shiny black cowboy boots. It was a stretch from the customary brown uniforms the rest of his department wore, but he still looked official. Perhaps it was simply the way he carried himself, straight and tall, self-assured with long, confident strides.
“O’Dell, are you okay?” he asked again.
She looked around the church. It seemed large for a town of Platte City’s size, with rows and rows of wooden pews. She couldn’t imagine all of them being filled.
“I’m fine,” she finally answered, then regretted taking so long because he truly did look concerned. His eyes betrayed his fresh appearance, still puffy from too little sleep. She had tried to hide her own signs of fatigue with a bit of makeup.
“It seems so big,” she said, trying to explain her distraction.
“It’s relatively new. The old church was a small country parish about five miles south of town,” he told her. “Platte City’s grown, practically doubled in the last ten years. Mostly people tired of living in the city. They still commute to work either in Omaha or Lincoln. Kind of ironic, huh? People moving out here to get away from big-city crime, thinking they’ll raise their kids someplace quiet and safe.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared off over her head.
“You folks need some help?” A man appeared from a curtain behind the altar.
“We’re looking for Father Francis,” Morrelli said without offering any more explanation.
The man eyed them suspiciously. Though he carried a broom, he was dressed in dress slacks, a crisply pressed shirt, tie and long, brown cardigan. He looked young despite his dark hair peppered with gray. When he approached them, Maggie noticed he had a slight limp and wore bright white tennis shoes.
“What do you want with Father Francis?”
Morrelli glanced at Maggie as if asking how much to reveal. Before he had a chance to say anything, the man seemed to recognize Morrelli.
“Wait a minute. I know who you are.” He said it as if it were an accusation. “Didn’t you play quarterback for the Nebraska Cornhuskers? You’re Morrelli, Nick Morrelli, 1982 to 1983.”
“You’re a Cornhuskers fan?” Morrelli grinned, obviously pleased by the recognition. Maggie noticed dimples. A quarterback—why wasn’t she surprised?
“Big-time fan. My name’s Ray…Ray Howard. I just moved back here last spring. They didn’t televise very many games back East. It was horrible, just horrible. Actually, I played a bit.” His excitement rambled on in quick bursts. “In high school. At Omaha Central. Even had Dr. Tom come check me out. Then I boogered up my knee. Our final game. Against Creighton Prep, of all the sissy teams. I twisted it up pretty good. Never played again.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Nick said.
“Yeah, the Lord moves in mysterious ways. So, is this here your wife?” He finally acknowledged Maggie. She felt his eyes slide over her body, and she resisted the urge to button her jacket.
“No, we’re not married.” Morrelli seemed embarrassed.
“Your fiancée then. That’s probably what you want to see Father Francis about, huh? He’s married hundreds.”
“No, we’re not—”
“It’s an official matter,” Maggie interrupted, relieving Morrelli. The man stared at her, waiting for an explanation. Now she crossed her arms over her chest, emphasizing her authority and stifling