At two thirty, Helen met us by my Buick in the church parking lot, holding a thick medical folder against the front of her blue scrubs.

She tapped her clipboard once on the roof of my car while I unlocked the driver’s door.

“Arthur was at the hospital desk at noon demanding her complete estate file,” Helen said.

“I told him probate had sealed the records.”

“He knows the annual meeting is set for two o’clock tomorrow,” I said.

“He was standing in the lobby bragging to the hospital board president that you’d be out of the rectory by dark,” she said.

“He locked the sanctuary doors an hour ago,” Wade added, glancing over at the side entrance of the chapel.