Endless Chain. Emilie Richards

      “You do keep things moving. I’ll give you that.”

      He took that as a compliment, although it was questionable. “I’ve had four interviews for a new sexton. I’ll be choosing by the end of the week.”

      “Good. Marie Watson called to tell me the women’s bathroom was not clean enough to suit her. Twice.”

      “She’s only been to church twice all summer.”

      “Well, we know where she spent her time when she was here.”

      One of Gayle’s sons called her away, and she lifted a hand in farewell. “I’m going home for a shower, but I’ll be back in half an hour. If the caterer doesn’t show up in fifteen minutes, call me?”

      He watched her go and wished he had four dozen more just like her in the congregation.

      The caterers did arrive, and competently erected grills and serving tables before they began to set out covered bowls of salsas, guacamole and sour cream. The Sunday school superintendent arrived with the largest donkey piñata Sam had ever seen and strung it from an appropriate tree limb far away from where the food would be served.

      He slipped home for a quick shower, too, and changed into a colorful shirt and dark pants.

      He beat Christine to the party by close to an hour. The mariachi band, dressed in full black-and-gold regalia, was playing a lively version of “La Bamba” when she arrived in an off-the-shoulder white dress cinched at the waist with a wide silver belt.

      “The fiesta has begun,” she said, kissing his cheek, then wiping off her lipstick. “And they’re actually in tune.”

      She sounded surprised, and he couldn’t chide her. Considering what the committee was paying the band, he had expected the men to take turns strumming one guitar. Instead, seven members had arrived, complete with elaborate costumes and expensive instruments.

      “They’re great,” Sam said. “You ought to hear them sing ‘Malaguena Salerosa.’” He hummed a few bars.

      “Better them than you.”

      People began to come forward to be introduced to Christine. He did his part, and watched her chat with his parishioners and those of the surrounding churches who were helping with La Casa. He had seen Christine in action a thousand times and knew how much more energy she was capable of expending, if she thought it mattered. She was polite tonight, even friendly, but he knew—even if no one else did—that her heart wasn’t in it.

      “Fajitas, Sam?” she said, when they were temporarily alone again. “They’re serving fajitas?” She gave a low laugh.

      “I’ve eaten four. Come on, I’ll load up your plate.”

      “I’ll just take a pass. That’s a week’s worth of calories on a tortilla. Cheese, sour cream, guacamole.” She rolled her lovely green eyes.

      “It’s a party, Chrissy. Worth a few fat grams.”

      “Plastic lanterns and piñatas do not a party make, sweetie. There’s nothing to drink, is there?”

      “Not with children present.” He felt a flash of annoyance that she would make a point of that. They had never served liquor at family functions at The Savior’s Church, either, a fact she was well aware of, since she was the headmistress of the private school associated with that congregation.

      She made a face. “I’ll just go see what I can find that’s safe to swallow. I’ll catch you later.”

      He didn’t volunteer to go with her. Instead, he wandered over to the tree where the donkey piñata hung. Two dozen children stood in a wide circle watching a blindfolded second-grader swing a plastic bat in the donkey’s general direction.

      He was squatting on the ground, surrounded by four elementary schoolgirls who had just finished explaining what they would do with the bounty if they opened the piñata, when someone spoke above him.

      “We can safely say it will take dynamite to crack that facade.”

      Sam stood to find a cleaner, happier Gayle. “We’re preparing them for a life of frustration.”

      “In ten minutes someone will take a chain saw to that thing and be done with it. The kids won’t care, as long as they get the candy and toys.”

      “I’ve had a load of compliments on what we’ve done with the house, and a good number of checks accompanied them.”

      “Terrific.”

      “Sam!”

      Over the strains of “Cielito Lindo,” Sam looked for the source of the shout and finally spied one of the deacons, a man in his late seventies named Early Meeks, coming from the direction of the church. Early was tall and completely bald. He drew attention away from the hair he lacked with brightly colored neckties and suspenders. He was a favorite of the Sunday school children, who appreciated his flair for comedy.

      Early looked anything but comic now. Sam excused himself and went to meet him halfway.

      “What’s up?” Sam asked.

      “We have a situation in the social hall.”

      “Situation?”

      “George Jenkins is here.”

      George’s presence surprised Sam. Jenkins was the member of the board of deacons least likely to go along with any good idea. He had opposed La Casa Amarilla from the first, expounding on the need to “pull together” as a congregation, which was George’s own code for “keeping outsiders away.” He had been overruled on La Casa, as he was usually overruled, a fact that made him even more determined to make trouble for Sam. Sam gave silent thanks every time he remembered that George was serving his final months of a five-year term.

      “His son was here earlier today,” Sam said. “There was another situation during that little visit.”

      “Leon never really struck me as a chip off the old block.” Early nodded toward the church. “But you’d better come quick. George is making threats. We’re trying to keep him out of sight.”

      “We?”

      As they strode toward the church, Early explained that several partygoers had removed George to the social hall. “I was coming for the party, too. I heard a commotion just inside the front door and went to check. Apparently George doesn’t know the party is elsewhere.” He hesitated. “Actually, George probably doesn’t know much of anything right now. He’s had more than a few drinks tonight.”

      Sam was grateful the men had stopped George before he destroyed the good spirit at the fiesta and made more of a fool of himself in the process.

      “Maybe if he has a chance to insult me he’ll calm down and we can get him home. How did he get here?”

      “His car’s in the lot.”

      “He’s lucky he didn’t kill somebody on the way over. They’re lucky.”

      “We won’t let him drive home.”

      Sam briefly considered calling the sheriff and having George removed from the premises, but the temptation passed quickly. There were better ways to deal with George, both for his sake and that of the church.

      They reached the building and entered through a side door. When it closed behind him, Sam could no longer hear the band or the happy squeals of children. They turned down several corridors, ending up in the large room where most social events were held. Sam saw George in the corner by the door, flanked by the other men Early had mentioned. George, in his forties, was not aging well. He had coarse, bulldog features, a perpetual scowl, and a physique that was more out-of-shape wrestler than boxer.

      Everyone but George looked uncomfortable. George looked furious.

      Sam wasted no time reaching the others. The other men stepped away, leaving him to face the angry