Piscary seemed confused at my request, but he nodded, deep in thought. Al’s amused grin went sour, and behind Takata, Mr. Ray and Mrs. Sarong started talking in hushed voices that every Inderlander could probably catch. Skimmer’s satisfaction turned to hatred, and Ellasbeth…Ellasbeth was gripping Trent’s arm hard enough to make her knuckles white.
The tinkling sounds of someone’s phone burst rudely out into the solemn cadence of the holy guy’s speech, and my eyes widened. It was coming from…me?
Oh, my God! I thought, mortified as I jammed my fingers down my cleavage, scrambling. It was my phone. Damn it, Jenks! I thought, glaring at the ceiling as “Nice Day for a White Wedding” played out. I had put it on vibrate. Damn it, I had put it on vibrate!
Face flaming, I finally fished the thing out. Jenks was laughing from the upper windows, and Takata had his head in his hands, clearly trying not to laugh. A nervous titter went through the church, and I looked at the incoming number. Glenn. Adrenaline hit me.
“Excuse me,” I said, really excited. “I am so sorry. I had it on vibrate. Really.”
Takata laughed outright, and I reddened upon remembering where I’d fished it out from.
“Ah, I have to take this,” I said. Ellasbeth was furious, and when the holy guy gestured sourly for me to go ahead, I flipped it open and turned my back on everyone. “Hi,” I said softly, and my voice echoed. “I’m at the Kalamack wedding. Everyone’s listening. Whatcha got?” Crap, could this get any more awkward?
There was a crackle of static telling me Glenn was still on the road, and he said, “You’re at his wedding? Rachel, you’re one crazy-ass witch.”
I halfway turned and shrugged at the holy guy. “Sorry,” I mouthed, but inside I was running full out. At least Glenn had gotten my unspoken reference to people being able to hear him and would word his responses carefully.
“I’ve got the paperwork,” Glenn said, and my tension spiked. “You can go to work.”
I shifted my weight to feel the comforting bump of my splat gun, hoping I wouldn’t need it. “Hey, uh, Jenks never said how much you’re going to give me for this.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Rachel, I’m on the interstate. Can we discuss this later?”
“Later gets me nothing,” I said, and the congregation started to stir. Trent cleared his throat, the anger of a thousand desert sunrises in it, and I shot him a look. Behind him Quen was starting to look suspicious. I wasn’t going to get my fee out of them after pulling this little stunt, and I wanted something to show apart from my satisfaction of tagging Trent.
“I want your department to get my church resanctified,” I said, and a ripple of surprise shifted through the people. Nothing like waving your dirty laundry in front of Cincinnati’s finest. Piscary especially looked interested. This had better work, or I was dead tomorrow.
“Rachel…” Glenn started.
“Oh, never mind,” I said nastily. “I’ll do this pro bono, like I always do for the FIB.” Like everyone didn’t know who I was talking to by now? My back was to the pews, but Jenks was watching, and I felt reasonably safe.
“I’m calling you some backup,” Glenn said, and I put a hand to my forehead.
“Good,” I said, around an exhale. “I don’t want to haul my tag in on the bus.” I heard Glenn take a breath to say something, and, catching Trent shifting from the corner of my eye, I blurted, “Thanks, Glenn. Hey, if this doesn’t work out—”
“You want red roses on your grave, right?”
That wasn’t it, but he had hung up. Closing the phone, I hesitated, then dropped it back down my front as I turned.
Trent was not happy. “That was a fascinating look into your life, Ms. Morgan. Do you do children’s parties, too?”
Nervousness rose in me, quickly followed by a spike of adrenaline. It lit through me, almost as good as sex. My thoughts zinged back to Ivy telling me I lived my life making decisions that would put me in dangerous situations just to feel the rush. An adrenaline junkie, but at least I was making money at it. Usually.
Ivy. She was staring at me, a glimmer of fear marring her deep blankness. “Jenks?” I said loudly, and when he chirped his wings, Quen tensed.
The congregation gasped when I leaned to pull aside my dress to show my calf-high boots. Fumbling with the silk slip, I grabbed my cuffs. “Under temporary jurisdiction of the FIB, I’m authorized to arrest you, Trent Kalamack, for suspicion of the murder of Brett Markson.”
A unified gasp rose like a wave from the audience.