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to Miriam, who instantly screamed, “Put out the light! Put out the light!”
    “Oh, Miriam, that’s Shakespeare, not the Bible.” He thought for a moment, then nodded. “All right. I’ll do my best—with God’s help.”
    Phil and Cara both felt relief wash over them. Phil put hisarm around her and drew her close. “I believe we found our man, Cara. Thank you, Mr. Key.”
    “Please call me Francis. Everybody does.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    On the Trail
    As Francis Key entered the prison, the smell assaulted him and brought back bad memories. He had always hated prisons, but this one seemed worse to him because only women were incarcerated. He thought of Miriam and hoped that she would be all right. His landlady would stop by to feed her, but Francis knew the parrot would be lonely without him. Hang in there, baby, he thought. He followed the guard down the corridor, feeling the cold steel and the blank gray concrete walls closing in on him. Ever since he had agreed to try to find Grace Winslow, he had felt overwhelmed with the impossibility of the task, and now it seemed more hopeless than ever.
    “Right over there you’ll find Father Mazzoni,” the burly guard said as he pointed.
    “Thanks.”
    Francis walked across the yard, pulling his coat closer against the cutting north wind. He hated cold weather and dreamed of going south. The warm breezes and gleaming hot sand of the southern coast of Florida looked pretty good to him about now.
    Reaching the small greenhouse in the corner of the prison yard, he saw a figure inside shrouded by greenery. He tapped on the glass and the door opened at once. A tall priest smiled at him. “Can I help you?”
    “Father Mazzoni, I’m Francis Key. I’d like to have a fewminutes of your time. I need to speak with you about Bertha Zale.”
    “Oh yes.” Mazzoni nodded. “Come in. It’s warm in here.”
    Francis stepped inside the greenhouse and smiled. “It sure feels good in here.” He looked around. “Beautiful violets.”
    Mazzoni smiled as he leaned over and touched one of the purple blossoms. “Look at how delicate the color is. I don’t think an artist could make a paint that would even approach this.”
    “I expect paintings of flowers are for people who don’t have access to the real thing.”
    Mazzoni stroked the plant tenderly and mused, “Flowers are nicer than people ... in some ways.”
    “At least they don’t wind up in prison.”
    “That’s right,” he said with a chuckle.
    “You think there’ll be violets in heaven, Father?”
    Mazzoni’s chuckle turned into a warm smile. “I’m certain of it. You know, I don’t care for the description of heaven given in the book of Revelation.”
    Key was intrigued by this odd statement. “I’ve read that many times. Gates of gold and pearls. It sounds beautiful.”
    “Not to me. Gold is hard, and pearls have no warmth either. No, my heaven would be green grass, violets, tall trees rising high into the air.” He shook his shoulders and grinned sheepishly. “I suppose I’m a heretic.”
    “I don’t think so. Maybe heaven will be to us what we like best. But in any case,” he said with a smile, “we know that Jesus will be there. Which theologian was it that said, ‘For me heaven without Jesus would be a hell, and hell with Jesus would be a heaven’?”
    “I don’t know,” Mazzoni said, “but I like what he said. He sounds like a wise man.”
    Key paid close heed to the change of expression on the tall man’s face as they talked, all the while thinking, This priest is my only hope. Aloud, he said, “Father, would you mind telling me what you’ve already gone over with the others?”
    “You mean about Bertha Zale’s baby?”
    “Even before that. Everything you can think of. Every word she said that you can remember.”
    He nodded. “You don’t mind if I go ahead working with the flowers while I talk?”
    “Not at all.”
    Mazzoni relayed how Bertha Zale had been withdrawn, almost catatonic