“I’m the pastor.” He rose, a compact and muscular man with sad, dark eyes. “Father López. Miguel was officiating the funeral mass, and was taking Communion. He drank, and he seemed, almost immediately, to seize. His body shook, and he gasped for air. And he collapsed.” López spoke with the faintest of accents, an exotic sheen over rough wood. “There were doctors and other medicals here, and they tried to revive him, but it was too late. One said, one thought, it was poison. But I don’t believe that could be.”
“Why?”
López merely lifted his hands. “Who would poison a priest in such a way, and at such a time?”
“Where did the wine come from? In the cup?”
“We keep Communion wine locked in the tabernacle, in the anteroom.”
“Who has access?”
“I do. Miguel, Martin—that is, Father Freeman—the Eucharistic ministers serving the Mass.”
A lot of hands, Eve thought. Why bother with a lock? “Where are they?”
“Father Freeman is visiting family in Chicago, and expected back tomorrow. We have—had—three ministers today due to the large attendance at the Requiem Mass.”
“I’ll need their names.”
“Surely you can’t believe—”
“And this?”
He actually paled when Eve lifted the silver disk holding the wafer. “Please. Please. It’s been consecrated.”
“I’m sorry, now it’s evidence. There’s a piece missing. Did he eat it?”
“A small piece is broken off, put in the wine for the rite of fraction and commingling. He would have consumed it with the wine.”
“Who put the wine in the cup and the . . .” What the hell did she call it? Cookie? Cracker?
“Host,” López supplied. “He did. But I poured the wine into the receptacle and placed the host for Miguel before the Consecration. I did it personally as a sign of respect for Mr. Ortiz. Miguel officiated, at the family’s request.”
Eve cocked her head. “They didn’t want the head guy? Didn’t you say you were the head guy?”
“I’m pastor, yes. But I’m new. I’ve only had this parish for eight months, since Monsignor Cruz retired. Miguel’s been here for more than five years, and married two of Mr. Ortiz’s great-grandchildren, officiated at the Requiem for Mrs. Ortiz about a year ago. Baptized—”
“Just one minute, please.”
Eve turned back to Peabody.
“Sorry to interrupt, Father. ID match,” Peabody told Eve. “TOD jibes. Drink, seize, collapse, die, red cheeks. Cyanide?”
“Educated guess. We’ll let Morris confirm. Bag the cup, the cookie. Pick one of the cop witnesses and get a statement. I’ll take the other after I have López show me the source of the wine and the other thing.”
“Should we release the other dead guy?”
Eve frowned at the casket. “He’s waited this long. He can wait a little longer.” She turned back to López. “I need to see where you keep the . . .” Refreshments? “The wine and the hosts.”
With a nod, López gestured. He walked up, turned away from the altar to lead Eve through a doorway. Inside cabinets lined one wall, and on a table stood a tall box, deeply carved with a cross. López took keys from the pocket of his pants and unlocked the door of the box.
“This is the tabernacle,” he explained. “It holds unconsecrated hosts and wine. We keep a larger supply in the first cabinet there, also locked.”
The wood gleamed with polish, she noted, and would hold prints. The lock was a simple key into a slot. “This decanter here is where you took the wine for the cup?”
“Yes. I poured it from here to the vessel, and took the host. I brought them to Miguel at the beginning of the Eucharistic Liturgy.”
Purplish liquid filled the clear decanter to about the halfway point. “Did the substances leave your hands at any time before that, or were they unattended?”