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Thanks to Sammy, Sandra was up early on Monday morning, and though she was exhausted, it was nice to enjoy the soft early morning sunshine streaming through her kitchen window—before the alarms went off and anarchy ensued. She had to get two kids dropped off at school on time while fighting the traffic of the hundreds of other mothers trying to do the same thing. She could put them on the school bus, of course, but she’d tried that years ago with Peter, and he’d learned far too much about the birds and the bees on that five-mile ride to school.
She took a gulp of her coffee and tried to focus on the psalm in front of her, but Mr. T kept sliding his body between her eyeballs and her Bible. Nate had named the cat Mr. T because of the thick black stripe down its back. When Sandra had reminded her husband that the cat was a female, Nate had said it was too late. The cat’s name was Mr. T.
She placed the persistent animal on the floor for the fourth time and brought her Bible closer to her eyes. She tried to read, but after only a few lines, she was thinking about that poor referee again. What had Bob the angel said his name was? Frank Fenton. He’d been old, had probably died doing what he loved, and Bob had said he was in heaven. So, why did she feel so sad?
A tapping on the window startled her, but when she turned to look through said window, what she saw startled her even more. Did angels really need to knock? Maybe he wasn’t an angel after all. No, he was. She knew it. She gave him a look that she hoped communicated both confusion and irritation. Her kids knew that look well. Bob didn’t appear to understand. He pointed toward the door.
Shaking her head, she went to the door and cracked it open. “Why are you knocking on my window? You scared me.”
“Sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to wake everybody up.”
She frowned, not understanding.
“If I knocked on the door,” he explained, “it would be too loud. So, I saw you sitting there, and thought I would just need to tap on the glass to get your attention. And it worked.” He looked smug. “Anyway, I need your help. Can we chat?”
She looked around her neighborhood. “I don’t know, do people think I’m talking to myself right now?”
“If anyone’s looking, then, yes. I should come inside.”
She stepped out of his way and watched him softly close the door behind him. Part of her was elated at the idea of an angel in her home. Part of her wished he’d waited until she’d gotten dressed. She folded her arms across her chest self-consciously. “What can I do for you?”
“I need your help.”
“You mentioned that.”
“I’m in a bit of trouble, I think.”
“Why? Trouble with whom?”
He stared upward. At first she thought he meant her family asleep upstairs. Then she understood. “Oh. God?” She glanced nervously at her ceiling. “Really?”
He nodded. “I shouldn’t have left the soccer game, but I was overseeing several events at once, and there was a scuffle on the golf course.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Golfers scuffle?” She found that difficult to believe.
He nodded adamantly. “But this wasn’t a bad one. I should’ve stayed put. I should’ve known trouble was brewing.”
“How could you have known the ref’s heart was going to give out? Are angels psychic?”
“Frank Fenton didn’t just drop dead of natural causes,” he said, deftly dodging her second question.
“Are you saying there was foul play?” On some level, she knew she’d just made a pun, but she also knew it would be in incredibly poor taste to celebrate it.
“Poisoned.”
Sandra gasped. “How do you know all this?”
“I hear things.”
She considered that. “You mean, you can invisibly lurk in places and eavesdrop?”
He shrugged. “We’re only supposed to do it when necessary, but yes.”
“So, why can’t you just lurk and eavesdrop and find out who poisoned him?”
Bob exhaled quickly. “We just can’t, okay! There are rules that we have to follow, and we can’t get to all places at all times to all people—”
“We? Just how many of you are there, Bob?”
“How many middle school sports angels?”
“No.” He’s a bit daft for an angel of the Lord, isn’t he? “How many angels in all?”
His eyes widened just a little. “Many.”
Wow, that was helpful. “I’m sorry to hear that he was killed on purpose, but I don’t see how I can help.” She was having trouble even believing the news. Who murders an ancient soccer ref?
He took a step closer to her, glancing at the stairs to make sure they weren’t about to be interrupted by little feet. “I can’t figure out what he meant. That you had to stop white? What did that mean?” He was so over the top with his earnestness that she almost laughed at him, but a man had been killed.
“It meant,” she said slowly, “that he wanted someone to stop the white team. They were fouling a lot.”
Bob scowled. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
Sandra didn’t say anything. What did this guy want from her? Angel, she corrected herself. What did this angel want from her? “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but he was dying. He probably wasn’t in his right mind. Or maybe he was really dedicated to the job.”
“I need you to talk to his wife.”
Sandra laughed in his face. “Absolutely not.”
“Come on, I really shouldn’t do it.”
“I’m assuming that the conversation you overheard involved law enforcement? So, the police know that he was murdered? So, let them figure it out. That’s their job.”
Bob shook his head dramatically. “It’s my fault he died. I need to—”
“It’s not your fault!” Sandra cried, too loudly. “How could you possibly stop a poisoning?”
“I don’t know,” Bob said, also too loudly. “All I know is that he died on my watch, and I need to show some initiative and try to set things right.”
Sandra didn’t know what to say. She was most certainly not going to talk to some grieving widow. “Just out of curiosity, how old is his wife?” she asked, thinking she too had to be ancient and might really be in need with her husband gone. Maybe she should go see her, just to check on her.
“Twenty-six.” He cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows.
Sandra almost tipped over backward and grabbed the stair banister for support. “You’re kidding. He had to have been at least eighty.”
“Seventy-nine to be precise. I’m telling you. Something hinky is going on. Please, help me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Is this God asking me or is it you?”
“Not God,” Bob said quickly.
“Is God going to be upset with me for helping you?”
“Absolutely not.” He sounded so sure.
But could she be sure? Why was she even considering this? This was madness. But she had to admit, she was curious. And as busy as her life was, she was also often bored. This intrigued her. Plus, she liked hanging out with an angel. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“No time for that.”
“Mom?” A squeaky voice called down the stairs. “Who are you talking to?”
“I’ll be back,” Bob whispered, and then he was gone.