“The window? You donated that?”

“As a memorial to my mother.” She frowned. “Oh, heavens. I do hope the work they did back then isn’t a factor in our present problem.”

Sterling shook his head. “The artisans only replaced the existing color-block window. There wasn’t any structural work done.”

“Kind of a grim verse there,” Burns said from his chair at the far end of the table. “I thought people usually went for more uplifting resurrection theology in memorials.”

“Do they?” Mrs. Marshall’s polite tone implied Geoff Burns’s idea of a suitable memorial would contain big-eyed children and puppy dogs frolicking about a blond-haired Jesus. “I thought Lamentations most suitable.”

“Getting back on point,” Clare said, “I’d like to understand more about the Ketchem Trust. What is it used for? Why haven’t you broken it up to now?”

“How much money are we talking about?” Robert Corlew leaned forward on the table.

“It varies with the state of the stock market, of course,” Mrs. Marshall replied, just as Norm Madsen said, “You don’t have to answer that, Lacey,” and Sterling Sumner chimed in, “Oh, sure, with somebody else’s money you’re interested.”

There was a pause.

“Between one hundred and thirty and one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” Mrs. Marshall gave her defenders a quelling glance. “Roughly.”

Geoff Burns whistled. “In that case, I like it rough.”

Clare coughed, and McKellan and Corlew snorted, but evidently that particular phrase didn’t mean anything to Mrs. Marshall. “Has it all been accumulating in there, like a savings account?” Clare asked. “Or is there money being paid out currently?” A thought struck her, and her cheeks pinked. “It’s not-do you need-is it helping you out?”