" What are all these?” Charlie plucked a book of psalms from the unruly pile on the desk. “Have you two robbed a church since I left this morning?”

“No,” said Jackaby. “Not personally. We had to delegate that task. Pilfering parish property has fallen to Miss Cavanaugh this week.”

Charlie rubbed his neck as he dropped the book back on the stack. “Because if there’s one thing New Fiddleham needs right now, it’s a bit more paranormal petty crime.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” I submitted, “the pastor more or less asked us to. He was rather insistent that we should find something in one of his Bibles.”

“You’re certain he won’t go storming into the station house tomorrow to tell the duty officer how he’s been robbed by a ghost?”

I swallowed.

“Not unless he is one himself,” said Jackaby. “He’s dead.”

“What?”

“Quite dead. He’s up in the attic if you would like to check for yourself.”

“Why do you have a dead preacher in your attic?”

“Because we found it easier to carry him up to the coffin than to maneuver it down to him.”

Charlie looked suddenly very tired.

“Enough about our morning,” I said. “You had a difficult patch yourself? "

― William Ritter , The Dire King (Jackaby, #4)