With everyone settled, Bob Olson rapped his gavel again and called the meeting to order. “Before we begin,” he said, “let us make note in the minutes that today is Memorial Day. As a tribute to those who have fallen in the defense of our nation, let us observe a moment of respectful silence.” All heads bowed.
Olson then invited Mother Hibbard to open the proceedings with a prayer. All heads bowed.
Olson then asked Lillie Miller to read from the agenda, which established that the purpose of the meeting was to hear reports from the committees that had been charged with recommending the course of action to be taken by the parish, either repairing or replacing the original church building. Also noted for the record was the presence of Dumont’s code-enforcement officer, Nia Butler, whose department had issued the deadline for a remediation plan, due tomorrow, Tuesday, May thirty-first.
Olson then asked each of the five committee heads to give a verbal summary of the written reports, which were submitted to the secretary.
Over the next ninety minutes, one by one, the grim-faced committee chairs stood before the crowd and explained, sometimes tearfully, that their members had weighed all the options, all the pros and cons, and had reluctantly concluded that the best course of action was to replace the beloved old church—which invariably evoked ripples of conversation in the crowd and subsequent raps of silence from the senior warden’s gavel.
At the conclusion of the reports, Olson opened up the meeting to comments from the assembled parishioners. Hands fluttered for his attention.
Clem Carter thought the recommendations were just dandy.
Others weren’t so sure, but acknowledged the need to move forward.
Someone asked if the new church might look like the old one.
Someone else suggested, no, the parish needed a clean break.
One of the choir parents asked if the organ could be saved.
Another asked about the Tiffany windows.
Someone asked about a timeline for construction.
When would demolition begin?
And by then, the fluttering hands had dwindled to one.
“Ms. Weber Schmidt,” said Olson, “we understand that your interest in these issues is keen. However, because your participation in our last public meeting proved disruptive—and contentious—we are limiting comments tonight to members of the parish. This is, after all, a family matter and ours to decide. Therefore, I’m sorry, the vestry does not recognize you to speak.”
She dropped her hand, eyeing Olson with a steely gaze.
Uh-oh, I thought. She’s gonna blow.
In the dead silence that followed, a hand popped up in the front row.
“Aha,” said Olson, sounding pleased. “The vestry recognizes Mrs. Questman. What would you like to say, Mary?”
Because of Mary’s age and wealth, her breeding and manners, her perpetually cheery disposition—and the widely gossiped notion that she communicated with her cat—it was sometimes easy to patronize Mary, to dismiss her as benignly out of touch or even a bit dotty. At other times, however, she surprised everyone with her wisdom and shrewd clarity.
Mary stood. “Thank you, Bob. As the last of the Questmans, one of St. Alban’s founding families, I’m happy to share my thoughts with the parish regarding its future. But I wish to cede my time to the young lady. I ask that she be allowed to speak in my stead.” Boom.
Marson, Glee, and I exchanged bewildered glances.
“In that case,” said Olson with a wary smile, “the vestry is pleased to recognize Kayla Weber Schmidt.”
Mary sat.
Kayla stood. “Thank you, Mr. Olson. And thank you, Mary.” From her chair near the far side of the room, Kayla turned to address the entire assembly.
“As most of you know, I’m on the board of the county’s historical society, which has a mission to preserve Dumont’s significant historic sites. Your lovely old church is a prime example. We are opposed to demolishing it—and I’m sure that many of you, in your heart of hearts, would find such an outcome tragic.
“Yet, we understand the bind that the parish now faces. I had the opportunity to discuss this dilemma at some length yesterday with Mary Questman, and we concluded that St. Alban’s options may not be so black-and-white. Why not, for example, proceed with your need to construct a more modern structure for worship, but at the same time, put the original church to use in some other manner, rather than destroying it?
“For example, many old churches have found new life as restaurants or even bars—a repurposing that you would probably find undignified. As it happens, I have a different idea that may be far more appealing.
“The Dumont Historical Society has struggled for some years with facilities that have been outgrown by its mission. Our current facilities, in a building of no historical significance, afford us no exhibit space at all. Offices, storage, and curatorial space are all inadequate. So my board has authorized me to bring you this win-win proposal:
“Don’t tear down your church. Give it to us. We will lovingly restore it, bring it up to code, and put the building to new use as the repository and guardian of Dumont’s past. We’ll be your quiet and respectful neighbor. Not only will we save you the expense and anguish of demolition; we’ll compensate you for the building by assisting with demolition of your abandoned school building, which has little historic or architectural merit. That will free up the land you need for a new St. Alban’s.
“Well,” Kayla concluded, “what do you think?”
At first, no one spoke. But a palpable wave of excitement rippled through the crowd.
Mary Questman stood. All eyes were on her as she turned. When she spotted us near the back of the room, she looked directly at Marson, raising an inquisitive brow.
Subtly—though everyone saw it—Marson signaled Mary with a thumbs-up.
Mary told the vestry, “I like it.”
Mother Hibbard loved it.
Officer Nia Butler, speaking for the city, thought it was perfect.
Bob Olson asked the assembly for a motion that would advise the vestry to proceed.
“So moved,” said Clem Carter.
A dozen others popped to their feet, chorusing, “Second!”
The motion passed by affirmation, with no nays.
“Well, now,” said Olson, sounding relieved, “that was what I’d call a productive meeting. Everyone can leave here tonight with a clear sense of direction.”
He paused.
“Then again,” he added, “we still need to figure out how to pay for it.”
Chapter 18
As Bob Olson had pointed out, when St. Alban’s arrived at a consensus to build a new church, that was only the first step for the parish. The biggest challenges still lay ahead, not the least of which was funding.
Though it was not within the scope of the Monday-night meeting to delve into such issues, Joyce Hibbard wasted no time nabbing Marson and Mary after the adjourning gavel, asking if they could meet at the rectory the next morning to explore options for moving forward. When they agreed, Joyce also invited Nia Butler, for her advice on code-related matters. When Nia agreed, Joyce informed the parish secretary, Lillie Miller, and the senior warden, Bob Olson, that they, too, would be needed Tuesday morning at ten.
Monday night, when Marson and I finally returned to the loft—tired and sluggish after a late meal in a brightly lit burger joint—we noticed that a sheriff’s deputy was still stationed in front on First Avenue. When we parked in back, a second deputy was still stationed there in the alley as well. He wished us a good night as we locked the SUV and disappeared into the loft through its rear door.
“I’m sorry I dragged you into this,” I told my husband as we stood in the dark kitchen.
He stepped near and put his hands on my shoulders. “You didn’t drag me. I practically goaded you into getting involved.”
“Yes,” I recalled with a grin, “you did. But you weren’t bargaining on death threats and armed guards.”
> He shrugged. “Goes with the territory. You’ll figure it out.”
“I appreciate your confidence. But I’m clueless.”
“No, you’re not. Lots of clues—just put’m together.”
With a snort of laughter, I told him, “Thanks.” Standing there in the dark, I wrapped my arms around his waist and contemplated what was known about David Lovell’s and Chad Percy’s murders. They seemed connected, and at the same time, they didn’t. I said, “Your meeting at the rectory tomorrow—mind if I tag along?”
“I was hoping you’d join me.” He looped his fingers through my belt and yanked me close, telling me quietly, “Everything’s better when you’re involved.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Without a word, he led me to the spiral stairs.
In the quiet, cavernous space of the loft, as our footfalls resonated on the metal steps, I recalled the offhand opinion Marson had expressed to Sheriff Simms regarding the two murders:
It’s all the same ball of wax.
Tuesday morning, stepping out the front door to retrieve the rolled copy of the Register, I offered a routine wave to the deputy across the street—as if his presence was totally normal and expected, as if I didn’t notice that there had been of shift of guards during the night, as if the expense incurred by the county for this extravagance didn’t matter in the least.
An hour or so later, when Marson and I left the loft through the back door, it was the same thing—another wave to another guard on another shift—as if I took comfort in this intrusion on the privacy of our ordinary lives. At a purely rational level, I understood that these protective measures were wise, perhaps even necessary, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to be done with all of it, and unfortunately, that would depend on solving a crime or two, which seemed unlikely anytime soon.
Marson and I took separate cars to the office that morning. We would attend the meeting at the rectory together, but the rest of the day was unplanned, and it was sure to be busy. The long holiday weekend, coupled with the increasing demands of the investigation, had forced me to let my work slide, with deadlines looming.
As I entered our offices through the street door, Gertie greeted me, asking if I’d enjoyed the weekend, but before I was able to fabricate a sunny reply, she rattled off a chilling litany of items needing my immediate attention.
“Uh”—I halted her midway between the client in Sheboygan and the monthly financials—“maybe you could just take calls for a while. I need an hour at my desk.”
And before long, Marson popped over from his office across the hall, jangling his keys, saying it was time to leave for the rectory.
While he drove, I confessed to my growing anxiety: the investigation was pulling needed focus from my work at Miles & Norris. “More than anything, Marson, I never want to let you down.”
“Impossible, kiddo. We’re in this together. When you’re under pressure, I pick up the slack. And you’d do the same for me.” With one hand on the wheel, he reached over with his other.
I grasped his hand and held it in mine as we circled the downtown commons, approaching St. Alban’s.
Gusty winds had picked up on that bright final day of May, as if to signal a precise shift of seasons—a last cool gasp of spring, making way for June. Walking from the church parking lot, we laughed at the blustery assault as we hunkered into our jackets and darted up to the porch of the rectory.
Marson rang the bell as I tried to do something with my hair. He assured me, “You’re gorgeous.”
Lillie Miller opened the heavy door, welcomed us into the hall, and then thumped the door closed behind us.
We followed her into Joyce Hibbard’s office, where Nia Butler and Bob Olson had already arrived. They stood to greet us as we entered, with Joyce leaning to tell Lillie, “We’ll need an extra chair.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to cramp everyone.”
“Nonsense,” said Joyce. “Delighted you’re here. Plenty of room.”
But when Lillie wheeled another chair in from her side office, the mishmash of furniture went from cozy to crowded. Settling in, we left one chair vacant. Joyce said, “I presume Mary will be along soon.” With a sly chuckle, she added, “No point in beginning without her.”
I knew what that meant: the whole point of this get-together was to put the screws to St. Alban’s wealthiest parishioner. I noticed a closed manila folder on Mother Hibbard’s desk. Did it contain a drafted agreement, perhaps a multimillion-dollar pledge, ready to sign?
Nia Butler wore her usual outfit—I still wasn’t sure if it was an official uniform or simply a paramilitary style she had adopted as her own. She sat with a slim zippered portfolio in her lap. Opening it and removing a sheaf of papers, she said, “I did some digging in the city archives this morning. I imagine you’ve already gone over the plat map of the parish property, but I wanted to have a look. Bottom line: Kayla Whatsername’s idea ought to work out fine. Give the old church to the county, raze the old school, and build the new church there. Setbacks are good. Plenty of parking space, if the parish and the county share the lot.”
Marson said, “And I like that the school has some frontage on the commons. The parish would want that visibility for the church, and the church would replace some public blight.”
Dingdong.
We all sat hushed as Lillie got up to admit the last arrival.
“Woo-hoo, this wind,” warbled Mary, fussing with her hair as Lillie led her in from the hall. And following at Mary’s side was Mister Puss, leashed and harnessed. His unexpected entrance, I realized, gave my sagging spirits a needed boost.
Everyone rose to welcome Mary, also greeting Mister Puss with coos and baby talk—everyone, that is, except Joyce Hibbard, who could barely hide her disdain for the cat.
At our dinner party two weeks earlier, Mary told Joyce that Mister Puss had convinced her that “God is a myth.” Joyce also learned that the cat had warned Mary to “hold on to your wallet.” And I later saw the email Joyce sent to her bishop, in which she weighed the possibilities that “Mary could be swayed to step forward as a major donor, though the cat does present obvious complications.” In that same email, Joyce had derided Mary’s relationship with Mister Puss, writing, “It troubles me to realize that the mind is so fragile at our age, that dementia is so indiscriminate, that it can strike such a good and kindly soul without warning.” Earlier still, Mother Hibbard’s husband had sent a long email to Marson, bragging that his wife “knows how to sniff out the money.”
And now, just when Joyce was approaching her moment of triumph—having sniffed out the money, having done all her homework, having finally lured Mary into her den with all the paperwork within reach, ready to sign—just when Joyce had set the stage for a victorious climax, in walks Mary with her four-legged defender and confidant. Joyce sputtered pleasantries while watching her furry antagonist with a deflated look of dismay. Mister Puss, in turn, eyed Joyce with a smirk. Truly: the cat smirked.
The wind was rattling the windows of the old rectory, so Lillie closed the carved pair of sliding doors between Joyce’s office and the front hall, which shut out much of the noise, but it also increased the sense of claustrophobia as we crowded around Joyce’s desk. The cramped room felt suddenly warm.
As conversation began to swirl around me, so did the sickly bouquet of too many fragrances. Mother Hibbard’s secret sauce wafted from behind the desk. Behind her, Lillie Miller sat taking notes while exuding a strong whiff of her Shalimar. In front of the desk, to my right, Bob Olson had doused himself with something, which seemed at odds with his number-crunching personality and bland sense of style. To my left, even Marson’s light touch of Vétiver invaded my space. And next to Marson, Mary Questman’s lively chatter bubbled forth with olfactory waves of her L’Air du Temps.
In the last chair, beyond Mary, Nia Butler made no discernible contribution to the thick, perfumy potpourri. Neither did I. And neither, of course, did Mister Puss, whose eyes watered a
s he looked at me from Mary’s lap.
Joyce was saying, “So it seems we’re in a position to move forward. With the county’s offer to take responsibility for the old church, and with the city’s approval of new construction on the land occupied by the school, all that remains now”—she flipped her hands—“is to build a new church.”
“Easy peasy,” I said with a tepid laugh, which the others echoed.
“Yes,” Joyce said agreeably, sharing the laugh, “there’s a long way to go. As I see it, there are three general components to the project: design, construction, and yes, the ever-important issue of funding.”
Mary asked, “Has any thought been given to the design yet? What would the new church look like?”
“An excellent question, Mary,” said Joyce, “and I know the answer is important to you. Right now, the issue of design is wide open. At last night’s meeting, someone asked if the new church would essentially copy the old church. That’s one approach, I suppose, but it strikes me as a bit … backward. Then again, who am I to judge?” Joyce folded her hands on the desk and leaned forward on her elbows, asking quietly, “Marson? Any thoughts about this?”
“Yes,” said my husband. “I agree that it would be a mistake—a lost opportunity—if St. Alban’s simply tried to build an updated duplicate of the original church. After all, the old building will remain. Under the stewardship of the historical society, its legacy is assured. To my mind, the parish now finds itself in the enviable position of totally reimagining its spiritual home—from a clean sheet, and with a clean conscience.”
Mary Questman nodded. “Yes. Exactly.”
I noticed Joyce exchange a poker-faced glance with Bob Olson. They were hearing what they wanted to hear.
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