“Montgomery? Here already? I thought you were going to fill in for a while, at least.”
“Yes, well, so did I.” Ramsey cleared his throat noisily and ran the fingers of one hand through his hair, disarranging his curls. “Anyway, ah, then Zelda said she always picked the Palm Sunday hymns, and Montgomery had already chosen the music, and then the new organist showed up! And all this plus what happened to Olson … Oh, dear. So the new organist stomped out of the sacristy, and one of the churchwomen thought he was the fellow coming to give an estimate on the columbarium stones, and that he’d been driven away by the invest-in-pearls faction. Then, if you can imagine—”
I couldn’t. And I thought catering was bad.
“—just as I am straightening out the organist fiasco, Mitchell Hartley shows up and starts asking about the oral exams for the candidates for ordination! The exams don’t even begin until Tuesday! Now Canon Montgomery needs me to find a King James version of the Bible while he deals with the, er, music. Not to mention that of course, some time in the next five minutes, I have to vest.”
“Doug, please. I need to talk to you about my fiancé. It would help me if I could ask you a few questions.”
“Well, can’t it wait until the coffee hour? Please?” He torqued around and went flying after the new organist, who had banged open the rear door of the church to make a dramatic exit. I turned in desperation to look for Boyd and saw the short, fully robed body and ruddy face of George Montgomery as he entered the narthex. Lucille Boatwright marched up behind him and snagged him by the robe. Canon Montgomery tripped and barely prevented himself from falling over.
“Father Montgomery, I must talk to you about the drainage from our columbarium project after the service!” Lucille rasped. Montgomery, recovering, did not immediately reply. He got Lucille’s acid test: “Canon Montgomery, did you know Father Tyler Pinckney?” When Montgomery was mumbling that he had not known Father Pinckney very well, I sidled up and gave him a welcoming smile. Lucille briskly turned on her spectator pump heels and stalked away.
“Thank you, oh, thank you from the bottom of my heart,” said Montgomery. His voice caught, as if he had been crying. His mottled face had aged much in the two years since my Sunday School course. His hair seemed whiter and thinner than I remembered, and his eyes were bloodshot.
“Are you all right?” I asked impulsively.
He tilted his head and raised his bushy white eyebrows. “I’ve had a hard time. Olson was my right-hand man at the cathedral. He was very dear to me. I talk to grieving people all the time, but here I am—” His voice faltered.
“Yes. I … I’m sorry.” I did not know what to say. You did not hug the canon theologian, even if you were on the same committee. Montgomery’s duty was to articulate the theology of, for, and by the diocese, which in our case was all the Episcopal churches in Colorado. It was not his duty to be affectionate. Embarrassed to be staring at his sagging face, I looked at his robes. Montgomery was wearing an elaborately needlepointed red stole.
“That’s Father Olson’s … you’re wearing his …”
“I know.” Montgomery’s haggard features crumpled. He lifted the thick, perfectly stitched edges of the stole. “I was called in somewhat late, and all my stoles are packed away. Actually, I’m still in shock—” He gave me the benefit of his close-set, kindly brown eyes, his warm, tentative smile that slanted sideways. He patted his white hair, parted exactly in the middle. “Father Ramsey told me you, too, have been suffering.”
The formal address of Ramsey did not surprise me. “Yes, well, as Doug … Father Ramsey knows, the police are scouring the county. They’re keeping me informed.”
Montgomery nodded and reached out to brush my arm with his fingers, then drew back hastily as Doug Ramsey himself approached with a freckle-faced, red-haired young man taking long, aggressive steps beside him.
“Do you know Mitchell Hartley?” Montgomery said to me under his breath.
“Not very well,” I replied, equally conspiratorial.
“The reality is much worse than anything you could have heard,” Montgomery told me in a pleasant tone. He turned to Hartley and added stiffly, “I didn’t know you were a parishioner.”
“I’m not surprised you forgot,” growled Mitchell Hartley, who was probably in his late twenties and had a head of thick orange-red hair that he combed up in an exaggerated pompadour. Holy Elvis. He had eyes the vivid color of blueberries and a wide jaw that jutted out defiantly. Doug Ramsey mumbled something about vesting and scuttled away. Hartley and his red tidal wave of hair leaned in toward me. He assumed a condescending, pastoral tone. “I am sorry to hear your sad news, Goldy. I am praying for you.”
“Ah,” I said, embarrassed. “Thank you.”
Canon Montgomery pulled in his chin and leaned away from Mitchell Hartley, as if he had suddenly come upon some especially noxious form of poison plant. Mitchell Hartley quirked one orange-red eyebrow at me.
“I know you know,” I said uncomfortably. “But I don’t believe we’ve met. You see, I usually go to this service rather than …”
“Yes,” he said impatiently. “I know that.”
“Well,” I faltered, “how nice. I guess I’ll be off then—”
“You’re the woman, the caterer,” Mitchell Hartley said with a bitter smile, “that Theodore Olson appointed to the board. And you’ve just had this tragic loss….”
“Ah, well, yes.”
Canon Montgomery cleared his throat and puffed out his chest. “Miss Bear is a very highly respected member of this parish. She represents, shall we say, the Woman in the Pew. I trained her in one of my Sunday School seminars. But she probably won’t be attending our meetings next week, as she’s in the middle of another crisis.”
Mitchell Hartley snorted, lifted his wide jaw, and narrowed his bright blue eyes at me. “That’s too bad. We don’t usually get such a good-looking examiner.”
Since we were in church, I avoided making a scurrilous remark. I began to see why Father Olson would have flunked Mitchell Hartley last year. A dawning realization told me being an examiner might not be that much fun.
While we were talking, parishioners had been streaming through the doors and looking around expectantly. When their glances caught on a robed priest engaged in conversation, they seemed to be reassured and wended into the pews. Doug Ramsey made a flustered, but vested, appearance while the teenaged crucifer twirled around the poled Victorian cross. As if on cue, the first few notes of organ music pealed out—the familiar strains of “Once to Every Man and Nation.”
“What happened to the prelude?” squeaked Doug Ramsey.
“What happened to ‘All Glory, Laud, and Honor’?” asked Canon Montgomery. His white eyebrows furrowed in sudden anger. “What seems to be the problem with St. Luke’s?”
“Guess you two don’t have much control of this parish,” muttered Mitchell Hartley. His eyes glittered. I slithered away.
Once in a pew, I looked around for Boyd. He was sitting in the back, eyes fixed on the altar. Canon Montgomery assumed the celebrant’s role in a dignified manner, although his distress over his lack of control appeared to quiver below his passive exterior. Whenever he wanted music, he nodded sternly in the direction of Zelda at the organ. Clearly, he didn’t want to risk announcing what could be a disputed hymn. The newly hired organist never made a reappearance.
As the service continued, I fought rising worries about Tom. I imagined him in pain; I saw him in his coffin. I shook my head, cleared my throat, and tried to sing. That proved impossible. I flipped aimlessly through the hymnal. People turned to frown at the slapping noise of the pages. I reached forward quickly to put the hymnal back in its rack. It fell on the stone floor with a decisive bang, which brought me more disapproving glances, including a glowering look from Montgomery.
Montgomery retrieved my attention with a short, theatrical silence before the sermon. “I know some of you have come to enjoy the … lines that I occasionally compose
, so I will take the liberty to share some with you now.” He cleared his throat, patted on his middle-parted hair, and puffed up his chest again. I pressed my lips together.
“Ah, Lord!” Montgomery intoned. “How we wax lyrical/when speaking of your work in miracle!” He paused, then raised his voice to a shout. “But truly! What is most divine/is seeing you in bread and wine!/And what we seek from you the most/is Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!”
It must have been the stress. An irrepressible gurgle of laughter came out of me. Montgomery charged down the nave, his shoulders stiff with rage.
“Are you always so disrespectful?” he roared. His mottled face was now an unhealthy crimson as it shuddered close to mine. His breath smelled like a very old person’s.
I said in a low voice, “No. Sorry.”
Montgomery’s face withdrew slowly from mine. I was irresistibly reminded of a large, angry turtle who had abruptly decided to go back to the dignified encasement of its shell. The shell at that moment was the canon’s—actually Father Olson’s—imposingly voluminous red robe. Montgomery pivoted, and seemed to will control of himself. In the long, ensuing silence, he walked majestically, crimson robe flowing and shoulders stiff, back to the pulpit. Hey! I wanted to yell after him. I thought you liked me!
I wondered what Boyd was thinking about his introduction to the Episcopal Church. The graying heads in the congregation turned to each other, confused by the lack of direction. A few shot me sidelong glances. I ignored them. Canon Montgomery stood stolidly facing the altar, his back to us. Doug Ramsey cleared his throat desperately, looked to Montgomery for direction, got none, and reluctantly started on the prayers of intercession. My mind was elsewhere. I had never been yelled at by a priest, only by my abusive ex-husband.
And we most humbly beseech thee, of thy goodness, O Lord, to comfort and succor all those who, in this transitory life, are in trouble, sorrow, need, sickness, or any other adversity.
Tom Schulz had made me a lovely chocolate-raspberry cake the first night we had made love.
“Tom!” I said with a low groan, then blushed as more disapproving eyes studied me. Again I regretted coming to this service.
For servants departed this life in thy faith and fear, especially our beloved priest, Theodore Olson. Parishioners sniffed and coughed. George Montgomery slowly crossed himself. Lucille Boatwright knelt, stiff and stony-faced.
Then the intercessions were complete and the acolytes bustled with the offertory plates. Zelda Preston peeked out from behind the wall next to the organ and announced the anthem. Finally jolted back to reality, Montgomery declared the offertory sentences at the same time that Zelda took off on her organ solo and Marla slid in next to me in the next-to-last pew. A waft of rose-scented perfume enveloped her.
“Good God! Did the canon go off or what?” she hissed under her breath. “Anyway, I think what Episcopalians seek the most/is tea and marmalade and toast. Agree?”
“Please don’t.” I felt dizzy. “I thought you came to the later service.”
“Ordinarily I do, not because I’m a charismatic and believe in the gifts of the spirit and all that. Actually, what I believe in is the gift of sleep. But I woke up early and called your house to see if there were any developments. Arch said you were here at church, and I was worried about you so I came. And I should have been worried about you. I came in when the Canon From Hell was shooting his mouth off in your face. I was dying for that cop back there to pull his gun, or something, but I just heard his beeper go off, and now he’s left—”
Before she could finish, I was squeezing past her out of the pew and running down the nave. I sprinted past the Sunday School rooms to the choir room. The door was just closing; I lunged to hold it open.
Boyd was already talking into the receiver. He held up one finger when I opened my mouth to ask him what was going on. Then he shook his head.
“Okay,” he said. “Bob Preston, got it. How quick can you get a car to me at this church? Great.”
Boyd replaced the receiver. My heart was pounding.
“Now don’t get your hopes up,” he told me, seeing my face. My heart sank to new depths. “We think Schulz is still alive. We found the car he was transported in, abandoned in a ditch near Deer Creek Canyon.”
“Oh, God—”
Boyd sighed heavily and scratched the top of his dark crewcut. “It’s a Nissan four-wheel drive, not a van. The van in the note must have been for vanity plates. They said EPSCMP, for Episcopal camps. The vehicle belongs to the Episcopal diocese of Colorado.”
9
I grabbed the bar holding the hangers for the choir robes. “They don’t know where he is?”
“Not yet. No discernible footprints away from the car. The kidnapper must have had another vehicle already parked there.”
Pain stabbed my head and a rock-size lump formed in my throat. I couldn’t accept the facts Boyd was relating with the flat tonality I should have become used to already. I said, “The vehicle belonged to the diocese of Colorado? Do they know who was driving it? Was the vehicle stolen? How do you know Tom was—”
Boyd slid a matchstick into his mouth and leaned against the wall. He ticked points off on his fingers. “First, we think Schulz was in the vehicle because, again, we found some of his stuff.”
“More? Like what this time?”
Boyd shifted his weight and looked doubtful.
“Please,” I begged, “tell me.”
“Well, we think we found his socks shoved under the front seat.”
“What?” Boyd did not, after all, joke.
“Look, Goldy, it’s just the way it was by the creek bank. Schulz fell, was pushed, got hurt, covered with mud. But at the same time, he was trying to drop stuff, give us clues, build a trail, that’s what we’re supposed to do in that kind of situation. So you figure, now he’s in the Nissan. He’s in the back seat, he’s restrained.” At the thought of Tom bound and perhaps gagged, I felt a groan rising but suppressed it. “He can move his feet so he takes off his shoes, eases off his socks and wedges them under the front seat, then slips his shoes back on so’s the person who took him won’t notice.”
“How do you know they were his socks?”
Boyd chewed on the matchstick and crossed his arms. “Because he also wedged his college ring down between the seats in the back. University of Colorado, with his initials and the date. Look, I gotta go.”
“But … he hardly ever wears that ring. And I thought you said he was hurt, limping, or something, how could he …?”
“Looks like there was blood on one of the socks. And I guess he was gonna wear the ring to the wedding.” He shrugged.
Too much. I stared out the choir-room window at the cold morning sky. The early-morning scattered clouds had ballooned and moved in. The sun had disappeared.
He said, “I need to get outside and watch for the department car. They left me at your place and now they’re saying they need to come get me.”
“Let’s go, then,” I said, and directed him out the same door Marla had taken me through the day before, when we were trying to escape the chaos of my nonwedding.
When we were outside, he said, “Remember when I wanted to ask you about Agatha Preston?”
“Yes, sorry, she called me yesterday, all hysterical. Wanted to know if I had seen him.”
Boyd ferreted his faithful notebook out of his pants pocket. “Keep talking,” he ordered as we walked toward the snow-covered parking lot. “Seen him-who?”
“Watch out,” I said as we approached the columbarium construction. “We’re going to have to go around these ditches.”
We ducked under the low eave of the church roof, then squeezed single file through the narrow passage between the sawhorses and the corner of the St. Luke’s building. The ditches that would eventually hold ash receptacles had filled with ice-edged puddles; it looked as if the unauthorized construction had unexpectedly encountered the water table.
Boyd asked tersely, “Agatha wanted t
o know if you’d seen …”
“But that’s what I don’t know,” I protested. “I didn’t have a clue if she was referring to Tom or Father Olson, and then her husband took the phone away from her and hung up on me.”
“Her husband hung up on you? Bob Preston?” When I nodded, Boyd said, “He’s the head of the diocesan Camps and Conferences Committee. He’s the one who’s supposed to be in charge of the keys to that Nissan. It was stored across the street—”
“Wait.” Of course I knew the car; I’d seen it many times parked in the garage next to Hymnal House, when I’d catered for the musicians’ conference during the summer. “Yesterday morning. The keys to the conference center were missing when we tried to set up for the wedding reception. It’s a huge bunch. Maybe the car keys were on it.”
Boyd’s voice became exasperated. “I thought the Altar Guild had those keys, and Preston the car keys.”
“Well, you’ll have your chance to ask Bob Preston. Here he comes.” I gestured at a shiny gold Audi now pulling up next to the creek. At that moment the doors to the church banged open. Lucille Boatwright came out, intent on her prey. Unfortunately, her prey this time was Officer Boyd. The heavy wooden door flapped shut as Lucille sailed over to him and used her hand like a caliper to grasp the sleeve of his leather jacket.
The Last Suppers Page 11
