“Did you love him?” I asked impulsively.
She blushed again and twirled the braid so tightly I thought she was going to pull it out. “I didn’t think that I did, I mean, I just admired him, but then I heard this thing on Stories of the Weird about how people can be soul mates, you know? That’s why I wondered if you’d seen him, you know, his body? Was there much … blood? Did he suffer?” Her eyes probed my face.
Oh, Lord. I said, “When you called, I didn’t know if you meant Olson.” I immediately felt somewhat lightheaded, probably a side effect of dealing with an underappreciated woman who claimed to be worried about me, yet who put great stock in Stories of the Weird. “I don’t think he suffered too much,” I improvised. “Who didn’t love Father Olson?”
Agatha wrinkled her nose and absentmindedly fingered the milky green beads. “Oh, you know, some people thought he was just showing off with a fancy car, trying to act rich, but he wasn’t, he just needed to get around! Ted didn’t believe in having a lot of money. Ted just believed in love, you know, don’t you?”
Instead of answering, I poured us both more coffee. She frowned at it.
“Gosh, I guess I should have ordered tea. I always drink tea, but it just hasn’t seemed cold enough lately, but it’s not quite warm enough for iced tea—”
“Agatha!”
The vacant eyes were suddenly startled. “What?” She pulled her row of tiny bottom teeth in front of her top teeth and wrinkled her forehead.
“Where was your husband yesterday?”
“Yesterday? You mean Saturday?”
“Yes. Where was Bob all day?”
“Gosh. Um. You mean, like in the transcendental sense?”
“I mean, like was he at the hardware store, was he at the barber, what?”
Agatha’s youthful face remained puzzled. But as the overhead speakers began another set of cheerful Alpine square dancing music, her features brightened. “With Aspen Meadow Kiwanis. Yes, you know. They’re building a house, for Habitat for Humanity, off Main Street on that empty lot where the house burned down last year, remember? And the guy who owned it was in Saudi Arabia or something, so he sold it to the Kiwanis for next to nothing. The lot, I mean, anyway—”
“And Bob was there all day.”
“Well, most of the day, I guess. He came home terribly exhausted and I was just so upset about Father Olson, and on the phone with you…. Why?”
“Agatha, was Bob,” I leaned toward her, “jealous of your relationship with Father Olson?”
“Only when I didn’t clean the house on the days we did our counseling work—” She stopped abruptly, looking stricken.
“Did you ever work with P.R.A.Y.?”
“Pray? About what?”
The waitress arrived with our food. The Müsli with yogurt and blueberries spilled out over a wide porcelain bowl. I took a mouthful. Creamy yogurt coated the sweet, juicy blueberries and luscious crunch of Zurich-style granola. I was suddenly ravenous. It felt as if years had gone by since I had eaten anything. Melted cheese cascaded down the side of Agatha’s steaming omelet. She made mm-mm noises as she dug in.
“Agatha,” I ventured after a moment, “do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt Father Olson? Someone who could have killed him? Anybody who might have been a traitor?”
“Who, me? Have an idea? No.” She chewed an enormous mouthful of omelet thoughtfully. “No, really. But listen, I’ve been so worried about you with what happened to your fiancé and all—”
“What do you know about Victor Mancuso?”
“Vic—? Oh. Nothing.” Her face brightened again. “Didn’t they make an announcement about him? I do know about Roger Bampton. He had leukemia, and then he got better after Ted … Father Olson laid hands on him. Do you really think miracles happen? Or do you believe that it’s just all in our minds? On Stories of the Weird—”
“I’d guess I’d have to talk to Roger. Talk to his doctor or something.”
“Well, I saw Roger. When he was sick.” She put down her fork and made a face. “He looked awful. His skin was the color of deer feces, you know, when it’s been there for a while—”
“Agatha, I’m trying to eat Müsli here.”
“Oh, sorry. Well anyway, I’m not one of those people demanding to see the blood tests, before and after.”
“Who’s demanding that?”
“Oh, Goldy, I don’t know.”
I wondered if anyone had ever tried to give this woman a lie-detector test. Would she pass or fail? Or would she just not understand the questions? I said, “Was Ted Olson his own worst enemy?”
She put down her fork and sighed. “People wanted stuff from Ted all the time, that’s what I’m trying to tell you, nobody respected him. I mean as a person. Everyone wanted a little bit of him, as if he were some kind of stuffed animal or something. No one would notice a little bit of stuffing missing, do you know what I mean?”
“I guess I don’t.”
She doused her coffee with creamer and wiggled her mouth disapprovingly. “They wanted him to take care of them. They wanted him to pray for them. They wanted to talk to him about issues in the parish, and mostly what they wanted was for him to get so-and-so to stop doing something. Or get someone to start doing something.”
“Was there anybody who wanted him to do something, and he didn’t do it?”
“Come on.” She took a small sip of coffee, approved of it, and sipped more. “He couldn’t do everything. He was supposed to have Mondays off, you know.”
“And did he?”
“Oh, no. People would call, call, call all day. One day he just didn’t answer the phone. You know, when there was that big problem over the music. Zelda wanted to find out if he’d heard from the bishop, and when he didn’t answer the phone, she drove all the way out there and stalked right up to the door and banged on it.”
“And did he answer?”
“Of course he didn’t! But then she came around back!” Agatha was indignant. “Peering through his windows and trying to see what was going on! So she opened the back door and she shrieked, ‘I knew you were home! Your car is right there in the driveway!’ like she’d just won a game or something. That woman is impossible. I don’t care if she is my mother-in-law.”
I spooned up some more Müsli and tried to think of how to phrase the next question.
“Did Ted tell you all this, Agatha?”
“Well,” she said with another sip of coffee, “I was in counseling with him at the time.”
“He was your counselor, so he told you his problems? Or he was your counselor that day at his house?”
She looked up. A shadow crossed her face. “Oh, Bob honey, we didn’t see you come in.”
12
Bob Preston peered down at our plates, then glanced around the restaurant. He sat tentatively, frowning at the Western-style light fixture hanging down over our table.
“This is awfully bright,” he announced. “Makes it hard to see.” He proceeded to start unscrewing the bulb. Unfortunately, it was too hot. Bob yelped, dipped his fingers into his wife’s ice water, carefully wiped them on the clean napkin of the place setting in front of him, and unscrewed the bulb a few more revolutions before dipping, drying, and unscrewing again. Finally he had the bulb out. He reached across and with extreme delicacy placed it on the empty seat at our table for four.
Agatha tilted her head to focus on this little drama. “Poor Bob,” she murmured sympathetically once the lightbulb was dispensed with. “Can’t stand bright light.”
“Ahhh,” said Bob when Heidi Dale rushed up. But before she started to take his order, she sent a confused look at our light fixture. “Don’t worry about it,” Bob assured her with a wave of pinkened fingers. “All we need you to do now is turn off that damn noise.”
“What?”
“Turn off the polka!” he bellowed. Several bikers turned unshaven faces in Bob’s direction, but he glared back. “Look, I need hash browns on one plate, two poached
eggs on another, and sliced fruit—no honeydew melon on that, okay?—on a third. Got it, honey?” The waitress finished scribbling, nodded once, and took off.
“Bob,” I began conversationally, “we were just beginning to miss you. Everything okay at church?”
He grunted. “I guess. If you don’t mind listening to Montgomery. I swear, that man is boring. And after what our congregation has been through, you’d think the diocese could send us someone who could preach. What do we get? A froggy-looking guy who shouts bad poems at parishioners. And then that obnoxious seminarian, what is his name, Hartley? Kid drives me nuts. He sees me getting into my car, an Audi that I earned the bucks to buy, thank you very much, and he starts preaching at me about the evils of money.”
Agatha had undergone an astonishing personality change since her husband’s arrival. Instead of being spaced-out, she was now demure. She smiled vapidly.
I asked, “What do you think’s going to happen to the parish?”
Bob Preston puffed up. “If the Lord wants us to—”
I said, “Stop right there, Bob.” Agatha regarded me in horrified silence; her husband merely shrugged. I went on gently, “For the sake of argument, let’s assume the presence of the Lord, okay? What do you think the people are going to do?”
He shook his head and pulled in his chin, assuming the dismayed expression of an oilman who’d drilled a dry hole. “I don’t know if you can assume God’s presence, Goldy. That’s what they did during Pinckney’s time, and the place was as dead as smashed and bloodied roadkill, I’m telling you.”
I pushed the plate of unfinished Müsli away. “And you thought the place came to life under Father Theodore Olson?”
The waitress arrived with Bob’s order. She looked at me quizzically, then hesitated, I thought, because of the lack of light and the unwillingness to risk Bob’s rude tongue again. Then she said, “You’re the caterer. Goldy. I heard what happened. Sorry.”
I murmured a thanks. Bob Preston took a bite from one plate and brayed: “These potatoes are cold.” The waitress rolled her eyes at me—demanding clients!—and whisked away the offending hash browns.
“Yes,” said Bob, picking up where we left off, “the place came to life under Olson. Didn’t you find him more centered on the Lord than Pinckney and that old-church crowd?”
“I thought Father Olson was very nice.” I kept my gaze on Agatha. “He was very … attractive to parishioners.” She looked away. I went on, “I didn’t have the same approach to the faith as Olson, but he was a great counselor for Schulz and me. Arch had him for confirmation class and thought he was marvelous. I just wish the police could figure out why—”
“Well, that’s their job, isn’t it?” Bob interjected brusquely. He craned his neck around, probably seeking the unfortunate waitress. “What did Schulz say in that note?”
My skin prickled. I exhaled and shrugged noncommittally. “Haven’t the foggiest. It was policeman shorthand. Olson was alive, Olson was dead. What did the police have to say to you?”
With his right hand, Bob made a lasso-type movement in the air. He grimaced. “They said they found a diocesan vehicle. They wanted to know who had access to the keys, who had access to the car, who had access to Hymnal House—”
Our waitress returned with Bob Preston’s new hash browns. I pressed my lips together. Who had access to Hymnal House and Brio Barn? I thought of the old conference center, where I had taken my Sunday School teachers’ course and where I had catered many times. The conference center boasted many rooms, now closed off. It also contained numerous sequestered storage areas. Hmm.
“Bob and Agatha,” I announced as I got to my feet, “thank you for a lovely brunch. I need to be getting home to stay by the phones and take care of Arch. Let’s get together again soon,” I added insincerely.
Bob Preston reared back slightly. His brow furrowed. Then, not one to let piping hot hash browns go to waste, he dismissed me with a small wave.
“I’ll take Goldy to the door,” Agatha said hastily. With his mouth full, Bob shrugged. Agatha rose suddenly and sent her Swiss-style chair reeling. This brought more interested looks from the bikers. They loved brawls, even at brunch. To discourage such an eruption, Agatha and I walked decorously to the entrance of the restaurant.
“Please tell me,” she began in a low, imploring tone. “I have been so worried about you, and about Schulz, but did Ted—Father Olson—say anything to Schulz about … anything from me?”
“Anything from you? Like letters? Talk fast, he’s looking at you.”
She glanced nervously in her husband’s direction and waved her fingers halfheartedly. “I was in counseling with Ted because I thought Bob was getting ready to leave me,” she blurted out in the same confessional whisper. “Money disappeared out of our checking account and I didn’t know where it went. I thought Bob was hiding it somewhere, getting ready to file for divorce. After the first few months, I just couldn’t bear to see Ted only once a week. I had so much on my mind. So I wrote to him … about all that I was going through and feeling … every day. And I cashed in a whole-life policy that my father had given me, and stashed the money. Father … Ted was the only one who knew about my financial arrangements. I was so happy to have somebody to write to about how I was going to use my money. Now I’m just so afraid that Ted could have left those letters somewhere that Bob could get hold of them … and use them against me.” Her eyes brimmed with tears.
“Were you in love with Ted?”
“What difference does it make?” she hissed. She dashed at her eyes, shook her braids, and sniffed. “Did he say something about the letters or not?” We both looked at Bob, who was pointing to his poached-egg plate and once again giving the waitress elaborate instructions.
“Agatha, just tell me,” I urged, “about Ted. And if your husband knew.”
She stepped to one side of a cuckoo clock and Swiss flag display. Her face was ashen. “Why? Why do you want to know? Ted is gone.”
“Because it’ll help me,” I said desperately, “in case the man I’m supposed to marry is still alive. Can’t you just tell me what was going on, and if your husband was jealous?”
“Ted loved me,” she protested. “I’m sure of it. I know he would have waited for me.”
“Waited for you for what?”
“Waited until I could get some more money together and dump Bob.”
“Agatha, did you tell the police this?”
Her face crumpled. “Of course not! I’m the married head of the Episcopal Church Women. Our rector was single. What am I supposed to say: ‘I was in love with our priest, and I’ve been squirreling away cash for the last five years? Please don’t tell my husband?’”
“Where is the money?”
“I’m not going to tell you. It’s no one’s business but mine.” Fury bubbled through her voice.
“You were at Olson’s house when your mother-in-law, Zelda, came out that day about the music, weren’t you?”
She choked and smoothed the skirt of her apricot suit. “Help me,” she pleaded. “Help me find my letters, and I’ll tell you.”
Her plight touched me. “I’ll do what I can.”
She whispered, “When Zelda came out, I was hiding in the bathroom.” Abruptly, she turned and scampered back to the table where her husband sat abusing the waitress.
I zipped the van two blocks down Main Street, turned left at my street, and gunned the engine up the hill. I whizzed past the lot where the skeleton of the Habitat for Humanity house stood abandoned for the weekend. I was sorely tempted to drive the extra five minutes it would take to go directly to the Aspen Meadow Conference Center, but I decided I needed some tools, just in case. As soon as I was in the house I called for Arch, who came bounding down the staircase.
“Gosh, Mom, what took you so long?” He was still wearing the sweatsuit he’d put on yesterday after my wedding-that-wasn’t. He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked behind me in the direction of the front door
. No Tom Schulz. “What’s going on? Was that Investigator Boyd at the door this morning? I saw the police car out my window, but figured you would have told me if they’d found him.” His young face was tight with anxiety. “I thought for sure they’d have figured out some clues by now.”
I gave him a hug. “They did find something, Arch. What they found was the car they think took Tom away from Father Olson’s house.”
“But they didn’t—”
“No. Not yet. Where’s Julian? Did you eat breakfast?”
“He’s at the grocery store. He says someone actually did send over tuna noodle casserole, so he’s out buying ingredients for a Mexican pizza he’s going to make tonight. And yes, I had one of the cinnamon rolls you left.”
“Great. Listen hon, I’m going over to the conference center—”
“But … what if Investigator Boyd calls?” His sherry-colored eyes were large with worry behind his glasses. “Why are you going over there? Are you just going to leave me here to take messages? Why are you going to the conference center?”
Kids. From as early as I could remember, Arch had been inquisitive. Not just on philosophical questions such as, What happens after you die? Arch wanted answers to everything. What do they do with your tonsils after they take them out? Why do you have to sell the cookies you make? At Todd’s house they get to keep the oatmeal cookies his mother makes. And, most troublesome of all, Why does God let people suffer? Of course I had figured being a good mom meant you had to explain everything, or try to. They throw the tonsils away. We have to sell cookies to live. God is with us in our pain.
“I’m going to check on the broken window,” I lied.
“You hate broken glass. You won’t let me touch it.”
“I’m just going because I’m going, that’s why!”
He squinched his face into an accusatory expression and pointed a finger at me. “It has something to do with the church, doesn’t it? And Father Olson. You’re going to that old conference place because …” He stopped talking to appraise me. “Because you think somebody’s hiding Schulz over there. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re going to try to find him all by yourself. I’m going with you.”
The Last Suppers Page 15
