I tried to open one of the old windows, but it was painted shut. I turned away and willed myself not to think of Ted Olson dying. Dead. What ran through my head were images of him alive. Olson laughing and arguing at our Theological Examiners meeting; Olson rolling his eyes as I shook out an enormous molded grapefruit salad for the Womens Prayer Group; Olson preaching on his favorite topic renewal.
And then in my recollection his face was suddenly, vividly, up close, in one of our early premarital counseling sessions. I had never really known Ted Olson until we began that very personal journey into discussing Toms and my relationship. I recalled the skin at the sides of his eyes crinkling deeply when he laughed, his slender fingers absently stroking his dark beard when he listened. For the sessions, he had worn jeans topped with dark turtlenecks instead of his customary black clerical shirt and white collar. Sitting in his tweed-covered swivel chair, he had lifted one dark eyebrow and eyed me skeptically.
And why exactly do you want to get married again?
Second times the charm.
A mischievous smile curled his mouth. Do you always hide behind the flip answer?
It helps.
Sometimes it helped. And now Olson was gone. I tried again to breathe deeply and told myself to stop thinking about him. But I couldnt.
Mom?
Arch stood uneasily between the secretarys desk and a stack of contorted water pipes. He bit the inside of his cheek and tugged on the hem of the tux.
Do you want me to leave? Marla said I should come over. No, no, Im glad you came. I asked him to sit down so I could explain that Father Olson, who had been due to present Arch for confirmation this month, wasnt going to show up. And why.
Yeah, I heard, he said haltingly when Id told him the news. He raised his chin and pushed his glasses up his freckled nose. In Aspen Meadow, a mountain town that was more like a village than a suburb, Arch had had much experience of death. Here, the two of us knew a larger group of people than I ever had in the towns Id lived in before moving to Colorado. For Arch, to experience townspeople killed in skiing and car accidents, n avalanches, by cancer or of heart attacks, was unfortunately commonplace.
He asked in a low voice, Do they know hot it happened yet?
Tom will.
Beneath his freckles, Archs face had turned translucently white. The skin under his eyes was dark as pitch. Where is Tom? Will he be here soon?
When I nodded, he said, Julian wants to know what you want to do with the food.
Oh, Lord. I dont know.
Arch waited for me to elaborate. Then he went on. Something else. Mrs. Boatwright, you know? When I nodded, he said, Well, theyre waiting to take her when the Mountain Rescue Team gets here. But … He stopped.
What is it, Arch? Things couldnt get much worse.
She was sitting out there in the hall, you know, after she passed out. Then she saw me and like, signaled me over. She told me in this loud whisper to ask you to donate the food to Aspen Meadow Outreach. Obviously your mother wont be able to use it today, Arch whispered in an uncannily throaty imitation, and Ive seen this kind of thing before.
Seen a priest die before a wedding?
No. Arch drew his lips into a thoughtful pucker, then continued. Mrs. Boatwright said shed seen a groom change his mind. He singsonged, Sometimes they just cant go through with it. Hed always had a talent for imitation, but Id never been devastated by the results before.
What did you tell her?
I said Id have to ask you. About the food. I didnt say anything about Tom. I mean, is that rude or what?
Very. The nerve. Listen, Arch, I said defiantly, Tom called here and asked for me, for heavens sake. He didnt change his mind. Father Olson is dead. And Tome asked if I wanted to get married tonight, just not in the church.
Yeah, well, youre not, are you? my son asked. When I groaned, he added, So what should we do with the food platters?
I rubbed my temples. I was developing a blinding headache. Ill figure something out when I get home. I cant fret about it now. Would you please ask Julian to pack everything into the van?
Okay, but theres one more thing …
Arch!
Mom! Sorry! Julian wants to know what he should do with your parents.
Give them to Aspen Meadow Outreach.
Mom! And I hate to tell you, but Grandma and Grandpa asked me if the groom had changed his mind, too.
Great. I reflected for a moment. I couldnt just abandon my parents at the church. Theyd been reluctant to venture from the Jersey shore to the high altitude of the Rockies in the first place. They felt uncomfortable in my modest house, with my modest life. I mean, Id married a doctor, which theyd deemed good, gotten a divorce, which they saw as unfortunate, and gone into food service, which they found lamentable. Now I was marrying a cop. My parents did not view this as a move in the right direction, and unspoken behind their cautionary words about hasty marriages was the sense that they hadnt done very well on their investment in their only daughter. Invite them back to the house, I told Arch. Their plane goes out late this afternoon anyway, wedding or no wedding. Tell them Ill be along as soon as Tom gets here. Then we can make a few plans. And Arch thanks. Im really sorry about all this.
He hesitated. So there isnt going to be a wedding, then.
I gave him a brief hug. No, hon. Not today.
Im really sorry, Mom. He pulled away and concentrated his gaze on the bookshelves. You dont think Tom Schulz would just not show up, do you?
My ears started to ring. With the priest dead? No. Its just, you know, with this I did not finish the thought. Dont worry, I said finally. Tom and I are going to get married. Here at the church, too. Just not his very minute.
When he raised his head, Archs young face was taut with disappointment. Wordlessly, he clomped out of the office door.
An oppressive silence again descended on the old building. I sat pleating the beige silk between my fingers. Within moments there was the sudden overhead scraping from the family of raccoons. When they were undisturbed by the presence of people, they noisily reclaimed their territory. Their scratching made my flesh crawl.
Enough! I shouted as I heaved my hymnal at the ceiling. It slammed against the rafters with a satisfying thwack.
That shut them up. I picked the hymnal off the floor and threw it against the wall. The shock reverberated through a bookshelf. A pile of theology books thudded to the floor; notes popped off a bulletin board; my streetclothes fell from the hook. I walked across the office, lowered myself into the tweed swivel chair, then quickly jumped out. The chair was Ted Olsons.
Disconsolately, I threaded my way through the debris of torn pipes and broken drywall to the secretarys office. Through the thick windows I saw the Mountain Rescue ambulance arrive and then swiftly depart, presumably with Lucille Boatwright. Guests streamed out of the church, heads bowed, as if it were the end of the Good Friday liturgy instead of an aborted wedding ceremony. So much for the silent prayer service.
Gripping bowls and then the cake, Julian Teller did his loyal-assistant routine and made several laborious trips out to my van. I yearned to help him. But I couldnt bear the thought of clearing the parish kitchen of food that was supposed to be served after my own wedding. Finally Julian escorted my bewildered parents, with Arch, to the parking lot. The van revved and took off.
What seemed like an eternity later, a cream-and-black Sheriffs Department vehicle pulled up in the lot. First one, then a second and third official car skidded on patches of ice. Their tires spun and spewed small saves of gravel before coming to a rest on the other side of the columbarium construction. Uniformed officers emerged My breath fogged the window as I waited anxiously for Tom Schulz to appear. I folded my chi
lled hands and debated about rushing out. I should have told Tom I would be in the office.
I tapped on the glass when two grim-faced policemen I knew, partners named Boyd and Armstrong, climbed out of their cars and strode to the church entrance. After a few moments, both officers emerged form the churchs side door. They walked up the muddy flagstones to the office building. I knew they were on duty that day as they had been unable to come to our wedding. Pacing behind them somewhat stiffly was a woman with long brown hair. She carried a bulging Hefty bag. She was familiar looking. A policewoman, perhaps.
Boyd and Armstrong pushed into the office first. Like most policemen, they had a brusque, businesslike air about them. Boyd, short and barrel-shaped, stopped abruptly at the sight of me. He stood, feet apart, and rubbed one hand over black hair that had been shorn close in a Marine-style crewcut. Underneath his unzipped Sheriffs Department leather jacket, his shirt was too snug around his bulky mid-section, a pot belly that had increased in size since hed stopped smoking several months ago. He was gnawing one of the wooden matches he had taken to chewing to keep from overeating. Behind him, tall, acne-scarred Armstrong, whose few wisps of light-brown hair had strayed off the bald spot they were supposed to conceal, surveyed the room bitterly. The woman, whom I judged to be about fifty, unbuttoned her oversized black coat. That task concluded, she held back, clutching her bag to her chest, mutely watching me.
Wheres Tom? I demanded.
Body and Armstrong exchanged a glance. Boyd bit down hard on the match. The woman gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, sending her lanky hair swinging.
Body said, Sit down, Miss Bear. Why? I remained standing. Dont patronize me, please. And you know my name is Goldy, Officer Boyd. Wheres Tom? He called me about Father Olson. Does Tom know Im still here?
Boyd stopped chewing the match. His eyes flicked away from me before he said, Bad news, Im afraid.
What? Panic creaked in my voice. What else could go wrong on this day that was supposed to be so wondrous? Is Tom all right? Where is he?
Armstrong held up one hand. He looked seriously down his pockmarked nose at me before replying. Somebody must have been out there. Still there, he announced with agonizing logic. We think. Out at the priests place. Schulz called us, then you. Looks like he went back out to be by the body. Maybe he wanted to look around.
Where is Tom? I repeated. Why are you all here? I demanded, too loudly.
Boyd stopped rubbing his head and looked me squarely in the eyes. He gestured at the woman. Helen Keene here is our victim advocate.
I said, Victim advocate? But Olson wasnt married, he lived alone. Whos the vic
Im sorry, Goldy. Body shifted the match from one side of his mouth to the other, inhaled raggedly, and looked at a small notebook hed pulled out of his pocket. We got to Olsons at 11:46. Didnt see Schulz, but his vehicle was there. Signs of a struggle near Olsons body, which was near the bank of Cottonwood Creek. He studied a grimy page of his notebook, then added, Looks like Schulz might have fallen or been pushed down the bank. He dropped some articles, then dragged himself up the creek bank.
Where is he? I
Boyd took another deep breath. It appears somebody go the drop on Schulz. He glanced at Armstrong, avoiding my eyes. Looks like the perp was still there. Something happened, there was a struggle
Tell me.
Schulz is missing, Boyd said tonelessly.
3
No. My legs felt as if they were disintegrating. No, no. The walls seemed to sway. Get a grip, I ordered myself. Boyds face was a study in misery I could not bear to contemplate. Armstrong shrugged and looked away. Helen Keene eased between the two men. She grasped my elbow firmly, then guided me toward the small striped couch in the secretarys office.
I could not assimilate Boyds words. Got the drop on him. Fell . . pushed down the creek bank. Schulz missing.
It was simply not believable.
I dont understand. Where did this happen? My voice came out like a croak.
Wordlessly, Helen Keene, victim advocate, advocate for me, I realized dully, drew a quilt out of the Hefty bag she was carrying. Gently she pulled it around my shoulders. I was shivering uncontrollably. There was a painful buzzing in my ears. Hold it together, girl, I commanded my inner self. Hold it together now. For Tom.
Boyd and Armstrong exchanged a look. Boyds carrot-like fingers caressed his worn notebook. Sorry. You werent even a cops wife yet. They get used to this kind of crisis. Or at least used to the idea of this kind of crisis. Well. Were not sure about the actual events. We believe thats what happened. His face was fierce; he held his rotund body in a tight, aggressive stance. It looks as if Schulz was hurt. But were going to find him. Well work around the clock. This was not the matter-of-fact Officer Boyd I had met the previous spring, the Boyd who had proudly announced n January that hed given up smoking. This wasnt business-as-usual. This suddenly ferocious Boyd took Tom Schulzs disappearance as a personal affront.
What do you mean about his being hurt? I demanded. Helen Keene put a hand on the quilt that covered my shoulders She sighed softly, regretfully. I refused to look at her.
Just from falling down into the creek, we think. Armstrong tsked.
Okay, look, said Boyd, scratching his close-cropped head furiously and chewing the match, well tell you what we know. Schulz told Dispatch he was going to call you, because of the wedding. Did he? I nodded. My heart was racing. We need to talk to you about your conversation with him. But first we need you to go out there, to Olsons place, to have you look at some stuff.
What stuff? Stuff at Father Olsons house? Sick with confusion, I looked around the church office. Wouldnt there be something here that would help? I tried and failed to summon Toms logical voice, his explanations of the inevitable steps in an investigation.
Boyd interjected, Dont worry, were going to come back here. Eventually.
I said, I just dont understand.
Armstrongs tall shape loomed too close to me. It goes like this: A cop gets surprised. Hes going to try to distract the perp, especially if the perp has a weapon. So say the guy wants to kidnap the policeman. Our guys going to drop stuff at the scene, make clues, anything for us to follow
I pressed my lips together and Armstrong abruptly fell silent. His words fogged my brain. Too much information, too disorganized, was coming too fast. Helen Keene patted my back. I longed to leave this room. Tom Schulz had disappeared. I wondered where Arch was, then remembered he had gone with Julian and my parents.
Miss Bear, said Boyd. Goldy. We really need your attention. Times important here.
Im sorry. Im coming with you. I want to go right now. I did not add this instant, although that was what went through my mind.
Helen Keene helped me to my feet. Armstrong yanked on the office door. As we walked, my eyes caught the high mounds of dirt where Lucille and her committee intended for ashes to be interred. The columbarium was just an ice-filled ditch at this point, like a fresh wound in the earth. The fuss over the memorial project seemed so stupid now.
Boyd flipped a page in his notebook as we crossed the snow-pocked parking lot. Schulz was supposed to get married at noon. Call comes in, 11:14. Dispatch takes it, Schulz says hes got a body, gives us the location of, he squinted at the page, the Reverend Theodore Olson. Out upper Cottonwood Creek, fire number 29648. Dispatch tells him its going to take us thirty minutes to get a team up there. He, Schulz, says Olson was the priest. Olsons been shot and he just bought it er, died. Looks like two gunshot wounds in the chest. Schulz tells Dispatch he has to call you. No wedding. Boyd tapped the notebook. he didnt think there was anybody around, obviously. He didnt mention another vehicle. Olson was dead. Were analyzing the Dispatch tape now, trying to pick up background n
oise
I stopped walking. Do you think Tom chased the killer? Isnt there a trail or something? Please. Tell me. I have to know.
Helen Keene picked up the q quilt which had fallen from my shoulders. Shifting from one foot to the other, Armstrong hovered over us. My questions made him uncomfortable. Finally he said, The trail ends at a vehicle. Two sets of footprints: Schulz and somebody. We just dont know what happened. But finding an officer is our top priority. Always.
I whirled to face Armstrong. My voice was shrill. If youd killed a priest, wouldnt you just leave? Why would someone hurt Tom?
Armstrong made another helpless gesture. Maybe the perp heard Schulz. Or Schulz spotted him. Recognized him. So the perp panics, hides, and then just loses it. Figures hell be caught if he doesnt take Schulz with him. Or maybe Olson wasnt dead when Schulz got there, told him something and the shooter went nuts … or maybe Schulz followed him and … He didnt finish that thought.
For what its worth, Boyd interjected, we figure this is some kind of amateur. Not that youre likely to get a professional hit on a priest, he added uncomfortably.
You said there was some stuff Tom dropped. May I see it? Now?
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