Mitchell Hartley snorted, lifted his wide jaw, and narrowed his bright blue eyes at me. Thats too bad. We dont 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. Lukes?
Guess you two dont 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 celebrants 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 didnt 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 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 persons.
I said in a low voice, No. Sorry.
Montgomerys 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 canons actually Father Olsons 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 dont. I felt dizzy. I thought you came to the later service.
ordinarily I do, not because Im 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 I when 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 hes 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 on finger when I opened my mouth to ask him what was going on. Then he shook his head.
Okay, he said. Bob Preston, go it. How quick can you get a car to me at this church? Great.
Boyd replaced the receiver. My heart was pounding.
Now dont 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 to of his dark crewcut. Its a Nissan four-wheel drive, not a van. The van in the note must have been for vanity plates. The 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. The dont 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 couldnt 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, its 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 clued, build a trail, thats what were supposed to do in that kind of situation. So you
figure, now hes in the Nissan. Hes in the back seat, hes restrained. AT the thought of Tom bound and perhaps gagged, I felt a grown rising but suppressed it. He can move his feet so he takes off his shoes, eases off his socks and wedges the under the front seat, then slips his shoes back on sos the person who took him wont 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 theyre saying they need to come get me.
Lets 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. Were 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. Lukes 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 to know if youd seen …
But thats what I dont know, I protested. I didnt 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, Hes the head of the diocesan Camps and Conferences Committee. Hes the one whos supposed to be in charge of the keys to that Nissan. It was stored across the street
Wait. Of course I knew the car; Id seen it many times parked in the garage next to Hymnal House, when Id 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. Its a huge bunch. Maybe the car keys were on it.
Boyds voice became exasperated. I thought the Altar Guild had those keys, and Preston the car keys.
Well, youll 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.
Why did you leave the service early? she demanded shrilly. Behind her, Mitchell Hartley pushed through the church door and walked swiftly over to Boyd and Lucille. Boyd released himself from Lucilles hold and stowed his notebook in his pocket. Lucilles voice rose, What have you found out?
Boyd began, the police are in charge
Oh, dont mind Lucille, Mitchell interjected, half-joking, half-snide. She doesnt care whos supposed to be in charge of something, because eventually shes going to be running the show. Isnt that right?
Slowly, Lucille Boatwright turned toward Mitchell Hartley. I cold feel the lava rising. Since the service was over, other parishioners were coming outside. Some held lopsided paper plates, each one heavy with a cinnamon roll I had brought. The crowd eyed Boyd, Lucille, Mitchell, and me while pretending to pick at the rolls with tiny plastic forks. Canon Montgomery, last out the church doors, strode importantly toward us.
You may wonder, Mitchell Hartley, Lucille began in a tone so icy I felt sweat prickle my arms, why you have failed to become a priest, but your failure is precisely because of the way you are acting at this moment. Who would want you for their priest? Certainly not me.
Mitchell Hartley leaned over Lucille. His face was bone-white and his vivid eyes shone ominously. Loudly, he said, You wouldnt want Jesus for your priest.
Lucille Boatwrights mouth fell open. In a commanding tone, Canon Montgomery inquired: Mitchell, dont you have some studying to do?
It was then that I noticed Officer Boyd ripping cellophane off a new pack of cigarettes. While Lucille Boatwright, Canon Montgomery, and Mitchell Hartley glared fiercely at one another, Boyd lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Beside him, a newly arrived Bob Preston coughed lightly. In typical Aspen Meadow fashion, tall, roosterlike Bob wore a fringed leather jacket, plaid flannel shirt with Navajo bolo tie, jeans, and hand-stitched custom-made cowboy boots. Wearing a long black coat, Agatha stood mutely beside him.
Mitchell Hartley spat his words at Lucille. Jesus is in charge of this parish, Lucille, not a new pack of cigarettes. While Lucille Boatwright, Canon Montgomery, and Mitchell Hartley glared fiercely at one another, Boyd lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Beside him, a newly arrived Bob Preston coughed lightly. In typical Aspen Meadow fashion, tall, roosterlike Bob wore a fringed leather jacket, plaid flannel shirt with Navajo bolo tie, jeans, and hand-stitched custom-made cowboy boots. Wearing a long black coat, Agatha stood mutely beside him.
Mitchell Hartley spat his words at Lucille. Jesus is in charge of this parish, Lucille, not you. To Canon Montgomery, Mitchell snarled, The Lord is going to get one through these exams, George.
Father Montgomery to you, young man, if you dont mind. Montgomerys skin had an unhealthy flush.
Oops, said Marla from my side, where she had suddenly appeared. Are we having a bit of a confrontation in the Episcopal church parking lot? The Frozen Chosen at war, for all the world to see?
Why dont you go break it up? I said desperately to her. The hostility level among Lucille, Montgomery, and Hartley had risen to nuclear fission level. I need to talk to Boyd.
Are you kidding? she cried in mock horror. Lucilles already asked me to make five hundred cookies for Olsons funeral tomorrow. I said no, so now Im on her shit list.
Marla!
I forgot. Were at church.
A Furman County Sheriffs Department car pulled up to the entrance of the parking lot behind the rows of other cars and sat idling. Boyd took a last drag of his cigarette and dropped it at his feet.
Im going to need to talk to you, he said to Bob Preston, as soon as I finish some other work. Dont leave the church.
Bob Preston, uncomprehending, opened his eyes wide as Boyd walked quickly toward the car. I scrambled after him.
Please, I begged when I caught up to him, tell me more about where they found Tom. Did it look as hed been hurt badly? What are they thinking could have happened?
Boyd kept his eyes on the squad car as he hurried along. They told me there was a small amount of blood in the car, some dents and tearing of the vinyl seats, maybe signs of a struggle. Im going to look at it now. From the looks of things, we figure Schulz is still alive. We just dont know why.
Tell me what you mean, I pleaded.
Boyd threaded through the first row of cars; I followed. He said, Heres someone whos killed a priest. Before the priest died, he gave a dying declaration to a police officer. If the victim identifi
es his killer in a such a declaration, itll hold up in court. Then Schulz is kidnapped by the killer. Why? Why wouldnt the killer just kill Schulz, too? Hes the only living person who can identify him.
I dont have any idea, I said helplessly.
My guess is Schulz knows something, Boyd said as he held in his stomach to squeeze past a parked Volvo. Or has access to something. Something the killer wants. It could be just that notebook of his. It could be the whereabouts of those missing pearls. The ditch where we found the car is near a hidden turnout in Deer Creek Canyon. It looks as if whoever shot Olson planned it well. Except for Schulz showing up, of course. Maybe the killer used the church car because he was afraid hi sown car would be recognized. Because the car belongs to the diocese, we have to assume the person were looking for is someone associated with the church. Okay. Given Schulzs unexpected appearance at Olsons yesterday, and given that the perp didnt want to kill him at the priests place, why not kill Schulz and just dump him in the canyon? Why keep him alive?
Why? I echoed as I brushed past a Mercedes and smeared mud on my suit.
Well, whatever it is, you better pray Schulz knows how to keep the killer at bay. As soon as he gets what he wants, you, me, the department, Schulz were all gonna run out of time.
We arrived at the police car. The engine was racing.
I gotta go, Boyd said as he opened the door. He stopped and saluted me. Be in touch.
This half-promise, half-command hung in the chilly air after the squad car pulled away. Boyd was my one link to Tom Schulz, and I hated to see him go. I wanted the intense, pear-shaped investigator to be completely absorbed searching for Tom rather than being driven to smoke by neurotic parishioners and their idiotic squabbles.
I faced the rows of cars. The last thing I wanted was to go back to the church entrance and face all those people with their probing eyes and nosy questions. I whirled and headed around the back of the church, toward the St. Lukes office. Within moments I was staring at the yellow ribbon the police had strung in front of the vandalized space. I ached to go into Olsons office and look around, but I knew Boyd would have a fit. Plus, it was illegal.
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