What?
Turn off the polka! he bellowed. Several bikers turned unshaven faces in Bobs 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 dont mind listening to Montgomery. I swear, that man is boring. And after what our congregation has been through, youd 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 husbands arrival. Instead of being spaced-out, she was now demure. She smiled vapidly.
I asked, What do you thinks 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, lets 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 whod drilled a dry hole. I dont know if you can assume Gods presence, Goldy. Thats what they did during Pinckneys time, and the place was as dead as smashed and bloodied roadkill, Im 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 Bobs order. She looked at me quizzically, then hesitated, I thought, because of the lack of light and the unwillingness to risk Bobs rude tongue again. Then she said, Youre 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. Didnt 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 didnt 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, thats their job, isnt 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. Havent 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 Prestons 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. Lets 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.
Ill 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, hes looking at you.
She glanced nervously in her husbands 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 didnt know where it went. I thought Bob was hiding it somewhere, getting ready to file for divorce. After the first few months, I just couldnt 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 Im 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 itll help me, I said desperately, in case the man Im supposed to marry is still alive. Cant you just tell me what was going on, and if your husband was jealous?
Ted loved me, she protested. Im 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! Im 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 Ive been squirreling away cash for the last five years? Please dont tell my husband?
Where is the money?
Im not going to tell you. Its no ones business but mine. Fury bubbled through her voice.
You were at Olsons house when your motherin-law, Zelda, came out that day about the music, werent you?
She choked and smoothed the skirt of her apricot suit. Help me, she pleaded. Help me find my letters, and Ill tell you.
Her plight touched me. Ill 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 hed put on yesterday after my wedding-that-wasnt. He pushed his g
lasses up his nose and looked behind me in the direction of the front door. No Tom Schulz. Whats 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 theyd found him. His young face was tight with anxiety. I thought for sure theyd 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 Olsons house.
But they didnt
No. Not yet. Wheres Julian? Did you eat breakfast?
Hes at the grocery store. He says someone actually did send over tuna noodle casserole, so hes out buying ingredients for a Mexican pizza hes going to make tonight. And yes, I had one of the cinnamon rolls you left.
Great. Listen hon, Im 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 Todds 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.
Im going to check on the broken window, I lied.
You hate broken glass. You wont let me touch it.
Im just going because Im going, thats why!
He squinched up his face into an accusatory expression and pointed a finger at me. It has something to do with the church, doesnt it? And Father Olson. Youre going to that old conference place because … He stopped talking to appraise me. Because you think somebodys hiding Schulz over there. Thats it, isnt it? Youre going to try to find him all by yourself. Im going with you.
The heck you are, buster.
If you dont take me with you, Ill ride over there on my bike. Then maybe the killer can get you and me together.
Oh, for heavens sake, then, let me call the police.
I put in a call to Boyd and identified myself to the person who answered. I asked that the Sheriffs Department send a car over to the Aspen Meadow Conference Center, that I had a good idea Tom Schulz might be there.
They were already there, the policeman said. But if you have another idea about Schulz, theyll go back. Twenty-five minutes, tops, he said and then hung up.
Okay, Arch, the police are on their way.
He gave me a baleful look. I miss Tom, too, you know.
All right, all right, well go over and meet the police there. But I have to go find some tools and my Mace, just in case … I didnt finish the thought. Get your coat, hon. Its cold.
He raced up the stairs and announced sonorously over his shoulder, Mom were going to need at least two flashlights.
13
Within minutes my van was whining up Meadow Drive toward Hymnal House. The air was unusually chilly for an early Colorado afternoon in April, and a bleak sky threatened snow. No law-enforcement types had arrived by the time the van crunched over the gravel of the long conference driveway. Silently I castigated myself for agreeing to bring Arch into a potentially dangerous situation. I wavered about going back. I saw a jogger in my rearview mirror, backed up, and rolled down my window. Yes, the police had been here, he informed me, panting. It was a while ago, maybe half an hour. I would not go into any of the building until they got back, I vowed. I would not put Arch in danger.
I pulled the van up to the split-rail fence by Brio Barn. We jumped out onto ice-slickened grass at the edge of the cliff overlooking Main Street, Cottonwood Creek, and St. Lukes. Across the creek, the church lot held two cars. But it was empty of people. No signs of activity animated the conference center, either. The two ninety-year-old conference buildings were distinguished by dark cedar shake shingle siding. Stone entryways, red roofs, and an air of benign neglect. Red paint curled off the window frames and dead pine needles lay in a haphazard pattern across the window-sills. The place looked like a Victorian summer camp shuttered for the off-season.
Up the hill from us, next to Hymnal House, stood the old garage. It was a one-story edifice originally built to accommodate three horse-drawn carriages. Now its doors yawned widely. Arch and I walked up slowly. The notion of To being hidden somewhere in the center was an idea I found alternately brilliant and inane. I glanced around the empty conference garage with its ancient hedge clippers and rusted engines, its workbench cluttered with tools and leaning towers of snow tires. Had Tom been in here? The dusty surfaces revealed no signs of human presence.
When do you think the Sheriffs Department will get here? Arch asked impatiently when we returned to the van and I slid open its side door.
Any minute, I assured him with more confidence than I felt.
Forgot to tell you, Arch said as he snapped the buttons on the flashlights to test the batteries. A guy named Canon Montgomery called. Wanted to apologize for his little outburst, he said. Wants to get together with you before the exams. What outburst? What exams?
So Canon Montgomery had called. If he truly was feeling contrite, maybe I could play off his guilt to get him to discuss the women waiting for Ted Olson outside the Society of Chad meeting. You know, I replied, the exams for the candidates for the priesthood. They start Tuesday night …
But Arch wasnt listening. Whats all this? he asked. He shone his flashlights in the corner of the van that held the two thick files and books I had pilfered from Olsons office.
Oh, thats just Startled by the approaching whine of a car engine, I stopped talking. For a moment, we were transfixed by the sight of the small foreign automobile barreling down the conference drive.
Mom, said Arch, that looks an awful lot like
Dont tell me. Quickly, hustle up to Hymnal House. We need to hide.
I slammed the vans sliding door. And then we ran. But the steps were snowy, and Arch was unsure of which way to go. We were not fast enough to elude Frances Markasian. The Mountain Journals investigative reporter lunged out of her Fiat, hoisted up her voluminous bag, and bounded up the stone steps to Hymnal House in hot pursuit. Gasping for breath, she caught up with us on the old stone patio by the double-door entrance. We stood panting just feet from the window that hung, snaggle-toothed and cardboard-covered on the inside, after Julians breakage and Mitchells repair.
Holding my side, I noted that the shoes enabling Frances to sprint up the steps were sneakers held together with duct tape. Above these hung her oversized black trench coat that was either a journalistic affectation or the only piece of outerwear available at the same garage sale where shed unearthed the sneakers. The recession had obviously left its mark on Aspen Meadow. She dropped the big handbag on the flagstones and sent her dark stringy hair shaking wildly as she pounded her chest and coughed hard.
Gee, Goldy, wherere you going so fast? Youre going to give me a heart attack. As if to remedy this situation, Frances leaned against a pile of metal deck chairs and on the stone patio, leaned down to retrieve the bag, and groped inside. After a moments search, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes and book of matches. She shook out a smoke and looked us over. Whatcha doin with the flashlights? Looking for something?
Were going in to find some pans of mine, I said laconically. I know by order of the Aspen Meadow Fire Department that theres no smoking within ten feet of any of the conference buildings.
Thats too bad, said Frances. She li
t the cigarette and inhaled greedily. With the other hand holding the cigarette, she pulled a curtain of her hair off her face so she cold see what she was doing. With the other hand, she brushed snow off one of the deck chairs, a rusted green contraption that looked as if it had been salvaged from the Titanic. Blowing the smoke out in a thin stream, she dragged the chair over to the short stone wall that edged the deck. Fifty feet below, cars passed along Main Street. Without giving the view even a cursory glance, she plopped on the wet chair and put her feet up on the wall. If I dont sit close to the building for a smoke, then I wont be able to tell you what Ive learned about your parish.
Arch raised one thin straw-brown eyebrow above the frame of his glasses. I cursed inwardly. But the flesh is weak. I brushed snow and ice off two more chairs.
Is this something Arch can hear? I demanded as I scraped our chairs across the flagstones to the wall.
You dont need to protect me, Mom, my son said grittily. I am a week away from being thirteen, in case you forgot.
Frances waved this off and carefully balanced her cigarette on the edge of the stone wall before again reaching down into her bag. She brought out a Jolt cola, shook it lightly, then popped the top and sucked fizz.
Arch watched in open-mouthed awe. He said, That is so Cool!
Frances retrieved the smoke and smiled beatifically. What, the drink or the cigarette?
The pop! Im not allowed to have that stuff. Triple the caffeine of regular cola? Are you kidding? Man! You must be cruisin!
Uh, excuse me? I interjected mildly. What happened to your Diet Pepsi and Vivarin?
Thats only for morning. She set the can on the stone wall and sucked on the cigarette as if it were an oxygen machine. This is for afternoon. Listen. Bob Preston is b-r-o-k-e.
No kidding? I looked off the deck at the tops of pine trees that grew along the steep slope. An evenly spaced line of antique cars passed sedately on the road below. The Model-T Club of Denver often brought their point-to-point rallies through our little burg. It was better than the motorcycles. Beyond the chugging cars, the A-shaped roof of St. Lukes resembled an enormous tent top.
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