The Last Suppers gbcm-4

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “You were, weren’t you?” I said to Mitchell. My voice was very quiet.

  “I was not.”

  “Cut the crap, Mitchell. You know something.”

  “I do indeed,” he said secretively. “Now.” The bell gonged again. “You didn’t turn the search over to the Lord, and now the Lord has revealed something to me.”

  “What? Please. It could be a matter of life or death.”

  He stood and sauntered to the door. “Everything,” he said ponderously, “is a matter of life or death. Tonight’s exams are over, and I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

  The door closed behind him.

  I looked at my watch. 9:30. Despite the darkness of the night, there was a clear view of the conference grounds and driveway from the parlor windows. From where I sat, I could barely hear the voices and traffic from the front side of the conference building. And it was just as well. Mitchell Hartley wasn’t being forthcoming, and I was in no mood to socialize with anyone else. I decided to wait right where I was and watch for Marla’s car to come down the driveway. I would be grateful to get home, to get away from the swirling antagonisms and petty jealousies of this group.

  I thought about Tom Schulz. Was he cold? Was he in pain? Had he given his kidnapper the desired information?

  Then I remembered Father Olson’s gentle compliment in our penultimate counseling session: “It’s rare that I work with a couple so much in love.” And yet tomorrow we were going to bury Father Olson, and no one knew if Tom Schulz was alive or dead. I let my head rest on the vibrant pink cushion. I was so tired.

  I was not aware I’d fallen asleep until something jolted me awake. I felt as if I had climbed out of an avalanche, that I had heard a howl for help either in my sleep, or within the avalanche, or somewhere out on the road. I rubbed my eyes and looked out the window: Marla’s Jag was there, its tailpipe sending clouds of steam up into the night sky. I lifted my cramped body off the couch and painfully made my way down the outside steps, which had dim lights every five feet. Shouts had awakened me. They came from the other side of Hymnal House, maybe from the deck, it was hard to tell. On the other hand, perhaps it was bikers partying down on Cottonwood Creek again.

  Marla had the windows closed and the engine running; the Jag purred like a small airplane.

  “Did you hear something?” I demanded when I opened the passenger side door and stuck my head inside.

  “Nothing juicy, at least not in the last two hours.”

  I slid into the passenger seat, closed the door, and sighed. “Never mind.”

  She put the car into reverse and sent gravel spewing on her way out the driveway. Marla could never learn to drive cautiously.

  “Did the police call?” I could hear the plea in my voice.

  “Boyd did. I asked him, ‘Boyd, do you have a first name?’ He said, ‘You can just call me Boyd.’ Where’d they get that guy, Dragnet?”

  “Marla.”

  “Okay, Bob Preston hasn’t been at the Habitat house since Saturday, and he doesn’t have a clue about those keys. How about you? How’d the exams go?”

  We shot down the road that would lead us to Main Street and the front of the cliff by Hymnal House and Brio Barn.

  “I agree with Ted Olson,” I said, “in thinking Mitchell Hartley should fail. Montgomery said he’d probably pass this time, though – “

  Without warning, when we were just below the conference center deck, the car screeched to a stop. Despite my seat belt, I went catapulting forward. When I had struggled upright, Marla cried, “Oh, God. Oh, Lord.”

  “What?” I said, but she didn’t reply. I followed her gaze out the front of the car, along the line of blazing light cast by the headlight beams.

  Mitchell Hartley wasn’t going to fail his candidate’s exam, and Mitchell Hartley wasn’t going to pass. Mitchell Hartley was lying in the middle of Main Street.

  He was dead.

  20

  Marla ran to pay phone. Someone from a nearby gas station set out flares on the road. Within minutes, Boyd and his team had arrived. I sat in the Jaguar in a state of shock. I couldn’t look out at the activity, although I occasionally glanced up at the conference center, perched as it was on that cliff overlooking both the road and the church. Then I gazed briefly at St. Luke’s, on the other side of Main Street. I couldn’t look at the sprawled corpse of Mitchell Hartley. Marla came back to the car. We sat silently in the front seat. After more police and the EMT had arrived, Boyd approached us. I slid down the window. “Is he – ?” I choked. Boyd didn’t need to reply. His expression said it all.

  “You don’t think he’s the one who killed Olson, do you? Do you think he knew where Tom Schulz is?” I demanded. My voice sounded shrill, and I was shivering uncontrollably. “Tell me. Do you think Hartley fell, committed suicide, what? Was he hit by a car?”

  Boyd regarded me. Dark disks of shadow underneath his eyes showed his exhaustion. The past two days had been hard on him, too. “It doesn’t look as if Hartley was hit by a car. I don’t know about the rest. Need you to come and see something though.” I got out of the car and followed him to where a cluster of people surrounded the body. I recognized Officer Calloway and other Furman County investigators. “Weren’t you looking for this?” said Boyd. He pointed to a broken pearl choker lying near the center line of the road. In the circus-hued flashes from the police lights, it looked a child’s bauble. But when I leaned close I could see the handwritten price tag: $2000.

  “What in the … ?”

  “It must have been in his pocket, or maybe he was holding it. Where do you suppose he got it?”

  I repeated my theory that Olson had been keeping the chokers out at his house. There should be others, I added. Mitchell Hartley was poor, and he hated that, but he had never impressed me as a thief. Of course, I had not known him very well. Not very well at all.

  “Okay,” Boyd said. He didn’t sound satisfied. “I told somebody to call your house. Julian Teller’s waiting up for you, but he’s not waking your son. Better not to upset him. You should get back into Marla’s car. Are you cold?”

  I was still shaking, but not from the weather. Mitchell Hartley had been in the upstairs parlor with Doug Ramsey and me less than an hour ago. The Lord has revealed something to me. What that was, of course, I had no idea. Briefly, I told Boyd about my last conversation with Hartley. Boyd said nothing.

  Marla restarted the engine.

  “Just a sec, Goldy, are you listening to me?” Boyd’s face neared the open car window. I fastened my seat belt and tried to assume an attentive expression. “Don’t go anywhere, okay? Don’t try to figure this out. Somewhere along the line, whoever is doing this is going to make a mistake.”

  “So you don’t think he fell from the conference deck.”

  Boyd pushed away from the car. He slipped a match into the side of his mouth. “I’ll call you,” he said laconically, and turned back to the group around Mitchell Hartley’s body.

  When we arrived home it was almost eleven. At my insistence, Marla left me off without coming inside and went home. All my supplies, cheesecake leftovers, platters, and bowls from the committee’s supper were still in the Hymnal House kitchen, so there was not even anything to put away. Julian fixed me a cup of hot chocolate.

  “I froze the wedding cake,” he announced, apropos of nothing. “I just couldn’t take it down to the church along with the other stuff.”

  I nodded and ran my hand over the gleaming enamel surface of Tom’s stove. Tell me what to do, I mentally begged him. But there was no response. Whenever I was in a muddle, I cooked. But what did Tom Schulz do when he was faced with chaos, trying to sort things out? And then I remembered.

  He took notes.

  I poured out the hot chocolate and filled the espresso machine with water. Scout the cat made one of his noiseless appearances by the pantry, purring and arching his back. I fed him. Then maneuvered the griddle attachment into Tom’s convection oven, pulled out some fat russet potatoes, and got out a pen and the spiral notebook from my apron pocket.

  Julian ran the fingers of
one hand through his short blond strip of hair. “What in the hell are you doing? It’s bedtime.”

  “I’m hungry,” I answered him. “There’s been too much going on, and I didn’t have a bite of that fish. Plus I want some coffee.”

  “I see. So at eleven o’clock at night, you’re going to drink some espresso, cook some potatoes, and then write about it.”

  “Julian, chill. I mean. I appreciate your staying up to make sure I got in okay. After all, there’ve been many meetings going on today – “

  “Yeah, the tobacco church. Hazardous to your heath.”

  “I just can’t think about what happened tonight.” I vigorously peeled potatoes. “Or at least I can’t get any perspective on it.”

  “Now I get it. You’re going to make Duchess Potatoes, and then serve them at the next church meeting.”

  “Julian, go to bed.”

  I grated the potatoes into a dishtowel and then wrung out their liquid over the sink. The chunk of butter I’d popped onto Tom’s griddle began to melt into a golden pool; I swished it through a puddle of olive oil. Working carefully – a challenge with Scout rubbing insistently against my legs – I formed the grated potatoes into four pancakes on the griddle. There was no way I’d be taking these to any church meeting, but maybe I could make my contribution to Anglican cuisine.

  “What do you think, Scout? Bishop’s Potato Pancakes?”

  Scout stayed still. Guess that meant no. Once again, my sanity seemed to be fraying, but I didn’t care.

  “Well, how about, The First WASP Latkes?”

  The First WASP Latkes

  4 large of 8 small russet potatoes (approximately 2 pounds), peeled

  2 tablespoons unsalted butter

  2 tablespoons olive oil

  salt and pepper to taste

  Grate the potatoes onto a large clean kitchen towel that can be stained. Roll the potatoes up in the towel and wring to remove moisture. (It is best to do this over the sink, since it will produce a surprising amount of liquid.)

  Melt the butter with the olive oil on a large griddle. Form the grated potatoes into 4 pancakes. Cook the pancakes over medium heat for about 10 minutes, until the bottom is golden brown, then flip the pancakes. Cook on the other side for about 5 minutes. Season with salt and pepper and serve plain or with sour cream and applesauce.

  Makes 4 servings

  Scout did one of his elaborate body rolls on the kitchen floor, ending with his stomach facing the ceiling and his paws curled. Clearly, this was a yes.

  While the WASP Latkes sizzled, I picked up the pen and began to write. 1. The Reverend Theodore Olson. Smart, attractive, charismatic, “the magician.” Went through ordination process fast. Protégé of Montgomery. Fired the organist, to whom he preached reconciliation. Loved folk music and charismatic liturgies. Unloved by Pinckney crowd. Involved with miraculous healing of Roger Bampton? Involved with Agatha Preston? Dead. 2. Mitchell Hartley. Not smart, not attractive, not rich. Theologically conservative; charismatic. Worked at diocesan center. Going through ordination process slowly; flunked by Olson and Board of Theological Examiners once. Nobody’s protégé. Knew something about exam paper at Olson’s. Had pearls. Not at wedding. Dead. 3. Zelda Preston. Unreconciled about son’s death from leukemia. Fired by Olson over music disagreement. Member of Altar Guild responsible for missing/found Hymnal House keys. Best friend Lucille thinks she might have killed Olson. Looking for letter from bishop about guitar music (Could Tom S. know where it is?). Not at wedding. 4. Bob Preston. Money problems, might have wanted pearls. Jealousy problems, might want letters from Agatha to Olson (Tom would know where?). Mother Zelda expects too much of him? Ego wrapped up in volunteer work; Olson causing problems with Habitat house? Vehicle keys found at Habitat house. Rifle-toting member of Sportsmen Against Hunger. Not at wedding. 5. George Montgomery. Thinks his protégé ran amok? Bad temper, bad preacher, bad poet. Jealous of Olson because of parish giving? Because of miracles? Is he the one Agatha referred to when she said, ‘Someone demanding to see the blood tests?’ At wedding, according to Father Doug Ramsey. 6. Agatha Preston. Loathes her motherin-law, loathes her husband, loathes her life. Obsesses about hell but was deeply in love with Olson. Digging in columbarium area. At wedding.

  I got up and flipped the latkes. The cooked sides were golden brown and crusty, and the delectable smell of potatoes crackling in melted butter made my mouth water.

  I frowned at my notepad. What I had not written down was that Father Olson’s office and house had been trashed and his death site vandalized. Not on my list were Lucille Boatwright, whom Arch had literally stumbled upon while she was surreptitiously snooping through church files, and Doug Ramsey, who, like Lucille, had wasted no love on Ted Olson. Father Doug Ramsey, also known as Father Hyperbole, Father Insensitive, Father Overtalkative. But I had seen him at the wedding as I had Lucille. You couldn’t be kidnapping To Schulz if you were waiting for him to show up at the church.

  And then there was Tom. I had felt his presence so clearly the night I had gone to Olson’s. Now he felt absent to me, as if a phone were ringing, but no one was home.

  You may feel God’s presence or you may sense God’s absence, Olson had said in a sermon once, but God is still there, like the man who buys Halloween candy every year, yet no trick-or-treaters come.

  I gently removed the pancakes from the griddle and put them on a plate. I searched for applesauce and sour cream Finding neither, I merely salted and peppered the potatoes and had a bite. They were hot, crunchy, and divine. God is still there. I lifted the phone from its cradle and dialed Tom Schulz’s voice mail. His deep, rich voice filled my heart with hope.

  Call me, Olson’s voice said in my ear. I gasped. My mind had been working on the puzzle of Tom’s note for two and a half days, and suddenly I’d figured it out. Or perhaps I’d gotten some kind of message from Olson on The Other Side. Better not ponder that one. With a shaking hand, I dialed the church’s number.

  “This is St. Luke’s Episcopal Church,” Ted Olson’s voice happily announced, “on Main Street in Aspen Meadow next to Lower Cottonwood Creek. Services are … “ And he went on to announce the two Sunday morning eucharist times. I tapped my foot. He continued, “If you would like to leave a general message, press one. If you have a confidential message for Father Ted Olson, please press two.”

  I stood in my kitchen, transfixed, Churchgoers, especially those going through a hard time, desperately desired confidentiality. I had found out the hard way just how elusive please don’t tell anyone was. From as long ago as my divorce to as recently as the news about Tom Schulz, I had seen details of my personal life spread in the church like fire through a grove of dry aspens.

  And it was in the note from Schulz that Olson had give a key to who his attacker had been. VM wasn’t Victor Mancuso. And it wasn’t Vestry Member. VM, I was willing to bet, was Voice Mail. But what was P.R.A.Y? I stared at my phone, trying to remember Tom Schulz retrieving messages from his own voice mail. He waited for the message, and then pressed in a code … .

  Four digits. Could P.R.A.Y be a four-digit access code Olson had chosen? Unfortunately, I did not know how to use the code for the church’s voice-mail system. Think, commanded Tom Schulz’s voice inside my head.

  “I am,” I said out loud. I had already gone through Olson’s files on the Board of Theological Examiners and the diocese twice. There had been no voice-mail instructions. And what if Olson had simply discarded his messages after he’d listened to them?

  Are you kidding? Schulz’s voice again. That guy didn’t throw away anything.

  I looked at my kitchen clock. Almost midnight. I called the Sheriff’s Department and left a message for Boyd: Please call me A.S.A.P. He was probably getting tired of the messages.

  I put the phone down. There was no way I could go to bed now. Besides, Tom Schulz, if he was still alive, probably wasn’t asleep. I needed to concentrate. I covered the potato pancakes and put them in the walk-in, then scanned my kitchen.

  By my own phone I had a list of numbers: Tom Schulz, Julian
’s and Arch’s school, Marla, Alicia’s supply company, Arch’s friend Todd, the library. What had Olson had by his phone? The bulletin board in his office had all kinds of phone numbers on it; I remembered that from my time in there before the wedding was cancelled, and afterward, when I’d thrown the hymnal and notes had popped off the bulletin board.

  And the answering machine at Olson’s house had been destroyed. Could that have been the motivation for the mayhem out there: to destroy evidence, rather than steal anything? But why hit me and take the solitary exam paper from my hand? And what did B. – Read – Judas mean? I did not know. But I had no doubt that the phone messaging was key, and that was where I had to concentrate. Perhaps whoever had done the vandalism out at Olson’s had not realized just how voice mail was stored. Maybe someone from a generation that did not like or understand developments in communications technology.

  I looked out my kitchen window: A powdery, soft snow had begun to fall. I wanted to rush to the trashed church office, study the remains of Olson’s bulletin board, and come up with an accessing phone number that would provide the answers to so many questions. As if in protest, my back contracted with pain – not enough for a pill. I told myself. I needed to stay sharp. On the other hand, I dared not go back to the church alone. Boyd would never forgive me. I hugged myself, angry with my own indecision.

  Snow tends to muffle noise. That was why I waited to hear the faint stomping noise again. When it came, the fur on the back of Scout’s neck ruffled. Someone was on my front porch.

  I moved stealthily through the dining room and into the darkened living room. I heard more shuffling and stepping, even a small grunt. By the light from a street lamp, I could see yet another afghan hanging from my porch-swing hooks. The figure that hopped off the swing was Agatha Preston.

  “Don’t leave!” I shouted as I flung open my front door.

  “Agh!” Agatha screamed as she reeled backward. “This was supposed to be a surprise! I’ve been so worried … and I just wanted you to have something … !”