Okay, but what? This was so frustrating. I took a breath. “Do you think you could call President Frost again to ask about this? I’m concerned about what’s going on in that ward, and I think someone needs to look into it.” Someone who wasn’t a woman with no official standing in the church.
“Linda, you’re poking your nose into other people’s business again. Leave it be. You and Gwen should both walk away from this. The police are investigating. Let them do their job.” Kurt licked a finger he’d run around the edge of the plate. He must have liked the casserole. Too bad I hadn’t made it myself, though I doubted the credit would’ve helped me persuade him.
“I want to trust that everything is right here, Kurt, but there are too many signs otherwise,” I said, trying to make my voice sound meek and pleading.
“Linda, you’re always assuming the worst of people, especially men in the church. Not every church leader is selfish, scheming, and abusive.” He looked me straight in the eye, and I knew I hadn’t been able to manipulate him into softening.
“I know,” I said. “But you and I have both met a few bad apples who’re enough to make the barrel stink.”
“That doesn’t make us all bad, though,” he said defensively. “And you and Gwen sometimes sound like those Ordain Women agitators who just want to stir the pot. They think women want even more responsibilities in the church than they already have? More work heaped on them, when all the women I talk to complain that their husbands aren’t doing enough to help at home?”
I sighed. This wasn’t an argument I was willing to have right now. Someday perhaps, I would want to talk to Kurt about why women complaining about their husbands not being home was part of the point here, that the whole structure of men being in charge left women holding the short end of the stick and even missed the reality that sometimes men were better at home and women would be happy to swap wrangling kids for leadership positions. But now wasn’t the time.
“Gwen and I just want to know what was going on with Bishop Hope and that accusation of embezzlement. Even if it has nothing to do with the murder, the Spanish ward needs to be properly managed, and I don’t know if Hope is doing that,” I said as calmly as I could manage, but I knew that Kurt wouldn’t think it was my place to demand anything. It wasn’t my ward, and even Gwen, who had been called to it, should be using the “proper priesthood channels” to deal with any of her concerns.
“Linda, what you should be concerned about right now is the effect this surreptitious investigation is having on Brad’s marriage. He’s doing his best to love his wife and show patience with her. But that’s difficult if she’s intent on humiliating him in front of everyone in the ward.”
“Humiliating him? How?” What was Kurt talking about? Nothing Gwen had done had had that effect on Brad. No one in our ward knew anything about what we’d done at Gabriela’s apartment, and I certainly wasn’t going to tell them.
“It’s clear to everyone that she’s completely out of line,” Kurt said.
Out of line—meaning that Brad was supposed to be in control of her, like she was a misbehaving child or a pet? “And have I been humiliating you the last two years you’ve been bishop?” I asked sharply. I had no interest in Kurt seeing me as a piece of property, not in this day and age.
Kurt didn’t say anything, which was probably wise. He knew when I was angry enough to spit fire.
I stomped off and started the water running in the bathtub upstairs. It was very, very hot, just the way I liked it. I soaked for a good long while with the door locked and thought about all the chores I needed to get to. But those weren’t for Sunday. Sunday was a day of rest, so I was resting, damn it!
By the time I got out of the tub, I’d planned to go straight to bed, but Kurt had still not gone to sleep. He had a contrite look on his face as he put up his hands. “I’m sorry, Linda. It wasn’t fair for me to dismiss what you said about Gabriela’s bank statements. I’ve thought about it, trying to figure out any good reason for monthly payments from the ward like that, and I just can’t come up with anything.”
Well, I wasn’t above enjoying an “I told you so” moment.
“Thank you. Now what?” I said, hoping he would confer with me on next steps.
Instead, he said, “I’m going to look further into the whole thing,” he said. “Tomorrow, while I’m at work. I can put out feelers to some of my corporate contacts and see if I can find anything out about Celestial Security. I’m also going to call President Frost again.”
My knot of resentment dissolved. “Thank you,” I said. This was the Kurt I knew and loved. It was nice when this Kurt came home from church, rather than the other Kurt my husband sometimes had to become to survive being a bishop.
Chapter 15
Monday evening, I got a call from a number I didn’t recognize. When I answered, I heard Samuel’s voice.
“Hi, Mom,” he said.
“Samuel!” I waved at Kurt, who’d just gotten home from work and still had his coat on. I was so relieved to hear from him! But I felt an immediate sense of dread settle over me. Why was he calling out of the blue like this? Mormon missionaries had to follow strict rules about calling home. This wasn’t just to chat. Something had to be wrong.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Mom, I’m fine. Prez told me that was the first thing I had to tell you—President Cooper, that is. He said to say I was fine and you’re not supposed to worry about me. They’re taking good care of me, him and his wife.”
I let out a long breath. “Okay, good,” I said, suppressing my initial panic that there might be a medical emergency.
“He said you were upset about the transfers I’ve been going through, and that you needed to hear my voice to know that my mission was going all right,” said Samuel.
He sounded happy. He sounded—well, exactly like the son I loved so much and had sent off with trepidation to the MTC almost a year ago. He didn’t sound discouraged or hurt, or like he’d been beaten down by the rejection of his companions. He was as upbeat and warm and loving as always.
But I wondered if there was something beneath it. I knew missionaries were encouraged to send home emails about the good things that happened during their trips, not about anything negative. This phone call might be more of the same.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“At the mission office.”
Was President Cooper standing right next to him? Listening in, making sure he was saying all the right things?
“Are they transferring you again?” I asked. There were other reasons he might be at the mission office—sometimes missionaries worked as support staff for the president. It was often seen as a promotion of sorts to be designated an “AP,” an assistant to the president. But I knew from my other sons’ mission experiences that it could also be a way to keep an eye on difficult cases.
Samuel said, “No, Mom. President Cooper just asked me to check in with you after tracting today.”
I checked my watch. We were two hours behind Boston, which meant it was after 10 p.m. his time—that seemed pretty late. Was everything really fine?
“Sister Cooper fed me and my companion dinner with all the office APs. She made homemade rolls and lasagna and green beans; it was awesome.”
I pictured Sister Cooper standing there as well, eavesdropping.
“Not as good as your food, obviously,” said Samuel.
I could practically hear him grin at this.
“Especially not your rolls.”
I relaxed when he said this, knowing that Samuel was too well behaved to have said such a thing if the woman herself was listening in, even if it was true. “Well, I’ve spent my whole life perfecting them,” I said. I was proud of my homemade rolls. I brought them to every church event we went to, and people always gushed over them. I hated cheap, stale, store-bought rolls—they were just plain nast
y, a waste of gluten.
“So mission food is good, then?”
“When we eat at the mission office, it is,” said Samuel.
I tried to remember what we’d talked about when he’d called on Mother’s Day back in May. His companion had been around, and the call had been from a member’s home, so we hadn’t discussed anything personal. Was there more privacy here for an honest conversation?
“So what happened with the transfers?” I asked. I wanted to hear Samuel’s side of the story I’d already heard from the mission president.
“Mom, it’s no big deal. One of the transfers was an emergency because two companions got into a really bad fistfight. They had to be assigned new companions immediately, and the prez trusted me to help with that. I was actually really honored that he chose me.”
All right, that explanation I could believe. Mission companions were largely luck of the draw. The mission president was supposed to be inspired to put certain people together, but it didn’t always work out that way when there were a hundred missionaries who had to be assigned in partnerships. They spent twenty-four-seven with the other person, sometimes for months on end, trying to work out their differences while knocking on doors and spreading the gospel. I’d often heard it could be trying.
I’d never gone on a mission, though. Back when I was the right age, girls were encouraged to get married at a young age. So I was—both married and divorced before age twenty-one. But I’d heard plenty from my older sons about their missions, and how impossible some companions were. Just as often, though, their companions were wonderful and ended up being lifetime friends.
“And the other two transfers?” I asked.
Kurt had come closer to sit by me and made a face as I asked this. I ignored him—had he thought I’d skirt around the truth with my own son, whom I was so worried about?
After a few moments of hesitation, Samuel said, “Well, the one after that was tricky because he eventually admitted he was gay, too, and he’d been suicidal for years, trying to keep it hidden.”
I felt a pang in my chest at this. I’d clearly nosed my way into something painful. I suspected Samuel had asked President Cooper’s permission to tell me about this. People thought that a mission was a great chance to get out of Utah and to see more of the world’s culture, but it often didn’t turn out that way. Mission culture and the insistence on staying with your companion at all times meant it was often the most regressive part of Mormonism.
“He tried to work it out with a mission psychiatrist, but after a week, he asked to be sent home.”
How awful. I couldn’t stop myself from worrying that if he’d felt he’d had to hide himself for so long at home, this wasn’t a real solution for him long-term. But then again, Samuel hadn’t said the boy had come out to his family yet, either. Maybe it wasn’t safe for him—which meant it would be awfully tricky to contact him or get him any help, as I wished I could do. I sent a prayer heavenward and decided I’d ask Samuel later if he had any updates or knew of ways I could help.
“And the last one was just a jerk, Mom,” Samuel said without me prompting him. “He told me the first time we met, months ago at a zone conference, that he would never be my companion because I’d be kicked out of the mission by then as unworthy. When we got put together, I assumed that the mission president had talked to him and that things would be okay, but apparently not. He refused to sleep in the same apartment as me, to speak to me, to eat at the same table as me.”
My breath caught at this. I’d assumed such open prejudice was a thing of the past.
“Anyway, I finally called the prez after a few days. My companion was walking three miles every night to sleep at a member’s house and went out tracting on his own in parts of downtown Boston, which was dangerous. I wasn’t trying to get him in trouble.”
Of course not. “Samuel, no one thinks this is your fault.”
He let out a long breath. “Well, some of the other missionaries probably do. But there’s nothing I can do about that. I tried my best with him, and the mission president decided to transfer me anyway.”
I was shaking with anger at this point, and Kurt had come even closer to put a hand to my back. He patted me gently, rhythmically. I was sure he could feel the angry, anxious heat pouring from me. But I was trying to prevent Samuel from realizing how angry I was.
“Anyway, I’m with two other missionaries now and they’re both great. They don’t have any problems with me being who I am. And it’s really fun being in a trio.” He sounded enthusiastic, and I hoped it was real.
“Good,” I said.
He went on, “I just wanted to make sure you know that I’m fine. Better than fine—I’m great. I’m doing the Lord’s work and feeling His blessings every day. I don’t want you to worry about me, Mom.”
I wanted to reach out and hug him, to tell him how much I missed him. Samuel had always been the kid who made people feel better, who put others before himself. It was why I missed him so much, and why I knew he was a good missionary.
Unfortunately, being so open and vulnerable would also cause him pain. Pain I couldn’t take on myself, even if as a mother, I felt it was my job. It was time to let go of the strings. Samuel had to stand on his own now.
“Thank you for calling,” I said. “I’m so proud of you.” I was struggling not to cry at this point, knowing he was about to hang up. I knew I should be happy he’d called at all, because this was outside of the usual rules.
“I love you, Mom. I miss you and Dad, but I’m doing good work. I’m sure this is where I’m supposed to be,” said Samuel.
“I love you, son,” Kurt said, coming in close to me so that Samuel could hear.
I realized then I should have put Samuel on speakerphone for the call, but I hadn’t thought of it, and to be honest, even now that I had, I was glad I’d kept it private. I was selfish enough to want to keep the conversation just between me and Samuel.
“Love you, too, sweetheart. Goodbye,” I said, and held the warm phone to my ear for another minute after he had hung up.
Then I looked up at Kurt. “Did you call President Cooper to ask for this?” I asked.
Kurt reddened slightly. “Maybe.”
I kissed Kurt on the cheek. “Thank you,” I said.
I cried after that, but it was all right, since Samuel couldn’t hear it.
Chapter 16
I got a phone call from Gwen at around 9 a.m. Kurt was already gone, so I didn’t have to deal with his questions or unsolicited advice.
“What is it, Gwen?”
“Linda, I’m calling to ask if you’d be willing to come with me to the police station,” she said soberly.
“Really?” I was surprised but heartened by the request.
“Yes. I realized they need Gabriela’s phone. Giving it to them is the right thing to do, and I shouldn’t have put it off for so long.”
I felt an enormous wave of relief. I wondered if she had had an epiphany about this on Sunday at the Spanish ward, or if she’d talked to Brad about it.
“I was thinking that we could go talk to that detective you said you knew and trusted. The one from the crime scene?” Gwen said, her voice getting softer.
“Of course,” I said. “Her name is Detective Gore. And this is a good idea, Gwen. You won’t regret it.”
I didn’t want to delay this in case she changed her mind, so I offered to drive and went over immediately to pick her up, and off we went.
I drove to the police station and walked Gwen in. At reception, I asked to speak with Detective Gore. For a moment, I was worried she wouldn’t be in. Should I have called in advance? This was during regular business hours, right? But she could easily be out interviewing witnesses or doing other legwork on this case or another one.
But after a moment, the woman at reception told us that Gore would come “as soon as she could�
� and showed us to an interrogation room with only a table and a few folding chairs. “You can wait here,” she said, closing the door behind her.
We could have sat in the regular waiting area, but all right. I wondered if the dark glass opposite us had someone on the other side, but why would anyone be watching us?
“Gwen, I can do the talking if you want,” I said while we waited.
“I think that’s a good idea,” she said, looking nervous now that we were here.
It was only minutes later that Detective Gore herself came in. She nodded at me and sat down across from us, offering some brief pleasantries.
That is, until I started explaining why we were there and Gwen set Gabriela’s phone on the table. I could see the detective’s expression grow progressively angrier as I explained. The promise I’d made to Gwen about her not regretting this now seemed impossible to keep. Gwen’s stare was fixed on the door, rather than either me or the detective.
“You did what?” she asked as I explained that we’d cracked the password and found out whom Gabriela had called the day she died.
“I realize it wasn’t exactly orthodox—” I began.
“You stole an important piece of police evidence. In a murder investigation. Knowingly,” said Detective Gore. She directed this only to Gwen, which didn’t seem fair to me. For all she knew, I was the one who’d done all this. She knew that I’d been guilty of similar indiscretions in the past. But it had been Gwen who’d verbally attacked and insulted her back at the gas station, which Gore clearly hadn’t forgotten or forgiven.
“We’re sorry,” I said, attempting to draw her attention back to me. “That’s why we brought the evidence in.”
Finally, Gore turned back to me. “You’re sorry? That’s all you have to say?”
I hadn’t prepared for this. What else could I say, really? “We made a mistake, but we’re trying to rectify it,” I said.
“Do you have any idea of the damage this might do to our investigation? How you may have delayed us in finding important information? What if the prosecution ends up being unable to use this evidence at trial because the chain of custody is compromised? What if the murderer walks free? What if they kill again?” Gore demanded.
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