The Last Suppers (11 page)

I fell silent. Boyd and Helen were staring at me.

“Mark Preston died within hours.” I brushed unseen lint off my sweatsuit, feeling my eyes fill with tears. “Zelda wasn’t at the hospital. No one consulted her about stopping the transfusions. She didn’t get to say good-bye to Mark.”

“My Lord,” murmured Helen.

“That wasn’t the end of it,” I said softly. “At our book discussion group, Zelda blurted out that Sarah had killed
her son. She would never forgive her for that. She said she wanted Sarah out of her life forever.”

Boyd and Helen Keene were silent. “And the grandson?” Helen finally asked. “Ian?”

“Zelda wrote off the grandson, too. She was just so angry …” I sighed. “Anyway, Sarah eventually remarried. I heard her new husband is a Catholic, and the three of them go to the Catholic church. From all the accounts around town, Zelda hasn’t seen or spoken to Sarah or Ian in, well, five years.”

Boyd tapped his notebook. “So how does this relate to Olson?”

“I’m getting to that. At the discussion group,” I said reluctantly, “no one knew how to react to Zelda’s outburst. Father Pinckney just shriveled up. I mean, the old fellow looked as if he could have crawled under a rock. And of course, the rest of the women were aghast. You have to understand, members of the Old Episcopal Guard never, ever,
ever
spill their guts in front of a group.”

“But you were there,” Helen prompted.

“Yes. I was there.” Indeed. “I almost didn’t go to the meeting that day. My head was throbbing from the whack John Richard—my ex-husband—had given me after he broke my thumb in three places the previous week. My hand was in a cast. When Zelda told her story and began to weep, I felt so bad, I cried with her. Despite the stupid cast, I put my arms around her and held her.” I took a deep breath and thought back. “I guess everyone else was embarrassed. They left. No one even said a word. Hours later, it was just Zelda and me, sitting next to each other in our folding chairs, sniffling. When it was almost time for Arch to come home on the schoolbus, I insisted she drink a cup of instant coffee that I fixed in the church kitchen. After Zelda took a few sips, Lucille Boatwright suddenly appeared to drive her back home.”

Boyd asked, “So did you and Zelda become friends?”

“Zelda spent the next two weeks sending me casseroles and discount swim coupons for Arch. But she and I never talked about what had happened again.”

“Not meaning to be rude, Goldy,” Boyd continued patiently, “but I’m still wondering what this has to do with
Olson,
since this happened during the time of the
other priest.”

“Zelda was the organist. After Mark died, playing the music, and doting on her other son, Bob, and his wife, Agatha, became Zelda’s whole life, even though Bob and Agatha are charismatics and supported having Olson as the new rector after Pinckney retired. Anyway, in Father Pinckney’s time, Zelda picked the hymns. She also ran the choir and every aspect of the church’s music. Then Olson came. He appealed to a whole different group in the church. He wanted the music changed, and technically, according to church law, he was the one in charge of the services. So he and Zelda fought. And fought and fought and fought.” I shook my head, remembering some of the acrimonious exchanges.

“Did they talk about this … problem with the son who died?” Boyd asked.

“Oh, yes,” I replied. “Remember, Olson hated conflict. He said he wanted everybody to have a personal relationship with Jesus and be reconciled to each other. According to Marla, who hears everything, Zelda and Olson weren’t having any reconciliation in their weekly shouting matches. Supposedly it was over the hymns. But the rumor was that their conflict went much deeper, that he wanted to force her to make up with her widowed daughter-in-law. Zelda told him to mind his own beeswax. She had the Old Guard on her side though,” I added, “when it came to the music.”

“Why’s that?”

“Look. The Old Guard just doesn’t want anything changed from the way the Episcopal church was when
they
were little. As long as there are fund-raising luncheons, golf courses, and the 1928 prayer book, they’re happy.”

Boyd chewed on his match and wrote some notes. The inviting smell of popcorn wafted out of the kitchen. “Besides Zelda Preston, did these Old Guard people dislike Olson?”

“They did. Lucille is building a columbarium she intends
to dedicate to Father Pinckney. I think she believes when it’s done, he’ll come out of retirement and be our rector again.”

Boyd muttered sarcastically, “I don’t know if I’d want to return to a church with an ash cemetery dedicated to me. What a place. I thought this was where everybody loved each other. You know, sing songs and give money to the poor?”

I said quietly, “You haven’t been to church for a while.”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll go, and you can take me. All right, just a couple more questions. Did Olson get along with his assistant, this Doug Ramsey?”

Julian appeared with huge bowls heaped with hot buttered popcorn. The fragrance filled the living room, and I gestured to Helen and Boyd to help themselves.

“I guess they got along,” I said after I thanked Julian and he disappeared. “Doug’s on the Board of Theological Examiners.” I cast around to remember in what other contexts I had seen Doug Ramsey work. He was involved in diocesan work and was Olson’s liaison with the Aspen Meadow Habitat for Humanity. I told this to Boyd.

“Yeah, we know that. We also heard Ramsey was the bishop’s spy.”

“What?”
I was nonplussed. Father Insensitive, with his overtalkative, exaggerating way and his lists of things to do, a spy? Spying on what? Or whom?

Somehow, Boyd had rid himself of the match. He took a handful of popcorn, ate quickly, and said, “We heard that the bishop thought Olson was out in left field and moving toward the wall. As in going, going, gone, bye-bye Episcopal Church, hello new denomination.” He scooped up more popcorn, ate it, and reflected. “So tell me. Is moving out of your sedate church’s ballpark the kind of thing people would kill for? I know, you say, you have to look at the different groups.” There was still an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

“Look,” I said with more ferocity than I intended, “let me give you an example of the kind of thing that can happen
in our oh-so-sedate church. On the national level, we had a prolonged and very public fight over the ordination of women to the priesthood. After that was approved, there was an incident at an Episcopal church. A man came up to the altar and tried to strangle a female priest administering communion. He didn’t protest, he didn’t go to another church,
he tried to strangle a woman he did not know.
He screamed, ‘You bitch, I hate you, what do you think you’re trying to do?’”

Unmoved, Boyd said, “But Olson wasn’t a woman. This is different. Or is it? Which group did the strangler belong to?”

My face was hot after my outburst. I grasped the ring box and tried to summon up Tom Schulz’s calm. “I don’t know whether it’s different, that’s the whole problem. I’d say the would-be strangler was part of the Old Guard. Did Doug Ramsey tell you he was a spy?”

Boyd grinned. “Of course not. You know anything about the financial status of your parish?”

I said that as far as I knew, the parish had typical financial problems. Typical in what way, Boyd wanted to know. Different church groups wanted money for their projects; there was never enough to go around. There was some squabbling over funds. But Marla had said giving was up.

Boyd’s eyes narrowed. “Year before last, your parish had a gross income of a hundred thousand. Last year it was a hundred-twenty thou, pretty good growth rate in a recession, but a couple of invalids left money to the parish when they died. Year to date—we’re talking a little over four months—the church’s income was
three hundred thousand dollars.
This isn’t Olson’s dough, mind you, it belongs to the parish. Could that be something the bishop would be interested in?”

A dry laugh crackled in my throat. “If the parish was doing that well, and the diocesan office knew about it, I’m surprised they didn’t send up a dozen priests to spy.”

Boyd said, “One of the women told me that all the money was coming in because there was some magical
healing stuff going on here. That Olson was the founder or perpetrator, and people were paying to get a piece of that magic.”

“Miraculous claims aren’t typical of our church.” Unlike Chimayó, I wanted to add, but didn’t. “Then again, neither are today’s events.”

“So you don’t know anything about the money coming from some miracle agenda?” When I shrugged, Boyd continued. “Okay, two more questions. I need to know what you know about this”—he flipped a page in his notebook and scanned it—“candidate for holy orders.” He said the unfamiliar words slowly. “Named Mitchell Hartley. Guy wants to be a priest,” he summarized. “Flunked the oral exam for the priesthood last year. We hear Olson was behind the flunking.”

I told them what I knew of Hartley, whose chief distinction as one of the charismatic parishioners was his vehement opposition to Lucille’s columbarium project.
Idolatry,
Hartley had fumed at the parish meeting, his face flushed, his mass of red hair quivering.
Do you think the Lord would have wanted a columbarium?
I knew Father Olson had urged the Board of Theological Examiners to flunk Hartley last year. I did not know why. “Mitchell Hartley goes to the second service at our church,” I said. “I don’t really know him very well.”

Boyd pulled in his stomach with a noisy breath. “Well, we’re looking into that. Lots of money, miraculous healings, a candidate who was flunked. Now about this Agatha Preston—”

But before he could elaborate, his beeper went off, and he asked to use the kitchen phone. When he trundled back into the living room two minutes later, he had put his notebook and pen away. “We’ll have to talk more about this tomorrow, Goldy. The team is done over at the church, and they want to go out to Schulz’s place tonight, to see if he left any notes by his phone, or anything else that could help us out. We still have his keys from the creek.”

Trancelike, I mumbled an okay. Boyd and Helen Keene moved awkwardly toward my front door. Helen dropped
down on one knee and retrieved the victim-assistance quilt I’d once again inadvertently dropped on the floor. It was splotched with mud. Helen asked if I wanted her to wash it. I thanked her and said please give it to someone else; I had plenty of blankets. She folded the quilt, draped it over her arm, and gave me an affectionate, unexpectedly lovely smile. They would both be in touch, she assured me, and I should call if I needed anything. The front door closed quietly behind them.

I sat there in my silent living room and thought back to the cold March afternoon I’d spent with Zelda Preston and her pain. Lucille Boatwright had led Zelda slowly through the church doors, her arm around her slumped shoulders. I’d taken Zelda’s untouched cup of coffee back to the parish kitchen. The powdered creamer was still lumpy and floated on top. Because of my cast, I hadn’t been able to stir it in.

S
till gripping the jewelry box, I moved over to a chair next to unopened boxes transported from Tom’s place along with his oven. I put my hand on the cardboard and stared at the cold ashes in the fireplace.
Remember, o man, that dust thou art, and to dust shalt thou return,
Olson had solemnly proclaimed over each of us at the Ash Wednesday service, just as he dipped his finger into ashes and made the sign of the cross on our foreheads. He’d been more than Marla’s assessment:
a cute charismatic.
He had been knowledgeable and kind; his faith was heartfelt. Olson had even charmed his way into Tom Schulz’s heart. And now Father Ted Olson was dead. My chest ached.

I forced myself to get up and stow the two ring boxes and Tom’s wallet in my china buffet. I allowed myself only a moment of what-could-have-been: In my mind’s eye, I saw Olson smiling over us as Tom slid the ring on my finger. This was supposed to have been our wedding night. A terrible emptiness descended on me.

Julian and Arch, their torsos wrapped in blue diamond-patterned victim-assistance quilts, were finishing up a bowl of popcorn in the kitchen. Giving me a guilty look, Julian untangled himself and used the business line to make his overdue call to Beaver Creek, canceling Tom’s and my hotel reservations. Arch asked politely to see the page of Tom’s notes. I quickly penned a copy for myself, then gave the photocopied sheet to him.

The moon had risen, the boys had gone to bed, and it was past midnight by the time I had worked my way through all of Tom Schulz’s boxes looking for letters, files or journals—anything with abbreviations. Feeling a pang of guilt for invading his privacy, I checked Tom’s wallet, which had my business card and Julian’s and Arch’s school photos in it. In the boxes, I was rewarded only with bank statements, tax returns, and old bills. Maybe the police would find something out at Tom’s cabin or in the trashed church office that offered a clue, for I surely hadn’t.

Outside, the air was still fiercely cold and windy. Wearily, I backtracked to the kitchen, where Scout the cat meowed insistently to be fed. In all the confusion, I had forgotten the poor feline, whom I now moved carefully from the food prep area. While Scout tilted his head appraisingly, I ripped open a packet of cat food and dumped it into his dish. But it was not enough. After a few dainty mouthfuls, Scout sought affection by throwing himself on his furry spine on the kitchen floor. I rubbed his stomach and told him that we both should get some sleep. My eyes burned and my head throbbed. Waiting had never been my long suit.

I longed to get out my electric blanket, turn it to high, and sleep. But sleeping in a warm bed? I couldn’t do it; it would be betraying Tom, who probably was neither warm nor comfortable. I thought of his handsome face with its penetrating green eyes, of his body with its warm folds of flesh that I had come to love. When I tried to rest on the living room couch, the wind whistled down the chimney flue and through the moulding around the picture window. Propelling myself off the cushions at three o’clock, I returned to the kitchen to do the one thing that had ever helped me cope with anxiety: cook.