The Last Suppers (12 page)

I was glad I’d dumped out all of Tom’s recipes before Julian made a dirt-covered shrine out of the box that had held them. The directions for Monster Cinnamon Rolls beckoned.
Try for
G, Tom had written. Scout, happy to see me again, and ever hopeful for a snack, twined between my legs as I melted butter in milk, proofed yeast, and beat eggs.
The recipe made a large batch, which would do for the first church service that was now only a few hours away. Would the person who kidnapped Tom come to church? Could it really be someone from the church? I hoped not. So much for
Thou Shalt Not Kill.

I kneaded the sweet dough vigorously. Because of Boyd’s questions about St. Luke’s, I found my mind wandering back to the Episcopal parishes of my childhood. My father’s business ventures brought us to town after town with the same sign,
The Episcopal Church Welcomes You.
No matter where our family lived, there was the same church built of stone, with the same stony people inside. The priest had always been a faraway man with his back to a congregation that recited the same prayers and sang the same hymns no matter where you went. Those priests were a far cry from the smiling, disheveled, folk music-loving and sympathetic-to-everybody Father Theodore Olson. In the old days, Sunday School walls boasted pictures of a Jesus who looked more like a blond fellow in a nightgown than a rabble-rousing first-century Palestinian. In those days, the women’s church groups held fund-raising events; the men’s groups went on retreats; the youth groups caroled upper-class neighborhoods at Christmas.

You never had a murder.

I pounded out the air bubbles from the risen dough, rolled it into a long, thin rectangle, then slathered on softened butter mixed with brown sugar and cinnamon. The wind whistled around the back doorjamb; I recalled a particular windy moving day from my childhood, when I’d tearfully said good-bye to neighborhood and Sunday School friends before our family settled in New Jersey. I often suspected the reason I’d fallen in love at twenty with John Richard Korman was that he had the baby-faced features, blond-brown hair, and affecting smile of a Sunday School friend whose name I had forgotten.

I quickly rolled the dough into a fat log and measured where to slice. After my life fell apart and I’d pretty much managed to put it back together, Tom Schulz had appeared, with his large, handsome, self-confident body and spirit.
Tom Schulz, who loved Arch and Julian and me with a frightening intensity, who had awakened vulnerability and affection that I had presumed dead, who was willing to do anything to keep us happy. Who had said to Father Olson last night that he and I would
not
be parted by death, no matter what the wedding vows claimed. And now he was held captive by God-knew-whom for God-knew-what reason. If he was still alive.

I cut the dough carefully at the evenly spaced intervals and placed the thick sugary spirals in a buttered pan. I needed to sleep; I needed to pull myself together and find out as much as I could about Father Olson, for surely the murderer’s path led through our parish, or through a committee, or through the diocese….

My eye fell on the pile of exams from the candidates I was to help examine in three days.

Olson had told me that in the third and final year of their seminary training, candidates for the priesthood took the General Ordination Exams that now graced my counter. The battery of tests covered the seven canonical areas: Church History, Liturgics, Pastoral Theology, Ethics, Theology, Issues of Contemporary Society, and Scripture. The tests were graded by the General Board of Examining Chaplains on the national level, which then sent the exams on to the dioceses. In the diocese of Colorado, the Board of Theological Examiners read them, determined areas of weakness, and then gave oral exams to the candidates. A candidate had to show oral proficiency in all seven areas before he or she could be ordained. That sounded like a lot, I’d said to Father Olson. Maybe I wasn’t really up to it.
Just read the exams and ask yourself whether you’d want to have this person as your priest,
he’d solemnly replied.

Mitchell Hartley’s exam was in my pile, although I didn’t know which was his. Numbers at the top of each candidate’s test sheets kept the examiners from knowing who was who, to eliminate prejudice. I had my list identifying candidates by number somewhere. Unfortunately, there had been a mix-up at the diocesan office, and I had not received my photocopied set of papers to read until yesterday,
when I was deep into pâte doughs, bridal bouquets, and Portobello mushrooms. I hadn’t read any of the exams, and the last thing I wanted to do was get academic on what was supposed to have been my wedding night.

Still. When I looked at the sheaf of papers, I could see the indulgent grin on Father Olson’s face when he’d appointed me to the twelve-person committee, saying that not only did he treasure my culinary abilities, he also valued what I had to offer the Board
intellectually.
Sure, the way people read
Playboy
for the interviews. But the diocese had paid the discounted rate I’d given them to bring Gorgonzola quiche, asparagus rolls, cauliflower salad, and chocolate cake to my first Board meeting, when the discussion centered on the ethics of breaking the seal of confession if a person’s life was in danger. After years of casseroles and Jell-O, and without waiting to hear my opinions on confession, the Board immediately proclaimed their faith in me.

Before the meeting, Father Olson had said there were “a few rumblings” over the appointment of a laywoman who was a caterer to this powerful board that had the final say on whether persons were ordained. “Better tell them about your theological training,” Olson had warned me, “so they, too, will value your mind as well as your mousse.” So at my introduction, I’d dutifully told of the sixteen-week course for Sunday School teachers I’d taken two years before from Canon Montgomery, a member of their board, at the Aspen Meadow Episcopal Conference Center. Canon Montgomery, now soon to be our emergency pastor at St. Luke’s, looked like a ruddy toad. He’d beamed and lapped up my flattery along with his piece of cake. I didn’t mention his aggravating tendency to pat his white hair along its middle part as he put spiritual experience into rhymed couplets.

Now the clock said almost four
A.M
. Soon it would be dawn. No time to start reading theology, that was for sure. I lifted the towel to check on the rolls, and fatigue struck with such ferocity that my knees buckled. I grabbed the side of Tom’s convection oven for balance. I turned away
from the unread papers, left the rolls to rise at room temperature, and flopped back on the living room couch.

The wind had died down, as it often did near sunrise. Still, the house felt cold. I burrowed into the hard cushions and regretted giving back my victim-assistance quilt.

Tom. Be all right.

Holding that thought, I tried to relax. Frightful nightmares of falling into mud accompanied fitful sleep. I awoke abruptly, feeling stiff and chilled, and realizing unhappily that the canceled wedding, the murder of Father Olson, and the unexplained disappearance of Tom Schulz had not been bad dreams, but odiously real.

I opened one eye to see what time it was. Something was wrong. Above Tom’s boxes, my mantelpiece clock was just visible: half past six. Had a noise startled me out of sleep? Now, as I listened for Arch and Julian, the house was silent. What was wrong? What had awakened me with that sensation of something odd, out of place? I inhaled deeply and blearily scanned the room.

It was the light. The living room was suffused with a tangerine-colored glow. A red sky in the morning promised snow. Big deal. My neck screamed with pain; I stretched carefully. My body insisted I would regret attempting the usual yoga routine. I felt confused. Even with a red sunrise, the light in the living room was too orange. It was not the sunlight that was colored; something was coloring the sunlight.

With effort, I extracted myself from the cushions. I tiptoed to the window and looked through the knots of the lace curtains. I stared at, but could not comprehend, what I saw. Hanging from the roof of my front porch was a handmade knitted blanket. It was bright orange, and had a red heart at the center.

W
hen you’ve slept in your clothes, forty degrees feels frigid. Ignoring the cold, I hopped gracelessly onto the porch swing and wobbled perilously there for a moment. Sunlight was brightening thin smears of cloud that shone like mother-of-pearl. Very gently, I pulled the orange blanket into the light and tried not to slip on the frosted swing seat while examining the tiny stitches. The coverlet was not knitted, as I had thought, but double-crocheted with a small hook and thin, expensive wool yarn. A chill wind blew through my sweatsuit and threatened my precarious balance. I snatched down the afghan, then looked around to see if any of my neighbors were about. But the cold weather, especially on a Sunday morning, meant people were still snuggling deep under their coverlets and blankets. Not to mention afghans that didn’t come from a source unknown.

I scanned the crocheted rectangle for a note of some kind and saw none. From victim assistance? A thoughtful neighbor? The previous night’s fierce wind might have blown off any attached notes. I bunched the afghan over my shoulder and jumped down from the porch swing. While my joints reminded me I was no longer a limber teenager, I noticed a foil-covered oblong dish sitting primly to the left of the front door. Casserole, courtesy of the Altar Guild. And this time there was a note in a firmly lettered hand on top of that:
Please take care of yourself. Our
women’s group is praying for you. Zelda.
With my free hand, I picked up the icy glass dish and scuttled into the house.

Her note hadn’t mentioned the afghan. Imagining wiry Zelda Preston, or even stolid victim advocate Helen Keene, scaling the wall of my porch to make a dramatic visual statement by hanging a Valentine-type afghan made me smile. I made espresso and watched it spurt merrily into a cobalt-trimmed cup. It was Hutschenreuther, a gift from Tom Schulz. Pain seared through me. The phone rang and I grabbed it.

It was my mother calling from New Jersey, so concerned that she and my father hadn’t been able to say good-bye, and was I all right? Remembering Helen’s advice, I did not mention Tom Schulz’s disappearance. They would only worry and call me incessantly. Yes, I assured my mother, we were fine. The two of them had just come back from the early church service, she said, and when was the wedding going to be? I stalled. Ah, well, we were working on rescheduling. Did they find out what happened to your priest? No. But will you get married when things are back in order at the parish? Of course, I promised. When we have a new priest.

And a groom, I thought grimly after replacing the receiver. Dread, worry, and stinging guilt made a simultaneous assault. If only I hadn’t insisted Tom and I get married in the church. Tom Schulz never would have known Ted Olson. He never would have gone out there yesterday morning. He would be sitting here right now having coffee with me, instead of being in peril. Or worse. Or worse …

Stop this.

My espresso had turned cold. I slugged it down anyway, stared at Julian’s pile of Chimayó dirt, and waited for my brain to click into gear. Not much happened; there’s only so much caffeine can do on two hours of sleep. I slammed the risen cinnamon rolls into Tom’s oven. With great reluctance, I showered and dressed in a dark blue suit, then put in a call to the Sheriff’s Department. Without Tom there to tell me what was going on, the center for county law enforcement felt like a foreign outpost. Boyd
was not at his desk. I left a message asking for an update, and gave the number to my personal line.