The Last Suppers (30 page)

Mitchell Hartley’s reply was unequivocal. “Yes!” he’d written.

I wrote,
This guy flunks the coffee-hour section of the exam.

So much for Mitchell Hartley. My only question was why the diocese had allowed him to stay in the ordination process for all these years. Maybe he was somebody’s relative.

I carefully took the cheesecake out of the oven to cool, stowed the exams, and slapped open the files I had taken
from Father Olson’s office. Readjusting my heating pad, I scanned them again, page by page. I paid particular attention to the Board of Theological Examiners’ file, which contained the correspondence between Father Olson and the bishop. The only paper of significant interest was the correspondence regarding Mitchell Hartley’s flunking last year. This coming year, the one we were in now, would be Hartley’s last chance at passing his written and oral ordination exams. In his part-time job with Congregational Resources, Hartley was at the diocesan center every day. And part of each weekday, the bishop testily reported to Ted Olson, Hartley was trying to find out from anyone in power if there was some way around taking these exams from—Hartley’s words—
those liberals.
After this letter was one from Aspen Meadow Outreach thanking Father Olson, Bob Preston, and the rest of the Sportsmen Against Hunger for their donation of 600 elkburgers to Outreach’s commercial freezer. Finally, there was a letter from the bishop’s office approving the parish’s support of Aspen Meadow Habitat for Humanity; the diocese said if St. Luke’s wanted to give $10,000, and could afford it, that was fine.

The mention of the Sportsmen and Habitat made me think back to the Prestons. Too bad I hadn’t had a chance to visit with Bob or Agatha before or after the prayer meeting. They probably would have the best idea of where those pearls actually were. If they were telling. The thought of going and searching for anything, when I’d already had unsuccessful forays into the church office, Brio Barn, and Olson’s place, did not fill me with excitement.

Do they have other places to hide things?
Schulz’s voice insisted inside my brain.

I tried to think back. I was so tired. I put my head in my crossed arms on the kitchen table. Nowhere to hide. Hmm. I sat up with another jolt.
Habitat.

“Where do you think you’re going?” said Marla groggily when she opened one eye and saw me putting on my heavy jacket.

“The Habitat house. Right down the street. Want to come?”

She groaned as she creaked her way up off the sofa. “You know I have to come. The cops have told me I absolutely cannot leave you alone. Just tell me,” she mumbled as she searched for her shoes, “why are you torturing me?”

“Because of Tom Schulz. I miss him and I need some help.” I handed her one of the large garden shovels from the rear of the closet.

“Oh,” said Marla, “what are we doing, digging up graves?”

“I don’t really know what we’re doing.”

“This is getting better and better.”

We zipped up our coats against the cold and walked the block and a half to the Habitat house. Marla insisted on carrying both shovels; this bit of consideration didn’t keep her from grumbling every step of the way. At the deserted site, we stepped gingerly through frozen mud and over strewn boards, and looked around inside. The spaces for windows were large empty rectangles through which an icy breeze blew. Sheets of all-purpose white vinyl floor had been partially installed over the wooden subfloor. It was this white vinyl that got my attention. I looked down across what would eventually be the kitchen, and saw what appeared to be a large spider. When I came closer and bent over, I picked up the missing keys to Hymnal House and the diocesan vehicle,
EPSCMP.

T
hey were even labeled.
Hymnal House. Brio Barn. Nissan.
I didn’t know what finding them here meant, but I knew it meant something. Marla and I scoured the rest of the construction site, but came up with nothing else: no sign of pearls, or letters, or sacramental vessels. No sign of Tom Schulz.

We walked back to my house as quickly as my throbbing back would allow. I held the keys tightly in the pocket of my jacket the whole way. Habitat. Bob Preston. The Bob-projects. I couldn’t wait to tell Boyd, who still was due to report back to me about Mitchell Hartley. I called and left a breathless message with the Investigations secretary. Within minutes, Boyd called me back.

“We called Hartley and asked to meet him at his apartment. He wasn’t too pleased to have to meet with us. Anyway, his place is so small, he’d have to be a magician to have somebody hidden there.” Boyd’s voice was barely audible above the static; I couldn’t imagine where he was calling from. “The guy doesn’t have much, that’s for sure. And he sure doesn’t have Schulz.”

I told him about the missing keys Marla and I had found at the Habitat house.

“They were just lying there on the floor,” said Boyd suspiciously. “Not hidden in any way? You just found them. The way you found those letters. Which, by the way, don’t tell us squat, except that Agatha Preston has a couple
thousand stashed away in a checking account in Denver. So. The keys were on the floor?”

“Yes, they were on the floor. No, they weren’t hidden. And yes, we found them. What do you think?”

My doorbell rang: Alicia had arrived with the bass and vegetables. In the front hall, Marla welcomed her and asked if she wanted some Amaretto. They laughed boisterously and then immediately suppressed it. This incongruous humor, plus Boyd’s suspicions, plus the fact that it was now almost 4:00 on Monday, with still no sign of Tom, sent a wave of frustration surging in my voice. “Aren’t you going to come and get these keys?” I demanded. “Aren’t you going to arrest Bob Preston?”

“For what?” Boyd demanded.

I took the phone from my ear and stared at it.

Five inches away, Boyd’s voice droned: “Should I arrest him for working on some volunteer project where you found some missing keys? A volunteer project that everyone who knows him knows he’s working on? So if a suspect left the keys sitting out in full view, it sure would look like neurotically neat Bob Preston had just dropped them there?” The static distorting his words did not hide his sarcasm.

“I guess not,” I mumbled.

Boyd said he’d be by tonight to pick up the keys. I told him I’d probably be finished at Hymnal House around ten.

“Then have Marla or your other cooking helper, Julian, pick you up. I don’t want you to go around snooping after dark.”

“Who, me?”

Boyd hung up.

Alicia left. Marla, with sighs that would have embarrassed a martyr, rinsed and divided the bass. We were in the middle of washing the new potatoes, baby carrots, and thin, delicate asparagus stalks when Julian and Arch arrived home. Their faces searched mine:
Any news?
When I shook my head, Julian placed a foil-covered glass casserole dish on the counter.

“A cow died so that you could have hamburger-noodle
casserole tonight, courtesy of the Altar Guild. How’s your back?”

“Don’t start with the vegetarian agenda, I have enough problems. My back’s doing a lot better. The examining board is starting their work early, and we’re doing Chilean Sea Bass with Garlic, Basil, and Vegetables. Feel like chopping basil?” I did not ask him about the college acceptance situation; as with Schulz’s disappearance, being asked for the latest news when there was none only served to remind you of what was missing. He would have told me if he’d heard anything.

“I’ll butter the gratin dishes,” Arch piped up as he scrubbed his hands. “I already scooped out cookies this morning. Did you bring them to the lunch?”

I told him that I had, and his work had been a hit. He beamed and measured out chilled unsalted butter. Julian washed his hands and expertly rolled layered leaves of basil, then sliced through them. Marla parboiled the new potatoes and baby carrots. I pressed pungent cloves of garlic, mixed them with the chopped basil leaves, and beat them into the butter. We formed an assembly line and artfully laid out the fish, vegetables, butter, and herbs on the buttered platters, then covered each tightly with aluminum foil. Our only interruption was a phone call from Lucille Boatwright. She wanted to know if I had donated the food from the wedding reception to Aspen Meadow Outreach yet.

“Yet?” I repeated.

“If you have not,” she continued airily, “I wish you would consider sending it in for the funeral tomorrow, Goldy. We’re going to have quite a few people in from out of town, I’m told. I can’t get enough volunteers to make food, and I certainly can’t let people go home hungry.”

It was the least I could do for Father Olson, no matter what I thought of Lucille. I cupped my hand over the phone and asked Julian if he would mind schlepping the reception platters down to the church for the funeral. He nodded without looking at me. Julian seemed to be thinking that not keeping all that food was another way of tacitly
admitting that our hopes for Tom Schulz were dimming. I put this thought out of my mind and assured Lucille my assistant would meet her at the church in an hour.

After hanging up, I asked Marla to pour a red wine vinaigrette over thick layered slices of navel orange and purple onion. Arch washed and packed heads of butter lettuce. Julian had taken a bag of Parkerhouse rolls from the freezer. We were ready.

With a herculean attempt to appear happy and hopeful, I said, “What would I do without my team?”

“Go out for pizza,” muttered Julian darkly.

Julian insisted on driving the van with all the boxes for the night’s meal over to the conference center. Marla chauffered me and my pile of exams in her Jaguar, with Arch in the back. She had told the boys she would take them out for pizza if they would explain the younger generation’s fascination with video games to her. I tucked a spiral notebook into my apron pocket and realized I did not have a single question prepared to ask the candidates.

“I’ll be by to pick you up at Hymnal House at ten o’clock,” Marla pronounced ominously once we’d arrived at the conference driveway. Julian was unloading and Arch was setting three tables for five in the old conference dining room. “Don’t you dare go anywhere without me, Goldy, do you hear?”

I leaned against the Jaguar. “Since when do you tell me what to do?” I asked mildly.

“Since I helped you make lunch for the prayer group, and dinner for this pompous board, that’s when.”

“Ah-ha.” Then I added, “I promise.”

On the deck of Hymnal House, the three candidates for ordination, including Mitchell Hartley, and a dozen priests including Canon Montgomery, Doug Ramsey, and other men I knew from previous meetings, were sipping white wine and trying to look as if they all weren’t terribly nervous. They hadn’t asked for hors d’oeuvre, and they
weren’t getting any. But since the last thing I needed was for them to have a layer of alcohol on empty stomachs, I quickly preheated the ancient Hymnal House oven and popped the fish platters and rolls inside, then arranged the orange and onion on top of individual beds of butter lettuce.

Thirty minutes later, the platters emerged. The delicious aroma of basil and garlic that filled the air and the visual delight provided by the squares of fish, brilliant green asparagus, orange carrots, and pink new potatoes swimming in melted butter, gave the whole dinner a Christmasy sort of air, which is one of the things a caterer has to think of. When people don’t know each other before a catered function, or have some particularly onerous interpersonal task to perform after the meal, it’s usually a good idea to give them something to do at dinner, like opening a present of food. It helps to break the ice.